Note from author - by which I mean the REAL author, Eltea: I apologize for how much time passes between my posts, if anyone is actually waiting for them. I'm in my senior year of high school and don't have much free time, and, in addition, am writing several stories at once. I'll probably keep slowly updating this one, though; I have a few more ideas.
When I wake up the next morning, I don't feel so great. I'm a little nauseated, and the very thought of getting up makes me feel sick. I just want to lie here in this nice, warm bed, curl up under the soft white comforter, and watch a movie. But even as I'm trying to remember whether or not there are any movies in Middle-Earth, I notice the time and groan. I should be meeting the Fellowship to leave now, and I'm still in bed.
I stagger up, rubbing my eyes, wanting to stay in bed but knowing my author will eventually catch me and force me up. Given a choice of a few minutes extra sleep or my dignity, I choose my dignity.
Blearily, I grab a backpack from the closet and start throwing a few things into it - some spare clothes, a hairbrush, a nail clipper, some toothpaste and a toothbrush… I blink, groan, and attempt to clear my head, which feels as though it's filled with cottage cheese. What else will I need? We're going to be gone for a long time, aren't we?
The dresses I've dug up are pretty sheer (what I wouldn't give for a pair of jeans), and it's a big backpack (at least I've got something sensible), so I still have a fair amount of room left. I stuff in a warm blanket and some toilet paper, knowing that we probably won't be staying anywhere halfway hospitable. That reminds me of something else I'll need if our journey is supposed to last several months, and I spend a few minutes digging through cabinets before I have any luck. Apparently, the more practical and realistic what I'm looking for, the harder it is to find. And oh, soap! I grab two bars, still in their wrappers, and shove them into my backpack, which is now nearing full.
I have just a little space left, and I think about filling it with something of sentimental value, then realize that I don't have anything I really care about and that I shouldn't bring anything I'd be sad to lose anyway. Instead, I hunt around the room to see if I can find any money, and, sure enough, there's a small bag of coins in one of the drawers. I might not have the chance to use it, but if I do need it, I'll be kicking myself if I've left it here. Money may not be able to buy everything, but it can come pretty damn close.
I glance around the bathroom, torn between searching the cabinets for anything else that might be useful and going back to bed for the remainder of the blissful few minutes I have free of my author. Before I can decide, though, I hear footsteps. I sigh and glance at the clock. It's actually surprising that they gave me an entire ten minutes before coming to check on me.
"Lady Memorie?"
I turn and see that it's Legolas, standing in the bathroom doorway and smiling. I don't even have the energy to get angry at him, so I just sigh wearily.
"Get out of my bedroom, you pervert."
He looks vaguely hurt, and I don't feel sorry for him. I keep my door closed for a reason, and he could at least have knocked.
"But… Lady Memorie…" he begins.
"Just shut up, okay?" I tell him, a little bitterly now. "I'm coming, all right? So stop bitching at me."
"I'm not—" he begins, but I ignore the rest and push past him, tears in my eyes now. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be going on this stupid journey. I want to be at home, in bed, drinking hot chocolate with my mom sitting at my bedside telling me everything will be okay.
As I storm out to the pavilion where the Fellowship is waiting, looking nonplussed, I see eyebrows rise. I stomp past them, and someone whispers a few words out of which all I catch is "PMS".
"I do NOT have PMS!" I scream, spinning on them hysterically and simultaneously contradicting myself.
"It's all right, Memorie," Frodo says kindly, stepping forward with a little hesitation lest I shout at him as well. "We understand."
I see a few eyes roll behind him, but I calm down a little, slightly mollified. Frodo is one of those quietly nice, little-brother types that you just don't yell at. And in addition, I can't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement and pleasure at being so close to the Ring. I will get it someday, and then I'll smite anyone who dares to say that I have PMS.
When we finally manage to get everything together, we set off. At first, angry energy keeps me storming along at the front, but, within less than an hour's time, I start to lag behind. Walking is not agreeing with me. My legs are getting sore, the heat is making my dress stick to me, and I feel horribly, miserably ill. I'm hungry - should have remembered to eat breakfast, damn - and I just want to lie down in the shade and rest. My legs start to tremble a little, and I grit my teeth, feeling nauseated. The heat is too much - it rolls over me in waves, drowning me, thick and wet and sticky, and I barely have the energy to swat at the small gnat buzzing in circles around my head. I close my eyes and start to daydream about shade and swimming pools and ice-cold lemonade, but, before I know it, I've tripped over something and I'm on the ground.
It feels nice, for a moment, to rest, despite the stinging pain in my head and the choking dust in my eyes, but then the stupid elf is kneeling at my side, touching my arm.
"Lady Memorie, what ails you?"
