Disclaimer: Never in my life will I earn enough money to buy J.R.R. Tolkien's antique tennis shoes, nevermind the rights to one of his more formidable creations of literature.

If you would like a more verbose reason as to why me and my friend had practically disappeared off the social network that is for the past three or so months, something better than we were busy, you will have to endure this rather angsty chapter.

"I am strong, but I am tired, Stephen, tired of always having to be the strong one, of always having to do the right thing."

― Brenda Joyce, An Impossible Attraction

I wasn't going to burn to death. I mean, I wasn't going to survive either, but burning wasn't why I was going to die. When doing a research project on the Salem Witch trials, I had found that, if burned with fire, the victim did not die of the burning itself, but rather smoke inhalation. As long as I held my breath, I would stay (in great pain) alive (for the time being). The skin has it's own protective methods, and my lungs have my will to live for it's protective method. Thankfully I could hold more air just a little longer than most, so I had like a minute maximum to come up with an escape idea before I passed out and died. Crap.

I remembered the dust. Although this really had no use because my hands were still bound (and they hurt like hell), so I had to find another, less sensible way to open what hung around my neck. I risked this idea: Letting out all the air in my mouth, I quickly latched onto the chain which the bottle was attached to, I dragged my teeth across it until I had the bottle cork between my teeth. The smoke was choking me, I tugged as furiously as possible, trying not to scream as the flames licked my exposed neck. Black spots danced in my vision and the last things I remember was hearing the pop of the bottle and feeling the golden dust land on my skin.

…

…

…

My body wasn't on fire anymore, but it might as well have been.

The first thing I felt was absolute shock and pain. I had landed in a river, which hissed and spat against my cuts and burns. My body screamed in pain, because my mouth was too numb to do so itself. I blinked away the tears that were forming and tried to drag myself up, out of the river. I had to look at these wounds, I had to find shelter… I had to find out where I was. I was in some type of valley, in a river…

A whinny formed behind me and, hoping Aleece had somehow found me, I turned around quickly. That could be placed probably under the third worst idea I've had in my life. The candle light suddenly became a bonfire and I let out a very audible whimper of pain.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," an actual person murmured from behind me. The horse was not Aleece, like I had hoped, instead it was a majestic, white stallion, its coat shimmering with the sunlight. But it was not Shadowfax, and the person behind me was certainly not Gandalf. This wasn't a prince with his white horse, this could be anyone… even a well grammared orc.

I felt myself get dragged out of the river and onto the grass, crying and cursing as the blades of grass and specks of dirt coated my bloody and burned body. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Eventually I settled for the human body's natural reaction- crying. I couldn't sob or choke like normal, so it was just a shaking cry with small, hard-to-muster tears down my face. I felt so helpless. My own voice wouldn't even work for me. Anything could happen… and I would be in complete pain the whole time. Nobody would know, they'd all assume I'd been killed by Saruman.

"Crying isn't the best idea right now," the man grunted. He- I could tell because his hands were rough and calloused, unlike the dainty and smooth hands of the women around here- gingerly picked me up while trying to avoid as many burns and cuts as possible and carried me to what could be a cave. Well, really it was more of a hobbit-like hole in a hill, built with the most basic supports and containing only the bare necessities, but I considered it a cave. I was put onto a blanket and I could finally see the stranger's face properly. My brain must have been malfunctioning, for I swear it was Dallin's head I saw before a strong scent that told me to sleep washed over me.

…

The next time I awoke, my arms felt numb and my legs tingly. I was still dressed, but in the most indecent-somehow-still-decent way possible. My pants were cut so they were shorts, my shirt looking like someone cut all the seams and pulled the back off from under me, took the sleeves and excess until what remained was a strip of tunic that covered my undergarments. Well, at least Dallin didn't use my condition as an excuse to strip me. A cup of water was placed onto a piece of wood that lay next to the blanket I was on. Three Dallin's appeared in front of me before they all slowly merged into one Dallin. He handed me a loose night shirt and began to walk out of the cave. I assumed that meant I was suppose to change into it. I wiggled my fingers and began to push myself up, before promptly falling, knocking the cup of water onto me and thudding onto the floor. Dallin came running in, sword-drawn, as if a monster had gotten past whatever defense he put up. He took one look at me before grimacing and helping me sit up, placing the shirt into my hands before my rag had a chance to fall off. Once again, he walked out, without saying a word. As I tried slipping the shirt over my head, I began to do something I hadn't done in a long time- pray. My father wasn't big on religion, neither was my mother, but we had gone to church for Christmas type things, so I knew about praying and God and stuff, but once mum left, we never went to church, never spoke of angels, and never prayed again. I prayed to them that my friends were okay, and that Dallin, who I did not imagine being capable of hospitality, would get something good in return for helping me when I needed it. Without him, I'm sure I would've just stayed in the river and drowned. Then I thanked God. For sending Dallin to find me, for letting me meet so many good people in this world, despite all the less than nice people I've also encountered, and because Dallin didn't say a word. Perhaps he knew it hurt to speak, after screaming for so long, or maybe I just didn't want to, because talking about unfairness and complaint wouldn't make me feel any better, but him not speaking gave me a reason to not reply. I looked down at my half-on shirt and scowled. I wasn't broken, not yet. A little fire wasn't going to break my spirit, a small weak point isn't going to destroy me. I pull on the shirt and try to stand up, using the beam supports projecting from the dirt walls.

