Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'd like to thank all of my faithful readers for keeping up with this story, and for being so patient with me, and also I'd like to thank the new readers that keep popping up with their support. I feel so loved! Here is Chapter Six, finally. It's a bit longer than my previous chappies – I hope that's not a problem. Please, let me know what you think!
I had little time to marvel at my surroundings. Before long, two Elf maidens came into my chamber – servants, I supposed – to help me dress for the banquet. As they fussed over me, combing and plaiting my hair, rubbing sweet-smelling oils into my skin and wrapping me in the softest silkiest fabrics I had ever touched, I truly felt like a fairytale princess. They chattered as they attended to me, talking about the feast.
"Are there banquets like this everyday?" I asked.
"Oh, no!" said one Elf, a fair-haired girl with a soft voice, "That would be difficult indeed! Feasts like this are held only on high days, and on special occasions."
"What is the occasion this time?"
"Master Elrond commanded it," said the other Elf, her long fingers deftly weaving perfect braids into my long hair, "He wishes to welcome Frodo Baggins of the Shire, along with his companions. Preparations for the feast were made days ago when they arrived, but Frodo only awoke just this morning."
"He just awoke? What do you mean?'"
"The company was attacked by Ringwraiths," said the soft-voiced Elf, "Poor Frodo was stabbed by a Morgul blade."
"Oh," I said, remembering, then quickly added, "How horrible," after realizing that it would be better if I pretended not to know so much about the story. The Elves helped me to my feet and stepped back towards the doorway.
"There you are," said the second Elf, smiling, "You look lovely. Now go down to the feast – your friends will be waiting for you."
I looked towards the door to thank them, but they were gone. I looked down at myself; I was dressed in a pale, mossy green gown of fine silk that reached all the way to the floor. There was delicate, silvery embroidery around the waist and at the cuffs of the sleeves, and the collar was high but open at the throat. I raised my hands to touch my hair, trying to figure out exactly what they'd done with it, and realized how incredibly long the sleeves were: they reached down to my waist when I held my arms straight out in front of me. I couldn't resist spinning around in circles and watching the folds of my gown fan out and catch the light of the candles in the room. An excited giggle escaped me before I collected myself again, then I smoothed out my skirt and made my way down the halls of the House Elrond, trying to find the room where the feast was being held.
I'm not sure how I found the feast; it was as if I was drawn there by some outside force, but a good one this time. I entered a great room with high ceilings and a long table, all lit by soft candlelight. Justin found me the minute I set foot inside the room.
"Hey!" he said, running over to me, "Glad you're here, finally – they're getting ready to start."
"What?" I asked, "Slow down a second – what's going on?"
"Wow," he said, standing back as if noticing my gown for the first time, "You look . . . different. You look like an Elf!"
I rolled my eyes, but blushed in spite of myself.
"I think that's the idea," I said. Then I noticed he'd been dressed up too: he was wearing some sort of tunic under a velvety green coat. It was nice, but it didn't really suit him.
"You too," I said, "You fit in perfectly!"
"Liar," he said, then grabbed my hand and led me to the table, "Come on, this is where we're supposed to sit."
We sat down somewhere close to the middle of the table; Justin was on my left. I looked across the table, taking in the people and scenery that was somehow already so familiar to me. On the other side of the table, slightly to the left of where we were seated, was Frodo Baggins himself. I couldn't help smiling when I saw him for the first time: he was engaged in conversation with a white-bearded Dwarf sitting next to him, his bright eyes glowing with that excited cheerfulness characteristic of all Hobbits. I remembered the scene from my first reading of the trilogy, and recognized the Dwarf as Glóin, one of Thorin's companions from The Hobbit, and Gimli's father.
"You know who that is, don't you?" asked Justin in a whisper, gesturing in Frodo's direction.
"Don't point," I scolded him, "It's rude. And yes, I know who it is. Who else is here?"
"Elrond is there, at the head of the table, and there's Gandalf and Glorfindel next to him."
"Wait – how do you know that's Glorfindel?"
"I think I read the books more recently than you did. Remember our late-night play-by-play of the Council of Elrond scene in the movie?"
"The one where we figured out who every last one of the Elves were?"
"Yep. That's him. And I don't know if you've noticed yet, but I think you're sitting next to Arwen."
