A few notes that are more important than the rambling at the bottom:

My beta, or whom used to be it, Tintcalad, is no longer betaing this story due to technical difficulties. So it's an unbetaed piece of work, as I'm just finishing it up. Please mind the grammar and spelling errors.

Although for many of you it's long since passed, Christmas, I still wish to tell you that for me, on this lovely night of December 25th, it's precisely 10:59 pm. And therefore I am technically posting on Christmas. Merriness to all.

Disclaimer: I may have gotten a Gandalf the Grey T-shirt for Christmas, but I, sadly, did not get the rights to The Lord of the Rings. Perhaps Santa will grant me that next year.

xXx

I've stopped counting the amount of times I've woken up in a medical place.

But the funniest thing was that, unlike all the other times I woke up, I was completely healed. So either three things were happening, one; I was dreaming, two; I'm in Ithilien and have been here for months, or three; I'm back on Earth and it was all a dream. I looked a bit and saw the nurses wore medieval clothing, ruling out number three. I then pinched myself, and discovered that I could feel it, which ruled out number one.

So, leaving two, I began to wonder just how long I've been here, the last thing I could remember was passing out atop Bras. I quickly sat up (happily without pain) and hoped to see Dallin, the only face I knew in a sea of strangers. I knew it was unlikely, that he was probably back in Rohan or living his life after the war…. the war! I've completely missed the war! Wait… if it's been months (the time it should have taken to heal), than why have I not remembered any of it? Surely I could not have slept for months, unless I was in a coma…

But even so, if I were in a coma, how was there no welcoming party? I know I'm not the most popular, and thinking I'd be surrounded by friends is hopeful and vain, but I'd expect at least someone to acknowledge me and the fact I was awake.

"Awake? She's awake?" Someone asked, rather urgently. Soon I saw Dallin coming into focus, making a beeline towards my bedside. So Dallin was here… what was going on?

"Dallin?" I asked. My voice was better than it had been, but still weak from not using it.

"They really did it…" Dallin muttered to himself.

"Dallin what's going on?"

"They really, truly did it…"

"What's going on?" I ask more forcefully, though I internally smile at the realization I once more had force in me to use.

"You passed out," Dallin told me, the one thing I knew. "And I took you to the nearest town I found, this one. They brought you into some river, and suddenly… as if it were magic… your wounds healed, or disappeared, or something… but Ruth, you've been cured! You're no longer injured!"

My mind was swimming. So months had not passed? The war wasn't over? Yet somehow I was cured. There was no fire in my body but the fire in my heart. "That's impossible," I say, still voicing the doubts I have. "River water cannot cure what should take months to heal."

"But it did," Dallin smiled, "and you can now walk with me around the town, if you wish. We are to meet the mayor outside, when you're ready." Dallin made a point in giving me an option after each one of his statements. Sweet of him.

"I'm ready now," I say. I get up, and take a few tedious steps, before walking like a human being again.

xXx

We go outside and are immediately greeted by a gentle, pot-bellied man with a curly grey mustache and boisterous attitude. "Welcome! Welcome!" He cries, pulling us along excitedly. We zig-zag through the streets, careful not to get lost in the hustle-bustle of villagers going about strange business (which, in turn, was due to some celebration, if I were to go by the words of Mr. Mayor).

As we walk by the bakers home, nostalgia seemed to slap me in the face (I'd know, I've been slapped before). The scents that came from such a small shack intoxicated every memory I had to associate with my mother and father in a happy marriage. Before it all happened. Cinnamon and apples. A delicate thing to create, especially if encased by golden crust, you'd know it as 'apple-cinnamon pie'. My mother's favorite.

It was like her Happy Pills or something. Seriously, even if my mother had woken up practically under the bed, sent a bunch of kids to the principal's office, failed a few kids, and didn't get that raise, a quick apple-cinnamon pie would fix her into her nicest moods (you know, the ones where she woke up in heaven, saved a kids life, graded all 100%s, and got a promotion (but what's that to a teacher anyways)). I'm kind of getting off topic. So the summary of this all is that the apple-cinnamon pies (aka the smell from the baker's house) really remind me of all those happy moments my family had before my mother went off who-knows-where.

