Author's note: Ah, CSI, Melintalle, queenieb – so I'm not a lost cause after all! ^_^. Thank you for being especially supportive. Yes, another month, another chapter, but perhaps the size may explain the delay in updates. So here's chapter two (technically). Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I am not Tolkien. To my utmost knowledge I never was Tolkien. I just like to colour inside his lines ^_^. I rest my case *bows humbly*.
***
The Enigmatic TimekeeperChapter Two: Pointy-Eared Meddlers
Rating: PG-13***
Late afternoon sunlight dappled the little woodland path, dancing through lightly rustling greenery. The promise of fair weather had thus far held, so much the better for their errantry. The stifling warmth of late summer proved a hindrance, but, mounted on their stolid little ponies, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck and his close cousin Thain Peregrin Took took a steady pace through the Old Forest on the eastern borders of Buckland. Though still renowned as a fell place of malignant trees, of late the malevolence of leaf and bough towards living flesh had abated, now quiet, as though holding its breath, awaiting some momentous event.
Merry considered the wax seal of the scroll he had been entrusted with. As a hobbit of high importance, it was only proper that it should be acknowledged with tasks befitting his status. Although there was often a time when he felt disgruntled, since highly important tasks tended to draw him away from the comforts home and hearth. The overnight sojourn in Bree had proved restive, and folk, Big and Little, were beginning to 'talk'. And this particular 'talk' was precisely what they had been trying toward away from gossiping tongues.
Pippin looked forward to a quiet respite at the merry Bywater inn of the Green Dragon. All this talk of Gates and Keepers and Catalysts would certainly seem less lofty when discussed over the rim of a flagon. Folk paid little attention to withdrawn patrons there; perhaps they could afford some peace.
'Well, he said they were coming back today,' Merry informed his cousin musingly. 'But apparently things went askew. Curious happenings, if you will. So I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this here letter. Take it to the Mayor, I suppose.
'I for one am not going to spend another fortnight out there again. They can take their own messages. I'm a Master, not a messenger.'
'Too many bad memories out there. Why they want to go and make any more is beyond me,' said Pippin quietly, admiring the shafts of gold spilling through gaps in the canopy. 'And it's all a bit queer if you ask me. Mad, the lot of them. I don't know who in their right mind would want to go, well, Over There.' He gave a disdainful snort. 'Like Mordor all over again,' he declared. 'It was founded by the same evil, you know.'
'Shh!' Merry hissed warningly, casting a wary glance into the surrounds. 'You don't know how many ears people have got all over the country. There's already words being spoken in Bree that shouldn't be; so there's no good in being careless with your words and springing more rumours up all over the countryside. News will wait until they come back. And people don't much hold with Elvish "magic".'
He gently nudged the round belly of his Rohanian mountain pony Stybba, coaxing his mount to quicken pace. Pippin sighed resignedly, thoroughly wroth at the mysteries and intrigues that were forever pushing him out of his door. There was one word that sprang to his mind that summed up all this new trouble perfectly.
Elves.
Pointy-eared meddlers…
*
'Oh my! What bad luck ... will there be a delay?'
'Well, as to that we're not certain - as far as we've heard, no: they come back tonight.' Merry tapped the side of his nose knowledgeably. 'Funny happenings is all,' he told the fretful Mayor Samwise. 'Cars, you understand.'
'Cars?' Sam's tea threatened to leap over the brim of his cup as he lifted it with a trembling hand. 'Never much held with "cars"; evil machines they are. Horseless carriages indeed.
'But - how much longer is it safe for them to stay? Oh dear, it's all beyond me.'
'The Shipwright says he'll clear the way for them this evening,' Pippin said, attempting to placate Sam by placing a hand on one taut shoulder. 'And if they don't turn up he'll get word through and find out where they are. They know how to handle themselves - this isn't the first time queer things have happened Over There, you know.'