My heart skipped a beat; I turned my head as subtly as I could to get a glimpse of her. Justin was right: there she was, sitting a bit farther off to my right in a chair under a canopy, her dark hair braided similarly to mine, but much more elegantly so. She wore grey, but a regal, silvery kind of color, with a belt of silver leaves draped loosely around her waist. On her head was a silvery kind of net, like a mesh crown, beaded with small gems and other shining ornaments. Her eyes shone like blue-black diamonds, and her gaze was focused on Lord Elrond; her expression was fixed, and difficult to read.
It took an effort not to stare; I was so transfixed by the company that Justin and I were keeping I have no idea what was served at the feast. All I remember was that it was the most magnificent meal I had ever eaten, and still is. About halfway through the meal, Justin and I introduced ourselves to Frodo. He was delighted to meet us, even though I'm sure he had no idea who we were. He then took the liberty of introducing us to Glóin, and pointing out his companions on the other side of the table. He was all too happy to tell us both about his adventures thus far. I had to kick Justin hard under the table to keep him from asking about the journey to Mordor; I was sure that the Council of Elrond hadn't taken place yet, and it would do no good to start giving out information that we weren't supposed to have.
After the feast was over, Arwen and Elrond both rose from the table and went out of the hall towards an enormous set of double doors, and the rest of us soon followed. Justin and I ended up falling in step with Gandalf and Frodo. The giant doors were opened and we entered a great room with stone pillars as big as trees lining a fireplace that was easily bigger than the whole of my apartment. Suddenly I noticed something, and I leaned in close to Justin.
"Where is Legolas?" I asked in a whisper, "Didn't he come to the feast?"
"I don't know," he whispered back, "I don't think Aragorn was there either. Did it happen that way in the books?"
"Well, it must have," I said, "Don't you think? Our being here wouldn't affect whether Aragorn was here or not."
"With Legolas it might."
"I guess we'll just have to be more careful. You know, one of the first rules of time travel is that you're not allowed to change anything. You can't alter the course of history."
"You and your bogus sci-fi theories. . ."
"Well? If it's true, don't you think we should stick to that?"
"Okay, fine. I was just kidding, you know."
We stopped in front of the blazing fire. Gandalf bent down and put a hand on Frodo's shoulder. Justin and I moved closer; he was about to speak.
"This is the Hall of Fire," he said, "Here you will hear many songs and tales – if you can keep awake. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace, and thought."
I lost the last bit of what he was saying because right then Justin jostled me to point out a small figure, shadowed by the firelight, sitting apparently asleep next to the great hearth.
"It's Bilbo," said Justin with a grin. I watched as Lord Elrond himself approached the sleeping figure, speaking softly to him. The figure stirred, waking slowly. Then Frodo rushed towards him, recognizing him.
"Bilbo!" he cried.
Justin glanced over at me and smiled knowingly; then we followed Frodo to the older Hobbit's side.
"Well, well!" Bilbo was saying, "So all this feasting is in your honor, I hear. I hope you enjoyed yourself?"
"Why weren't you there?" Frodo demanded, "And why haven't I been allowed to see you before?"
"Because you were asleep. I have seen a good deal of you. I have sat by your side with Sam each day."
The two went on to describe their various adventures since their last meeting; Bilbo had been in the midst of composing a song and was anxious to finish it before the other readings and recitations began, lest he forget everything. Then Frodo introduced Justin and me to him, just as if we were lifelong friends. Bilbo welcomed us graciously of course, and then talked with us for a long while about his adventures. Sam joined us shortly after that, and of course I was delighted to meet him – he's my favorite. Well . . . aside from Legolas, I mean. Bilbo kept talking about his friend the Dúnadan, who hadn't been at the feast either.
That was when Justin started to get antsy; he wanted to go hear the other songs and stories that were being told. I wanted to stay with the Hobbits; I was getting tired, but I wanted to stay at least long enough to meet the Dúnadan when he arrived. If memory served, then the Dúnadan was none other than Aragorn son of Arathorn, and I definitely didn't want to pass up a chance to meet him. However, I was very tired, and I had no idea how much longer I would have to wait. So in the end, Justin and I decided to go our separate ways for the night; he would stay in the Hall of Fire until he was tired of the tales and poetry, and I would go explore the rest of the place for a little while and then go to bed.
