I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack! Yes, it took me entirely too long to write this, and I do apologize for the delay. I actually started working on this chapter while I was in Atlanta for DragonCon (Craig Parker. . .ahhhhhhhhhh!). Unfortunately, when I returned to work, all hell broke loose, as the saying goes, and I've spent the last several weeks trying to cope with the crap going on there. I just started regaining the energy to write during the last few days.
I also want to mention. . .I am VERY inexperienced writing Boromir. This is my first attempt, and while I didn't write him as a sexist pig, I'm still concerned that I didn't do justice to him. Be patient with me. . .sometimes, it takes me a while to get a character's voice right.
REVIEWERS!
Lirenel: Thankees, me dear! Yes, more look-alikes, especially as the chapters go by. A very important one in this chapter. . .very important indeed. Not just to this story, but to the sequel (Faramir! I warned you about that!)
Kelly: Yup, Frodo arrives! Now, as to your questions. . .yes, Ava is the modern-day Eowyn. Does Allison save Boromir? You'll have to wait to find that out. As for Eowyn and Faramir. . . let's just say that I stick with canon. Somewhat. I don't wanna give too much away. Elf-boy/Undercover Elf is a character from LOTR, an established character. Has LOTR been written in Allison's universe? The answer is either 'no,' or she hasn't read it/seen the movies/basically lived under a rock for the last three years. I'm more inclined toward the first option. As for Gandalf. . .read on!
Sailor Elf: Yes, but not surprisingly, her Sindarin is much better than her Westron. She speaks Sindarin far more regularly. The rest of it? Umm, Elf? That may take a while.
LalaithCat: Is Undercover Elf actually an Elf? That I can answer, without fear of giving anything away. . .yes. He is really an elf. I hope everyone remains in character. Since I've never written Boromir, he's the hardest one to write. . .at least right now, though I'm sure that'll change once I get to Denethor.
Bel: My other eternal reviewer! I'm glad I'm doing justice to Bilbo, as he's been extremely fun to write. Pippin is the featured hobbit in this chapter. . .hopefully, I captured that mischievous streak so common in Tooks. Sam and Merry will come in the next chapter. . .Pippin, I thought, would be the most likely to get in this position.
Redone: Thank you! I've not read any of your stories yet, but I've come across your reviews before, and they've impressed me. As Sailor Elf and Bel could tell you, these chapters are about standard for me. . .usually, the prologue is the shortest chapter. One of my little quirks as a writer.
The Woods Witch: 'Ello, m'lady! Good, then I've done exactly what I've been aiming for. At least, so far. I've seen. . .uhm. . .I think one other story that addresses the language barrier. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!
Part ThreeRunning with broken ribs probably ranked at the same level as getting drunk, in terms of stupidity. But when Lord Elrond told her to get Bilbo and to find Arwen, Allison didn't hesitate. Of course, he didn't tell her to run, but she received the definite impression that this was an emergency. . .so hauling ass was a very good idea. Besides, when Lord Elrond spoke like that. . .well, the only question when he asked you to jump was 'how high?' She reflected ruefully, when she was capable of thinking clearly, that he reminded her of Uncle Devin.
None of which was particularly comforting right now. Allison lay in bed, trying to regulate her breathing. Months after her initial arrival in Rivendell, her ribs were still healing, as was her arm. It didn't help that while elves could be hurt (or even killed, something that made Allison shudder), they healed far more rapidly than humans. Unfortunately, rib injuries took longer to heal. Something she remembered when she found Arwen, after informing Bilbo that Elrond needed to see him. Actually, she didn't inform him per se. She just gasped in her still-halting Westron, "Elrond. . .see. . .now!"
Bilbo's eyes filled with concern, but he asked no questions. Instead, he set out in the direction from which Allison just came. That left her free to seek out Arwen. Which she did. And upon finding her friend, Allison promptly collapsed into Arwen's arms, exhausted and in pain. Much to her surprise, Arwen could not only support her entire weight. . .but the Elven Lady picked Allison as if she was just a child and carried her back to her room! Allison was too tired to protest, and didn't have the breath to argue in any event. Not that she usually argued with her healers. It did no good.
That was three days previously. Arwen looked even more worried. Worse, she didn't seem to want to talk about it. . .or maybe the explanation was more complex than Allison's understanding of Elvish. Allison did learn, however, that someone named 'Mithrandir' arrived. Among others. Rivendell (this town? Community? Place?) was much livelier these days. Or so she heard. She wasn't allowed out of bed, until Elrond was satisfied that she hadn't reinjured herself during her mad dash to alert Bilbo.
In the meantime, Arwen's brothers were learning just how bad of a patient Allison could be (truly bad, especially in her current mood). The stranger actually felt sorry for them, though they were getting on her nerves. She knew Elrond wanted them to keep her occupied (perhaps because she sometimes tried to sneak out of her room before reinjuring herself?). She also knew that they wanted to be elsewhere. Judging from what she heard earlier, among the new arrivals was a woman named 'Estel.'
It never occurred to her that 'Estel' might be a man. For one thing, it sounded very close to 'Estelle.' For another, she learned from Arwen that in Sindarin, 'estel' was the word for 'hope.' In every language on earth, that she knew of, their word for 'hope' was a woman's name. In English, it was 'Hope; in Spanish, it was 'Esperanza,' and in the Slavic nations it was variations of 'Nadja.' Allison's best theory. . .at least, the one that seemed most likely to her. . .was this 'Estel' was another sister.
She said now, in her halting Elvish, "I. . .all right. Go. See Estel." Elladan and Elrohir looked at her, then at each other. Their expressions said, 'you must be joking.' Elladan (or was it Elrohir?) met her gaze, then shook his head very, very slowly. Okay. That didn't work. Allison sighed, then slumped back against her pillows. Not that either of them looked particularly convinced by this, either. She wondered what sorts of pranks they pulled while they were growing up. They seemed to know all possibilities. . .and covered them before she could try anything.
