"English"|"Westron" | Thoughts (or emphasis, but that's a given)
Author's note: Second chapter before New Year's so I can lie to myself that I've been productive.
Maude awoke in the early hours of the night, not too long after the sun had set but late enough that the crickets had begun to sing and the creatures of the day had retreated to home and habitat. She had been laid near a river, where the water lapped at the shore idly and rippled in the breeze, and the world all sounded melancholy without its shower of day. Once her senses had adjusted she heard another sound: a song from a low, soft voice and in a tongue she was unfamiliar with. She was sad to hear it end, as she sat herself upright, and the cloak which had been draped across her unconscious form fell to her lap.
A turn of her head told her that she had been resting on a bedroll, with a mound of fabric to serve as a pillow. Recollection struck her, and she reached for the abrasion on her head from its earlier contact with the rock; the blood had mostly congealed, but a dull ache remained. She was thankful for something to have cushioned the wound, and craned her neck once more to find the person responsible for her care.
The man approached her, and she was relieved to see that he was a man, this time. When he took hold of her chin, she flinched, though he was gentle with her; in a moment she understood that he was inspecting her wound.
"You slept for a full day," said the man. "I was becoming worried that you would not awaken."
Maude stared at him quizzically, unable to determine what language he was using. "I'm sorry?"
He stared, then, with a frown to indicate his confusion. He gathered from her tone that she had asked a question, but the words were neither Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, nor Rohirric. Instead of speaking again, he reached for a piece of linen from beside the bedroll, and began dabbing it to her forehead.
"Hold on just a moment," she said quickly, leaning away from him with a sheepish laugh. "I ... need ... to find ... the way back." With every possible word she gave an action to communicate her wishes, but the man continued to observe her with a puzzled expression.
"I can identify every language there is here in Middle-earth," he told her, "and yet yours I cannot place. I do not understand what you are asking of me." He pointed at the trees in the distance. "Are you trying to explain to me why you were in the woods? Have you forgotten something?"
A strangled noise escaped her, and she touched her fingers to her forehead once more, only for him to take hold of her hand and set it back down in her lap. "What?"
"Do not agitate the wound," he insisted, this time understanding her question.
Sullen, Maude surveyed the area, until a shiver racked her body and she grabbed the cloak to wrap around herself, of which her male companion seemed to approve. He took hold of the edges of the fabric and tightened it around her, giving a firm nod of his head. She had no way of knowing that this was both his way of keeping her warm and covering her up; she was indecently dressed for a woman of Middle-earth, and he could only assume that she was some sort of lady of the night. Although, what a lady of the night would be doing being chased by orcs he could not fathom.
He returned to a pile of firewood several yards away, and set it alight, sending a crackle of heat Maude's way. When he looked at her next, she was smiling, and he smiled in return. "Strider," he said, gesturing to himself.
"Strider," she repeated, before pointing to herself and saying, "Maude."
He nodded at the introduction, before setting about to cook a raw rabbit that Maude had not noticed earlier. When she did see it, a feeling of dread washed over her. How could she explain to him that she didn't eat meat? Was there even anything else for her to eat? She joined him by the fire in hope of communicating her eating habits.
"I don't eat animals," she said, wondering in which way to physically tell him this. She ended up using a series of wild gestures she was certain no-one would understand, and gave up. It would be rude of her to refuse food when he was going through this much trouble, after all. "Do you always eat rabbit?" she asked, not expecting an answer. And of course she didn't get one.
As she grew comfortable around the fire, she saw little need for the cloak any longer, and tossed it aside. Strider shook his head when she did this, more to himself than to reprimand her, and continued cooking the rabbit. But she did see it, that small movement, and frowned at him, before casting a look down at herself and her garments.
"Do my ankles offend you?" she asked with an amused smile, and he looked at her again. By no means was she dressed inappropriately by the standards of the gala, and people at galas were actually rather prude, and so she failed to see any problem; there was a certain degree of class involved in such events, and she followed that doctrine like most others she worked with. Arms, calves, a little bit of shoulder, she listed as she looked over the skin that she had exposed. Hm, perhaps he's old-fashioned.
Letting her hair down, she moved closer to the fire, raising her hands to warm them. Throwing the accessories in to the flames was a tempting notion, but she resisted, and threw them to the ground instead. As she relaxed, she grew unaware of Strider's watchful gaze, which only left her every so often.
He found her to be a riddle, all of her language, her dress, and her manner. The more he observed, the more dubious he became about his previous interpretation of her being a woman of the night. He had seen them around towns, and it was common knowledge that they would rarely be so bold as to wear their business with their garments; they could not afford to be so obvious and risk being apprehended. This woman was built for something entirely different, from the tone in her arms and legs. A shield-maiden? But of course, a shield-maiden would not run from one single orc, nor would she travel unarmed. Strider could only hope that the riddle would begin to unfold shortly, so that he could continue his journey to Bree.