I left the magnificent room and wandered through the halls of the House of Elrond. I wasn't worried about getting lost; I had a feeling that whatever mysterious power had guided me to the feast would help me find my way back to my room later. I'm not sure how long I was gone, but eventually I found myself in a long, stone chamber. It was like a little museum, with murals painted on the walls and statues and other memorials in different alcoves. I turned a corner in the maze-like chamber, and noticed an oddly familiar mural on my right: it was from the Last Alliance of the Second Age, the scene in which Isildur himself cut the Ring of Power from Sauron's hand. I marveled at the exquisite detail in the painting: light seemed to gleam off the broken blade of Narsil as Isildur fell back, wielding it bravely. The Dark Lord Sauron towered over him; he seemed ready to bring his heavy iron scepter down on Isildur at any moment. I knew I had seen this painting before. . .
Then a realization dawned on me, and I turned around. Just a little further up the corridor, on the left this time, was a graceful-looking statue holding a flat, oblong disc covered by some shimmering, satiny material. On this cloth were the broken pieces of the legendary sword; the Shards of Narsil. I knew where I was now. And I wondered. . . Carefully, I gazed further up the corridor. Sure enough, sitting just behind the statue, holding an open leather-bound book, was the Dúnadan. His dark, weary blue eyes were fixed on me, calculating but not intrusive.
"Aragorn?" I asked tentatively; the small sound of my voice echoed coldly through the nearly-empty chamber.
"Yes," he said, closing his book; his gaze softened.
"You must be Esther," he said.
I moved towards him; had I heard right?
"You know me?" I asked incredulously.
"Legolas told me about you," he said, "He said he found a strange girl wandering the paths of Mirkwood in the darkest hour of the night. He said her face was lit up by the starlight, and that she had a companion with her."
"Justin."
"Is that his name? I didn't know."
"Legolas didn't tell you that?"
"No; he was much more insistent that I know who you were."
Weird, I thought, I wonder what he thinks is so special about me? I cautiously let myself entertain the idea that he might be falling for me, but I knew at some level that that was impossible.
"What else did he tell you?" I asked hesitantly.
Aragorn looked at me thoughtfully, as if he were deciding whether or not to tell me everything that Legolas had told him.
"He said that you were being followed," he said finally, "That a ghost chased you from a different time and place, and now haunts you with dreams and visions."
"Her name is Samara," I said; then I wondered what had prompted me to speak her name aloud again.
"Has Legolas spoken with Lord Elrond yet?" I asked.
"Most likely he is speaking with him now, if he has not done so already."
"What do you make of all this? I honestly don't know what to do about it."
"These are difficult times, Esther. The peoples of Middle Earth are about to face an ancient evil; I fear there is little protection for us to spare for you alone. That is, if the phantom that stalks you is as fearsome as I'm told."
"I know that. I'm not sure how dangerous she is, but she has killed before and I know she won't be threatened by someone like me."
"Won't she? Legolas also told me that she tried to kill you already, and failed. Do you not think you could be even more powerful than she is?"
I paused; could he be right? I knew that Aragorn was very wise, and I trusted him not to lie to me, but still how could that be possible? Me, more powerful than Samara? No, that was impossible. It just didn't add up.
"That's impossible," I said aloud, "She's approached me several times, each one more frightening than the last. She can get inside my mind and make me see things that I don't want to. Even if I could get rid of her somehow, I'd be too afraid to even get close enough to her to do it."
"It seems to me that your fear is the only thing that gives her power over you."
That was an interesting point; if I could just get over my fear . . . I saw her eyes again, the unfiltered evil in her fixed stare as she watched me from the other side of the stream, back on the banks of the Anduin. My lip trembled.
"Then how do I stop being afraid?" I whispered.
Aragorn gazed at me sympathetically; a lifetime of fear and pain was reflected in his eyes. I wondered for a moment what other evils he had overcome, and wished he didn't have to face those that awaited him just days away from this very moment.
"You will," he said resolutely, "Or she will win. There are no other possibilities."