Pranks. . .and sneaking out of sickrooms. Elladan. . .well, one twin in particular seemed to know what she was thinking, for he gave her a smug little grin. It said very clearly, 'I know what you're thinking, and you're not getting away with it. I know all the tricks.' The trouble was, from what she heard from Arwen during her time here. . .they probably did know all the tricks. She closed her eyes. Trying to out-think two Elves who had a long history of pranks could give anyone a headache.
"Elrohir. . .Elladan," came an unfamiliar voice from the doorway. Startled, Allison opened her eyes once more, then winced. Damnation, why did just opening her eyes hurt the rest of her body? She squeezed her eyes shut once more, then felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. Allison slowly opened her eyes once more, and this time, she saw an elderly man sitting on the bed beside her. Something she found very strange, since she never felt the bed shift with the weight of another person.
That wasn't the only strange thing. She and the newcomer were the only ones in the room. The twins were gone. When did they leave? She never heard them leave the room! She wished the elves would put bells around their necks. . .like those cowbells! Allison turned her full attention to the man sitting on her bed, her lips still twitching at the mental image of Lord Elrond with a cowbell around his neck.
Mercifully, the newcomer drove that particular mental image straight out of her mind. Oh. . .my. . .word. I just keep falling deeper into that rabbit's hole! The first thing she noticed about him, after his great age, was how intensely blue his eyes were. Bright blue, and they seemed to bore into her very soul. She. . .what the hell? Allison shuddered, sensing a. . .for lack of a better word, a presence inside her head.
She never felt anything like this before, and while her instincts told her that the new presence meant her no harm, her head was screaming at her not to trust this stranger. Allison refused to drop her guard. She looked deeper. . .he looked very, very tired and very, very careworn. His robes were torn in several places, and through the tears, she could see. . . Again, Allison shuddered, pulling back. She didn't want to think about what she might be seeing.
Do not fear me, little one. I shall never cause you harm, the presence said gently. Allison would have reared back, were it not for the gentle, restraining hand on her shoulder. How. . .? Did the presence gain admittance while she was distracted? The new presence repeated, Do not fear me, little one. I seek only to understand. I wish to understand whom you are and from when you came. I am Mithrandir, or Gandalf. Be not afraid.
. . .
He arrived only days after Glorfindel and Frodo, borne away from Orthanc and Saruman by Gwaihir. He arrived, still cursing his own stupidity for not seeing Saruman for what he was much sooner. He arrived and learned that there were other arrivals, in addition to his own. Frodo, for one, and Aragorn, for another. Elrond was tending to Frodo, and Gandalf learned from his long-time friend that three months earlier, a young girl arrived in Rivendell.
However, what intrigued both Elrond and Gandalf was her means of arrival. She literally fell to Rivendell during a freak storm. Upon learning of the date of her arrival, Gandalf cast back his mind, trying to remember if he sensed something strange during that time. He was, after all, a wizard. And much to his surprise, he realized he did feel something odd on the night Elrond specified this Allison arrived. What that meant, exactly, he did not yet know.
During this time, Elrond and the other elves taught the girl Sindarin, while Bilbo taught her Westron. She was making progress, but often struggled with the languages.
Gandalf realized, when he thought about it, that he was relieved to hear the girl was struggling with those languages, when she never spoke them before. If she picked up the language too quickly and too well, it would have made him suspicious. There were enough suspicious occurrences in the world at the moment.
At that top of that list was the re-emergence of the One Ring. The decision about what to do about that would wait until Frodo was better. Gandalf sensed that was the reason for the arrivals. He was here. A contingency of dwarves was here, ostensibly to ask for advice. Piece by piece, the old alliances were being put back together. Would Aragorn be the sole representative of Men? Doubtful. Gandalf was certain that at least one would come from Gondor, and the wizard felt divided about Gondor. There was a part of him that hoped the Steward, Denethor, would send his younger son. The part of him that loved Faramir, however, warned him against such a hope.
For now, there was a frightened, confused young girl who understood not why she was here or how she came to be here. Thus, he followed the directions given him, and quietly dismissed the twins. They wished to see their little brother, for a variety of purposes, and made little protest. With the twins safely out of the room, the wizard turned his attention to calming the agitated girl. No doubt, she was unaccustomed to people who could speak in her mind. It was not something Gandalf did as a general rule. He found it a violation. But in this case, he believed that he was justified. He told her without words, 'Do not fear me, little one. I shall never cause you harm.'
She jolted, her eyes widening. Gandalf tightened his grip on her shoulder, but only enough to restrain her. In addition, he was mindful of which shoulder he grasped. She was still healing from a broken arm, as well as broken ribs. He repeated, 'Do not fear me, little one. I seek only to understand. I wish to understand whom you are and from when you came. I am Mithrandir, or Gandalf. Be not afraid.'
There was a trace of petulance in her voice when she replied, 'Easy for you to say! You haven't been tossed into a world that isn't yours, into a place that isn't supposed to exist, with creatures out of myths and fairy tales!' Gandalf, however, was not displeased. On the contrary, he was actually delighted. The child had a backbone. She was terrified. He could feel her terror. . .it practically emanated from her in waves. But she was standing up to someone she didn't know. That boded well.
As did her next question. She sounded both frightened and awed as she asked, 'How. . .I don't. . .how is it you understand me? I understand you! But I know English isn't spoken here. And I only speak English and Spanish. Bits and pieces of other languages. How is it that you understand me, and I understand you?' Even better. The child was curious, and her curiosity was overpowering her fear.
'Here, language matters not. Tell me your name, child. I know you are called 'Allison,' but whom are your parents, and from whence do you come?' Gandalf asked. He saw suspicion remaining in the girl's eyes. In an odd way, she reminded him of someone, though he could not remember whom. She had not the breath-taking beauty of her boon companion, Lady Arwen. Nor did she have the golden allure of Lady Finduilas, late wife of Denethor.
