Fanfiction has always been one of our passions. Sure beats the hell out of making up whole new universes when you've got the urge to write, but don't have the time to plan out an entire world and characters, and little anthropological details of cultures and what not. Tolkien's work is amazing; he'd probably go totally spastic to know what we've done to his work, but…we have to offer an apology to wherever he is and hope he won't haunt us later, and then continue on with the story.
Speaking of getting on with the story…crikey…you are impatient, aren't you Mr. Shadow-man? Get a grip!
As I was saying, fanfiction is one of our many shared passions. Hankerings, if you will. Really; once you start writing it, you can't stop. Always new ideas and plots, thinking of how someone else's point of view would change everyone's perceptions…that sort of work takes chocolate, and lots of it. And one must prescribe to a certain amount of what I call fan-girl-ism.
That's the fanfiction and chocolate…now you're wondering where the transport truck comes in? I thought you might be.
It was on an excursion to the local store – we both went, due to the fact that there's jerk-off's about who I really didn't want messing with my twin, and she didn't want messing with me. I know some karate (I hope), and I've got a really big knife that I picked up when I first got here, so it's all good – that the transport truck comes in.
There was no one about. I mean no one. Not even the jerk-off's I was referring to earlier. At least, we didn't see anyone. We were being pretty loud and giggly, being hyped up on chocolate and caffeine and the general excitement of me actually visiting, so it's possible we missed something.
Bet you think that we would have noticed two or three tonnes of metal and rubber hurtling towards us. Nope. Not a chance. And even when we did see it, did we try to move? Oh no! We just stood there, like deer in the headlights, waiting to be hit by a truck.
Getting hit by a transport truck hurts. I tell you this now in hopes that you might avoid such an event in your own lives. Impact's got to be the worst of it. The shock from that pretty much cancels out any feeling of weightlessness from flying through the air, or skidding along the pavement. Or – as Fe told me later – finding out that truck drivers actually do use pedestrians as speed bumps. It's a pisser. Don't let anyone tell you different.
You know, I've always had a fear of death. It's more of the unknown, actually. Death is pretty much the only mystery that we haven't conclusively solved, except really for the depths of space, or the oceans – I'm betting there's some huge farking squid down there – or why people still watch Jerry Springer. But surprisingly – and Fe noticed this too, she told me – it didn't hurt all that much, lying there on the pavement, staring up into the sky that was blocked by the orange street lamps and then later by the faces of concerned neighbours.
And then we were standing side by side and watching everything, the arrival of the ambulances and them working on saving us for a while before giving up and calling in the coroner and pronouncing us dead. And then putting us in body bags and stuffing us in the back of the ambulance, off to the morgue, maybe have and autopsy done…usual stuff. Unless they've got those regulations that say that they can't do an autopsy until the parents okay it…which is good, because I sure as bloody damn hell don't want myself cut up and have my innards looked over. Whatever.
At that time though, my thoughts weren't really on where I was going next – reincarnation, hell, heaven, whatever – but really on how much of a rip off this was. I was eighteen years old, for crying out loud! Getting hit by a truck is not what I had planned at all! I was going to travel, and learn, and…gah. Nothing can be done about it now. We're dead in that life. Or whatever. No going back.
Which I suppose is another problem with us two writing the best fanfic ever to grace the internet. We're dead. Forgot to mention that bit…oops.
After a bit, I closed my eyes, opened them again and…
Boom. Well, not really boom, but I found I could speak again and speak I did. Fiona was standing right next to me, and guess where we were? Not Middle-earth; not yet, anyway. We were in a tunnel. And there was a light at the end of it.
"You have got to be kidding me!" First words out of my mouth after getting hit by a truck.
Fe looked around. "No kidding!" was her comment. Which just goes to show you that we think along the same lines. I mean, honestly! Of all the things, the light at the end of the tunnel wasn't the one we were expecting. It's been so over used…you'd think they'd come up with something original. Whoever 'they' are.
"That better not be a train," I added. "Getting hit by two large machines is not my idea of a vacation."
We paused for a moment and listened, hearing nothing but the echoes of our breaths. We were breathing? What for? If we're dead, why do we still need to breathe? The light didn't get any closer, and there wasn't any sound of approaching trains. This was a good thing.
