Disclaimer: I own a pair of socks. I own this really cool Evanescence CD (I don't own the rights to it though—just the right to listen to it). I own a liquid pencil thingy that 'writes like a pen, erases like a pencil'. I own a pretty green notebook that I write deep and philosophical and ultimately idiotic things in. Did The Lord of the Rings ever appear in that list? No. See any pattern? Probably not.

AN: have you ever looked at snow and asked yourself what color it is? If by some obscure chance you haven't, I feel that it isn't white, but blue-gold-green-gray-white. That's my philosophical quip for the day.

Chapter Two

I have never been afraid of the dark.

I've gone caving tons of times with no more than some flashlights and batteries. I've watched dozens of horror movies and braved midnight thunderstorms and power outages immediately afterwards. I have stared down vicious dogs, angry teachers, and all of the varsity football and wrestling teams. I have been painted purple, been force fed rice pudding (which I happen to be allergic to), and strung from the top of the school flagpole. But there was something terrifying about the endless black of the chambers outside of my lit rooms.

And for some bizarre reason, when the creature led me to that dark passage, I couldn't make my feet move.

Come on, part of me said. You've done this kind of stuff dozens of times. You are being ridiculous.

You wish, retorted my other half. The last time you did anything like this, you were with people. And when the lights went out, you knew perfectly well that they would be back on in a few seconds. There never was anything to be afraid of there. But what about here? What about now? What about these orc things? It looks like they took out these dwarves without much trouble. Do you really stand a chance if you can't see?

With people? My braver side laughed. What does that make this creature? An onion?

Might as well be, My other side returned.

There is nothing to be afraid of. Said side 1.

That's what you think. Side 2 warned.

"Why doesn't the girlses move?" The creature interrupted. I would have informed him that I had a name, but I was distracted by the massive wall of darkness in front of me. "Is it frightened, we wonders?" There was an almost mocking tone in the creature's voice. Yet when it spoke again, its voice was somehow different. "It should be, Precious. Nasty orcses are all over, coming closer, Precious. And long ways for girlses to go. All past orcses and nasty pits..." Again the creatures voice changed, returning to the first tone. "It gots nothing to be frightened of, Precious. Nasty orcses can't sees us as well as we can sees them, not without lights. Not without lights." It dawned on me that the creature standing before me was doomed with a severe case of Schizo. I decided to ignore this fact.

"But I can't see in the dark," I muttered. The creature returned its gaze to me, almost as though surprised to see me standing there.

"It can't sees in the darks!" Echoed the creature. I'm sure it would have said more, but it was interrupted by a churning growl. Habitually, I laid my hand over my stomach.

"Sorry," I said. The creature looked faintly amused.

"Is it hungry, Precious?" It asked. I nodded. A moment later, the creature was gone into the dark chambers. Once more I was left alone.

But I felt a little better. I never actually had to say I was afraid. I never actually had to say I wouldn't go into the cave. For some strange reason, that made me feel more relaxed.

Or I might just have a big ego.

About a half hour later, the creature returned with a triumphant prize.

A fish.

No, not bread. Not some kind of jerky. A fish.

Whats more, a raw fish.

As in, at one point, it started flopping around. Or at least, until the creature smacked it against the ground a few times. At which point the poor fish was limp and dead.

Had there been anything in my stomach at the time, I would have gladly thrown up.

Even worse, the creature offered the fish to me. The fish that had been alive a moment before. I held up a hand in protest.

"No, thanks. I think I'll pass." I said, feeling weak. The creature shrugged, and started eating the fish. It was not a pretty sight. When it finished its meal, I decided to start up some kind of conversation. I asked a few casual questions:

"How long have you been here?"

"Hours and hours and hours, Precious. Since we gots away from the wicked Elvses... We comes here when the trees goes dead and fall down." Translation: I have been here a long time, since I escaped from the Anti-Santa's workshop, which was sometime in the fall.

"How old are you?"

"Old? Older than girlses... Younger than the Precious..." Translation: it is rude of you to ask my age, and even if I felt like telling you, I don't honestly remember.

"My name isn't girlses, you know. It's Stephanie. Steph, if you want."

"Stephses?"

"Close enough. By the way, what's your name?"

"My... Name..." I could find no translation to this. It seemed almost as though he didn't know. It was strange. After a long pause, I decided to continue the conversation.

"Well, I need to call you something. How does George sound?"

"No, Precious."

"Harry?"

"We don't likes it, Precious,"

"Bob? Larry? Herman? Rumplestiltskin?" Cue dramatic screaming of the words 'No! you cheated! Your firstborn child is still mine!' "Sylvester?"