She was not a queen or a great lady of some land, but perhaps the wife of a Ranger, endowed with a quiet strength and courage. The sort of woman who was so terribly necessary in any time, the sort of woman who kept the world turning, because she provided a quiet haven for those with no other sanctuary. Nay, she was not beautiful, save in the eyes of her husband, if she had one. Her dark hair reached her shoulders, and despite Elrond's assurances that she rested during her time here, there were circles under her hazel eyes.
Those eyes closed now, as if Allison was focusing on the question and on the mental conversation. After a moment, she replied, 'My parents were Aidan and Gillian Norman. My full name is Allison Kathleen Norman. I'm twenty-nine years old, born March 17, 1975. I had one older brother, Michael Andrew Norman, and I was born in River's Dale, Indiana, where I also grew up.' River's Dale? Most interesting. However, he never heard of this 'Indiana' and he doubted if this year '1975' was from any age he knew. The year was now 3018 of the Third Age. Gandalf closed his eyes, focusing only on what he was receiving from her. He had many questions to ask her.
However, instead of questioning her further on that topic, he asked next, 'Can you show me your time and your world, Allison, daughter of Aidan?' Gandalf sensed confusion from the girl, but she complied, focusing on what she knew, what was real to her. The wizard actually gasped aloud, seeing the images in her head. He had no words to describe what he saw, and heard, and sensed in what she showed him. Of a certainty, she knew nothing of Mordor.
Which was not to say she knew nothing of pain and grief and loss. She did. In her mind, Gandalf saw why she referred to her brother Michael in the past tense. He saw the murder of her older brother. The murder of one other, and his resemblance to a beloved child of Gandalf's heart threatened to steal the very breath from the wizard's lungs. Flynn, he was called. Flynn, son of Devin and Fiona, brother of Broderick. Coincidence? It was possible. . .not likely. And Gandalf didn't believe in coincidences.
From Allison's memories, he learned that this Flynn was but two-and-twenty when he died. Only four years older than Faramir when the One Ring was found. Gandalf was starting to suspect he knew why the girl was here. He did not know how she arrived, but he suspected the Valar had something to do with it. Trying to remain gentle, trying to avoid frightening the girl, he asked, 'You regret their deaths. . .regret being unable to protect them?'
A wave of grief and misery swept over him, answering his question. However, Allison replied, 'I do. It's been ten years since my brother and Flynn were murdered. I didn't just lose my best friend and my big brother. I lost my other big brother, and my uncle at the same time. Uncle Devin never forgave himself for allowing things to deteriorate between himself and Flynn. . .he killed himself six months later. And Brody. . .he never forgave me.'
An image of this Devin, father of Flynn, appeared in Allison's mind. Not surprisingly, it was Denethor. . .a much different Denethor. A Denethor shattered by his youngest son's murder, and by the knowledge that there could be no more second chances. Shattered that he never fully appreciated his wife Fiona's last gift to him. Denethor, without the weight of his own father's example, without the resentment toward Captain Thorongil.
And there was one other tie between Allison's world and Middle-earth. Once more, an image flashed through Allison's mind, and Gandalf felt the grief and the longing in her heart as she thought on her brother. However, this time, Gandalf recognized the face. It shocked him almost as badly as seeing the world and the time that created this young girl. He almost released her due to that shock.
But thousands upon thousands of years of self-control came to his rescue. Three hundred of men's lives had he walked these forests and these cities. He had not yet run out of time, and Gandalf resolved that he would not run out of time here and now. Bilbo swore that she had nothing to do with the One Ring, and Gandalf believed his old friend. The wizard opened his eyes and smiled tenderly at the girl. Tears were rolling down her face from closed eyes, and in her mind, she wept softly, 'I miss him so much. I miss them both so much. Is it wrong, to want a second chance? I don't know why I was sent here. I don't know how I got here, or if I want to go home. I hate my job and they'll probably fire me, and I'm not even sure if I care about that any more. . Now she was making no sense, even to herself.
"Peace, child," he soothed. Gandalf was relatively certain he knew why she was brought here. It had to do with this terrible event when she was a child of nineteen. That much was obvious. However, he was not certain what her exact purpose was in Middle-earth, or how she was to fulfill this purpose. She was no warrior. Indeed, based on what he saw in her mind, it seemed unlikely that her brother was a warrior. Nor was she a healer. Further, her body was still recovering from the injuries she attained upon her arrival.
She had nothing to do with the One Ring, though the timing of her arrival would suggest otherwise. And Gandalf thought it wise to keep her away from Aragorn, as well as the Ring itself. She was just as subject to temptation as any one, and the Ring offered one's heart's desire. When he first learned of the girl, he also learned that Elrond was inclined to send her with the dwarves when they left. Gandalf was inclined to agree. There was no place for this girl here in Middle-earth, much less with the Elves. Yes. . .yes, the dwarves would be the best choice.
Poor child. She never would find that second chance she wanted so much. But Gandalf resolved to help her find some measure of peace before she left Rivendell. He could do little else. He was a wizard, indeed. . .but in his long life, he never found a cure for a broken heart.
. . .
Peregrin Took was an exceedingly curious young Hobbit. He, his cousin Merry, and their friend Sam arrived in Rivendell a few days earlier with Strider, the Ranger who saved them not once, but twice from the Nazgul. Even now, Pippin wasn't entirely certain if he trusted Strider. But he saved their lives, and helped to save Frodo's life. . .or, at the very least, bought him time after the attack at Weathertop.
Now Frodo's fate lay in the hands of the Elves, especially the Lord of Rivendell. Sam was sleeping, and Merry was eating. Pippin was of a mood to explore, and that desire became all the stronger after he watched Gandalf retreat into a room that obviously did not belong to Frodo. And how did he know this? Well, Pippin Took made it his business to find out such things. The tweenager crept closer and watched as Gandalf sat beside a lady. She looked tired and sad, and her arm was bound against her side. Pippin barely managed to hide before two tall, dark-haired elves emerged from the lady's room.