After we were silent for some time, I could feel myself starting to get a little fed up with this. Dying is never fun. Unless…well, I could think of some good ways to go… Either way, I get annoyed very easily, and at the moment I was near to pissed. Having your life cut off suddenly can do that to you.
"Alright." I said after a bit. Fiona looked at me and got that look in her eye that she always gets when I'm about to do something stupid. "I've had enough of this. I've been ripped off, and I want justice. Where's my maker?" I shouted. When no answer was forthcoming, I stomped off down the tunnel towards the light, Fe with nothing to do but follow me.
I paused just before stepping into the light, looking back the way we came into darkness. Fe stopped beside me.
"If you're going to hell, I'm coming too," she said. I found my anger and annoyance at not living past my eighteenth year dissipate at those words. They were so sweet! I felt the same way. We are – were – twins, and twins stick together.
"Likewise." I had the sneaking suspicion that we might be separated. I grabbed her hand. "Well, it's been fun. If I don't see you again for eternity, drop me a line."
She giggled, and I found myself giggling to, at the absurdity of it all.
"Well," she said. "See you on the other side." I noticed that she hadn't let go of my hand, and that I really didn't want to let go of her. My fear of the unknown returned, and I really didn't want to be alone in this. With a deep breath – I still haven't figured that out…we were dead, for crying out loud! – we stepped through…
…And emerged in the middle of a war zone.
"What the – " I used one of my more expressive words. I save those for truly surprising circumstances or instances of frustration. This was definitely one of them. Was this some sort of purgatory? Or an even bigger rip off than dying young?
I fixated on the latter of the two options. It made me angry again, and kept my mind working where surprise would have shut me down. There were people screaming all around, and I happened to notice why a moment later.
You know, someone should really keep a lid on their breeding, because that was about the only reason I could think of as to why these creatures exist. Orcs, I found out, is what they are, but that wasn't until much later. We watched one shoot some poor bugger, and then run by us. Fe and I ran out and she grabbed the guy as he crumpled.
"Where the fark are we?" she yelled. Good going, Fiona. A man's dying in your hands and you ask him where we are.
"Tell Hathor that I love her," he whispered and then died.
"Shit." She let go and he dropped to the ground. "How rude. Just because he'd been shot, doesn't mean he had to go and die before he told us where we were, at least. It's not as though we really know anyone named Hathor, or where she would live even if we did. We don't even know where we are, which is why we were asking." She ended sarcastically and nudged the carcass with her foot. Well, I say 'nudged'. Really, it was 'kicked'.
I was getting annoyed again. This was stupid. I got hit by a truck! A bloody damn transport truck, in a back-roads suburb in the middle of farking Melbourne! What the bloody hell was a transport truck doing in the middle of a back-roads suburb? Riddle me this, I tell you!
I stood, stewing in my anger, until I spotted another guy who might help us. I marched up to him, grabbed him by the tunic, and asked, politely, where we were.
"JUST TELL ME WHERE THE HELL WE ARE!!"
Okay, so that wasn't really 'asked', but…well, I was annoyed. And these people really couldn't be dying, because we died – even went through the whole light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel bit and came out here – and they weren't re-emerging back wherever the hell we were. And these guys were apparently locals, so I figured they would know.
He wasn't all that helpful. "I don't know! Nobody taught me-"
"A general answer would be nice," I growled. Yes, growled. Through clenched teeth too, if you really want to go totally cliché. Fe said later that I was 'falsely sweet'. I don't know…I'm sure I growled. Either way, the dying guy was a little bit more helpful.
"That I do know: Middle-earth. Now would you-" He didn't get much further because he chocked on something gross and died, slumping against his tunic. I dropped him too.
The pair of us were silent for a moment, watching the carnage, and being completely ignored by everyone and everything, including the rampaging…what was that word Fe used? Bunyips? What the hell is a 'bunyip'?
"Middle-earth." We said it in unison, and with the same inflection. Don't let anyone ever make you think that we're not actually twins, despite the history already laid out for you. We are.
We paused a moment more before – shock, I think – before once again speaking in unison.
"Shit."
Okay, so that's how we got to Middle-earth. I would have said 'here', but at the moment I don't know where 'here' is. I'll have you know, once we found out who it was, I marched right up to the head guy in charge and demanded what the hell was going on.
