Don't own, don't profit
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Chapter 1
***Thorin***
"Curse the wizard's riddle! Why were we not to know the name of our burglar?" Yet even as he muttered to himself Thorin knew the answer very well: what they did not know they could not tell. It was a simple precaution on the part of Gandalf before all the parties agreed on their future association. "Where is that hole?"
He was sure he had looked at all the doors in all of Hobbiton at least twice and there were no signs on any of them! Just when he was about to start again from the top of the hill, he saw it: a beautiful door with a sign!
Beautiful might be a slight exaggeration, as it was just a door like all the rest of hobbit house doors, but this one did have a slight mark on it and so it was the most beautiful of them all in his opinion.
He approached the hobbit hole and knocked, but nobody answered, although he could clearly hear voices coming from inside. He couldn't make out what they said, so he knocked again, louder this time. Nobody answered and being tired and irked by all the useless search he took the matter into his own hands and turned the knob. The door creaked open easily, not that he supposed it would not as the burglar was expecting them. He shrugged and entered, turning once to look around him and see if there was anything of note.
As it happens it was: some fifty paces to his right and further up the hill there was another door and that one had the sign he was looking for! That, right there, was Gandalf's sign!
A laugh was heard from inside the house he was in and Thorin turned around as fast as he could, determined to get out and move away from that place. There was a mist of magic floating around, he could feel it, and it did not sit well with him. He was not frightened, certainly not. His shoulders were tight, his fists clenched, and his hair was standing up. The door was now closed and here his heart gave a tiny stutter, but when he turned the knob it worked just as easily as before and so he pushed the handle and stepped outside.
"Argh," he grunted the very next moment as a large branch whacked him upside the head and he fell to his knees. The weather had turned and he was now in the middle of a storm, the roar of the wind overpowering his mind while sheets of water battered down on him. He tried to push himself to stand back up, to no avail. It seemed like he was caught on something and he could not free himself.
Shelter; he needed shelter. He crawled on his hands and knees, his advance made that much more difficult by the mud and all the water and the leaves buffeting him from all directions. He must have covered a few feet when it dawned to him that he did not know where he should head. To higher ground, he thought, but he could not see where the higher ground was. He stopped and tried to think for a moment, to orient himself, but there was no use. He could hardly even see his hands in front of him.
The ground was starting to shudder and a deep rumble was starting to be heard over the howls of the storm. He wondered idly whether the Shire was attacked by Storm Giants, although why that would be so he could not say.
He was still on his hands and knees, still trying to make himself move to shelter, when the rumble grew and grew until it became a mighty roar and the ground was verily shaking now. A dragon?
Alas, it was no dragon. A thin wash of water was suddenly upon him. In the blink of an eye the water reached his elbows and shattered branches were coming at him. Then came the mud and more branches and it was too late.
He let himself go, trying to catch the trunk of some tree, but he already knew he wasn't going to make it through the flood alive. Today he would be arriving at the Halls of Mandos and be reunited with his brother. "I'm coming, Frerin! I'm here, brother!"
***Yeva***
A stupid storm. Not just any storm either: a storm and a flood. Two for one, fifty per cent discount, same-day delivery. At least there were no lightning strikes, silver linings and all that, right? The mud flood should be over, she doubted it lasted more than a couple of minutes - if that.
A horrible crack and a rumble dashed her hope, but at least she didn't see it. "Putain!" It's not that bad when you can't see it. Another crack and Yeva curled herself into a tighter ball under the kitchen sink.
She should get out; really she should. Why was she even at the cabin anyway? Stupid Pierre, stupid date, and stupid fucking dress! She should get up, walk to a window and… do something. Look outside, and assess the danger like. Just in case.
Although her Ben was no Pierre. They built a good house, one that already withstood a bad flood some years ago. Of course, that was only because it wasn't in the path of said flood. But it matters, right? Ben wouldn't have let her put the house in the path of a flood, would he now?
But Ben was no more and Yeva was all alone under the kitchen sink. At least she didn't have pets anymore. Socks hated storms even more than she did.
Another loud crack made her jump hard enough to knock herself against something hard. She wasn't going to open her eyes and look around her. Nope, there was no need. Except that her head hurt, her ear hurt, and a trickle of moisture was making its way down her neck. Sticky moisture. Du sang, her mind supplied obligingly.
Blood! Was she so much of an idiot to bang her head against fuck knows what and actually crack it open? Why, yes! Yes, she was.