Once they were gone, Pippin returned to the door and watched. He wondered if Gandalf was healing the lady, since she was obviously hurt. The old wizard's head snapped up and he turned to look at Pippin. Around him, the tweenager could see that the lady was crying. Pippin could never bear to see someone hurting, and his presence was no longer a secret from the wizard (then, most things weren't). He entered the room, asking, "What's wrong, Gandalf? Why is she crying?"
"She is in pain, Peregrin Took. . .a broken arm, broken ribs, and a broken heart to match," Gandalf said heavily. Pippin drew closer, seeing her more clearly. She looked young. He didn't know why that surprised him so. . .after the last few weeks, little should surprise him. Horrible black horses with horrible riders and shrieks that would curdle the blood of any creature. Strange men and even stranger Elves. That this woman should seem young shouldn't have surprised him.
As if reading his mind, Gandalf explained, "She is young, Pippin. She is the same age as you, nine and twenty. She was brought to this world from her own for reasons unknown to me. Her name is Allison. Do you have other questions?" Actually, Pippin did, but he didn't want to ask them now. The lady. . .Allison, Gandalf called her. . .wiped at her eyes and looked at Pippin curiously. Then she smiled weakly, and held out her good hand to him.
Pippin stepped closer and took her hand. He wasn't sure what to say at first, a highly unusual situation for the tweenager. But after only a moment, he blurted out, "You have pretty eyes!" Allison frowned and looked at Gandalf. The old wizard looked from Pippin to Allison and back again, smiling faintly. Allison, for her part, was staring at Pippin as if she had no idea what he just said. Gandalf was no help, either. Pippin tried again, "Your eyes. . .they're pretty."
He pointed to his own eyes this time, then hers. Allison mouthed the words, and Gandalf took pity on them both. He said, "Speak slowly, Pippin. . .she has only begun to learn Westron." She didn't speak Westron? Then what did she speak? Or perhaps she didn't speak at all. Pippin thought everyone spoke Westron. Then again, nothing was the same as what he once knew, ever since he set out with his cousins and Sam Gamgee.
Still, he said more slowly, "Your eyes. . .they are pretty." This time, Allison smiled, and it made her face light up. Pippin looked at Gandalf, asking, "Allison, it's a strange name. . .what does it mean, Gandalf? Do you know?" For that matter, he wasn't even sure how Gandalf managed to talk with Allison, if Allison didn't know Westron. On the other hand, Gandalf was a wizard. Maybe he had other ways of communicating, without words.
"It means 'truth.' At least, that is one meaning. Tis the one she prefers, as well," Gandalf answered. He looked at Pippin thoughtfully, then asked, "May I trust her safety to you, Peregrin Took? She is a stranger to Middle-earth, and I must see to Frodo's recovery." Pippin nodded. Of course he could be trusted with her safety! He was the son of the Thain, was he not? He would take care of her!
Gandalf pressed two fingers to Allison's forehead, and she closed her eyes. A faint smile touched her mouth, and she nodded. Gandalf removed his fingers, and Allison's eyes opened once more. Gandalf gently caressed the top of her head, then rose to his feet, taking his staff with him. As he walked from the room, the old wizard added, "Mind you do not weary her. . . she is still healing, and needs her rest."
Pippin would have rolled his eyes, but he was half-convinced that Gandalf had those in back of his head. So, instead, he shuffled over to the chair Gandalf just vacated and hopped up, wriggling until he was somewhat comfortable. Allison watched him with a half-smile. He offered her a bright one in answer, saying, "So! I suppose I should tell ye a little about meself. My name is Peregrin Took, but everyone calls me Pippin."
The half-smile gave way to bemusement. Slowly, Pip, he reminded himself, speak slowly. This time, he repeated, "I. . .am. . .Pippin. Or Pip." This time, Allison smiled more fully, and mouthed, 'Pip.' Well, they were making progress. They knew each other's names.
What to say next? The trouble was, Pippin's mind worked so fast. . .not as fast as his mouth, however, and that was worrisome, indeed. While it seemed that Allison was quite happy to just sit and smile at him reassuringly, the same wasn't true of Pippin. He realized she wasn't from anywhere he ever heard of. . .and he was curious. Insatiably curious. He wanted to know where she came from, how she came here, why she had such a strange name.
"Arwen!" Allison said suddenly, her eyes locking onto the doorway. Pippin turned and his breath caught in his throat. There, in the doorway, was the most beautiful creature he ever saw. She was tall and slender, with silky black hair that hung like a rope down her back, and lovely blue eyes. She smiled, too. . .first at Pippin, then at Allison. There was a fondness in her eyes then. Pippin knew she was Lady Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond. But until now, he didn't know that she and Allison were friends.
"Allison. And you are Peregrin Took, or Pippin, of the Shire. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Arwen," the Lady in question said with a slight bow of her head. Pippin slid out of his chair and sketched a bow. Lady Arwen continued in slightly accented Westron, "Allison struggles with her Westron. If you like, I can translate for you. Sindarin is actually proving to be simpler for her. . . perhaps because she speaks it far more regularly."
"Oh, thank you, m'Lady! I have so many questions for her, I don't know where to start. Does Allison have an Elvish name? You know, since she lives with Elves?" Pippin asked. He winced almost immediately. Of all the stupid questions to ask! Still, Allison was a truly strange name, and he rather liked the idea of the elves giving her another name. A name from Middle-earth, since she lived here now.
"Nay. None of the names suggested are suitable for her, I fear," Lady Arwen answered, sitting on the edge of Allison's bed, then spoke in somewhat slow Sindarin to her companion. Pippin shimmied back up onto the chair as Allison listened intently. She nodded, and answered. Her Sindarin was somewhat halting, and she would pause on occasion, as if trying to think of the right word. But at last, she finished, and the beautiful Elf-Lady said, "Allison has suggested that we make up a name."
