Chapter 2 – Recyclings and Poison

When Kristin opened her eyes, she noticed that the sky was dark, and that she was now propped up against a tree. Wow. She had been so out of it that she hadn't even felt Elladan (it was Elladan, right? Yeah, it was.) carry her off the horse.

Speaking of Elf lords, where was this one? Probably left to hunt for food, she supposed. But why would he leave her alone, asleep and defenceless? Although, she thought wryly, that horse is probably watching over me.

Kristin gingerly rose to her feet, pleased to find out that her limbs were not as shaky as before. She pulled up her borrowed pants, not liking the feeling of 'going commando' in the slightest. Then she trotted over to the horse, wary of where she put her bare feet.

The horse, as mentioned before, was tall and magnificent, and watched her imperiously. It had a coat of brown and white socks on all its legs except the left foreleg. Kristin, being a city girl, had no experience with horses, except for television, school and a brief fixation with ponies when she was six. In fact (not that it has anything to do with the story – unless you read for character development, and who does that?), Kristin spent the entirety of her six-year-old life pretending to have a white stallion called Binky that turned invisible when other people looked at it. But I digress.

"Hey, girl. How you doing?"

Also as mentioned before, Kristin is a city girl, and therefore can be excused for calling Aznavour a 'she'. That doesn't mean that Aznavour excused her; because, although Kristin was not speaking Elvish, or Horse, Elladan's mount was a smart horse, and caught the gist of what she was saying.

It snorted, and pawed the ground. Kristin immediately jumped back, which seemed to mollify it a little. Just a little.

Okay, thought Kristin. I never knew horses were so temperamental. Seriously.

She abandoned the demon-horse-thing, and instead walked back to her tree. Very carefully. On the way she snagged a couple of leaves from the bushes lining the clearing. She held them gently with one hand, using the other to pull the pants up again, and sat down cross legged among the ancient roots. Kristin leaned against the tree trunk, and idly twirled the stem between her fingers.

What on Earth – or Middle-Earth, whatever – am I doing here? And why the Hell am I deaf? Her throat burned, much like it always did whenever she was about to cry. She pulled her knees to her chest, and stared at her grubby feet, toenails filled with muck and dirt. Gods, I want to go home. I can't hear a thing. I don't know anyone, oh gods, oh gods…

Absentmindedly she scratched her hands (which were now, for some reason, irritatingly itchy) with the stalk she'd plucked. Kristin swallowed, trying to suppress the need to cry. She hadn't cried in over a year, (and that was only because she'd had a fight with Jon over something that was now stupid), and she wasn't going to start bawling like a baby now. She was seventeen years old. She would not cry. She wouldn't.

But her mind didn't stop there.

What was the purpose of bringing her to a different world without the sense of sound? How could she possibly contribute to anything, much less the War of the Ring? Kristin had read all three Lord of the Rings books, and the Hobbit, and a tiny bit of the Silmarillion, and she had watched all the movies, but…there was nothing special about that. Thousands of people did the same, and there were thousands of people who had better knowledge of Middle Earth, its history, its customs and its languages.

And what of her life at home? Would her parents miss her? Did they know their little girl had been transported to a fictional world? She wondered if her little brother and older sister would find it amusing that she was in Middle Earth, and whether they would argue over her things. And what about Jon?

She swallowed, finding the action difficult, as a lump had formed in her throat. Kristin missed Jon terribly, even more than her parents and siblings. What had happened to Jon? Had she left him to face his father alone? Had he, too, found his demise at the hands of a madman he was unfortunate enough to have as his father? Maybe he had been transported to Arda too!

As soon as she thought this, Kristin shook her head vigorously as if to dislodge the notion, disgusted with herself for daring to suggest it. She did not want Jon to have died, even if it meant that she would have a companion. He deserved better than that. Her eyes widened as she digested that fact. She had died. She had died.

"No more jumping out of windows, then," she joked to herself, and gave a weak chuckle, laughing even as a tear rolled down her cheek. She would have wiped it away, but –

Gods, what was wrong with her hands?

She looked up from her feet to take a look at the offending appendages, and maybe see what the cause of the itchiness was. An insect bite or something. However, it was at that precise moment that the practical part of her brain lost its battle against the emotional part. Kristin's eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision, so much so that she didn't notice Elladan's approach.

He grabbed her wrists, and hauled her to her feet. Kristin gave a gasp of surprise, which started her sobbing properly. The spray of leaves she'd picked fluttered onto the ground from out of her now-open hand, and she let herself be led by Elladan, stumbling slightly because she couldn't really see.

She could still feel, though. Her hands were still itchy, but Elladan still held her wrists tightly, preventing her from scratching. She felt the forest floor from under her feet, felt dry leaves and earth and twigs, and once something squishy that oozed up between her toes. She didn't want to know what that was. And then the ground was oddly damp, and she was forced to her knees. Luckily Elladan had a supporting arm around her back, if not she would have pitched forwards. Her patellae hurt, though.