"My lady? Are you ill?" It's the Ranger.
No shit, Sherlock.
"Leave me here and let me die," I groan, the nausea in my stomach punctuated by stabbing pains.
"She doesn't sound too well," Frodo worries.
"I'll carry her," Legolas volunteers.
"No," I manage to croak. "I'll walk. Really." I struggle to my knees, put a hand to my aching, spinning head, and vomit water onto the dusty road.
"Oh, dear," Frodo murmurs sympathetically.
"Why don't we set up camp here?" the Ranger suggests, worry in his voice.
"Here? Now?" the wizard sounds incredulous, and I give him a probably-not-very-threatening glare. "We're barely an hour away from Rivendell! When exactly to you plan to arrive at Mount Doom - fifty years from now?"
"Traveling further today isn't worth the lady's health," Legolas insists. A few others chime in their agreement, and the wizard rolls his eyes and agrees. For once, I'm glad that my author has made them all besotted with me. Any intelligent adventurers would realize how much trouble I was going to be and leave me on the road. Any very intelligent adventurers would realize that I might recover and harbor a grudge against them, and would therefore put me out of my misery. Luckily, I'm traveling with a bunch of lovesick morons.
Everyone, that is, except the wizard and the dwarf, who are busy rolling their eyes at the edge of camp and muttering about whether it would have been better to just leave me or to put me out of my misery. The rest of the Fellowship are tripping over each other fetching me blankets and water, and for once, I warm under the care. That is, until Legolas tries to loosen the neck of my dress a little to make me cooler, I tell him to stay the hell away from me, and he goes off to sulk. Most of the others retreat under my glare, and Frodo quickly drapes a wet cloth over my forehead and covers me with a blanket before scampering away to safety.
I still don't feel great, but at least I'm relatively comfortable, and, in the warm, drowsy afternoon sun, I finally doze off.
When I wake up, it's getting towards evening, and I discover that I'm cold. No wonder - I'm wearing a sheer dress, and I've managed to roll out from under the blanket while sleeping. I sit up, shivering, and search for my backpack. Upon finding it, I put another, slightly more substantial dress over the one I'm wearing, then follow it with a coat one of the guys must have left lying around (hopefully whoever it belonged to won't miss it) and a warm cloak.
Much more comfortable, and discovering to my excitement that I don't feel sick anymore, I get to my feet, new energy surging through me, and glance around. Most of the Fellowship is a little ways off, making some kind of dinner around a campfire. When I breathe deeply, I can almost imagine that I smell something warm and spicy, like a barbecue - but no. It's probably just more of that elven bread that tastes like chalk.
A stone's throw away to my other side is a small lake, and I wander over to the water's edge and sit down on a smooth rock, letting my eyes roam over the deep blue of the surface, calm but for a ripple here and there - perhaps a lone fish. A fresh breeze blows off the water, clean and pleasant, and it almost seems as though I can hear a voice whispering something to me, probably some kind of mysterious prophetic message. I ignore it.
Just as I'm letting my eyes climb the distant, snowcapped mountains to the dark ocean of the sky, jumping from one shimmering star to the next and beginning to venture into the dangerous land of bad poetry, I'm interrupted.
"Not hungry?"
I turn with a start and discover that the voice belongs to Gimli, the dwarf. I shrug nervously, though I'm hungry enough to eat a cave troll (eugh - maybe not that desperate), and he frowns a bit.
"I know, my lady, that anorexia is practically a rite of passage for elven girls, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea while journeying, and it doesn't mean that all men find the emaciated, undernourished look attractive."
There are tears spilling out of my eyes almost before I realize that I'm upset, and I'm on my feet, yelling.
"If I'm underfed," I shout hysterically, "it's your fault! You and all the other morons thinking bread makes a good dinner! I'm sick of all of you F-ing bastards, and I'm sick of your F-ing sneers and insinuations, and I want to go home, and I want chocolate ice cream!"
I sit down on the rock and start sobbing. I want a home and a hug and a big scoop of double-fudge ice cream with walnut pieces and chocolate syrup. I don't want to be on this damn quest that I don't even care about.
After a moment of what I can only guess is utter shock at my language, Gimli, to my surprise, comes and sits down next to me, braver than the others, willing to face my moods.
"Well… damn," he remarks after a moment. "I'm sorry. Don't have any chocolate, but they did send me with some sausages in case you were hungry."
I look up in surprise, wiping my eyes with my sleeve and hiccoughing a little, and he hands me a small tin plate with several fat sausages and a slice of bread slathered with melted cheese. I nod eagerly and grab for it, and he laughs, raising an eyebrow in amusement as I pull it in close and begin shoveling down the food.