'Yes, but I don't trust that Taure fellow,' Sam said savagely, shrugging Pippin's hand away, refusing comfort. 'Got a strange feel about him, that one. I don't like the way he's forever prancing off and then turning up again; as tricky as smoke in wind, he is. Not saying anything against his manners, he's as nice an Elf as your ever likely to meet; but I - I find myself wondering things when he's about. And you can't judge a tater by its jacket, as my Gaffer used to say. No matter how pretty a jacket it wears…'
He looked lost, and cupped his hands about his teacup as though the warmth could ward away misery. 'In fact, I like him very little,' he admitted quietly. 'And I don't rightly know why.'
Over the table, Merry and Pippin exchanged a knowing glance. Through secret means, they did know why, although it was not information properly acquired. Or with permission from the withholders.
But then, only Time would tell. Only Time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The prison of misshapen metal groaned its discontent as men sought to force entry with any implement to hand. The incomprehensible drone of milling onlookers hummed through his aching head. Trapped. Trammelled in a collapsed cage.
Cruel wakefulness had stirred him to a haze of confusion and agony. Injuries vied viciously for attention. The stench of exhaust fumes and spilt petrol, of blood and smoke and oil was unbearable. Every breath shook irregularly within him, painful and difficult. A single flicker of thought suddenly gave birth to an icy terror. With an effort he turned his head, managing to clench the fingers of his right hand, to move his arm and enfold within his trembling clasp the left hand the man beside him.
It was warm, but horribly lax. Half-lidded grey eyes stared, expressionless, fixed on emptiness, confining nothingness. A rivulet of crimson trickled from partially open lips. Like a ghastly scarlet flower a creeping tide of blood had blossomed on the left shoulder. One hand still hung limp over the headrest, flung there instinctively in a futile effort to find any anchorage, seeking security as fate bound them in doom's fetters. In disarray the golden filaments of hair framed a bloodless countenance.
Distress.
He attempted to reach across and shake his disquietingly quiescent companion. But his legs were caught fast. He could not move. 'Oh, Elbereth, no ... Haldir, please - Haldir? No, do not do this to me! We fail without you! We fail and we die!'
Something painfully constricted her wrist. She tried to pull away from it, but it had attached itself firmly, strangling her forearm like a parasitic vine. The scene was dim, as if viewed through misted glass, familiar and yet so distant ... what was happening?
Frantically he tried to free himself. It yielded little success save to almost overwhelm him with a deluge of pain. Despondently he slumped forward, grief burning his eyes, blearing his already hazed vision. The beat of his pulse thundered in his aching head. His body trembled in vehement protest of such treatment. Briefly he considered the other driver. Was he or she dead? Dying? Was it his fault?
In dismay she tried to wrest the tightening band from her arm. It was filling her with foreboding, and an acute discomfort she was certain did not belong to her. A soft hum had invaded. A voice. But the words were formless; she could not make any sense of them. She struggled to understand.
But there was no comprehension, and no salvation. Only pity for the man unable to extricate himself from the mangled wreckage of his car, sorrow for the horrific death of his companion, curiosity over the state of the other driver, puzzlement at the event. And then everything faded.
Again.
» Who are you, changer? Where are you? «
She found something, clutched it. It seemed to notice her, as a man might notice an insect on his shirtsleeve, and it regarded her in that way. It prodded her, then feigned ignorance, shrugged her away and left her to fall, spinning, tumbling, helplessly into the gaping void.
*
Pale light shone gold through closed eyelids. A cool breeze drifted occasionally across her forehead. Shards of coherent thought foundered lethargically, sinking suddenly beyond recall as soon as she sought them. Something like wet sandpaper roughly caressed her cheek.
Memory came flooding back unexpectedly, as though somewhere within the dull tranquillity of her empty mind a wall gave way beneath the pressure. The car, the driver, red light, blood, voices, pain, distress, darkness. Jenny flung herself upright, rucking the blankets in fresh panic. Her wrist! In horror she tore the strangling thing from her arm and threw it blindly, chest heaving. Muriel's bequest, the ornate watch, fell to the carpet beside the oscillating pedestal fan.