I couldn't take it all in; it was too much. I only nodded to show that I had understood, and walked past him into the darkness of the corridor beyond. I could feel his gaze on me as I left; he was probably just concerned for me. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be handed such an enormous responsibility. He was destined for far more hardships than I myself would ever have to face, and he knew it. But then something happened: I felt an odd sensation at the back of my mind, like a twinge of static electricity trying to get my attention. I stopped in my tracks; time seemed to slow down, as if it was waiting for me to do something. I of course had no idea what it expected me to do, so I just stood there, waiting. Then the world changed around me: colors melted into each other until there was just a solid blur; the air went hazy around me, neither hot nor cold; and sound faded and blended together until all I could hear was a dull, indistinctive roar. I kept waiting, and a very different setting began to take shape around me: I saw a narrow hallway with wooden floors; a girl stood at one end of the hallway with her back to me; water gleamed on the floor. The scene became clearer: the girl was approaching a door from which the water seemed to be flowing; her hand closed over the crystal doorknob. That was when I realized I was back in Katie's house, just before her death.
Oh, wonderful, I thought, Another vision.
But this wasn't a message from Samara. I can't explain how it wasn't – it just . . . felt different. I found myself drifting towards a different door; this was the bathroom, brightly lit, and Becca was leaning over the sink, washing her face. It was difficult to watch her – she was completely oblivious and content now, but soon she would become the first to discover the dead girl's body. Then Katie's piercing scream filled the air. Becca jumped back, dropping the towel she had been wiping her face with.
"Katie?" she asked nervously.
She started for the door; I had to move aside to let her pass. I hadn't needed to do that before, and suddenly I realized something: I wasn't just watching this scene unfold like I had when Samara had shown it to me. I was there. I followed Becca out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I saw her eyes flick down to the water that covered the floor, and then she headed for the door with the crystal doorknob that was now slightly open.
Do you really want to follow her inside? I asked myself. And then came the answer, Do you have a choice?
So I followed when Becca entered the flooded bedroom. I watched her gaze go first to the loud, staticky TV screen and then to an unfamiliar shape lodged in the closet. I stood behind her; I didn't want to see this again. I watched Becca's hands rise, trembling, to her face as she recognized the rotting, mangled form of her friend. She backed up slowly, and I realized that her hands were held just away from her face and her mouth was open in a silent scream. She shut her eyes tightly, squeezing out one tear, and then let out an ear-shattering scream that shook the very foundations of the house. The scream ended in a whimper, and then Becca took a deep, gasping breath and began to sob. I felt an irresistible urge to comfort the poor girl, but what could I do? I was sure that she couldn't see or hear me, and besides, Katie was already dead: the damage had already been done. So I reached out and put my hand on Becca's quaking shoulder. She relaxed noticeably at my touch; she was still horrified at what she'd just seen, but she wasn't trembling quite as violently now. I realized that she needed something to do; it would do her no good to stay here and keep staring at that gruesome body.
"Becca?" I started; my own voice sounded vague and far-away. I had no idea if she could hear me, but I decided to keep talking anyway. It couldn't hurt, right?
"Listen to me," I continued, "You have to go downstairs and call the police. Do you hear me? Go downstairs and call 911, and then call Katie's mother. Becca?"
The sobs gradually subsided. Becca turned and walked slowly out the door; I followed her. I followed her down the narrow hallway to the top of the stairs. She stopped.
"Just keep moving," I said.
She reached out and gripped the banister of the staircase and painstakingly made her way down to the foyer. She turned towards the kitchen, and stopped again when she saw the phone on the wall. She clamped her hands together until the knuckles turned white. She was trembling again.
"Pick it up," I told her, "Just pick it up – it'll be okay, I promise."
She raised a shaking hand and placed it on the receiver, but she didn't take it off the hook.
"Pick it up," I repeated.
She stayed where she was, frozen to the spot, her breath quickening until at last she snapped out of her zombie-like trance and whipped the phone out of it's cradle and pressed it against her ear, punching in the numbers as she did so. I heard the faint ringing on the other end, and then a soft click and a voice saying 911, Emergency Response. I breathed a sigh of relief; now that Becca could talk to another person, she'd be okay. I saw the colors in the room swirling into obscurity as I drifted back to the stony corridor in Rivendell. I still wasn't sure what had just happened, but the message was clear: there was nothing I could do for Katie, but Becca – Becca was still alive. Becca I could help.