"No." The creature said flatly.

We finally settled on a name.

Elvis.

Somehow, I managed to twist his favorite word, Precious, into Presley. Don't ask me how. From there, Elvis seemed natural. Oddly enough, it seemed to fit him.

Over the next few days, I learned a good deal from Elvis. I discovered that he could see perfectly in the dark (I wish I had that skill) and that he really enjoyed riddle games. He would ask me a riddle (for instance, a white box without a hinge that holds a golden treasure) and I would generally fail terribly in guessing them at first, but would eventually guess right at pure chance. My favorite strategy was to say a list of random words, (for example, box, fox, hound, ground, sky, bird, egg. Which would be the answer). Elvis absolutely loved it when it took me a long time to figure out the answers to his riddles.

I also learned that he was extremely patient. When I finally did guess the answer, I would ask a riddle, which he would solve within a few moments. We played these games for some time, and when I ran out of riddles, we simply spoke of whatever entered our heads. Elvis left when the sun began to set, for some other, darker tunnel.

In the morning he returned, obviously delighted in the fact that I had stayed (and survived) the night. He brought another fish, which I politely refused once more. We played the riddle game again, and when we finished that, we spoke some more, this time ranting about the injustices of the world. I informed him of my school life and every cruel thing and trick that had ever darkened my days. Elvis told me about the wicked elves, and how they had captured and imprisoned him. They had allowed him to go outside occasionally, and sometimes to climb a tree, but they always surrounded him, making sure that he did nothing they didn't want. He eventually escaped when they were fighting some orcs.

It sounded a lot like high school.

We continued these little discussions—about what was wrong with the world, about orcs, about riddles, about his world and mine. We spoke of the earth and stone, we told histories and fairy tales. Every day he brought me a fish, and every day I refused it.

But nearly a week had passed.

The rule of three, part of me noted. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food before you die.

I'm not going to die. My other side argued stubbornly.

You will if you don't eat. Side 1 said bluntly.

But those fish... they were alive a second ago...Side 2 said.

So were the cows that became your hamburgers. Side 1 returned.

Don't talk about food. It isn't helping. Side 2 snapped.

Ice cream...Chicken Cordon Bleu...Pancakes...Sushi...Pie...Spaghetti...Baked potatoes with everything on them...

You are evil.

Mwuahahahaha.

Besides, I don't want to depend on Elvis. My second side quipped.

Then learn how to fish and provide for yourself. I noticed that Side 2 was very blunt.

And go... out there? Into the dark?

No. There's a river running right through this room. I'm surprised you missed it.

At least I didn't miss your sarcasm.

I'm happy for you.

So that day I accepted Elvis's fish. He made sure it was good and dead before he turned it over to me, most likely for the prolonged preservation of my sanity.

Though I find it impractical to preserve what doesn't exist.

Then I was faced with another problem. I couldn't cook the fish: there was no wood, and no way to make a fire. And I couldn't look at the fish while I was eating it. Not yet, anyway. I couldn't bite into it with my eyes closed, because for some reason, my eyes kept popping open at the last second, just to catch the cold dead glassy eyes of the fish. So I made a decision.

I closed my eyes and walked slowly into the nearest dark chamber.

I ate the fish there, within a spear's throw of the light.

I ate it to save myself from a slow death of starvation.

I ate it, knowing that another creature had died so I might live.

And as I ate it, I allowed the darkness to consume me.

I wasn't afraid of the dark after that. I let Elvis lead me to the underground stream where he fished, and he watched as I caught food for myself. I wasn't fast enough to catch the fish with my hands, like him, but I worked well enough with my spear. And I could eat the fish raw. Over time, my night vision improved, to the point where I could recognize individual formations in the pitch darkness. My days became routine—Elvis would come to my chambers, the lit rooms, in the morning, then lead me around the caverns until I could make my way through them without much trouble. When either of us became hungry, we would go to the underground stream where we would fish, and eat our catches. I learned many paths through the darkness. But I didn't ask to be taken outside of the cave again. I felt almost as though I didn't belong there anymore.

Over this period of time, I had heard and smelled and seen a few orcs. Elvis had chosen to take me along the less populated paths, but just in case, Elvis had warned me to keep my spear with me at all times.

A fact that I was thankful for later.

I had a strange tendency to wander at night. I would always take my spear with me, and only go on the paths Elvis had shown me. One of those nights, I was examining a rock formation, when I heard a familiar clanking and scurrying.

Orcs.

I tried to run, or to escape into the shadows as Elvis had taught me, but the orcs were on me in seconds.