He had wings on his head. Granted they were part of his helmet, but they were still wings. Wouldn't want to be running through a forest with that helmet on. The wings would probably get caught on every branch within a two-foot radius.
He was shouting orders to other men with wings on their heads. That's how we picked him out as the one to go to with our problem of being stuck in this place. Well, not really stuck. We'd been Tolkien fanatics for a rather long time now, and had wished and prayed to get here, even if it was fictional. Now we were, but this really wasn't what we had in mind. So I went to the first guy in charge I could find.
"Excuse me," I said, all polite like. He ignored us, so I turned up the volume. "EXCUSE ME?"
He stopped mid-sentence and turned around, no doubt to tell us to bugger off. He spotted Fiona first – tall people usually do – and then looked down at me. Crikey, but he was tall! I'd have say about six five, without the helmet. And he looked surprised. What? Had he never seen women before? He recovered quickly; I must give him that.
"What do you want?"
"You in charge 'round here?"
"Yes."
"Good. We have a few bones to pick with you."
"Look, I haven't got time for your peasant problems! There's a war going on."
I don't know about you, but I have issues with being called a peasant. I'm sure most peasants are pleasant people, by when I think peasant, I think medieval times, and peasants back then didn't bathe. I bathe, and quite regularly. He turned back to his order shouting.
I turned to Fiona, and she took over.
"Look buddy,"* she began. "We're not supposed to be here, and if you're in charge, there must be some sort of -"
"Then leave," the captain dude said, quite snarkily, I thought, not even turning back around to face us.
I pulled Fe away before she could make too much of a scene and whispered in her ear. Moments later we went back to the captain, me on Fe's shoulders.
"Yo!"
He growled, like I had earlier, turning around. And then I let him have it. Pow! Right in the nose. Hah…he never saw it coming. And whoa…did he ever topple! Fell straight over backwards, landing in a clank of metal and armour. He didn't move as Fe le me down. Serves him right, calling us un-bathing peasants.
Matter of fact…he didn't move again. Somehow, we'd managed to kill the man. Or I did, seeing as how the whole thing was my idea, and I punched him in the nose. Hey; they warned me about blows to the nose in karate class, how a badly aimed one – or a properly aimed one – could shatter the nose and drive the fragments up into your brain. Guess that's what happened, because the dude never sat up or complained.
"Shit." Especially since there were now several of the winged hat guys, all looking rather annoyed and somewhat pissed because we'd apparently killed their captain.
For crying out loud, no, I don't go around killing people who disagree with me! That's rude. But…honestly, I just wanted to hit him, and he was wearing armour. Really. That was all.
Fe and I found ourselves backing up and ready to run when the captain guy sat up. He was none too pleased, but his men were glad to see him alive, at least. I wasn't. I guess I thought that our chances would be better if he was dead.
"You!" he said, pointing at me. I did my best to look innocent. "Take them!"
I may be dead, but I have no intention of being caught by soldiers and likely raped, and I'm pretty sure Fe felt the same way, because we only shared a look before we both took off.
There's a certain amount of predictability to this course of action, with two or three obvious conclusions. One, we get captured, possibly raped, definitely dragged up in front of some head cheese and then executed for punching out some not so head cheese. Two, we get away…and then do what? It's not as if either of us actually know how to survive in the wilds. Oh well…there's always cannibalism, but I'm going to have to be pretty damned hungry before I'll eat humans, especially refugees from a strange war. No telling what sort of diseases they have. Third possibility…we are shot down while attempting to escape, making it all nice and legal, because we were resisting arrest. That, of course, is provided they have the same or similar laws about what 'resisting arrest' means.
Or courts, for that matter. Or anyone who would actually care.
Turns out they just used lassos. Wonder where they got those from, because I definitely remember that they didn't have them last time I checked. Okay, so I've never checked. But really…it seemed a bit convenient.
You probably know this, but hitting the ground at high speeds hurts. A lot. Fe and I knew this because we had just had an experience where hitting the ground at high speed hurt a whole hell of a lot. Of course, having a sword at your throat hurts more, or at least, one would expect it to. That metal is cold. And sharp.