Milo immediately ceased his licking of his mistress' cheek and fell from the bed in sudden surprise, giving a shocked yowl and then disappearing down the hallway. Dazed and confused, Jenny peered owlishly at her surroundings. This was not the bed she had expected to wake up in. In good sooth she had not expected to wake up at all. She rubbed her bleary eyes, her mind sluggishly working to place things in order and sort them out. Her fingers brushed lightly against her brow. And touched an irregular welt of flesh.
Stitches. Aches and pains awoke in an instant, complaining in a choir of agony.
She felt nauseated. 'Sean?' she called uncertainly, her voice cracking. 'Sean?'
Dishes clattered. Muffled footsteps on carpet sounded from the hall. The door was flung wide and her brother came leaping anxiously into the room. 'Jen? Oh thank God!' he exclaimed, and threw his arms around her in an unconscious effort to convey his relief. 'How do you feel? Is anything sore? Can I get you anything?'
Jenny held up a hand, unable to digest Sean's tirade of questions. She touched a hand to her stitches. Sean mistook the gesture as a question. 'Yeah, you had a pretty nasty cut,' he said softly, the right side of her bed yielding to his weight as he sat down.
'What happened? I - I remember a car, driving on the wrong side of the road. We were going to crash; I was scared out of my wits - I honked at it, but it kept going. And then - then I think we hit, and there was blood and broken glass and - and people, flinging doors open and running out into the street.' Unable to control it, Jenny burst into tears and dropped her head onto Sean's comforting shoulder. 'I was so scared, I thought I was going to die!' she wept into his shirt.
Sean was staring at her in inexplicable bewilderment. 'What do you mean?' he asked, and a slight hint of amusement presented itself behind the concern. 'You didn't hit any car...'
'But - no! I did, I saw it all! I felt the crash, and saw the driver's eyes ... I heard someone scream. And - and the other one ... I think he died. But I was there - I saw it! I did!' Jenny insisted, gazing stricken up into her brother's bemused face. Sean gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. 'I think, Jen, that you were dreaming,' he informed her. 'There was a bad accident last night, yeah; but you weren't in it. Dave called me. He said that you were driving, and then suddenly you went all still and fell onto the wheel and set the horn off. And then you hit a light pole and gashed your forehead. I think you were a bit concussed when we took you to the hospital in Dave's car. But the nurse said you were lucky. No broken bones, just a few badly pulled muscles and a sprained wrist the doctor told us, and then you got stitches and we brought you home to rest.
'The car got towed - I think it's a little bit beyond repair.' He heaved a weary sigh. 'Good thing we paid it off last month. I knew we should have had it insured. Looks like its public transport until we can afford a new one,' he said heavily. 'Want some tea?' he offered belatedly.
'Yes, please,' Jenny accepted faintly. Sean rose carefully and left with an unnecessary caution, as if afraid he would somehow worsen her apparently fragile mental condition through the slightest vibration of a step.
I was in a car accident ... wasn't I? The more Jenny insisted to herself that she had been, the less certain the idea became. Had she been dreaming? Maybe it was one of those microslips, she thought uncertainly. She settled back on the pillow, to find beneath her head a hard lump, hidden under the soft cushion of feathers. She drew it out.
The cutlery draw rattled as the kettle boiled in the kitchen. Jenny cast a glance at her half-opened door and turned back to the intriguing package.
It was thick and rectangular and roughly wrapped, accompanied by a thoughtful (even if the joke was less than appropriate) Get Well Soon card addressed to her from "The Guys", signed off by each of them with various well wishes. Red wished her a speedy recovery 'because Sean can't do the laundry.' The lanky Brodi, infamous for his shocking party gags and bad music tastes, wrote that she should 'milk the op for all it's worth coz Sean's a sucker for the "Ouch I hurt" crap.' It was advised by Ky that she 'keep away from all light-sources, they hurt if ya hit em.' Dave formally offered his sympathy, and hoped she would soon be well. 'How - kind,' Jenny muttered tartly to herself, but it could not be denied that she was somewhat touched by their gesture.