She was pondering if there was any reason to worry for what was most likely nothing but a scratch when she heard something that was not the storm.
She thought she heard someone.
Though that could not be. Nobody would be out there in the storm, would they? But what if they were? What if a bloody tourist didn't heed the warning and was outside?
She heard it again then, almost like it was no more than a few meters away.
It happened in France almost whenever there was a natural disaster and Yeva ceased a long time ago to wonder why that was. France was so tame, would be one word, so well developed, that some people - some tourists - probably could not believe that they could be caught by floods or fires or hail or whatever. Not in France of all places!
She strained to hear more, but there was nothing. She couldn't stand it anymore and bolted from under her sink to look wildly around her kitchen as if expecting to find someone else there.
Of course, there was nobody.
The wind had let up almost completely by then and the clouds were starting to break. That was good, the chances were there would be no more lightning. Except that another one struck, right in front of her house and she could do nothing but watch. She felt like she could have died then and there. She was trembling so hard that her jaw was hurting from her chattering teeth. So why was she at the door opening it and going outside?
Go back! Go back and close the door! her fear screamed at her. She couldn't go back though. That voice from before was no imagination. A pile of clothing was draped around the roots of a tree. Except the roots must have been at least three meters up in the air. And there was a hand too, she could clearly see a hand.
***Thorin***
For being in the Halls of Mandos, this was nothing of what he would have imagined. He was alone, in pain, and thoroughly soaked. He was coated in mud and despite his honest belief that he'd die this day, he had struggled mightily to keep his head above the flood and not let himself go.
He was not afraid of dying as such, but where were the honour and the glory in drowning in the mud? There wasn't any to be found and so he fought to stay alive. Not that there was too much he could really do. He must have lost consciousness a few times because he could not say how he came to be caught in his cloak half dangling and half supported by what he thought were the branches of a tree.
Once or twice he had tried to move, but without really knowing how he was situated he was afraid of falling into the mud. Even this would not have prevented him from trying to break free, but he could not disentangle one of his arms, and the other one was badly wrenched and he wasn't sure he'd be able to catch himself should he need it.
That was when he heard her. There was the voice of a woman yelling something, though what that would be he did not know. So he waited.
***Yeva***
The good news was that the rain stopped and the clouds were thinning; at least for the moment. The bad news was that what seemed to be an upside-down tree in the back garden, so to speak, was over thirty meters away, farther up the hill and on the other side of the ravine. A ravine that was now filled with mud.
So she stopped to think about what she should do. She was sure she heard a voice and saw a hand, but now that she was out of the house she couldn't see it anymore. The closer she got to the edge, the less sure she was that the pile of debris was in fact a person. It once belonged to somebody, sûr et certain, but she wasn't sure the owner…
"Bouge pas!" she cried. The pile of stuff was starting to move. It could have been sliding under its own weight or somebody could have been there, trying to free themselves. "Bouge pas," she cried again, louder and ran to the edge, but the pile kept sliding lower and lower until it remained hanging from a knot of roots. There was a chance that it would land safely on the other bank, but really it could go either way.
She checked her phone for signal, although mostly as a reflex rather than expecting it to work. And even if she had a signal, what use would it be? Call the rescue services for what? They would most certainly ask if she actually saw a person who needed help and she could not really say that she did. Calling them would only divert resources from those who did need them. Yet she could not in good conscience let it be. She'd have to cross the mud.
If somebody was hanging in there and they fell into the mud, they would die. Simple as that.
So then the question was How did the chicken cross the road, not Why.
She looked and looked and couldn't come up with anything. The ravine itself was not too deep, maybe a couple of meters at most, and now it was full to overflowing with mud. That was good in a way because it stabilized the tree. However, the mud would continue to advance down the hill and settle. At some point the tree would be jolted and carried away.
And even if the tree remained in place, what then? Iif there really was a person in there, they would be injured, wet, and likely to pass a night at 5 Celsius or less if the wind picked up again. Not to mention the probability of more rain.
Either she got to her and managed to tend to her or keep her warm at least, or she was as good as dead. What a horrible thing that would be, to survive a mudslide and die of cold.
"So how does a chicken cross the mud?" she asked aloud. "Putain de merde! Think!"
A plank. She needed a plank to span the two banks. Except that it was at least 3 meters across, without counting the overflown mud. The plank would have to be very long indeed and how would she anchor it, she had absolutely no idea.
La luge! Would it work?
Luckily the luge was easy to find in the shed and it appeared to be in good condition; no cracks, which was good. What was not so good was its size. It was smaller than she remembered, certainly too small to actually be used to carry a person lying down.
