Dead alarm clocks... much for the same reason we killed off the lawn mower, actually. Ok, in case it wasn't clear at first, the spell cast upon the group by Morniwen caused the New Yorkers to be changed into elves and everyone from Middle Earth to become human and to forget everything. Now they're all actors. Funny how that works out, eh? And be forewarned...you may need a bucket, there be angst in this here fiction. And much thanks for the pixi stix! *bows* Now everyone dreading upcoming exams, good luck to you! Anyone lucky enough to be spared the misery...that's just not fair. Happy Holidays, Peeps. Now onto the real fic! Ja ne!

~Phe-chan

Chapter 2: Weaving Loom

"Oh, look at this: they're going to make a movie trilogy out of the 'Lord of the Rings' books," Sivi said from over the top of her newspaper and immediately wished she hadn't, for the look on Andrea's pale Elven face went from her now-common sad, pitiful smile to a look of utter misery.

"Oh," she said tonelessly.

"I would guess," Sivi continued hopefully, "that if anything can jar our friends' memories, this will be it. It's going to be huge. There'll be the movies themselves, publicity, toys, and new reading material. They're sure to see some of it."

"You think so?" Andrea asked, looking actually interested in something for the first time in weeks, even months - ever since Legolas had disappeared.

"Why not?" Gil-galad smiled at her. "Melui, your ears are showing," he added and began to arrange Sivi's hair so as to cover the apexes of her leaf-shaped ears.

"Sorry; I'm used to going to The Place for breakfast. No one at The Place cares."

The group of Elves had decided to try another restaurant that morning in order to have a little variety. Megan sighed and swirled the end of a doughnut in her coffee. Even Sarah and Christina were depressed.

"Well, no, this isn't The Place," Jeremie murmured morosely. "This is not The Place to Be."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was staring up at an insurmountable precipice which was vomiting fire, brimstone, and sulfur. The back of his head throbbed incessantly - but why? He had struck the front of his head, and that had been ages ago, in the tunnel beneath the Tower of Cirith Ungol. And where was Frodo?

"Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo!" he called, looking all about himself, but there was no one there in all the vastness of the plains of Mordor.

"MR. FRODO!" he screamed in desperation.

Suddenly, there was someone with him, but it was not Frodo.

"You were destroyed!" he cried in horror.

"The Halls of Mandos are laid bare before the Master of the Eye. He will break them, and I and my fellows return."

"The Master of the Eye?" Sam breathed, mortified and bewildered.

"The Master of the Eye will be Master of All."

"NO!"

"Sean!" cried a new voice. "Sean!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Sean, are you okay?" Elijah asked him with obvious concern.

Sean Mikë moved his aching head just slightly. Everything was white and clean.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In the hospital," replied John Sallah, standing uneasily to the left of Sean's bed. "You took a right nasty blow, lad," he laughed, but the laugh was forced.

"From WHAT?" Sean asked incredulously.

"A weaving loom, actually," elaborated Billy Masters. "You were eating lunch on the Rivendell set, you remember? You were sitting in front of that big loom they had on the set, and it fell, and SMACK! You were out."

"Out..." Sean muttered. "Yes, something's trying to get out because... because something's trying to get in."

His friends looked at one another in uncomfortable, confused silence until John Sallah repeated with another nervous laugh,

"A right nasty blow."