Sean entered with her tea and set it on the bedside cabinet as she regarded the unexpected gift with a lifted brow. 'Oh, yeah,' he said suddenly, as if remembering something he had been supposed to recollect a while ago. 'Since you're into that fantasy stuff, we thought it would be a good idea to get you something you might appreciate while you get better. It looked like something you'd like anyway,' he added dubiously. 'All knights and dragons and that. The assistant recommended it.'
'It's not going to explode is it?' Jenny asked dryly, one hand poised and prepared to reveal her present. One could never be too careful when 'The Guys' were involved.
Her drollery afforded Sean some amusement. 'No, it's not going to explode,' he laughed. 'Well, yeah, we had to force Jax to remove the time bomb he stuck in there, and Brodi wanted to add a few poisonous vipers, but we said no, spiders would fit better.' He snorted sarcastically. 'It's not going to explode,' he repeated reassuringly. 'Or bite or jump or run around the room. Go on. Just open it!'
Warily Jenny removed the wrapping. The scent of fresh paper and ink greeted her. A cardboard box harbouring a set of three books dropped into her lap, entitled:
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy
Complete Boxed Set with illustrations by Alan Lee.
Hardback Editions.
'Is it okay?' Sean enquired worriedly, peering over her shoulder. 'We kept the receipt; we can take it back and exchange it for something else if you don't want it.'
'It's - it's great!' Jenny cried joyfully. 'No, I don't want it exchanged for something else: I love it! But - how did you know...?'
'Jen, did you think your nightly ventures under the covers to read the Hobbit by torchlight - and after lights out - was a complete secret?' he responded with smug satisfaction, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, revelling like a small child in the light of her approval. 'It's kind of hard not to notice those things when we shared a room for eleven years.'
'And it didn't explode!' Jenny exclaimed emphatically. 'Thanks. A lot. It's the nicest thing I think you've ever given to me.'
'What, you didn't like the frog I gave you on your seventh birthday?' he asked in feigned disappointment. To her utter surprise he leant over and kissed her on the forehead. Perhaps because it was the most gentlemanly gesture he had ever offered her to date, perhaps because he had not displayed such brotherly affection since he had been three and told to do so by their mother, for the sake of a photograph that had had the two of them blushing when being discussed and laughed over by relatives for years afterwards. Even so, it seemed a strangely condescending action. A light hue of rose suffused her pallid complexion.
'Next time I call you a bitch, don't try to get even like that,' he requested laughingly, and patted her hand genially. 'Anyway, I've got to go to uni. I'll be gone for a few hours: buses don't run so regularly. You're supposed to sit quietly and rest like a good little crash-victim for a week, and if there's no improvement by that stage we drag you back to the hospital.'
He paused at the door, and looked at her over his shoulder. 'Will you be okay on your own?' he said uncertainly. Jenny waved his worry aside. 'I'll be fine. Not like there's any stairs to fall down in here,' she assured him.
'All right. I'll see you later. If you're hungry I left some porridge in the fridge. Just needs warming. Milo's fed and has water, so don't worry about him. And be careful when you get up. Don't put too much weight on your left leg, and watch that wrist. I'll get some lunch on the way back.'
He shrugged into his coat as he spoke, and then left. There was an overwhelming sense of loneliness and futility when the front door clicked to a close behind him, and a key turned in the lock for good measure.
Watch that wrist. Jenny smiled sourly at Sean's unintended jest. Muriel's antique timepiece was still where she had thrown it, although she felt remorse when she glanced at it now. To remedy her desolation she clambered awkwardly across her bed and snatched it up, feeling a need to have something she cherished close to her, and sat considering its ebony dial and emerald scribbles. The band was broken where she had pulled at it in the throes of panic.
Damn! Me and that bloody paranoia...
The incessant ache of damaged muscles forced her to lie back. She pummelled the pillow and set it against the headboard, finding at last a comfortable sitting position where the strain on her sinews was lessened.
Summer's heat and humidity had relented somewhat, giving way to a cool, serene atmosphere. Jenny sipped her tea, was surprised to find that Sean had remembered she preferred peppermint in the morning, and fished the first instalment, entitled 'The Fellowship of the Ring', out of the heavily decorated case. She settled it on her lap and flipped it open; contentedly immersing herself in the fantastical world she had missed since she was nine. Still, she mused, it was surprisingly considerate of them ... obviously they want something. Chapter one: The Long Expected Party. When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was not a place. It was not a scent or sight or sound; it had no substance, could not be touched. And yet it was everything. Here were the roots, the very support of all life, and the very decaying of it. An eddy of all.