The bodyboard? That would work better? It was meant for people of around 1.80 in height.
And the board was… probably in the shed too, she decided, although nowhere in sight. She found both the foam board she was looking for and an inflatable one. She didn't remember having it, but it might come in handy.
The bodyboard was not exactly a lot bigger than the luge, but it was built to float and that had to be a plus. N'est ce pas?
Now all she needed was a rope. She looked around and there was no rope to be found. She had rope, where was it? It took entirely too much time to remember where the paracord was.
That was it. Yeva had an inflated bodyboard, a rigid foam bodyboard, a paracord securely attached to a tree - yes, Yeye, the paracord is found in the kitchen, she thought to herself.
She had a small bag with first aid stuff: disinfectant, gauze, some clean t-shirts cut into strips, paracetamol, and heating patches and a large bag with two fleece blankets, a large waterproof cover, knife and scissors, and two bottles of water, everything inside a vacuum-sealed bag with four large trash can bags tied full of air and attached as floating devices.
It had taken her two hours to get everything together and there were not many hours left in the day.
The mud was largely stationary from what she could see. Some fifty meters downhill the stream that cut through her property turned sharply right and then right again before continuing down the hill. The outer bank was a tall solid rock and the mud was now pooling against it, having filled the bed completely. It would continue to flow for as long as it still retained some humidity, then it would solidify into - erm - dry mud.
As long as it wasn't too much of it she was sure it wouldn't reach the house.
She considered trying to throw the paracord towards the tree and maybe have it already in place to aid her in the crossing, but she didn't have a proper hook and her brain refused to cooperate and come up with a suitable replacement.
So she would just paddle over the mud. That was the plan. "You're stalling, Yeye," she said aloud more for the sake of saying something.
She was not stalling per se, she was going through her list to be sure she would have everything with her. There was a chance that she too would become stuck on the other side and if that happened she would be outside the whole night. It would take too long to climb down the hill, and then back up. It could not be attempted at night with the ground as full of water as it was.
She checked again the paracord tied to her supplies bag and unspooled enough of it to not have to worry that it would somehow snag and block her advance. She unspooled the would-be safety line as well, although not as much. She would need to be able to use it fast to pull herself back to safety if it came down to it.
The inflatable board was also tied to a cord and ready to be pulled if needed, although she didn't think she would use it. The foam board would not sink if pierced, but she was unsure about the inflatable. It looked sturdy, but who knew?
Crossing the few meters wide mud-filled gap proved to be a lot harder than she would have thought. There was a lot of gravel and even larger rocks caught along the flood path so the mixture was rather stiff. The water had probably filtered downstream and left behind the solids. She almost thought she could walk on it, but trying to pull herself up on her knees quickly disabused her of any such notions.
Nope, it was definitely not as stiff as it looked.
She should have tried to throw the cord and hope she'd catch a branch. She really, really should've tried. "Would've, could've, should've, famous last words, right?"
It was hard to make the board advance. She was stretched out on her front, with her feet bent up at the knees to keep them from dragging in the mud and she was trying to use her hands as paddles. It didn't work very well at all.
The board didn't sink, that much was true, but neither was it possible to truly make it move forward.
Still, she gave it her best and after about an hour she was about one meter away from where she started. That was great, except she was tired, her shoulders were sore, and she didn't have any water with her. Her face was full of mud and some of it was making its way down her neckline.
"Kurva," she cursed, frustrated. She could always go back, she supposed. There had been no movement in the tree that she could see, nothing to suggest that a person was there, so she wouldn't have felt too bad if she turned around.
Although who gives up after only one third of the race? It's a matter of pride!
It didn't work very well as a pep talk, but the slight possibility that she might find someone kept her going. The mud was stationary for the most part, but not quite. She could not just stop and rest, but had to keep moving to prevent herself from being carried downstream. It took another three hours to reach the other side. By now she was so tired she was shaking and barely able to move her arms.
When she finally felt grass underneath her and was able to roll off the board she felt she would cry, she was that relieved. It took almost another hour and a half to regain enough strength to pull the sealed bag and the inflatable board towards her.
At last, she was done. Although now that she thought of it, she really, really needed to hurry. The mud was already lower than it had been and if it went down further it would be difficult to climb down from the bank and then climb back up again on her side of the ravine.
So that's it, the first chapter. Is it worth continuing?
Also, do I need to mark the POV change or would it work without it? Or would just the line suffice?