I was surrounded. For a moment they just stood there, looking stupid. Probably wondering when I arrived and where I came from. I could find only one really good thing about the situation.

None of the orcs had purple paint on him.

After a moment of idiotic staring, one of the larger brutes started shouting something.

"Druumknashmrysst?" he asked the biggest. What in the world is that thing, he said. For about a minute, he was answered only with shrugs and confused glances. Then one of the larger creatures received a rare and elusive gift—an idea.

"Sharknashka!" he snarled. Kill it, I realized with a start.

And the fight was on. The stinking creatures came at me quickly and relentlessly. The first one caught me by surprise, and nearly hit me with his black sword. Out of simple reaction, I thrust my spear forward, and the orc was dead.

One down, two dozen left to go.

I put into action everything that I had practiced: I lunged, thrust, jabbed. I hit one of the stinking creatures with the blunt shaft of the spear, and at the same time slashed another. Several times I tripped or nearly dropped my spear, but the orcs were so close that they still got hit. I fought for about fifteen more minutes, at which time the three remaining orcs decided that they had better things to do than get killed by a girl. I think I witnessed a historical event there: they were the first orcs in existence to grow brains.

The experience had left me exhausted, but with a very high self esteem. I had just fought my first life and death battle, and actually done well for myself. I didn't know any varsity shmarsity wrestler who could say that for himself.

Though the fight had been rather fun, I decided that I didn't want to play with any more orcs that night, so I staggered to my chamber and quickly fell asleep.

That night, I had one of my typical strange dreams. I was in this castle, and all these kids, most of them younger than me, were running around in black robes, swinging these pointy little sticks. One of them in particular caught my eye. He was pretty short, though he looked about fifteen. He wore glasses, and under his dark black hair was the strangest scar I have ever seen. It was shaped like a zigzag, or a lightning bolt or something like that. He was looking really stressed and shouting stuff like 'Where's Dumbledore' and 'McGonagle' and other such gibberish. Then I was in somebody's house, where I saw this girl run up to some guy and hug him, and he turned into a cat. I woke up feeling confused but rested.

I was famished in the morning. As soon as Elvis showed up, we hurried to the river for breakfast. When we finished eating, I told him about the fight with the orcs. Apparently he approved.

"Clever Stephses!" He laughed. "Killing so many orcses!" I smiled. It was high praise, coming from him. He was about to speak again, but he was interrupted by voices.

"...A mine!" some creature cried. The voice was rough, but it was no orc. Elvis and I swept closer to the voices. I saw nine figures of varying sizes standing in a nearby chamber. Behind them was a large area of bright light. The entrance, I thought absently, though I had no intention of leaving. I was more interested in the newcomers.

"This is no mine..." said another figure, a tall one with a slight beard. "It is a tomb..." Funny, I thought. That's just what I thought at first.

"No..." Moaned the shorter one, the one who spoke before. I noted that he had a very long and tangled mess on his chin, somehow bladed.

"Goblins!" Muttered another tall figure, this one with blond hair.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan." Cried the one who pointed out the mass dwarf gravesite. I had no idea that this place had a Gap, but I was relieved: I was in desperate need of a change of cloths. "We should never have come here. Get out, you fools! Get out!" The figures looked insane with panic at this statement. I noticed a snakelike thing creeping among the maddened figures.

"Strider!" One of the really short figures shouted. An instant later, he was on the ground and being dragged toward the light. My grip tightened on my spear. For some reason, that little word managed to reorganize the entire group. Three of the taller figures unsheathed their swords and ran after their comrade. After them came the short, bearded one with an axe, and the tall blond man drew his bow. Last came three short little figures, short as in not even four feet tall, waving daggers.

In the moment after my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw eight of the nine figures battling... a giant squid. Which was in this really big, foggy lake.

I kid you not.

It was like Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea had joined forces with The Adventures of King Arthur. After a few minutes of hacking, shouting, and shooting, the short figure who had been squid-napped was free and being carried away by his friends. The giant squid actually started climbing out of the lake and gave chase. Left without alternative means of escape, the nine warriors retreated to the cave. The squid tried to continue the chase, but as it threw itself against the opening, the outside of the cavity began to crumble like Texas toast. In moments, the doorway was blocked. As my eyes readjusted to the darkness, I felt a slight pang of regret. Somehow that door had seemed like the end of my problems: the darkness, the raw fish, even the brutality of the orcs that shared the caves.

Strangely enough, I hadn't thought too much about those things until I saw the door.

There must have been some deep philosophical symbolism in that, but my thoughts were interrupted before I could figure it out.