It rose and fell. He did not know how he had come to be here, but he lay quiescent, content to rock upon life's ocean. It sang such a dulcet melody, the loving crooning of a mother to her restive babe, the caress of a summer wind through green leaves, the dance of a freshest over smooth stones. It plucked at his resolve. Sink, it bade him. Just let go.
Just sink.
The current pooled around him. He need only reach out to it and let it take him.
Stop that.
The gentle rebuke suddenly encroached upon his peace like an unwelcome pest.
Go away, he told it brusquely. I am dead. Go away.
Something shook him. Gripped him and tugged at him. He tried to shirk it, to flee from it, but it flooded into him, seizing him like a hound sinking teeth into a prey's flesh, bluntly refusing to let go. Come with me. Stop being foolish, it admonished. You are not dead. I will not allow you to be. Its incessant dragging was disrupting the song. The soft seductive chords rippled away. He pined after them. Come away from that. Danger bides there. Do not listen to that song.
He hackled with indignance. How dare it presume to tell him what he could and could not do? Leave me alone, he requested wearily. Would that it would vanish and let him sink. How he yearned to just let go. Why would it refuse to remit?
Changer. The voice was forceful. It began to pull at him with fierce determination. Stop that. You are bleeding into the Void.
Changer ... was that his name? It invoked something in the darkest recess of his memory. But it was only vague, hazy as though enveloped in a mist at twilight. Too dim. Not important.
Changer. Catalyst. Come away from there. It will kill you. Hearken to me.
The song abruptly changed. No. It had not changed; he merely heard it now as it truthfully played. A rending, shrieking discord, jarring and unpleasant; carrion birds squabbling over putrid meat, a tortured choir howling its misery, the blind screams of blood-lust torn from a hunter's throat. The temptation still remained, but this new awakening rendered him immune to its miserly caterwauling.
Yes, yes! Good! The voice swept around him, laden with praise and savage pride. It urged him to essay battle against this insidious melody. He discovered the wound; staunched the bleeding. The current had already snatched the essence of himself he had unwittingly released, carried parts of his being away. He reached after them, but a chiding hand seemed to slap him, force him to draw back.
Enough time to restore that later. As you have saved so shall you be saved if you will stay with me.
Keeper?
It seemed as though it smiled fondly at him then. The last of his misgivings melted away, fading with the music. Changer, catalyst, it acknowledged softly. The illusion collapsed in their wake as he held fast to the tether, drawn up from a deadly nightmare and into his own world.
It irked him to realise how close he had come to sinking.
*
The soft lapping of listless water against stone; the hushed whisper of a warm wind's conversation with dancing leaves; the soft pallet he was meticulously arranged on. Strange. He had no recollection of arriving here. But it appeared that it had been anticipated.
The glare of the sunlight stung his eyes. He retreated into the peach-hued glow behind his eyelids, reluctant to face this living day in his world after the dark period of desensitisation. A shadow eclipsed the soft light viewed through his lids; roused and irritated, he lifted them again to find a worried visage hovering over him.
The gentle lines of laughter that usually bordered the storm-grey eyes above had become grim creases, betraying despair and age. The fine strands of mahogany hair seemed to have lost their lustre, now dull and coarse. A hand clasped his chin, turned his head in all directions until, satisfied, Cirdan folded himself gracefully to sit cross-legged upon the stone. He wore a simple robe of blue-dyed wool, tailored to fit his masculine contours, but now it pooled awkwardly around him as he arranged himself. The Elven shipwright's finely-sculpted face appeared gaunt; the cheeks looked hollow and the lips were thin. Even his neatly kept beard appeared too bristly and unkempt. It was not like him at all.
A weariness haunted Cirdan's eyes, prowling his gaze. He offered Legolas a small nod of reassurance. 'Fear not, I see nothing amiss,' he informed the prince quietly.
