In which Lorna meets a human (and does something she deeply regrets), learns a bit about where she is (though not the whole truth), and makes a friend (who doesn't actually know what she did to him). Meanwhile, the Elves are disturbed.
There are mentions of Lorna's mind-rape in this chapter. While it was mental rather than physical, the psychological aftermath is much the same, so a trigger warning might be necessary.
Lorna had expected the water to be cold. She hadn't realized it would be like dropping into the bloody Bering Sea.
The shock of it drove the breath from her lungs, the impact alone enough to make her choke. She panicked even before the icy water closed over her head, struggling for the surface, thanking God her clothes were so light. No, she didn't want to be locked up again, but neither did she wish to drown.
Her head broke the surface, but only for a moment – just long enough for her to draw a breath that was mostly air, but also partly water, leaving her coughing violently, her lungs somehow both frigid and burning at the same time. The current would have been too strong even for a good swimmer, which she most definitely was not; dog-paddling was as much as she'd ever learned. No matter how hard she kicked, the water didn't seem to want to let her reach the shore, firmly shoving her back into the center of the river and trying to suck her downward. At least she was so cold that she barely registered the rocks she bashed into.
Dammit. Dammit. This fucking river did not get to eat her – there was too much she had to do. White-hot rage crept through her veins, warming her, sharpening her vision.
Fear had been the initial catalyst of her telekinesis, something she couldn't direct worth a damn. Thanks to Von Ratched, rage worked even better, allowing her some blunt measure of control. She reached out, catching whatever rocks she could on the stony bank, tearing with every ounce of her strength. If she couldn't reach the shore, she'd damn well bring it to her.
She'd thrown around so much telekinesis already, on top of her last horrible day at the Institute, that pure agony jagged through her, hot and shocking as lightning. It was almost enough to black her out, but she kept pulling, driven by pure stubbornness, until a portion of the bank collapsed ahead of her, leaving an impromptu dam. A dam she was about to hit with far more force than she'd like.
Lorna didn't quite have enough time to brace herself before she crashed into the pile of stone, but she was pretty sure nothing broke along the way, and her body was so numb that it didn't hurt nearly as much as it was probably going to later. She started shivering as soon as she hauled herself out of the water, grateful for the anemic warmth of the sun.
For a long while she lay on the shore, hacking and gasping. She'd been dragged so far downstream that even if her pursuers were still after her, they'd have a hell of a time finding her.
It was just about the only thing she had going for her. She had absolutely zero in the way of survival skills – she didn't know how to hunt, and had nothing to fish with. No matter which direction she walked, she had no guarantee of finding civilization. For all she knew, she'd been dropped in the middle of Canada, and run afoul of some fucked-up, medieval-style cult.
Who like to dabble in genetic experimentation, she thought, curling into a ball. That animal, whatever the hell it actually was, simply did not occur in nature. It couldn't. It didn't take a zoologist to figure that out. And as for those goddamn spiders…no. Just no. She hoped like hell they stayed in the creepy forest, and left this far more normal area alone.
Ugh, how did she get here? Just now, she wasn't sure she even cared where here was; the stone beneath her was vaguely warm, and it was all she had that was worth focusing on. The only thing she could be absolutely certain of was that Von Ratched had not let her go. Whatever had got her out here had managed to bypass him, and she wasn't sure if that was brilliant or fucking terrifying. She wasn't sure she wanted to meet anything that could outclass him, even if it was on her side. Then again, it wasn't like she could be sure it actually was on her side.
Well. She didn't know what the hell she was going to do, but she couldn't stay like this. The smock and trousers were so thin they'd dry soon enough – sooner, if she moved enough to generate more body heat. Since she had no idea which direction to go, she decided to follow the river, reasoning that at least she wouldn't go thirsty. It headed northwest, if she had it right.