One of the tall figures, this one with a long gray beard and a pointy hat, tapped his staff against the ground three times, and with each tap, the light at its top glowed brighter. I found myself growing annoyed with all these sudden changes in lighting.

"Now we have but one choice," he said. "We must face the long dark of Moria,"

Moria, I thought. Is that what this place is called? Is that somewhere near Muncie or something?

"Be on your guard! There are older and far fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world."

Fouler things than orcs.

Right.

Judging by the man's long gray beard and the thousands of wrinkles chiseled into his face, he was pretty old. I decided the poor old guy was going senile.

Pity.

Moria, if that was the cavern's name, was a dangerous place to lose your mind.

"It is a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed."

Too late for that, Buddy, I thought with a smile.

The old man began to lead the company deeper into the cave. Without speaking, both Elvis and I began to follow the group. If nothing else, they were interesting. The shorter ones (axe bearer excluded) kept stumbling on the most bizarre things when they got tired, and the march was sprinkled with small conversations about the most random things.

At one point Elvis and I made a game of guessing which chamber they would go to next. When either of us got hungry, one would hurry to the river, catch a few fish, and rush to the next room we that we predicted the group would visit. Then we would both eat, silently, as we watched the company continue their little trek and make little comments as they walked.

Those comments eventually led to some interesting discoveries. For instance, the tall members of the group were Gandalf, the leader and the old guy; Aragorn, second-in-line sword-slinger. He looked about thirty, had an unshaven face and at random times took out and examined strange herbs and stuff from who knows where. Legolas was the semi-claustrophobic elf (he was a lot taller than I expected elves to be) who carried a bow. He was tall, blond, and the looked like kind of guy that every girl in the country would kill to date. Boromir, another human, also carried a sword, and sometimes traced the designs on the horn that he carried at his side. He was in his mid twenties, with a light beard and a naturally proud walk, as though he had been raised for greatness. His cloths seemed to emphasize this thought, but something in his face...something in the way he looked into the dark seemed to say it was a calling he didn't want. The middle-sized member was a dwarf named Gimli, who seemed to be in mourning because his relatives who used to live here were dead. Which I find unreasonable, since anyone who is dumb enough to live in Moria and lower their guard is obviously suicidal. The short ones were Merry and Pippin, who seemed to be joined at the hip, both in their early twenties, with brownish hair and constantly grumbling stomachs. Frodo, who's hand kept moving absently from his heart to his shoulder, also looked about eighteen, and tired. There was a kind of nervous fear in his eyes, and a deep sadness. Last came Sam, more or less eighteen, who was carrying a ridiculous load that seemed to include everything from a fully stocked kitchen to a supply of cloths that would keep a cheerleader happy for a year. I wouldn't be surprised if he stopped and took out a sixteen inch TV so they could all watch football. The four shortest people seemed to be called Hobbits, though I wasn't sure if that was the local word for midget, or if it was some kind of sorority or club or something. I decided that all of the people in this little group were either members in some weird reenactment group, or a club of Super Amish.

On the first night of following the group, I had a weird little dream. Not really weird by my standards, but a little bit odd nonetheless.

I was sitting at my desk at school, listening to Mrs. Mecum, my social studies teacher blab about longitude and latitude.

"Now class, I want you all to look at the map of the town on your desks. I want you all to find your house, and put your finger on it." She said. What am I? Ten? I thought, though I obeyed her instruction. Right by my house was the field, and there was even a dot labeled Sinkhole. I wondered how the mapmakers knew about the hole already. "If you will notice, there are no large bodies of water in or around our town," Mrs. Mecum continued. "There are a few small ponds in the area, but most of them are manmade, and don't support much more than goldfish. Does anyone know why?" I raised my hand. "Yes, Miss Gaia?"

"Because it's too flat around here," I offered.

"Very good, Miss Gaia. But if you'll take out your other map," I reached under my desk and pulled out another map. "You'll see that Middle Earth is not flat. See all the mountains in the middle of the map? And down in the southeast, around Mordor? The mountains there offer a tremendous strategic advantage. Does anyone know what that is?" I raised my hand again. "Do you have an answer, Miss Gaia?"

"No, I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"What's Middle Earth?"

"Why, it's where you are, Miss Gaia."

"This looks nothing like a classroom."

"No, it doesn't. Middle Earth is where you will be when you wake up."

"Sure..."

"Now, class, look at the map. Note the cave marked in the mountains. The cave is called Moria. Now go west for a few miles, until you reach a forest."

"Mirkwood?" I asked, looking at the forest to the west of the mountains.

"No. Lorien. It's a bit to the south and east of Mirkwood."