"Like what?" Pippin asked. That was something Allison understood, for she grinned unexpectedly. She said something, perhaps in Elvish, and Lady Arwen laughed softly. She squeezed her hand, and Pippin asked somewhat nervously, "What? What's so funny?" He looked from one to the other somewhat suspiciously. They reminded him somewhat of Frodo's Sacksville relatives. But unlike them, there was no malice in the gaze of either woman, only amusement. Like they were laughing with him, not at him. That was all right, then!
"Allison was merely teasing me about asking the same question. We have not yet chosen a name. None seem to suit her, as lovely as they are. As she points out to me time and again, a name must fit its owner. However, when she learned of the woods of Lorien, where my grandparents dwell, Allison told me that in her time, 'Lorien' would be a name given to a child, especially a girl-child," Lady Arwen replied, giving her friend a mock-chastising look when she mentioned the teasing. Allison just smiled impishly.
"Well, that's perfect! You can call her 'Lorien.' Or maybe 'Allorien.' You know, combine 'Allison' and 'Lorien' into one name," Pippin suggested brightly. It was an off-hand comment. He certainly never expected it to be taken seriously. But Lady Arwen frowned thoughtfully and said something in Elvish to Allison. And that lady bit her lower lip, her own expression just as thoughtful.
"Allorien. . .Alorie?" Lady Arwen asked. Pippin watched Allison mouth the name, and then smile. Lady Arwen looked at Pip, saying, "I believe you have created Allison's new name. Alorie, chosen sister of Arwen. Well done, Peregrin Took. . .well done, indeed." Pippin puffed up. And he wasn't even trying! Maybe what he did wasn't important, but Allison. . . Alorie. . . looked a little less sad. Pippin accomplished what he set out to do. Now, he was hungry, and Allison. . .Alorie. . .was no longer alone. It was past elevenses. . .time to find the kitchen!
. . .
Once Peregrin Took was gone, Arwen turned and lightly squeezed her friend's hand. Alorie. It suited the young stranger, far better than any Elvish name Arwen took under consideration. It would take her time, to think of her as 'Alorie,' rather than 'Allison,' but not as much time as it might have. She said aloud, "Alorie." The tiny brunette on the bed smiled at her. . .nay, that was not a smile. She was actually beaming.
So rare were Alorie's true smiles that Arwen always caught her breath. In the time since her arrival, All. . .Alorie smiled more and more frequently. The shadow in her eyes remained, but at the same time, those shadows lessened. She seemed to have gained strength. . .not just physically, but in her soul as well. Arwen knew, by this time, that the names Al. . .Alorie spoke when she first arrived were the names of her elder brother, Michael, and a dear friend, Flynn.
They died some years earlier, as a result of an attack by a highwayman. Alli. . .Alorie was nineteen years old at the time. She was but a year younger than Estel when he learned of his true name and his true heritage, and Arwen wondered why she thought about that. She shook her head. Arwen was a grown Elf of more than two thousand years when her mother was grievously injured, and later, sailed to Valinor to seek the healing denied to her here. Yet, even in Elven terms, she was not much older than Alorie was at the time her world shattered.
Arwen fared better. She still had her grandparents, her father, her brothers. Alorie was not totally alone. She had Wendy, who apparently resembled Arwen closely. She had Ava, beloved of Flynn. But less than a year after the murders of Michael and Flynn at the hands of this highwayman, Flynn's father took his own life in despair. . .while Flynn's brother blamed Alorie for his brother's death. He blamed her for living when his brother and friend died.
Or so Alorie said. It was not that Arwen disbelieved her friend. Alorie obviously believed it, and Arwen suspected that Brody believed it for a time, as well. But Arwen, though still young for an Elf, knew Men (and sometimes Elves) said things they did not truly believe, particularly when their hearts were wounded. It was her belief that Brody lashed out at his 'little sister,' and could not bring himself to apologize, once he thought better of his hasty and hurtful words.
But she said none of this to Alorie. The shadows were fading from her friend's eyes, and Arwen would do naught to cause their return. Yes, Alorie was gaining in strength with each day that passed. Mithrandir told her when he left Alorie in the care of Peregrin Took, that despite her obvious terror, she stood up to him. It was a discovery that obviously gave him great delight. Then again, it would. Mithrandir, for all his years, could be just as cheeky and mischievous as her two elder brothers when it suited him.
Soon, Arwen hoped to see more of the real Alorie. Not the sad, frightened child who held herself responsible for the deaths of her brother and friend (beloved? Arwen thought so). There was another Alorie in there. A mischievous young girl who was most likely as imaginative as the twins, particularly with pranks. They would not expect that. But Alorie was a young woman from a different time and a different place. Her mind worked differently, even from the humans of Gondor and Rohan.
"Arwen?" Alorie asked suddenly. The Elven Lady looked at her friend, re-focusing her attention, and Alorie continued in Sindarin, "Is Estel your sister? I heard. . . never heard. . .about another sister?" Estel? Her sister? Where did Alorie get the idea that Estel was a woman, much less Arwen's sister? Alorie went on, "Estel. . .is hope. My people. . . Hope. . .a girl's name. Different?"
As ever, when she was nervous or embarrassed, her Sindarin became halting. But Arwen could guess at what Alorie was asking. She squeezed Alorie's hand, replying, "Estel is the name of my betrothed. His true name is Aragorn. A new name was given to him, to protect him from enemies. Including the Enemy." She did not mention Sauron's name to her friend. Alorie had enough information to process right now.
"Ai, Elbereth!" Alorie squeaked, picking up on the Elvish prayer, and Arwen had to smile. She could understand where Alorie got the idea that 'Estel' was a woman. Thus, she said nothing further, though she knew her brothers would likely tease Alorie, if they were here, to say nothing of Estel. However, they were not. . .and she would not tell them, either. Alorie added after a moment, "Your betrothed? Is that why. . .you are sad, Arwen? These weeks?"