'Cirdan, you look terrible,' the Elven prince said softly, hastening to sit. The Shipwright's mouth twitched into a wan smile. 'I have been a little indisposed of late,' he concurred, inclining his head. 'It has been a taxing year.'
'Such we have pointed out countless times, and yet still the stubborn ass refuses our help.' The exasperated reprimand came from a tall figure arrayed in a deep-sleeved houppelande of soft grey, who appeared suddenly at the end of the arched passageway and was striding towards them. The dark-haired younger son of Elrond waved his arms, either fending off the insufferable length of the sleeves (which seemed a constant threat to his feet) or attempting to put into gesture what words could not express. Elrohir halted at the foot of the pallet and the bitterness that sharpened his cold stare softened somewhat as he looked down on the occupant 'Ah, he awakens at last. A good afternoon to you Greenleaf. How grateful we are that you have deigned to grant us the honour of your presence at last,' he greeted Legolas. There was an edge to his voice that suggested he had not been pleased at the delay.
'We feared we had lost you,' Cirdan elaborated in a less impatient tone. 'That was not a wise thing you did.'
Recollection came flooding back. 'I was nigh on letting myself go. Something pulled me back from the brink, before I sank,' Legolas said suddenly. He resented that such a weakness could have nearly destroyed him. Shamefully he hung his head, disappointed in himself. Perhaps Taure had been right; he was not prepared or ready to face the challenges of the Way Between Worlds. He recognised his foolishness: he had cheated death by a mere hair's breadth, had always been dancing tauntingly before its black maw during his attempts to fulfil his duties. How many times before had he presented the opportunity for it to take him? Every time he had entered the Void it had been lurking after him, biding its time. And the one time he had faltered it had come rushing for him with jaws opened wide. Although it had nearly been the end of him it was a valuable lesson to have learned.
'The song,' Cirdan murmured. It was not a question; it was a word remembered by one who had beheld the thing itself. 'The song...of all elfbanes one of the most disastrous.' His gaze had turned inward. His sinews were lax.
The song. Cirdan. The pieces fit. 'Stop listening to it!' Legolas cried suddenly in dismay. In the throes of his panic he all but flung himself on to the Shipwright. 'Stop listening! It is treacherous and false; it lures you to death. Do not give yourself to it!' Elrohir gave a wordless utterance of horror, and then stooped to seize the frenetic prince by the shoulders. Legolas ignored Elrohir's attempts to prise him from Cirdan, looking instead for anything he could waken the vacant Elf with. His fingers brushed against something cool standing beside his pallet: a silver chalice. Seizing it he flung its contents into Cirdan's face, then thrust it aside and shook the Shipwright by the collar. Red wine spilt in sour rivulets down the sunken features.
Cirdan's eyes kindled with a living fire. 'I...I...,' he stammered, and gaped soundlessly for a moment. He looked in astonishment at Legolas. 'What happened?' he queried uncertainly.
'You were soon to sink, dear Elf,' Legolas replied. 'I suggest you build a stronger ship. Now, where are Taure and Haldir?' He solemnly sought Elrohir's eyes. 'It is worsening,' he said gravely. 'That is why I was in the Void; the hunter has great cunning: he has discovered a way to force two Time segments together. I could not recognise the pattern he used, but I can say he was rough in his handling of it. There were a few threads I managed to unravel, but unfortunately I could not halt the contrived event. Mayhap it did not work precisely as he desired, but it was enough to cause a great disturbance. I fear for the woman, as it is her life that we are using to balance the worlds upon.'
'Haldir is safe and with my brother; but Taure did not come through,' Elrohir said bemusedly, and shook his head.
Cirdan suddenly appeared lost. 'Taure - that brings something to mind,' he mused hopelessly. 'A message. Yes. He sent through a message: he will not traverse back until he has the woman and the inscription.'
'Then I go back,' Legolas declared, throwing off the light coverlets still wrapped about him and rising to stand unsteadily.
'No. You must rest,' Elrohir said firmly. 'You cannot go back through. You are not strong enough.'