"I see it."

"Good. Now do you see the big river flowing north and south?"

"The Anduin?"

"That's right. Follow the Anduin down until you're right next to Mordor. You'll see a canyon there, called Emyn Muil, and then a swamp called the Dead Marshes. Now you'll be right on top of the Mountains around Mordor. These mountains are far too steep to climb, and it's impossible to cross them, except though the main gates."

"That's not right," I said.

"Do you have something to add?"

"Yeah. Right here—it says there's a pass or something. It's really small...Minas Morgul..."

"Very good. You'll have to go there, you know."

"What?"

"Now hurry and wake up. The Fellowship is getting ready to leave."

I was awake in an instant.

The group continued, relatively silent. I thought about my dream as I followed them, to amuse myself during the lulls. I decided that something about my dream was right—there were no lakes within miles of the sinkhole, and I didn't think I had come anywhere near Lake Michigan. Half of my dream had to be nonsense, of course. I had never even heard of a Middle Earth, or Lorien, or Anduin, or any of that stuff. So I just pronounced the dream as just that: a dream.

After about three days, the group stopped at a ledge in front of a three-way fork. Gandalf muttered something to himself, but the cavernous walls magnified his words until it seemed the old man was standing right next to me.

"I have no memory of this place..." The entire company looked worried. The man put down his glowing staff and slumped down on a nearby rock, muttering in some language I didn't understand.

"We gets a closer looks," Elvis whispered to me.

"Good idea," I agreed. Elvis led me a bit farther below the group, and then up a steep formation

that led up to the ledge the company was resting on. I could hear even their whispers.

Merry and Pippin unpacked some food and started eating. Boromir and Aragorn had an interesting conversation about battle strategy, while Legolas and Gimli debated the pleasantries and evils of caves and being underground. Sam reorganized his pack (it took a lot less time than I expected) and tinkered with a few of his things (probably adjusting the color balance on his TV). Frodo looked intently over the ledge. I wondered vaguely if he saw Elvis and me. After a moment he walked to Gandalf's side.

"There's something out there," he whispered. Looks like the jig is up, I thought sadly.

"It's Gollum," Gandalf replied. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Elvis and I weren't gollums. Whatever a gollum is.

"Gollum?"

"He's been following us for three days." At least, not unless gollum meant something along the lines of stalker.

"He escaped the dungeons of Barad Dur?" The dungeons of Bradley What?

"Escaped... Or let loose?" Interesting question... "He hates and loves the Ring," Wait. Now we're talking about fashion? What are these people, cheerleaders? "just as he hates and loves himself. He will never be rid of his need for it." Must be. Very few people can be that obsessed with accessories.

"It's a pity Bilbo didn't kill him." Frodo muttered. I was royally confused at this point.

"Pity!" Said Gandalf. "It was pity that stayed Bilbo's hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo?" I knew that they were talking about something very deep. I just didn't understand a word it. "Do not be so willing to hand out death and judgement. Even the wise cannot see where it all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is all over. The pity of Bilbo will decide the fate of many." Gandalf had lost me somewhere after he said pity.

"I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had ever happened." I feel for you, brother, I thought at the Hobbit.

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All that is for us to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work, beside the will of evil." Yup. There's the force of Gravity, the force of Magnetism, the force of Obsession... "Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, in which case you also were meant to have it, and that is an encouraging thought. Oh! It's this way!" The old man rose from his perch and wandered to the far left fork.

"He's remembered it," Merry said.

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul here. When in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose." Wise advice, Toucan Sam, I noted. The rest of the company rose and stretched and followed after Gandalf once more. Elvis and I stayed a bit behind the group to avoid discovery.

"Do you think they're on to us?" I whispered to Elvis. He looked uneasy.

"It's time to follow, Precious," he muttered. I dropped the topic, but questions continued to circle through my mind: Who is Bilbo? And what of Gollum? What could Gollum have done to make Bilbo want to kill him? Did this have anything to do with a cheesy soap opera? Did this freakish place have football? And if not, what were guys obsessed with? Was there another creature tracking the company besides Elvis and myself? And what else lurks in the dark, I wondered, suddenly feeling a terrifying presence shift, not far away.

Thus is the extent of mine muses. If thou dost dislike mine fiction for any reason, please, do revieweth with great haste. And take care to study in the works of Blue Kat, whose skills and talents doth greatly surpass mine own.

AN: Sorry. That's what happens when you see A Midsummer Night's Dream. I am very sorry if I got some of Gandalf's quote wrong. My memory of The Fellowship is a little fuzzy. I'll have to watch it again this weekend.