After the whole tour thingy, I went to torture myself further (yay for me!) by walking (stalking) around the baker's house. Suddenly I have this urge to go inside, and no, I don't know what it was, and no, I don't think I'll ever know what it was, so don't even ask. But I just knew I needed to go inside, or else something life changing was going to happen in a bad way. So I went inside.

It was pretty small, I mean, for Middle Earth I guess its nice, but compared to some bakeries I've seen back on Earth, it's a shack. There were maybe four small tables, with four chairs apiece (two on each opposite long end, their wooden backs stiffly poised) , and a wooden sort of counter thing, with a small ringing bell placed on it. (There was also a bell attached to the door, but I guess this was some extra taken measures.)

The only thing that separated the kitchen from the other part of the inside (the one I had just described to you) was a thin piece of wood attached to swinging hook-kind of things. Most of you would call it a door, but I'm pretty sure that's overdoing it.

Anyhow, I took my time carefully examining the place (how else would I have so finely described such a place to you?), and also took in the smell I-won't-keep-naming. I was so wrapped up in this little world I had made (just as every other wistful protagonist does), that I didn't even notice the blonde baking lady come up behind me.

Lady might be overdoing it as well (just not as much as door was), not that she wasn't fit to look and act like a lady (I had later found she'd been acting as the Lady Of The House for three and a quarter years then), but she was probably somewhere around my age. And we all know the only thing farther from a lady than me would be Gollum. I'm rambling again. Basically she looked like my mother. Like, really looked like my mother. Same curly blond locks, same inquisitive blue eyes, same nose, mouth, ears. Not a hair on her head nor a toe on her foot- not that I'd know, I never actually saw her toes- resembled something other than my mother.

She startled me at first, and I guess I should have described her after, but I think you should have the right to know just how freakin creepy it is to have someone that looked like your mother in her teen years talking to you. (Looking back to my life on Earth, I realized mother never showed photos from when she was a teenager.)

"It does smell nice, doesn't it." She had said.

I curtseyed (something that I was getting better at, which was good, because it was a requirement in Middle Earth), and said, "I suppose it does. I'm Ruth."

She gave a nod and a curtsey in reply, and told me her name was Annabelle. "Pleased to meet you."

"You too. What are you baking?" I knew what she was baking, but its always nice to ask.

"Apple-cinnamon pies." Aha! "It's a town festival tradition- of sorts."

"What are you celebrating?" I asked. We have moved into the kitchens some point in the conversation.

"You," Annabelle smiled.

I didn't really know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that for sure. "Erm… excuse me?" I blinked. A festival? For me? What?

"Oh yes," Annabelle nodded. "We always hold a festival for those who've bathed in the River, although usually you're given a choice- but you're a special case. Life and death doesn't leave much room for silly things like choices. Unless it's the choice between life and death…"

I'm going to state right now that I liked this girl. Not in a sexual way (I am straight for your information, though I have nothing against homosexuals. Not that this is relevant), of course, but in a sort of admirable sisterly friend-ish way. She seriously reminded me of my mom. Not just with looks and names (my mother's name was Anna), but in personality as well- always thinking and questioning things. Perhaps my mother was recreated and copied as a remembrance of this Annabelle.

I'll tell you right now that my mother could question anything (yes, I'm well aware of straying off-topic). If you passed the butter to her, she would question why cow butter was sweet, and whether it was sweeter, saltier, or generally the same as goat butter. Or if you handed her a calculator, she's question just how the calculator worked, and if it was truly as smart as its holder's brain (or dumber, or wiser). It was simply part of her nature to go against the natural order of things, and bring a blissful chaos wherever she went, possibly hidden in the buttons of her coat (which she would question when the first button was made, and if it was called a button, and who made it, and for what purpose).

Back to the point of creepy-mother-Annabelle. My mother's personality was showing, and I was wondering why I was bathed in the River. And what it had meant. And when the festival was. And how come it was being held in my "honor". So I basically did what all people should do; ask.

It's not hard people, and I know you can do it. It's no embarrassing question. I just want to know who threw me in a magic river. Simple.

