Hannah didn't get back to her room until just before dinner that night. She walked in the door, dropped her backpack on the floor, and flopped onto the couch with a sigh.
"Stupid undergrads," she groaned. "Did that guy playing the bass until one o'clock in the morning keep you up?" she asked her roommate. "Because I sure couldn't get to sleep."
"Nope. Is that why you're so grumpy?" Erica asked from her desk, not removing her glance from her monitor.
Physically, Hannah and Erica were about as different as two people could get. While Hannah was a little short, with dark eyes and short, straight black hair, Erica was tall and thin with long, curling blonde locks. Hannah always wore her hair down; Erica always wore hers up. Erica was athletic; Hannah really wasn't. But as far as personalities went, they were two peas in a pod. Both were grad students who felt they would rather live in a dorm and deal with the undergraduates than live in an apartment and deal with the rent and the utilities. Both were working for a graduate degree in philosophy, and neither one had any idea what they planned to do with those degrees, although they were both leaning toward teaching. And though neither one of them was from more than two hours away, they both avoided going home to their families as much as possible.
"No," Hannah answered, laying her head back on the back of the couch and pushing her hair back out of her eyes. "It was the new job. God, why did I ever take it?"
"Because the pay was freaking awesome," Erica answered calmly. "I take it the first day went badly?"
"No, it actually went great," Hannah answered, closing her eyes. "I just hate Tolkien, is all."
Erica shook her head, and turned from the monitor to look over at her friend for the first time. "I don't understand why," she said plainly. "Yeah, it's fantasy, and it's completely unrealistic, but it isn't horrible."
Hannah looked up at her, cynically amused. "This coming from a girl who avoids fantasy and sci-fi like the plague," she replied.
Erica shrugged. "Yeah. But at least I've read the books once before I decided I didn't like them. And I only dislike 'em 'cause they're not my style, not 'cause they're bad."
"Well, I read them a lot of times before I decided I didn't like 'em," Hannah answered, flopping over to lay on her back. "They're not my style, either."
Erica regarded her for a moment, then shrugged and went back to her email. "Anyway, it's no good complaining about the undergrads. You know we were probably just as bad."
"Yeah, I guess we're the losers who decided to live in the dorm with all the little kids. I'm just old. These young whippersnappers!" Hannah said in her best old lady impression.
Erica chuckled, then closed out of her email. "Come on, Methuselah," she said, getting up and stretching. "Let's go to dinner."
000
Hannah arrived late for work the next day. She had had to stop after class and speak with a professor, and he had gotten off on a tangent. By the time she managed to get away from his long-winded analysis of the Romantic Movement, she was already ten minutes late, and it was a good fifteen-minute walk to the Psych Hospital.
She was hot and flustered as she jogged up the steps into the building. Mark was waiting for her inside the door.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming!" he said after greeting her. They began to head down the hall toward Amondaur's ward, Hannah trying to catch her breath. "I thought maybe the patients had scared you off."
Hannah glanced over at him in surprise, and saw that he was grinning. She pushed her short hair back out of her face and puffed out her cheeks.
"They almost did," she conceded. "But I'm late because one of my profs doesn't know when to stop talking."
They found Amondaur's door open. Glancing inside, Hannah saw that he was sitting in a chair by the window with his back to them, staring out.
"Amondaur?" Hannah said, and he turned back quickly.
In a moment he was out of his chair and crossing to them, smiling all over. "I thought perhaps you weren't coming!" he said. "I'm so glad you're here!"
"Did you have any questions for me?" Hannah asked, taking a seat.
"Yes, actually, although I mostly just wanted to be able to talk to someone who understood me," Amondaur admitted.
"So what were your questions?"
Amondaur looked a little taken aback at how she ignored the rest of his statement, but pulled himself together.
"Aníron istad o ndôr hen—America. Mas sa? A mannen tellin hi?"
Hannah turned to Mark, who was alternately watching them and writing on a clipboard. "He wants to know more about America—where it is, and how he got here. Should I play along?"
Mark shook his head. "Never play along with a patient's delusions. Tell him the honest truth."
"Ehh…" Hannah hemmed, turning back to Amondaur. "America ne North America, mi ndŷr Canada a Mexico."
Amondaur looked confused. "Aviston Ganeda egor Vecsico," he stated.
"I told him it's in North America, between Canada and Mexico," Hannah translated, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "He says he's never heard of them."
Mark looked unconcerned. "He's simply playing his part."
"Which direction are we from Eriador?" Amondaur asked her suddenly.
"What did he say?"
"He wants to know which direction to Eriador," she said briefly to Mark, before answering Amondaur, "Eriador is on none of our maps."
Amondaur frowned at her. "Perhaps if there are any Elves here, I might ask them what they think?"
Hannah shook her head. "There are no elves here."
Amondaur narrowed his eyes. "Then how is it you speak Elvish?"
He thought he had her there, but Hannah replied immediately, "I learned it from books."
When Amondaur didn't seem inclined to ask any more questions, Mark began writing on his clipboard again. "Ask him how he thinks he got here."
"Man gerich o mannen tellich hi?" she asked Amondaur.
"I do not know," he answered helplessly. "I was simply walking through the forest, and—it changed, somehow. Can you not explain it to me?"
Hannah fought the urge to roll her eyes. This man had been reading far too much bad fanfiction.
"I cannot possibly tell you how you came here," she told him plainly. "You are the one who would have the most idea."
Amondaur looked disappointed, but nodded.
"Did you have any more questions?" Hannah asked perfunctorily.
Amondaur thought for a moment. "Might you tell me about yourself?"
"There is really nothing to tell," she said calmly. "I am a student."
"Do you have any family?"
"Yes. My parents."
"No siblings?"