The girl's frustration at her still halting Sindarin was clear in her clenched jaw and the way her hands knotted into fists on the coverlet. Arwen knew better than to call attention to the clenched fists. . .it couldn't be good for her healing arm. Instead, she said softly, "Yes, I have been worried for him. Not sad. But worried. My father worries as well. He raised Estel, after the death of Estel's father. He was but two years old at the time." Sadness replaced the frustration in Alorie's eyes. Smiling, Arwen caressed her cheek with her knuckles.
"I am sorry. I was seven. . .my father left," Alorie revealed. She spoke little of her early life. Mainly of her brother, of Flynn and Brody, and her uncle Devin. Very rarely did she speak of her father and mother. And her expression when she did so convinced Arwen that she had little desire to hear of them. However, the gates of memory were open and Alorie continued, her voice distant, "Mother. . .left us. Her soul."
Arwen said nothing, being somewhat familiar with it. It was not precisely that her mother's soul left them. But she could not heal from her wounds in Imladris. She could heal in Valinor, she could become whole once more. Still, Arwen could understand her friend's grief. And there was anger as well. Arwen and her brothers were fully grown when their mother sailed to Valinor. Alorie and her brother were still very young, particularly Alorie.
"I. . .learn. . .that it is possible to die. Of a broken heart. Mother die of a broken heart. Uncle Devin, too," Alorie went on. When she wasn't struggling with Sindarin vocabulary, she found it hard to remember the difference between the past and present in her speech. One or two elves made fun of her. . .very young elves. The aforementioned elves learned that angering Lady Arwen was as unwise as angering her father.
Alorie was, in this way, much wiser than some of her elven counterparts. Though they were at least a few centuries older than the human, twas the human who understood just how dangerous an essentially gentle person could be when enraged. Alorie's statement was passing strange, a saying from her own time, but when she explained it, it made sense. Twas necessary to be wary of the quiet ones. However. . .that was not how Alorie said it.
Arwen was silent for a few moments, trying to decide how to answer Alorie's statement. At last, she replied, "People can, indeed, die of broken hearts. As can Elves." Alorie looked at her with sudden interest, and Arwen went on, "Tis difficult for me to explain, but such things are not unknown among my kin. Please, do not be too angry with your mother." Even as she spoke, however, she realized how foolish that sounded.
Alorie was nine and twenty, a grown woman among Men, but where her mother was concerned, she was still a girl of seven. A child, and would likely be for some time. Arwen wished she could aid her friend in this. But Arwen herself still missed her mother, after all these years. How, then, could she judge Alorie for her grief and anger toward her mother? She could not. Arwen put her hand on her friend's shoulder.
"I am sorry. I do not wish to wound you further," she said after a moment, and Alorie just smiled, raising her shoulders slightly. As if it mattered not to her, but Arwen knew it did. The Elven Lady went on, "Will you tell me more of your brother? Of Michael? What was he like?" As ever, mention of Michael brought a bittersweet smile to Alorie's face, and Arwen realized with every use of the new name, it grew easier to think of her as such.
"Michael. . .was handsome. And smart. And funny. And he loved me," Alorie replied, her eyes lighting up as she spoke. Arwen said nothing. This was the first information she really had of Michael, and she had no desire to interrupt her friend.
Alorie continued, her command of Sindarin returning to her as she relaxed, "He was a teacher, you see? A great teacher, loved by his students. And he could always make me laugh, no matter how angry or scared or hurt I was. He. . .and Brody." Now her eyes were saddened. Arwen smiled inwardly. Though her words were Sindarin, she was a Human, and thought as one. But it mattered little, for Alorie was talking to her of the ones whose loss shattered her.
Alorie looked down at the coverlet for a moment, then into Arwen's eyes, saying, "His hair was black and always at the same length, reaching his jaw line. I loved it like that. He looked so much more attractive like that. I loved it, and so did Wendy. She would tell him, tell him that he could pass for a knight of old. He had this lovely little beard, and his eyes were so beautiful. Blue and gray at the same time. It used to frustrate me, because my brother was so beautiful, and I was not. I was just. . .me."
Arwen almost told her that just Alorie was good enough, but the girl wasn't finished. She smiled, giving an odd little laugh, as she continued, "I always used to tease Flynn, tell him that he should do the same. Let his hair grow out, and develop a beard. He was so handsome, just as he was, but I knew he would be even more so. He had red hair, did I ever tell you that? Red hair. . .red hair and blue eyes. And his smile. . ."
She stopped, tears sparkling in her hazel eyes as she repeated, "His smile. . .Flynn." Her voice broke, and Arwen could endure no more. She drew Alorie into her arms, and let the girl sob out her grief. She knew her friend never truly let herself grieve for the loss of her brother and beloved. For Alorie DID love Flynn. It was obvious to all who listened to her. Loved Flynn just as Arwen loved Aragorn.
She only had to think of losing Aragorn, as Alorie lost Flynn, as she still might lose Aragorn, and it was enough for Arwen to tighten her arms around Alorie. She wished with all her heart that she could take this pain from her friend, from her new sister. . .but she could not. Instead, she gave whatever strength she had to Alorie. She whispered in Quenya, knowing that Alorie could not understand her, "Weep, my sister. Weep and be free at last."
. . .
So this was Rivendell. . .Imladris. Faramir would know such things. Indeed, it was only through his little brother that Boromir of Gondor knew it. The Captain-General smiled faintly, though sadly, as he thought of Faramir. His brother would have loved Imladris. By all rights, it should have been Faramir here. It was his dream, after all, a dream that Boromir later had as well. And he was more of a diplomat that Boromir. But their father insisted, during a confrontation that left him burning with rage even now. Aye, Boromir wished to take the perils of this journey upon himself, but not like that!
Why did their father do these things? All his life, all Faramir ever truly wanted was his father's love and acceptance, since he gave up on Denethor's approval years earlier. He was a fine soldier. . .beloved by his men, who were ferociously protective of him. Indeed, Boromir was certain that they were just as protective of Faramir as he was himself. They were quieter about it, certainly, for none wanted Faramir to think they believed him incompetent.