And so Annabelle told me. The rundown of it was that the water had magical healing properties, that would cleanse your wounds and your soul (because wounds are a physical representation of the pain and suffering you've gone through, apparently). People around here (aka the only people who know where the frick we are) are pretty sheltered and generally good all around, so there wasn't much soul-cleansing to do. But occasionally you'd get a stray traveller warrior guy or a great adventourist with a terrible past who seeks purification.

Some people want to keep their wounds, as a sort of representation of what they've gone through and that they're over it or something like that. But really, if you get the offer to start anew, take it. You feel a lot lighter, trust me. Anyways, they hold a festival in the honor of the person as a let's-start-this-new-journey-on-a-lot-of-wine kind of thing.

Why am I going on and on about this? Because, lord's mercy, I can't even remember half of what happened at the festival. So I'm making it up by talking in excruciating detail about the events that lead up to it.

Going back to the stuff about mum's happy pills, Annabelle was frowning. Le gasp! Not frowning! Yes, frowning. She was looking painfully at the quickly emptying basket of apples, and the very large amount of dough she still had. If you haven't pieced it together, the girl ran out of apples.

Now, it was at that precise moment that Dalline chose to stroll in. Annabelle was torn as to what she would do. She had to make the pies, but she couldn't without apples. And she had to get apples, but we didn't know the woods, so she would have to go, and then she wouldn't be able to make the pies.

"I know how to make them." I finally said.

Both heads turned and the spotlight was on me. "It's a family recipe." Annabelle said, "You wouldn't know it."

"Really?" I asked. These pies were definitely something of my family's creation. "List the recipe off. I'll see what I know."

And so, in eerie unison, we listed off how to bake the pies, ending with a most peculiar, "And on the top, when it's baked, you add a pinch of cinnamon- no bigger than your thumb nail- to coat the pie with stars."

Annabelle looked as if she was going to cry. Not chunky, awkward tears, but dainty, happy tears. "Okay," she whispered. "You bake the pies, I'll go and gather some apples."

I motioned for Dallin to follow her, just incase she wanted some comfort.

xXx

A sweaty room and a couple baked pies later, back came the two figures. One was calm as before a storm, and the second was a hurricane of nerves. Annabelle glanced simply at the pies I had made, nodded in approval, and scurried off to make more. She was, as you could guess, the gentle breeze of a summer day.

Dallin. He was what tore off your roof, as a mere hello sent him off. I think I'm leading you wrongly though. Dallin was not angry or anything like that, he was instead a spooked cat, terrified of his own shadow.

I mean, I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I know from experience that's not the shite people want to hear, and so I left it be. He would tell me eventually if it was really that important. Maybe he had seen a wolf or some other unknown creature.

I think I'll just end it here, as I've gone on long enough with the details of before-party stuff. And I really don't wish to recount what happened at the party- what I remembered, at least.

Until the next entry.

Maybe I should have a sort of sign out…

xXx

I do realize how I managed to ramble in a lot of places a, well, lot. But I assure you it's merely because it's;

1. Relevant to the future events of the story

2. Repetetive so it can come across as important

3. To show her newfound thoughtfulness and maturity, to show how she's changed

And I also know I ended it on a very short note. It was not beacuse I was itching to get this chapter up (though, in honesty, I was), but because in real life, I always seem to close my diary entries (when I attempt them) on a short note. Soon enough you'll know who Annabelle is and why she's important. I don't think the apple-cinnamon pies are going to be important in the future, but I always did love them, so I threw it in as a way for Annabelle and Ruth to bond (which is important).

I'd also like to take a moment and explain why I cured Ruth. Firstly, I am terrible at pain. Perhaps mental pain is easy, yes, because you can still do most to all of the physical tasks you had done before. Phyiscal pain leaves you just with your thoughts and burning innards. None of which is pleasant nor easy to think about. So I cured her. Of course, she's going to go out into a battle (I won't say which) and get hurt in some other way- for that's a warrior's life, but now I won't have to explain how physically exhausting it was for her and how badly her bones were aching during the ride to Ithilien. And let's face it, we like snarky Ruth better than angsty Ruth.

I hope to post on New Years as well! (No promises.)