Hannah's face hardened. "No," she answered, then stood abruptly. "I think my time is up," she told Mark.
Mark looked at his watch in surprise. "So it is!" He stood, and Amondaur did the same.
"I must leave. Farewell," she told Amondaur, and turned to go.
"Hanna?" he said. She turned to look at him. "I am truly sorry if I have made you angry or uncomfortable in any way. I assure you, I did not mean it."
Hannah frowned in surprise and confusion. Her reactions had probably made him as uncomfortable, or more so, than he had made her. Most people would be glad to see her go, not stop her and apologize to her… He was playing his role rather well.
"Sa unad," she answered. "Arad vaer."
000
"So what's your diagnosis?" Hannah asked Mark as they headed down the hall.
"Schizophrenia. Schizophrenics can have delusions of grandeur and think they are famous historical people."
"I wouldn't call it a delusion of grandeur, exactly," Hannah argued. "If it were that, he would think he was Aragorn!"
Mark grinned. "True." He paused. "Interestingly, he seems to display no other symptoms that I've observed. In fact, you might be able to help me with this." He motioned for her to follow him, and led her to a small office, where he offered her a seat and sat down behind the desk.
"Have you noticed any evidence of hallucinations?" he asked, pulling out some papers and posing his pen over them. "Talking to someone who's not there, mentioning a sight, smell, or feeling that you cannot observe?"
Hannah shook her head. "Nope."
"Paranoia? Delusions of persecution?"
Hannah shook her head again. "No. He didn't even seem to blame the cops who tased him."
"Disorganized thoughts, garbled speech, abrupt stops in thought, made-up words?"
"No. His Sindarin is pretty straightforward. He does use some words I've never heard before, but they perfectly fit the structures of the language and fill in gaps in the vocabulary. He speaks Elvish pretty much as a real ranger probably would speak it."
"Hmm." Mark took note of this. "I see no disorder of movement, no clumsiness, no involuntary facial expressions, no repetitive motions…" He slowly ticked things off on his paper. "No flattening effect, depression, difficulty with planned activity, infrequent speech… He doesn't neglect basic hygiene or need help with everyday living activities—well, at least not after the first few days, when he acted unfamiliar with the technology." He stopped and looked over his sheet. "That's funny—the only symptoms of schizophrenia he's displaying is the obvious delusion of grandeur, and the Sindarin neologisms, and unfamiliarity with technology—all of which go with the role he's acting out."
"Then it might not be schizophrenia?" Hannah wanted to know.
"No, the only mental diseases that we know of that cause delusions of grandeur are schizophrenia and mania, and he's certainly not manic. It's definitely schizophrenia, but it's manifesting itself in a very strange way. We shall have to keep him under careful observation. We are currently trying to find an antipsychotic medication that will work for him."
"How long will it be until you know one works?"
"Well generally, with the correct medication, agitation and hallucination usually improve within a few days. But he doesn't appear to be exhibiting either of those symptoms. The delusions will probably take longer to clear up with the correct medication—a few weeks. So Amondaur may continue with his delusions of grandeur for several months before we manage to pin down an effective treatment."
Hannah nodded. "Well, I've got to get going. Call me if you need me." She headed for the door as Mark nodded absently, still poring over his papers.
"Oh. Hannah?" he said suddenly.
She paused and stuck her head back in the door.
"What should I put down for his last name on the forms?" he asked helplessly, and with a self-deprecating grin.
Hannah was impervious to self-deprecating grins. "His patronymic is Aradunion," she answered shortly. "A-R-A-D-U-N-I-O-N." She turned and left as Mark bent over his papers, spelling frantically.
TBC
AN: Translations:
Aníron istad o ndôr hen-America. Mas sa? A mannen tellin hi?: I want to know about this country—America. Where is it? And how did I come to be here?
America ne North America, mi ndŷr Canada a Mexico: America is in North America, between Canada and Mexico.
Aviston Ganeda egor Vecsico: I have never heard of Canada or Mexico. (Some spelling changes reflect Sindarin pronunciation of the two countries. Lenition rules make him change the first letters of the words.)
Man gerich o mannen tellich hi: How do you believe you came here?
Sa unad. Arad vaer: It is nothing. Good day.
Huge thanks to dreamingfifi, who did the Elvish translations for me! Bow before her linguistic magnificence!
For those who are confused about the title: It's part of a quote from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard (I love that play!) Guildenstern is talking to a troupe of actors, and he's mad at them because he says the kind of death they depict on the stage isn't realistic. "GUIL: I'm talking about death—and you've never experienced that. And you cannot act it. You die a thousand casual deaths—with none of that intensity which squeezes out life. . .and no blood runs cold anywhere. Because even as you die you know that you will come back in a different hat. But no one gets up after death—there is no applause—there is only silence and some second-hand clothes, and that's—death." Trust me, it'll make sense in the end. :)
theycallmemary: I think if he were an elf, the hospital staff might notice… lol
Laer4572: I think if any of the nine had ever ended up in the U.S., Tolkien probably would've mentioned it… :)
thayzel: My own Sindarin is pretty shabby; I probably know no more than Mark! Hence going to dreamingfifi for help. :)
Contia Mirian: Oh, I don't know about that… He's in a mental hospital for running around with weapons claiming to be from Middle-earth. Just sounds like some crazy dude to me!
Eresse, trecebo, Redone, dreamingfifi, Hebir Naid Thurin (what does that mean, BTW? Something something secret…), Princess Siara, Cindy (we're all Galadriel wannabes underneath! lol), IwishChan, Tara, Hermione at Heart, Ravens Destiny, Coolio02, lds-sunshinegrl… (Wow, long list): You all rock! Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews!
Let me know how I'm doing! Please review!