"Christ," she muttered, the word little more than a gravelly croak. Were Ratiri and the others somewhere out here? She couldn't imagine she was the only one. Not that she stood much chance of finding them save for blind luck.
She didn't get far before she had to stop. Now that her whole body wasn't numb, her entire right side was on fire. She didn't think she'd broken any ribs, but she was afraid she might have cracked a few.
Goddammit. Oh well – at least if she was going to die out here, she'd got some fresh air and sunshine first.
She just wished the other were here.
Lorna sank onto the mossy ground, watching the glittering river. It smelled so achingly wonderful out here – the scent of fresh earth and springtime – and all she could do was worry. Ratiri would get the worst of it in her absence, but Katje and Geezer wouldn't fare much better.
Von Ratched had to know she hadn't actually escaped, however. He might be King of the Arseholes, but he wasn't stupid; all he'd have to do would be read Ratiri's mind to know that she had not, in fact, managed to sneak out. He could search every mind in the Institute and find the same thing. Hell, maybe her disappearance would prove a distraction for him.
Oh, she hoped so.
Meanwhile, she ought to at least try to keep going. Her ribs hated her, but she hated them right back, so they were even. Still, she had to bite back a scream as she hauled herself to her feet. Her feet ached, her head ached, her side hurt like a bitch, and she was probably going to be one gigantic bruise tomorrow, but she was free. Why, she didn't yet know, but she assumed she'd find out, provided she didn't keel over and die before she found another person. Given that it had now been a full two days since she'd last eaten, that was a distinct possibility.
But there was nothing for it. On she went, toward God knew what.
Though Dale and Esgaroth now had more than enough trade, they still sold barrels of wine to the Wood-Elves.
The job of bargeman was a dull one, but Oleg liked it. It was simple, straightforward, and rarely involved interaction with other people. Which was why he was incredibly surprised by what he found on the riverbank.
She was so small that at first he thought her a child, curled on her side amid the ferns. For a moment he feared she was dead, but when he drew near he saw that she was still breathing, albeit with a faint wheeze he could barely hear. Where had she come from? While he didn't know everyone who lived in Dale and Esgaroth, a woman this unusually diminutive would have stood out.
He gave her bony shoulder a gentle shake, and jumped a little when her eyes snapped open. One tiny, rough hand grabbed his – and then there was only pain. It stabbed through him like a knife to the brain, so sudden and so shocking his head spun.
He tried to jerk away, and failed; small she might be, but she was incredibly strong, her fingers closed around his like a vice. The pain ebbed a bit, but nausea churned in his gut, the taste of bile sour on his tongue. Her wide green eyes were locked with his, but he didn't know if she actually saw him or not; they were filled with desperation, but she wasn't as desperate as he was. It was only with great effort that he managed to wrench his hand out of her grasp, and she immediately lapsed back into unconsciousness, boneless as a doll.
What in Eru's name had she just done to him, and how? He'd never heard of female wizards, but he couldn't imagine anythin else being able to do – well, to do whatever it was she'd done. The pain vanished as soon as she was no longer touching him. His heart hammered, however, his limbs unsteady with shock and adrenaline.
If she was a wizard, she wasn't a very good one, for her unconsciousness had to be the result of a beating. Her face and arms – very bruised arms – were covered in fresh scratches, her odd clothing torn and stained.
Oleg rubbed his temple, trying to will his pulse to slow. Her wounds were so fresh that he wasn't willing to linger, lest whatever did this to her find him as well. He'd pick up the barrels later, when he had a party with him.
But what was he to do with her? Clearly she had the ability to hurt people, in some way he didn't understand. Bard might not thank him for bringing such a person into Dale, but Oleg couldn't in good conscience just leave here. He couldn't pretend to be a good man, but he wasn't so terrible as to leave an unconscious woman to the elements and animals, even if she'd somehow managed to cause him a great deal of pain. It wasn't as though he could be certain she'd done it on purpose, given her state.