Once he had finished preparing their meal, he offered her a share, which she took after some apprehension. Bemused, he watched her turn it in her hands, tilting her head from side to side with suspicious eyes narrowed for assessment. He wanted to assure her that the food was not poisoned, but thought the better of it with the given language barrier. And she did eat, eventually, though she stared at the meat with a folorn expression following each bite.
"Some of my colleagues," she said after a while, "they go for days without food. And here I am, eating meat for the first time in twelve years without any real encouragement." Naturally, Strider would not understand her words, but the silence brought her discomfort, and she found it difficult to believe that he would be the one to initiate conversation any time soon; when the silence fell once more, she continued to speak. "The sky looks lovely. There's all of this light pollution in the city, so you can't see the stars."
A grin escaped her when he followed her gaze to the sky, and repeated the word in his own tongue; she did the same, earning an appraising inclination of his head. Then the smile faltered, and she let out a long and heavy sigh.
"I'm not in London anymore, am I?" she asked, prodding at the wound on her head once more. She stopped when Strider cleared his throat, and sent an apologetic glance his way, before muttering, "Either that, or I've well and truly gone mad."
Some time passed before either of them started with noise again, and even then it was naught but another quiet song from Strider. It was a strange thing for Maude, to hear him sing so casually in her presence. As with most other people, she sang all of the time—in the shower, or whilst doing the housework, mostly—but she rarely showcased her vocals when human beings were in vicinity. It was a very human thing, she believed; singing even when one could not carry a tune. It was near cathartic, and what was even more so was listening to Strider's voice at that time. There was something in his tone, something pensive and almost despondent, that had her believe he was singing to someone who was not there. Lamentation? Unless the person was not lost, not entirely, yet merely just out of reach.
The morning came soon enough, though Maude had spent little of the night asleep. As had Strider, it seemed, though he nonetheless appeared tireless when dawn arrived. He gathered up the bedroll and his equipment in high spirits, much to the confusion of Maude, who believed that anyone who had spent a night of vigil should be grumpy, at least. Yet he hurried her along, across the fields and through the trees, and despite the length of his legs in comparison with her own, she managed to keep up with him. He was not too impressed by this, however, as he had already deduced the previous night that someone of her muscle tone should have no struggle with long hikes across the plains.
By the evening they had reached a small town, where Strider was sure to have Maude tighten the cloak around herself once more. Between her inability to comprehend the Common Speech and her queer manner of clothing, rumours would be sure to fly, and the last thing the young woman needed was a reputation in lands she had not travelled. Regardless, she received odd looks from the townsfolk, which she remained adamant was down to Strider, rather than herself.
They entered a pub on the far side of the town—the Prancing Pony, though Maude had no way of knowing its title—in which Strider instructed her to sit in the far corner whilst he took to the bar to discuss a matter with the inn-keeper.
From the expression on his face, Maude guessed that the inn-keeper was unused to conversing with Strider, which prompted a feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. People were casting him fleeting looks of caution, as though he were a man to be feared throughout their exchange, and then in turn to her, the strange woman with whom he had arrived. She shifted in her seat awkwardly until he returned, and the other patrons went about their own business once more.
After several moments, she opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by Strider, who pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head.
"You cannot speak in your own tongue here, Maude," he said in a hushed voice, though the only thing she recognised was her name. "It will rouse suspicion."
Uneventful hours passed, and Maude was growing increasingly bored and impatient. She wondered what his motive was for bringing her here, or if she had little to do with it at all. Her questions were answered nearly as quickly as they were brought to her attention, when four of the most diminuitive and odd-looking people she had ever encountered walked in to the inn. They seemed to have the astute attention of Strider, who tensed the moment they crossed the threshold.
They behaved quite like everyone else, ordering drinks and making merry, until one began to mingle with the grown men, and began to point out one of his companions. Strider became even more alert, and finally vacated his seat when one of the small men seemed to vanish entirely.
Maude watched fearfully when the man reappeared, and Strider dragged him away and out of sight. Perhaps she had been fooled, and his good nature a fallacy; in either case, she was not prepared to allow him to hurt someone who stood no taller than a mere child.
Author's note: This will probably follow some aspects of the books and the films; the films seem more convenient to follow, but there will definitely be some bookverse in here. Hence everyone speaking Westron and Maude not having a clue what's going on.
Softballgirl: Thank you! As far as Legomances go, I find it difficult to believe that he would ever be romantically involved with a person of any other race than an Elf. Even less so in an instant!
smore9: (I spot a TARDIS in your icon, which pleases me greatly.) Given her occupation as a ballet dancer, I think there are some fighting techniques she might excel at, though perhaps not all the obvious ones ;)
Her Royal Nonsense: Yes, I was wary about even writing a "OC finds themselves in Middle-earth" kind of story, but I'm really glad you think that I might be able to pull it off! I just want to explore what problems may actually arise from a 21st Century human stumbling into Middle-earth (e.g. the language barrier—we all seem to forget the language barrier). But I really do thank you for giving this a try.