A/N: so, here it is, chapter two (and two of my favorite characters from the books, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry!) I hope I wrote them well... I reread all the chapters about Tom and Goldberry in FotR, trying to get them right...
FFAMasquerade2005: yay! My first reviewer! Thank you... I hope you like this!
MB: thanks for the heads up about the review thing... actually, I own a gaming piece! Unfortunately, it has yet to transfer me into my favorite book... Eagerly awaiting your oneshot! Thanks for reviewing!
Chapter Two: Old Man Willow and a Few New Friends
When I came to myself, I wasn't sprawled out on the attic floor with an aching head. I wasn't stretched out on my great aunt's sofa with a bag of frozen vegetables held against my aching head. And, or so my aching head told me, I wasn't dead, either.
I was sitting up against a tree which, when I tipped my (aching) head back, I realized was easily half again as tall as Hester's monster of a home. I looked around, feeling strangely calm considering the circumstances--there was nothing but trees, earth, and tangled underbrush as far as I could see. The gloom under the trees was so thick that I couldn't tell whether it was noon or evening. My back was pushed up against the trunk of a particularly massive old willow, with my legs stretched out before me into a narrow, partially-overgrown path.
And the trees were whispering.
At least, that's how it seemed to me. The branches above my head were thrashing, and in my growing panic and paranoia, I was almost certain there were words hidden amongst the thunderous rustling--and they weren't exactly welcoming!
Shaking and shaken, I scrambled to my feet, brushing bark and dirt from my butt and thighs.
The whispering grew more and more tumultuous. Nearby trees joined in--and yet, not a breath of wind brushed my flushed cheeks.
"Who's there?" I demanded stupidly, driven to speech just for the comfort of a voice I could identify, even if it was my own.
The other trees fell still and silent, and the willow's leaves fluttered softly. I felt my trembling muscles relax and my shoulders sag wearily as the whispers began to form a sort of pattern, a vaguely rhyming cadence...
The willow was singing.
My eyelids drooped and it seemed suddenly to me that the willow's elegant branches were beckoning me within, to once again take up my seat amongst its roots, to rest my sleepy head on that cushion of moss and fallen leaves...
Unbidden, a memory leapt to the forefront of my mind, a scene from my favorite book. As they drifted off to sleep, two hobbits were slowly swallowed by Old Man Willow's gnarled malice.
To this day, I think it was curiosity that kept me awake long enough to stumble far enough down the path that I escaped the willow's enchantment. Could that really have been Old Man WIllow? Or was it just my imagination? And if I was in Middle-earth, how had I gotten there?
My fingers closed instinctively over the gaming piece, and I stopped dead in the hateful gloom of the wood. Oh, shit.
I would definitely have to explore this further!
That thought made me laugh--like I have any choice! If I am in Middle-earth...
A slow grin spread across my face as I looked around 'the darkling wood,' continuing down the path with a new bounce in my step.
I WAS IN MIDDLE-EARTH!
My good mood didn't last nearly as long as I would've wished. Soon enough it became apparent that it was early morning, and that the thick heat of the wood was only going to get worse as the day progressed. Soon my worn, torn jeans were clinging disgustingly to my thighs and knees, and sweat beaded my face and neck. My skin felt clammy and cold with it, and my hair was plastered against my forehead and the back of my neck. I had never put Middle-earth down as a humid place, but apparently (at least in whichever wood I was in), it was.
And which wood was I in? I knew of several--Lothlorien being the most notable, of course. Then there was the Old Forest in the Shire, and Fangorn. Based upon the descriptions from the books and my own observations (not to mention the feeling that there were several hundred pairs of angry eyes fixed on my back, and all of them were muttering ways to off me with impunity), I figured that it wasn't Lothlorien.
And what about the willow? Was that, indeed, Old Man Willow? Or was it a different tree of the same type? If it was, then I would be in the Old Forest, which probably would not turn out well for me. But, then again, the trees in Fangorn were just as malicious... perhaps there was another Old Man Willow there?
Shaking my head, I just continued down the path, figuring that I could worry about that when I was out of the woods (forgive the pun, please).
And then, of course, there was that teensy-weensy little matter as to time...
If I had (basically) figured out the answer to the question "Where am I?", I had absolutely no clue how to respond to that nagging little query, "When am I?"
I just prayed I hadn't plopped down in the middle of the War of the Ring... though it would be kind of fun to kick some Orc arse... hee!
I amused myself with images of that sort for a while, until my stomach began to grumble. Then it began to complain. Then, out of sheer hunger and frustration, it began trying to strangle my spine in an attempt to send that oh-so-important message.
"FOOD! Need--food--now," I panted, only then realizing that I'd been talking out loud the entire time. Oh, well. It wasn't like there was anyone around to hear me.
Not only did I need food, but I needed something to drink. The stick of gum I'd had in my pocket helped at least keep saliva flowing for a while, but after a few hours the wad turned rock hard, and the flavor became quite nasty, so I spat it out, lamenting the lack of trash cans and the necessity of littering (yes, add 'tree-hugger' to my list of not-always-so-endearing epithets). A few more hours passed, and my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth, my stomach had given up strangling my spine and was whining weakly, my head was spinning and I was easily inches away from passing out due to the combination of heat-dehydration-shock-and-near-starvation.
Oh, yeah, and I hadn't gotten out of the woods yet.
Letting loose a string of curse words, I gave in. I knew that if I shouted, I could attract the attention of something I probably wouldn't want to meet--but then again, I might just get the attention of a passing Elf or something, and that would definitely be a good thing! So, after weighing the options for a fraction of a second in my usual (stupidly) impulsive manner, I determined a course of action.
"HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD--erm, ERU! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE..."
And so on and so forth. I won't bore you with the details of my desperate little rant.
The important thing is, it worked! Yes, indeed, my nonsensical, irrational, often completely incomprehensible plea did its job commendably well. Of course, I was shouting too loud to even hear the man coming up the path behind me. I didn't hear anything until someone cleared their throat behind me--then I jerked around--
And ran right into him.
"Ow!" I cried, massaging my forehead. The little fellow that had come upon me rubbed his ruddy cheek, as well, but his cheery smile wasn't abated in the least.
"What's this then? You're making a ruckus. The trees are bound to get upset if you keep at it like this!" he said, smiling at me. "Lost your way, have you, little friend? Well, then! Come along with me, Tom'll get you fixed right up and set in the right direction! Have you eaten lately? You look a bit pale. Thirsty, eh? And tired? Tom can fix that!"
I stared at him, taking in the cheerful countenance (quite out of place in this gloomy wood, I can tell you), the blue jacket, and the yellow boots. He stood only a few inches taller than me, probably about 5'3", and it seemed that every once in a while his words would lapse from rhetoric to lyrics...
"You're Tom Bombadil!"
"Tom Bombadillo! Yes, indeed, I am! And who might you be, my pretty little lass? Come, walk while we talk, the day's lazing to a close and Goldberry's waiting!" So saying, he tucked my grimy, sweaty, sticky hand into the fold of his arm and led me down the path like we were walking up a red carpet to some sort of awards show or something. Tolkien never mentioned just how gentlemanly Tom Bombadil really was.
"Oh," was all I said, though. Suddenly I realized just how stupid it would sound to say 'Hi, I'm Gwen, and I'm from another world. I know it sounds crazy, but this innocent little necklace brought me here! Or at least, I think it was the necklace. You never know. Time-space continuums can be tricky things.'
Yeah, that would go over well.
"I'm Gwen," I said finally. He hadn't rushed me to say anything (for which I was eternally grateful), but I also got the feeling that he knew what was going on--or at least, he knew that I didn't feel comfortable sharing my whole story. Though I don't know who, other than Gandalf and Aragorn, I could possibly trust more than Tom Bombadil! "I'm not from around here."
"Well, I knew that!" Tom laughed, lapsing into song again.
"Your knees are scraped and your eyes are sore
With trying to pierce the wood's false night
You're not from near, nor farther shore
So Tom can see with just plain sight.
What far place do you know best?
Where do you rest your head?
But, my dear, first you must rest
Answer Tom's questions after you meet a bed."
I sighed with relief. "Thanks--erm--Master Bombadil."
"No troubles whatsoever, m'girl! You're weary and sore and hungry (for your stomach's groaning loud enough that surely it must have scared the predators away, for thinking it was some larger beast). It's been many a year since last old Tom and lovely Goldberry had a guest in their humble home! Not since the hobbits passed this way, indeed!"
"Hobbits! What year is it, Master Bombadil?"
"I believe most Men would call it the year 16 of the Fourth Age, though we know how Men's thinking is distorted by mortality. It would take me months to count the number of years that have truly passed since the beginning of time! Oh, it's been a lovely ride," he said with a dreamy smile. I laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over my mouth, afraid to alienate this welcome companion in the frightening woods.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"Don't be, my dear! Laugh loud and hearty!" he said. "It keeps the trees at bay, you know. The only thing they like to hear better than their own voices (though they wouldn't admit it to save their bark), is merriment! Yes, I know you do!" he said, shaking a facetious fist up at a nearby tree, which seemed almost to lean down and caress Tom's head with a long branch. "They're not nearly so hard-hearted as they think. Except for Old grey Willow-man, of course. Him, you must watch out for, my dear."
I nodded, thinking that this excuse could have come at a better time--like, perhaps, the moment I woke up in Middle-earth.
Abruptly, the woods ended and a long, smooth lawn stretched out before us, brushed with the evening's first dew; only the smallest sliver of the sun remained peering over the roof of Tom Bombadil's house, a cheerful little place that looked straight out of a fairy tale. Then again, I thought, this practically is one, so I guess that's only fitting...
"Goldberry, Goldberry! Shining river-daughter
With eyes like the autumn sky, and hair like light on water!
Goldberry, my beloved lady, come and greet our guest!
Fetch the sweets and wine and bread, set the table with the best!" Tom sang, his voice ringing across the lawn.
A moment later the door was thrown open, and golden light poured out from the hearth within. A woman's graceful figure was silhouetted against the brightness, and she raised a hand to wave, a joyous laugh resounding through the clearing just as Tom's song had. Unable to stop myself (and feeling both rather foolish and delightfully free), I tore my hand from Tom's arm and ran to greet her, stopping just short to stare at her.
Goldberry the River-daughter was just as beautiful and poised as Tom was ruddy and bumbling. Long silver-blond hair flowed over her shoulders and back in a shining wave, and her bright eyes laughed as surely as her voice. She wore a dress of silvery-green, like the underside of birch leaves, and a silver belt with each link formed to resemble a flower; her feet were bare.
"And who is this that you've brought home, Tom? A daughter of Men? Not often are they seen within the bounds of the Old Forest! Come in, come in, dear child—rest yourself by the fire, for you look weary, and we have a whole night of laughter and singing ahead of us yet!"
So saying, Goldberry took me by the hand and led me into Tom Bombadil's house.