Whoever or whatever had done this to her, Bard would want to know of it. What would happen to her then would be out of Oleg's hands.
Lorna dreamed.
The dreams were a confused jumble, images and memories not her own, without form or context. Fire, the heat searing her on all sides, smoke all but choking her. A town built on water, steeped in fear and discontent, the dry wood going up like a torch when hit with rivers of flame.
Hunger, a child's fear, frigid water, marching, marching for days. To her, these people and their clothing looked terribly strange; within these memories, they were lifelong companions, lucky – or not-so-lucky – survivors.
They spoke, and oh, how strange this was. To her, their words were gibberish, but this man, this Oleg, understood them perfectly, and the sheer dissonance it forced upon her mind was almost more than she could bear. He was of an age with her, thirty-three, unmarried and unsociable yet fiercely loyal to his own people. People of Esgaroth, on the Long Lake, and why did that sound familiar?
Esgaroth, Long Lake, Dale, and oh, she knew that name – she, Lorna, not Oleg, but where the hell had she heard it? It sounded like it ought to be English, but she knew of no such place.
Fire, more fire, and – holy Christ, no. Just no. A dragon soared within her mind, within these memories that were not hers, burning the town over and over in his/her nightmares. A real dragon, except dragons weren't bloody real. Had she found the memory of someone who liked eating too many magic mushrooms? That would just be her luck.
Wind now, and snow, long days navigating winter ice floes in search of fish gone elusive with the season. A hard life, with no sign of anything like technology. Why? Why, why, why? The word ran through her mind in a loop, only occasionally calling up vague half-answers.
She wasn't in the Institute anymore, but that didn't mean she wasn't in very grave trouble.
After a fall like that, the tiny Edain was almost certainly dead, but Thranduil wouldn't rest until someone had found her body.
How could she have seen the scar? She had seen it – of that, he was sure. There had been recognition in her unholy green eyes; he could only be grateful she hadn't drawn attention to it. Very few of his people knew of its existence, and he meant to keep it that way.
His people now spread out along the bank of the river, and he with them, searching in the waning evening light. The slight warmth of the day had long since died, leaving the air chill and clammy with the last, lingering vestiges of winter.
Tauriel approached, silent as a ghost, and bowed. "My lord," she said, "we have found tracks, and…something else."
The little woman had survived the fall? Survived, and then managed to walk? "Show me," he said, following her through the deepening twilight.
What she led him to disturbed him. He'd known the strange woman had somehow been wrecking the trees in his forest, but this – this was beyond a few trees.
The riverbank had been pulled outward, soil and stone, forming a strange half-dam. It had been scooped straight out of the dry land, the scent of freshly-turned soil still heavy in the air. A tangle of branches lay across it, the brush dragged out of the ground by the roots.
What, precisely, were they dealing with?
Hunting a creature who could do such a thing might not be wise, but he had little choice. The safety of his people was foremost in his mind – if she proved to be a danger, he had to kill her. And he wouldn't know what peril she might pose until he found her. It was probably too much to hope that she would do him the courtesy of dying along the way.
Lorna would have gladly slept forever, but her ribs decided it was time she woke up and took notice of them. The fuckers.
She was lying on wood, and though something heavy and warm was wrapped around her, she was freezing. Oleg, in his memory, was a bargeman, ergo this must be his barge. Well done, Holmes.
His memories also told her she wasn't on Earth.
The thought was ridiculous, but if there was one thing she'd learned about her damn curse, it was that people couldn't lie in their own heads. She had no doubt Von Ratched could create false memories, but Von Ratched, she hoped to God, wasn't here. And this was probably too elaborate even for him – to create a whole language was no easy thing. With Oleg's complexion, he ought to be speaking Swedish or Norwegian or something like that, but it sounded nothing like any of those, and his mind called it 'Westron'. Admittedly, Lorna was nowhere near a linguistic scholar, but she'd never heard of such a language.