Everything hurts, but, I'm halfway standing up; so I keep going. Eventually I make it into this slouchy-but-standing position and stagger over to the entrance, occasionally letting go of the wall-beams, but quickly returning to their support. Dallin's standing there, staring out into the rolling hills of green, nostalgia etched onto his face. I mustered every ounce of energy to make a barely audible, passing of air that sounded like, "Why."

"Wha!" Dallin spun around to see me, trying not to fall while holding onto the wall. "Why what?"

I managed to pull a "did" and half of a "you" out before I was launched into a fit of hysterical coughing. My hand slipped from the wall and I stumbled, coughing, shaking, and I think I lost my chocolate bar somewhere over there… Dallin began to shout some things in a language I didn't understand- but I understood they probably weren't compliments. I was pulled back into the cave and sat with my back angled up, an empty bowl probably incase I have a sequel.

"Possible fever," I hear Dallin mutter. "Bruised ribs, trauma, smoke inhalation, third degree burns at the shins and lower thighs, second and third degree burns around the hands and arms. Minor, first degree burns in other places, barely healed stomach wound, bruised face, a few scrapes and cuts…" Was I really that injured? I was given a small cup of water to drink, and as I took small sips, I asked slowly, "Why did you save me?" Wincing with every word, but they were easier than before. Must be the water.

Dallin sighed and sat down beside me, "Ruth. There are many things you don't know about me… actually, the only things you know about me is my name and cover story. I'm not a snobby rich boy from a wealthy family in Rohan, I'm a poor healer from the lowest level in Gondor. Denethor took me from my home where my- my poor sister had to work in a house for people, she got sick a lot…" He shook his head, "I was headed to Ithilien where Faramir would be waiting for reports. Now… you asked why I saved you. It was pure luck I even found you. I heard this weird sploshing noise, and my horse, Bras, insisted on checking it out. I saved you because you needed help." I glared at him. I wasn't some little girl. I did not need help. "Ruth," He put a hand on my shoulder, "You aren't going to always be the person you say you are… trust me, I'd know. It's okay to feel weak." I haven't really cried real tears since Lorien, but this was not some slip-of-the-tear, this was sorrow and self-hatred and confusion and pain morphed into one action, which was crying. And it wasn't just a passing thing, I kept crying until I passed out from the exhaustion of the task.

…

The two days of travelling were a personal living Hell for me. The following day after my crying-and-being-week episode confirmed that I had a fever. So, before everything got ugly, Dallin decided that we should get to seek Faramir in Ithilien, he'd help tend to my injuries and there was better medicine for fevers there than out in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, this was a burned, injured, person with a fever and a boy travelling on one horse. I was in the back, so I could hold onto Dallin, but the ride was forceful and surprising and overall just hurt. Everything hurt these days. Not just physically anymore.

What about my friends, my nurse and mentor, the remaining Fellowship… they're practically family to me. I don't want to imagine them, thinking I'm dead, but just as a passing casualty in the war. I could've thrown the entire universe off, for all I know. I almost wanted to voice my opinions, see what Dallin thought of them, but I refrained. For the entire ride, we both remained completely silent.

Congradulations! You have reached the end of the twentieth chapter, Rescue. Before I can delve into the deepest meanings of my madness (though, truthfully will never be able to wholly understand such a thing myself) and tell you just why everything is as it is, I had promised to answer the case of my sudden ghost-like disappearence, a verbose and over-explanitory version.

When I had first disappeared, my brain simply blocked the easiest task I had ever known (other than simplistic and habital tasks like breathing and blinking); writing. It's supposedly considered Writer's Block, but that does not satisfy me. The term itself makes the notion sound like a writer is cut wholly off from their ability to imagine, to which we are not. No, I had thousands of ideas, idly swimming around my void-like head, but whenever I went to jot it down, it emptied itself, leaving a shriveled peanut of what was an idea.

But, after a while, it became obvious my condition rested, rather than haunting me. That didn't mean I wrote. Oh, no, I probably wrote even less then than I did before. It was a matter of, not only could I write with the grace and ease of my natural abilites, I could draw and play music once more, which I had also been struggling with. This worked out great!

And then, of all the things God chose to punish us with- divorce, orphaned, or just struggling all round- he chose to fire our dearest friend Hazel from the work of life. We were rather distanced from social media and others all around then, believing we simply needed time to cope and a way to find closure. And here we are, on the 27th of October in the year 2014, at exactly 10:02 pm as I write this. I started it perhaps three or four days ago, finished, shipped it off to my beta, Tintcalad, and am about to post it.

Anyway, I have realized that this authoress' note is already dearly loquacious and I should save it for a more normal chapter when we're into the cycle of post-write-review, which you should not forget to do!

I do hope you enjoyed the chapter, after all, I did get up to write it ;)

~Olympia