"Don't make yourself sick," he advises.
Through a full mouth, I mutter at him to shut up, but there's no real anger behind it. His offer of food has pacified me, and I'm willing to forgive him for daring to suggest parting me from my food.
When I finally finish and set the plate aside, he raises his eyebrows admiringly.
"I don't think I've ever seen an elf eat that much," he remarks.
"I'm not a friggin' elf," I mutter, though I'm too contented to be particularly dark. "D'you think I asked to be one?"
Gimli shrugs. "Guess none do, though most of 'em seem pretty content. What do you want to be?"
I consider. Nobody's ever really asked me this before, and I'm not quite sure.
"Well…" I muse, "it might be nice and peaceful to be an Ent… and I don't think I'd mind being a dwarf… but I think, given the choice, I'd most like to be a hobbit. I mean, I can't think of any better life than being in a beautiful countryside where the weather's almost always nice and eating eight meals a day."
"Sounds reasonable," he agrees. "But if you don't like being an elf, why do you dress like one? I mean, I assumed that you had to be a complete airhead to go around wearing friggin' gowns. Sorry if it made me a little harsh on you - but if you're not an airhead, why d'you dress like one?"
"It's not my fault!" I complain. "I couldn't find any other clothes! I'd much rather be wearing something sensible. Do you think I like trying to walk in ankle-length dresses?"
"Well, I don't know," he grins. "That sounds like a lot of fun. Someday I'll try walking in an ankle-length dress, or maybe even fighting in one. I'm sure it would be very intimidating."
I laugh, and he smiles in return, seeming relieved to have lightened my mood. I'm about to joke that the sight of him in a dress would probably send every orc in Middle-Earth into hiding when we're interrupted by Frodo.
"Excuse me, Gimli and Memorie…" he interjects nervously.
"Please don't call me Memorie," I interrupt. "I'm not trying to be rude, or anything, but I just really don't like it. Can't you use a nickname, or something?"
"How about shortening it to 'Mem'?" Gimli suggests.
"Sure," I shrug. "That sounds okay."
"All right," Frodo agrees. "Gimli and Mem - well, Mem especially - Legolas sent me to find you."
Ah. So elf-boy is getting smarter and forcing the nice guy to be his go-between. Well, I won't shoot the messenger.
"What does he want?" I ask with what I hope is reasonable politeness.
"I think he and the others want you to sing," Frodo explains.
Sing? Sing? I almost laugh. I don't sing. But then a thought strikes me - maybe I do. Maybe my author, in addition to changing my appearance, has changed my voice. It can't hurt to try, can it?
"All right," I agree. Then I have an additional thought and turn to Gimli. "If you'll come, too." I don't want to face them on my own.
"Sure," he promises good-naturedly, rising and stretching. I smile gratefully, then the three of us troop back to where the others are sitting around the campfire.
"Will you honor us with a song, my lady?" Legolas asks. I roll my eyes slightly, then sigh and search my memory (ha, ha, memory, Memorie) for something before realizing that I'm drawing a blank. I glance around nervously to discover nine pairs of eyes on me, then take a deep breath and sing the first thing that comes to mind.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear… um… someone…
Happy Birthday to you
Goodness, that didn't come out so well - but the Fellowship is applauding rapturously and calling for another song, so I shrug and launch into the ABC's, wondering if it does sound good. But then I glance over and see Gimli trying kindly not to laugh and the wizard covering his ears and wrinkling his nose. Obviously, it's only the ones the author has enchanted that are deluded into liking my off-key warbling. Too bad - I always wished I could sing. Oh, well.
When they demand another song, I begin a very poor rendition of The Song That Never Ends, and, after a few repetitions, they're satisfied, and I can go and sit on the fallen log next to Gimli.
"How was it?" I ask tentatively.
"Awful," he chuckles. "Where'd you learn those songs, anyway?"
I grin. "From your mother."
He looks at me incredulously for a moment before snorting with laughter, and I laugh, too. Is it possible that, trapped on this stupid, miserable, pointless journey, I might actually have found a friend?
That night, I lie quietly watching the sky, the air hung with peaceful silence broken only by the thunderous snores of my companions. A few high-flying wisps of cloud drift by, the stars winking out through the thinnest patches. This evening has been a fairly good one, comparatively. Not great, but fairly good, and I'm fairly contented. At least my author seems to be leaving me alone for now.
Look, if you're going to lie awake watching the stars, at least weep tragically over something. Heroines aren't supposed to contemplate things contentedly, you know. They're sad until the end of the book, and then they're happy. They're never just doing okay - okay is boring.
Well, some things you can change, others you put up with. For now, at least, there's nothing she can do. For now, I'm pretty okay.