So where did that leave her? She was limited by what she could see in his memory, and he obviously wasn't used to contemplating the world in which he lived. She could well understand that; she hadn't done it much herself, until the curses hit. Christ, she hoped she hadn't hurt him – when he'd touched her, she'd reacted without thinking, instinct latching onto his mind like a remora. Even if she hadn't harmed him, she'd probably scared the shit out of him, so why had he taken her with him? Moreover, he hadn't even tied her up or anything.
Lorna opened her eyes, and found herself looking up at more stars than she had ever seen in her life. The moon was full, and seemed somehow bigger than she was used to, as if it was closer to wherever she was. Water splashed gently against the hull of the barge, a strangely peaceful sound. Yeah, she was colder than cold, and yeah, just about everything that could ache, ached, but she was free, and there were so very many stars.
Thought of Ratiri, Katje, and Geezer entered her mind, but she couldn't let herself dwell. If she did, she'd go mad with worry, and if she went mad, she'd be of no use to anyone or anything. She had to get back, and she had to be able to think enough to do it. Focus on the now, not the future or the past. Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, she'd lived her life like that: moment to moment, without thought or care for what she might meet.
Oleg said something, the sound of his voice making her jump, and she had to hunt his memory to translate what he said: "Are you awake?"
"Yes," she said in English, and shook herself, digging up the word in Westron. "Yes. Thank you. I am bad with your language." Gaining fluency from someone else's memory was not, she thought, going to be an easy thing. Yeah, she had something of an ear for languages, but she was hardly a prodigy.
She rolled onto her left side, hissing at the pain. "Did I hurt you?" He looked fine – he was a big man, and looked about as Scandinavian as his name implied, with pale blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a face red with sun and windburn. His clothes were as strange as those of the people in his memory, dark and rough and without any modern touches her eyes could see, and the moonlight was bright enough that she ought to have spotted something.
"It hurt, yes," he said, looking at her with undisguised curiosity, "but I do not think it harmed me. What did you do?"
Lorna frowned. She doubted she could properly explain it in English, let alone Westron. "I do not know words to tell you," she said, quite honestly. She'd had her curse less than a year, and the only explanations she'd had had call come from Von Ratched. Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing if he'd told her the truth or not.
"Are you a wizard?" Oleg asked, and she very nearly burst out laughing.
"No," she said. "No, not a wizard."
"You are hurt," he said, stating the blatantly obvious. "What happened?"
She shut her eyes, and forced herself to it up, despite the pain that jagged all through her. "There was a man," she said. "A man like me, but strong. Stronger. He does not like me." More than that she wouldn't say, in Westron or in English. What he'd done to her, to her mind, was something she would never speak of to anyone. He'd done the one thing he'd known she wouldn't be able to stand, and while she'd hurt him for it, she hadn't hurt him enough.
"He did all this to you?" Oleg asked, and even in the moonlight she could see anger flash through his eyes.
Lorna managed a brief, dry, slightly bitter smile. "Not all," she said. "Also I fell off a cliff, running. There was no place else to go but down."
Unbelievably, Oleg's memory labeled her pursuers as Elves. Elves. That tickled her own memory even more strongly than everyone else, but she still couldn't latch onto anything concrete. Everyone knew Elves and fairies and all that were a bloody myth – everyone but Oleg, apparently, who took their existence so for granted that it staggered her. And all right, they really did look too pretty to be human, but still.
The curses she could accept, mostly because she had to. There were some that called them magic, but her mind had always shied away from the idea, because magic wasn't real. Oh, she'd always been superstitious, but superstition wasn't magic. But now – there was no denying the curses. They'd hit far too many people. Elves weren't that much of a leap, for all she wished they were.
He shook his head. "You've a fool's luck," he said. She couldn't exactly deny it. "I'm taking you to Esgaroth – we'll get you some proper clothes there, and have a look at all your injuries. I've got to take you on to Dale, so you can speak to King Bard."