'Lend me the strength then,' the raven-haired prince pleaded, holding out a placating hand. 'For with your consent or without it I will go back.'
'And how, pray tell, do you intend to return unscathed and with the quarry?' Elrohir's voice bordered on disbelief. Legolas offered a simple answer: 'We will Mask.'
Cirdan at once evinced his disapproval. 'You cannot Mask!' he exclaimed. 'Only the Keeper may do so, and even if that power were yours, you have not the skill to support it. Masking requires a predilection, which none of us have.'
Legolas stood in silence for a moment. When his emerald gaze ascended to alight upon the incredulous Elrohir, his eyes burned with a fiery determination and a fierce will.
'I fear you are mistaken,' he disagreed quietly. 'Yea, Masking is best done with a predilection for it; but the Keeper is not the sole owner of that power.'
He regarded Cirdan emotionlessly, considering. 'A Catalyst may also Mask.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The midday sun focused its sultry gaze through her bedroom window. Jenny set aside the book she was hungrily devouring as a way to pass time, deciding that the trip to the bathroom could not be delayed any longer, not even for the sake of Bilbo or Gandalf or Frodo. Milo purred sleepily, stirring from his morning nap briefly, then kneaded the cushion in the wicker chair in the corner and settled down again.
Abiding by her brother's advice, Jenny tried not to set any weight upon her left leg, and consequentially lost balance and collided with the wall in the hallway. Devising at last a strategy to use the wall in place of her leg, she found her way without upsetting too many injuries, although the gentle complaining of her muscles was heightening to a pleading cry.
She cast a glance of disgust upon her reflection as she washed her hands, at the generous smattering of brown freckles, the heavy-lidded blue eyes enlarged behind square framed spectacles, the pandemonium that was her hair. The unattractive, gangling, awkwardly lanky thing that was Jenny Townsend. She contemptuously flicked water at the mirror, distorting her likeness, and dried her hands. She and reflective surfaces were doomed to disagree forever, she decided.
The porridge was in the fridge as Sean had said. She placed some in the microwave to heat and went hunting for the maple syrup. It was hardly a suitable noontime repast, but her empty stomach would accept anything to assuage her burning hunger. She lacked the patience to await Sean's valiant return with the commons.
But then, where was he? He had been gone for three hours; he had expected to be back by noon. Surely he would have called - unless something had occurred that had prevented him from doing so. Her desire for food vanished as a vision of her brother trapped in the burning wreckage of a bus teased her tired mind. He had taken his mobile with him, she was certain: but she did not know his number.
That note! She congratulated her addled memory for offering her a coherent recollection. The water-stained slip of paper was sitting on the phone stand. She could not think of anyone else whose number would be lying idly around in their apartment. So as fast as her injuries would allow, she made for the phone. She dialled the number and waited.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The shrilling of a mobile receiving a call emanated from beneath the seat. He paused in his so-far fruitless search of the wreckage. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he clambered across the buckled body of the vehicle, clawing at the bent driver's door. Eventually he resorted to simply tearing it from its weakened hinges and throwing it aside.
He thrust his hand into the cramped darkness beneath the seat. And found it. Triumph gleamed in luminous eyes as he drew it forth. His glee was short-lived. Unknown number.
Useless.
Snake-Charmer discarded of the cell phone contemptuously, dropping it to the ground and crunching it beneath his boot until it stopped ringing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jenny stared at the handset as a recorded message suddenly played out, informing her that the person she was calling was no longer available, so would she please check the number and try again.
She hung up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Taure reclined on the park bench beneath the aquiline bole of the Old London-style lantern. What he was awaiting none knew. Haldir cast him an uneasy glance.
'You are certain?' he asked, himself very much less than that.
Taure casually lifted his sunglasses and regarded him with a wry grin. 'Of course,' he said, lowering his shades. 'We go tonight.'
He transferred his gaze from his companion's drawn face and looked up at the curtained window of the unit, third floor, second from right. More potent than the song in the Void, it was calling to them, beckoning, enticing.
Yes. We go tonight.