Suddenly her hands were pushed into what she could only describe as ice. Kristin opened her mouth, but she couldn't tell if she shrieked, or gasped, or sobbed louder. She was still crying, even as Elladan kept her hands in the stream, or river, or whatever.

After what seemed like an age, Elladan lifted her now-frozen hands out of the water. But it was a brief reprieve; after wiping the palms and fingers with a damp cloth, he mercilessly dunked them again. However, thanks to the relativity of the human thermoreceptor system, the water now seemed mostly warm.

When the Elf helped her up and led her back to her tree, she realised that her hands were no longer itching. Be that as it may, she was still crying. Kristin didn't have the strength to push her hair out of her face – but Elladan did that for her. She couldn't take it anymore. She leaned forwards, into his embrace, and drew comfort from the way he didn't push her away. And Kristin cried, cried for her parents, Jon, and the life she once knew.

OoOoOoOoOo

Elladan held onto the mystery maiden (or, rather, she held onto him, while he awkwardly placed his arms around her), a little overwhelmed. He'd gone to relieve himself, and had left Aznavour behind to rest a little, and graze, as well as to look over the maiden as she slept. There was no doubt in the Elf's mind that his horse would be able to carry out that little task. He had not expected to see Aznavour grumping at one corner of the clearing, while the silly girl sat awake, looking like she was about to cry, and playing with poison ivy. Poison ivy!

It was a lucky thing there was a little stream nearby enough. After all, he and Elrohir had been camped by the Anduin (nearer the River Ninglor than the River Celebrant) and it had been a simple matter for Elladan to follow the Great River south, where it would eventually lead him to Lórien. So it was not really surprising that there were streamlets peppered along his route.

Perhaps it had been unwise of him to stop at a copse of poison ivy, but, really, Elladan had had his reasons. For one, the girl had been asleep, so he'd set her against the only tree there because as experienced a horse as Aznavour was, he could not keep riders on his back if they tipped sideways. Secondly, Elladan's bladder had been killing him. And thirdly, even if she'd woken up, there was no way that anyone would be stupid enough to wander off (which, granted, she didn't do) or pluck poison ivy and play with it.

If the Valar had thought he'd needed assistance in deciding whether the girl was or was not a spy, They had certainly helped. She was definitely no spy. Whether she was an idiot – that was open to debate.

He could feel a part of his tunic becoming wet with her tears, but couldn't find it within himself to be annoyed. He was not that heartless. The poor girl was probably lost, and bad enough she could not hear. Elladan conceded that he may have been a little rough when getting her up and to the river, but he'd wanted to wash her hands as soon as possible. In the process she'd walked through what could only be politely referred to as Aznavour's 'recyclings'.

She'd cried all the while, even when he'd used a damp handkerchief (his mother had always insisted he and Elrohir carry one each) to further wash her hands. These were not silent tears or noisy weeping – she had sobbed heartrendingly, but very softly. Not deliberately, no; Elladan suspected that it was only because she couldn't hear herself cry that her sobs were faint.

Finally, when her shoulders stopped shaking, and her death grip had loosened somewhat, Elladan managed to extricate himself. Pushing her against the large tree (he wasn't really bothered what type of tree it was right this moment), he gave her a reassuring smile, held up both hands in what he hoped was a 'wait here' sign, and then headed over to Aznavour. Inside one of the saddlebags (long journeys called for them) he found some dried fruit. Elladan hated the stuff, but Elrohir couldn't get enough of it. However, Elrohir wasn't there to finish them, so he was perfectly justified in giving it to the mystery maiden.

She ate quickly, but chewed well. If it had not been dry fruit, no doubt the juice would be running down her chin. Elladan couldn't blame her even if it did. She looked like she hadn't eaten in a while. This was not so inconceivable – if she could not afford her own clothes, what more food?

He forced down a pear himself, knowing he'd need the strength for the next stretch, and then guided her to the streamlet. After the both of them had had a drink, he let her wash her feet in the water, and then helped her mount Aznavour. (The thricedamned horse was still inclined to be sulky about something, though, and Elladan had had to sternly tell him to behave.)

And then they were off once again. Hopefully they would be able to reach soon, and without any hiccups. No doubt his grandparents would be curious as to why he was visiting without any prior notice, and why he had an odd maiden as company instead of his twin. But that couldn't be helped. Elladan just hoped that they could aid the mystery maiden. And she was a mystery, make no mistake. Why? Because, as he'd pushed her hair out of her face, he'd felt her ears.

Whoever had heard of a deaf Elf?

OoOoOoOoOo

This chapter was finished on: 2 June 2009, 11.24 p.m.

I do not own the universe of Lord of the Rings.

As a side note, have there been deaf Elves? I don't think so, but I could always be wrong. Feedback is much appreciated.