But it was still there. Boromir whispered to the still air, "Would that you could see this through my eyes, little brother. Would that I had the words to tell you." If he closed his eyes, he could almost see his brother at his side. Tall and slender, his red hair sometimes falling into his eyes. And that hint of mischief in his brother's blue eyes. For all his scholarly achievements, Faramir had a mischievous streak as great as the Anduin.
So many times, he wanted his father to see Faramir through his own eyes, just as he now longed for Faramir to see this land through his eyes. And yet, those damnable words kept coming back to him, 'Do not trouble me with Faramir. . .I know his uses, and they are few!' The words made Boromir's blood run hot in his veins. His father did not wish to see, the Captain-General thought, and that would cost Gondor greatly.
It already cost his family dearly. His brother and his father were all Boromir had remaining to him, save his uncle, brother of his mother, and he wished they were closer. But every time Denethor, son of Ecthelion, looked at his younger son, he saw his late wife Finduilas. That was why Boromir did not understand. . .he knew his father adored his mother. Why, then, did he turn his back on Finduilas' final gift to him?
And that was what Faramir was! He was a gift, a jewel, as his name implied! Was that why his father refused to see? Fear that he would allow Faramir truly into his heart, only to lose him, as he lost their mother? Boromir didn't know what to think about his father's relationship with his brother. The blond haired Captain-General took a deep breath, looking around. Right now, his first priority had to be Gondor and this riddle. His brother was thirty-five years old, an experienced Ranger and Captain. He had to have faith in Faramir.
The man led his horse into the stables indicated to him by one of the elves. He knew not their names, and truly, they all looked the same. He had not been here long enough to know the difference. At this point, they were 'the blond elves,' 'the dark-haired elves,' and even a few 'red-haired elves.' As Boromir cared for his horse, he thought over the last one hundred ten days. Nearly four months passed since his departure from Gondor.
What if it was too late? Four months could, in some cases, be a very long time. It could mean the difference between life and death. For Gondor, which was quickly losing strength, it could mean the difference between strength and the shadow. Hope was not something with which Boromir was familiar. It was not something with which his people were familiar. Especially now, when his father's rule was failing. It was hard for Boromir to admit it, but when he was alone. . . when there was no one to hear. . .how could he do otherwise?
He finished caring for his horse, then stepped out into the sunlight. It went far in chasing away the darkness and fear in his soul. Boromir tilted his head back, allowing the sun to fall on his face. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, wincing a little as he re-adjusted his head so that he wasn't looking into the sun. As he did, Boromir caught sight of a small figure, sitting not too far away, under a tree. Curious, he approached the figure. As he drew closer, he could see a dark head bent as if reading.
Boromir bit back a smile, for it reminded him of Faramir when his brother was much younger. He drew yet closer and now heard the stranger's voice. Two things occurred to him. First, the stranger was a female. Secondly, while Boromir knew little Elvish (or Sindarin, as it was properly called, according to his brother), he knew just enough to realize that was what the woman was speaking.
She looked up as his shadow fell over her, and quite surprisingly, she didn't look frightened. More like. . .surprised. She felt safe here. Boromir knelt before her, saying, "My greetings to you, my Lady. Forgive the intrusion." As he raised his head to look at her, the mild surprise gave way first to confusion, then to shock. Her face was ashen and Boromir, concerned that she was recovering from illness, reached out to her.
"She knows not Westron, Boromir, son of Denethor," came a familiar voice behind him. Boromir turned his head to look at the newcomer. Mithrandir, also known as Gandalf the Grey, and the man who was more of a father to Boromir's younger brother than the man who sired them both. Boromir was both grateful to, and resentful toward, the wizard. He was grateful that Faramir had this wizard's love. . .and he resented the ancient one for perhaps causing more damage to his family.
Mithrandir continued, "Her Sindarin is considerably better than her Westron. And, I fear, you closely resemble someone whom she knows." Boromir looked back at the unknown woman. Now, he could see that she was quite young, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six to his forty. And she was staring at him, her face still very pale. There was something new in her eyes as well. Fear? But why would she fear him?
Unless it was something to do with Mithrandir's rather cryptic remark, that Boromir closely resembled someone whom she knew. There was another question. What language did she speak, then, if she spoke not Westron? Mithrandir's words implied that she was learning Sindarin, and as he gazed at her, Boromir realized for the first time that this was not an elven lady at all. . .but a human.
A human? A Woman, in Rivendell, among the elves? A Woman who spoke not Westron, nor presumably old Rohirric. She had not the usual coloring of Gondor. . .then again, nor did Boromir and Faramir, both of whom inherited their mother's light coloring. She did have the dark hair, but rather than the normal gray, her eyes were more of a greenish-brown. Which meant it was unlikely that she was Rohirrim, either, as most denizens of Rohan were blond.
"How did she come to be here? A Woman among Elves, a Woman who speaks very little Westron, or any similar dialect? Did you bring her here, Mithrandir?" Boromir questioned, looking over his shoulder at the wizard once more. Seventeen years earlier, the ancient one came to Gondor, seeking access to the ancient archives and the help of Boromir's brother. Both were given by Denethor, albeit begrudgingly.
Denethor never made a secret of his distrust toward Mithrandir. For his own part, Boromir was wary of wizards. . .magicians of any kind. He was drawn from questions about Mithrandir's allegiance when the young woman put her hand on his cheek, drawing his attention back to her. It was a rather forward action, and Boromir was surprised. No less surprised, he realized, looking at the girl, than she was herself. Her mouth worked a bit, then she finally whispered what sounded like "Broe-dee."
Mithrandir repeated as Boromir saw the shock in the girl's eyes turn to grief, "I told you. You closely resemble someone whom she knows. . .and loves." Tears were trickling down her cheeks, as she mouthed that name again. Mithrandir said, "His name was passing strange, as hers is. Broderick, son of Devin. Brody, they called him, and he was as a brother to her. Until he lost his own brother. . .and she lost hers."