The captain guy marched up to us – yes, he actually marched. Not just a figure of speech – rubbing his nose and looking rather pissed. Probably should have seen this coming, but…I was angry.
"You!" he began. "You…!" He seemed incapable of saying anything more.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" You would have expected us to keep our mouths shut, but this was another one of those 'freaky' – so say other people – instances where we say the same thing at the same time. We shared a grin. This was fun.
Of course his face 'clouded with rage' as his 'anger built'. Sorry…I write these things…using them is an entire different matter all together…makes me cringe, but there's really no other way to say it. Just imagine! "His face grew to resemble that of the underside of a cumulonimbus cloud formation as multiple synapses and hormones triggered the emotion known as 'anger' to increase within his mind and system." Just doesn't have the same…
Okay, okay! I'll get back to the farking story!
We got dragged before the head cheese, as promised. Guy by the name of Isildur… Didn't like him much.
He asked where we were from. I said, "The Great Beyond." Fiona giggled. Actually, it was more of a snort, but…yeah, yeah. You get the point.
He asked what we were doing here. Fe responded with "Beats the hell out of me, Hermes." He had wings on his hat – er, helmet – too. What is it with these guys and winged hats? You could hurt someone with those things!
He asked us where we got our clothes. So we looked at our clothes; same ones we were wearing when we got ripped off of the rest of our lives. I was wearing a skimpy purple number to show off my recently acquired toned abs, with the words 'Good kitties are bad kitties that do not get caught' silk screened onto it, with a glittery cat, and a pair of jeans. Underclothes assumed. Had a hard time reading the words from my angle though, on account of unfortunate placement of the pattern. But that's part of the reason I bought the shirt.
Fe, on the other hand, was wearing this conservative get up, didn't show much off, didn't hide much either, if you get the idea. Looked good on her, I thought. Jeans, and a t-shirt, and a comfy over-shirt-jacket-thing; perfect fanfic writing clothes. Would have been wearing that too, if I hadn't thought that showing off my new abs would be fun, considering they've been 'flabs' for the longest time. Again, hopefully, underclothes are assumed.
This time we both answered this dude. "The store."
"What store?"
"Several, actually." That was me.
Isildur shook his head. But this time, I figured he'd be pretty mad. Apparently he was, because he poured himself a cup of what looked – and smelled – to be wine and drank it down. And then crushed the cup, made of pewter, in one hand. We wisely kept our mouths shut. Eventually he managed to come back to where we were standing in his big tent, looking a great deal calmer.
"You say you are from the 'Great Beyond'. Came you from Númenor, our lost land? Tell me! Are you survivors from that great catastrophe?"
Númenor…isn't that place that destroyed by the thingys because those guys wanted to go to that place?
"Númenor…isn't that the island of Men that was destroyed by the Valar because the Men decided they wanted to go to Valinor despite being told not to bother trying?" This was Fiona, resident Silmarillion expert. She'd read it; I had not, at least, not past the death of the Dark Elf dude, whatshisname.
"Nope, haven't been there," was my contribution. I shrugged.
"Me neither," added Fiona. "I just read about it."
Poor guy looked so put out that I wanted to give him a hug.
"Then it is true. We are the last of the blood of Númenor." Don't know who 'we' referred to, but it wasn't us. He seemed so sad when he added, "take them away. Put them in one of the other tents. But don't harm them!"
Gotta hand it to the guy; didn't even know us, we drove him nuts, punched out his captain, but he still made sure we didn't get hurt. That same captain that I decked took us – rather roughly, I thought – by the arms and frog marched us out of Isildur's tent. And then proceeded to chew us out for being so rude to the prince.
Prince? What's that got to do with anything? He's just a regular Joe with a big hat. But I didn't say that, because the captain was more than a little angry already and some self-preservation instinct told me just to keep quiet, so I did. Don't know what Fe was thinking this whole time, but she had a rather blank expression on her face that told me of much inner mind goings-on.
After a walk of a good distance – probably to put as much distance between us and his highness – the captain guy left us in a tent, had some food and drink brought to us, and posted a sentry just to make sure we didn't leave. Like we wanted to stay here. Although, I admit, it was better than spending the night outside, or in the middle of a war zone.
As boring as it sounds, and as it was, there we stayed. Thankfully, we had our first chance to talk about what had happened…and decide what to do next.