Christ, how in hell could she pay him back for that? Once she was better, she supposed she could help him load barrels or something. She was little, but she'd always been very strong, and the telekinesis had only augmented that, even if it really was cheating. "You let me work for you, later," she said. "Pay you for it." God only knew what these people used for money. Did they even have money, or did they trade for everything? Their clothing looked downright medieval, so maybe they just bartered.
Oleg shook his head. "Bard will take care of it," he said. "He'll be wanting to see you. That's worth more than some clothes and a healer."
Bard…Bard. That was even more familiar than anything else, but her brain still refused to cough up actual recognition. If she'd heard of him – of any of this – it had to be a long time ago, before her adolescence and all the drugs that had gone with it.
Lorna sighed, and winced at the pain in her ribs. "I do not know how much use is what I have to say," she said, knowing she was mangling the grammar and unable to help it.
"This man," Oleg said, suddenly tentative, "did he hurt you? In…other ways?"
It took her a moment to work out his meaning. "No," she said, and it was technically true. He had done her no harm, and caused her no pain at all – had only touched her hair. What he had done had been much worse, as he'd known it would be.
The thought made her shudder, and she sat on the reaction, hard. If she let on too much, Oleg wouldn't believe her.
"What is your name, lady?"
"Lorna," she said, wrapping the coat tighter around herself. "Lorna Donovan."
"I am Oleg," he said. "I will look after you."
Tauriel had no idea how she had done it, but the woman had made it a good three miles downriver before collapsing. There her tracks were joined by much larger footprints, these those of someone – most likely a man – wearing heavy boots. The only Edain that came this far from the lake were the bargemen; most likely, one had found her, and taken her with him. If he had any brain in his head – and most of the Edain in this part of the world seemed to – he too would wonder just what had attacked her, and not wanted to linger to discover it.
It gave Tauriel pause. If one of the bargemen had in fact found the Edain woman, she would be well away by now, and no longer their problem. The King had not wanted her running loose too near the Woodland Realm, but if she were taken to Esgaroth or Dale, she'd be relatively far away. She was in no condition to return any time soon, and judging by her reaction to the Elves, she likely wouldn't want to.
Still, the King had given the order to pursue, and Tauriel hesitated to countermand him just because their quarry had gone further afield than expected. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have thought twice about calling off the search, but she wasn't half as reckless now as she had once been.
She turned, making her way back to the hunting party. The river was a glittering ribbon in the moonlight, the stars massed above like a spill of diamonds, and it was so cold than an Edain as underdressed as their mysterious woman would freeze without aid. She didn't know just what bargemen carried in their boats, if they had spare coats or blankets.
The King, she found, was examining a few of the tiny, bare footprints, almost untraceable even for Elven eyes. He was almost impossible to read, even for her, but she'd swear he was worried.
"My lord," she said, "I believe one of the Edain of Dale or Esgaroth found her and took her away with him. Shall I call off the search, or do you wish us to pursue?"
The King rose, and though his expression was entirely impassive, there was in fact a faint flicker of concern in his eyes – very, very faint, but nevertheless there. "Pursue," he said. "If Bard is willing to keep her, and she is willing to stay, she is little danger to us, but I must know for certain if that is the case."
"And if it is not the case?" Tauriel asked, a little cautiously. "What do we do then?" King Thranduil could be very cold, but he was not in the habit of killing Edain, provoked or not. He reserved that for orcs and spiders. While this Edain had some manner of unknown ability, she hadn't actually attacked any of them – she'd just tried to discourage pursuit. Yes, she was technically a danger, but by all evidence, she simply wanted to be left alone.
The King frowned. "That remains to be seen."
Oh, Lorna. At least you have a friend, even if you're also being chased by Elves with dubious intentions. And at least this go-round you're not stuck being completely unable to understand anybody.
Title means "Escape" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and love, and let me know if I'm headed in the right direction or not.