Boromir's blood ran cold. But he could never leave a woman in distress. He put his hand to her wet cheek, wincing a little at the streak of dirt he left on her face. And speaking as slowly as he could, Boromir told the girl in Westron, "I mean not to distress you, little one. I am Boromir, son of Denethor. I am truly sorry for your loss. . .I cannot imagine ever losing my brother." Nor did he wish to.
He did not know if the girl understood any of what he just said. However, she put her hand over his and replied, "Allison. . .Alorie." That, then, was her name. Perhaps 'Alorie' was her Elvish name, though Boromir never heard of an elf named 'Alorie.' That proved little. Boromir helped her to her feet. . .at least, that was his intention. He did not notice, until it was too late, that her arm was broken. She gave a little cry, and Boromir simply reacted. He scooped her into his arms and carried her in the direction of a nearby dwelling. Mithrandir walked at his side, strangely silent.
. . .
Arwen had little time with Aragorn today, between conferences with her ada and conferences with her brothers. This morning, she told her father and brothers about the name Pippin Took 'created' for Allison the day before, and all three agreed that Alorie, while not an Elvish name, was far more suited to this world and to their guest. There was still light in the world, even as the Shadow continued its creep across the lands.
In truth, she had little time with Alorie today, either. Arwen was needed as the first of the ancient allies arrived. She knew not who would represent the Nations of Men. Not Estel, for he continued to reject his kingly birthright. Nor did she know who would represent the dwarves. Though the misunderstanding with Thranduil was resolved years earlier, years of distrust and anger remained between her own people and the dwarves.
She was on her way back to her rooms when an unfamiliar Man strode through the halls, Mithrandir trailing behind him. And in the strange man's arms reclined Alorie. Arwen's distress was ignited by the way Alorie cradled her broken arm against her chest. Mithrandir smiled and said in Westron, "Ah, my Lady Arwen. . .would you be so good as to escort Lord Boromir to Alorie's chambers? I fear her broken arm was jostled."
"Of course. . .this way, please," Arwen answered agreeably, and led the man named 'Boromir' to the room where Alorie recuperated during the last few months. Her young friend gave her a wan smile that was doubtlessly intended to ease her mind. Boromir gently lay Alorie down on her bed. He was a large man, big and broad-shouldered, but he treated Alorie with a tenderness that implied he either had children. . . or younger siblings.
"Lady Arwen, this is Lord Boromir, son of Denethor, and Captain-General of Gondor. Lord Boromir, this is Lady Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond," Mithrandir said as Boromir straightened up. Arwen used that time to study him. He was, as she already noted, a big man. He had dark blond hair that fell into his eyes in a most endearing way, and those eyes were a blue-green color. Arwen smiled and inclined her head.
"Mae govannen, Lord Boromir. You have already been introduced to my chosen sister, Alorie, I understand," Arwen greeted. The man bowed to her, and the Elven Lady continued, "I thank you for bringing her back. . .she is quite dear to me, and still learning her own limitations as her body heals." This was said with a mock-glower at her human friend. Alorie crossed her eyes at Arwen, drawing an exasperated sigh from the Lady and laughter from Boromir.
"You do, indeed, behave as sisters," he observed, still chuckling. Arwen looked at him, privately thinking, that answers one question. Boromir continued, "I have a younger brother. I am well acquainted with the cheek of younger siblings." He winked at Alorie as he spoke, and she actually giggled. Arwen blinked in amazement. Not once in the three months since her arrival had Alorie giggled. Not even at Bilbo, who could be quite amusing.
Just as quickly, Alorie's expression changed and her eyes grew wistful. She murmured, 'Brody,' and Boromir said, "That is the second time she has said that." Brody? Brody, Flynn's. . .Flynn's older brother. Oh, now she understood! Boromir continued with a slightly suspicious look toward Mithrandir, "I am told I closely resemble one whom she loves dearly."
"Brody. . .yes," Arwen answered, privately wondering about the Man's suspicion of Mithrandir, and the ancient wizard's calm resignation of that suspicion. She knew that Denethor, the man's father, regarded her own father's old friend with great suspicion. Perhaps that was passed along to Boromir. Well, that was neither here nor there. She said, "Lord Boromir, since you are from Gondor, we have something that I believe shall interest you. . .the shards of Narsil."
Boromir of Gondor was quickly distracted from his resemblance to Alorie's Brody when she mentioned Narsil. His green eyes lit up, and she added, "Let me make certain Alorie is well and I will escort you there. Unless you wish to bathe and rest first?"
Boromir of Gondor looked at Alorie with a mischievous grin, saying in a loud whisper, "I think the lady is politely telling me that I need to bathe." To Arwen's amusement, Alorie wrinkled her nose and nodded in agreement. Boromir laughed aloud, adding, "Aye, my lady, on that I cannot argue. I have accumulated much dust and sweat during my journey. A bathe would be most agreeable to me."
Alorie was shooing her toward the door with her good hand, no doubt hoping to distract Arwen from examining her broken arm. Arwen, however, had two mischievous older brothers, and she well knew the tricks. . .especially when someone did not wish to be examined. Arwen added with a smile, "You have a younger brother, as you say. . .you are well-acquainted with the cheek of younger siblings."
Boromir was no fool. He caught on immediately. With a bow, he replied, "It would be my honor, Lady Arwen." The Man moved to the bed. Alorie, while her Westron was still faltering, could still read people's expressions. . .and actions. She looked warily first at Arwen, then at Boromir, then began to shimmy back against the pillows, as if trying to make herself smaller. It worked not at all.
She cast an imploring glance at Mithrandir, who said, "Well, since the two of you have this well in hand, I shall check on Frodo. Farewell, Alorie!" He was out the door when a frustrated Alorie stuck her tongue out at her, but said without turning around, "Do that again, child, and I will turn your tongue into something much less pleasant." Alorie returned her tongue to its proper place, still glaring at Mithrandir's back. Arwen held back a laugh. . .though just barely. So, this was what she was missing, all these years, having a little sister? She would make up for lost time now!