Disclosure: Twilight and Lord of the Rings are owned by their respective writers and holders to the rights. I own nothing. Perhaps if I did, this would have been what happened, but since I don’t hold a candle to Tolkien, yeah. This is my own humble try.
Italics is Elvish. Since there is no convient translator tool out there.
‘Italics’ is personal thought
Pre Edit Count – 2,369 Words
Song I listened to for this chapter: Letters from the Sky by Civil Twilight.
In a clearing, off in the distance and far East from the Misty Mountains, the very backbone of the continent itself, cold mist seeps around a tent, shrouding it from the old forest around it. A horse is snuffling as he shifts near the flaps, looking out uneasy in the mist. Something has changed and he is unsure exactly what, but he is not liking this for him or his mistress.
Inside the tent is a woman sleeping restlessly, long mahogany hair curled down around her hunched shoulders, as though she is trying to ward off the same old nightmare. That nightmare is played with such redundancy, that she no longer cries out in pain. But her restless moves are enough to make noise to capture some sharp ears to her clearing.
Those sharp ears belong to strangers creeping up to the campsite, with their bows drawn, as they try to make sense of the scene in front of them. Their leader had been the one who had heard the movements of a body among clothe, and had indicated for them to find the source.
Dismounting when they are close, the leader, nods to the dome shaped object in the middle of the quiet clearing. He can hear the sounds that had diverted them from their path as being in the object. Another of his men grabs the rope the horse is tied up with, talking to it in a musical language, too quiet for human ears.
However, the woman in the tent seems to no longer be purely human. As she hears the sounds, her eyes fly open, just as the blonde man enters the tent, and the two stare at each other shocked. His blue eyes widen, then narrow as he looks her over, and sees…a shimmer over her. Like there is a spell over her, but he is unsure of how it was placed there, nor whom the woman in front of him could be.
The woman narrows her eyes at the man, and then moving quicker than he expected, pulls her hand from under her pillow, putting the long knife she had there at his throat. “Who the hell are you? And what the hell is that person speaking out there?” He had no idea how she had surprised him, an elf, but she has. It just adds to the mystery surrounding her.
The blonde turns his head slightly to the side as the language just spoken by her sounds familiar, but slightly off. He answers slowly in the common tongue, “I am Legolas, and he is speaking Sindarin.”
Her eyes widen even further, her mind making the connection with his name, what he looks like as well as the language he just named, and it is enough to have her stumbling back. She actually hears a language she had learned easily being spoken with a fluency that can only mean daily using it. ‘Too much!’ She thinks. Maybe finally her mind has broken under the stress of all these years and the secrets she has been keeping?
As she continue to stare at the man in front of her, she shakes her head, demanding, “What the hell is going on? Are you some type of acting group trying to give this area a sense of authenticity?” There is no other alternative available to her, even with her nimble mind, and the facts she has been exposed to over the years.
Legolas stares at her, sensing her fear, her need for answers, but at the same time, needing his own. “Who are you? What is this thing and why are you here?” He indicates the tent they are in, a structure that while familiar, the materials making it up not so much.
She stares at him, and though he is talking slowly, she is too busy running through her mind the alternatives of how they are here and what they really are, that his words do not fully register.
Then suddenly Legolas moves his head enough that she sees his ears, and her eyes widen. “Wha-how??? I don’t understand!” She has no control over her words, and she falls back in shock, her knife leaving his throat.
As her eyes quickly take stock of his clothing and its fabric, she just asks the first thing on her mind, “Are they finally making that movie now? Have I stumbled last night in a shoot site? I am so sorry, it was so late, and I was so tired of riding…” Her mind sputters and she is just word vomiting all over the place. She knows it, but cannot help it.
Realizing that she has lost control, that something has happened to make her not being able to grasp what is going on, he looks around the inside of the dome, and notices objects he has never seen. He frowns, “Are you a sorcerer? What manner of things are these?” He is hoping that she can center herself enough to actually listen to what is being said, as well as giving him the answers he is needing.
She just opens her mouth and can’t utter a word. There is too much information flooding her mind, hearing the people outside talking coupled with his own acting was too much. She closes her mouth and just blinks rapidly at him as her brain is sorting through the material it is gathering to be able to give her some balance in a world that is no longer making sense.
Sighing, but acknowledging the fact that he may be overloading her, Legolas leans back on his hunches, and asks again, “What is your name?” Maybe something so simple will help orientate her, and give him some information as well.
She stutters, “Is-Isabella. But most people call me Bella.” Her eyes are watching him, but still blinking a little faster than normal.
He smiles at her. He cannot help it, but he has such a sense of…familiarity that he has not had with anyone for years. But at the same time, he cannot just leave her be, not when she is this confused. So he sighs, and glances out the way he came. “Bella.” He says her name, and when she meets his eyes, he tells her gently. “I know nothing of your ramblings, but this is not a good place to be camped. There are things in this wood that are dangerous, even to a large company such as the one I am traveling with. Right now, we are between my home, and my destination. Will you travel with me, so I can ensure your safety? When we find ourselves in safer places, we can figure out what is bothering you.” It was slow and hard for him to use this language, it is one of the newer ones of the race of man, but until he can find another language to speak with her, it will do. And he is still mystified by the shimmer over her.
Bella looks around and sighs. She has no idea what is going on, and this man that literally seems to have fallen from the sky, from a book she knows by heart, well, it seems it would be best to travel with him. Nothing is making sense. But as she looks up at the man, she can see the sincerity he is showing. Sighing, she nods. At least she will have a doozy of a dream to remember for future times.
His smile gets wider and he tells her, “Good. Now what do you need to bring, and can you ride long periods of time?” As time goes by, conversing in this language makes it easier. He has been rusty since the battle of the Lonely Mountain.
She looks over the tent, answering him, “Give me some time, and I will have everything ready.” And with that, she starts rolling up her sleeping bag, and setting the few things she had pulled out of her bag back in with practiced ease. She has done this so much over the years, that there is no thought really into how she does it, so it gives her mind time to put the puzzle together of what is going on.
Legolas watches every move, seeing her grab another knife from a different hiding place. She proceeds to strap it along with the one pulled earlier and a few other knives and odd looking weapons into various places on her being. She soon has the inside of the mini hut cleared, and when she went to take the bag out of the tent, Legolas grabs it and brings it outside with him. While at the same time extending his other hand to her and bringing her out into the weak light surrounding them, that barely burns through the mist that makes looking above her campground almost impossible.
Bella looks around, and catches her breath at all the people around, staring at her as openly as she is staring at them. As Legolas, they seem to glow to her, and to say they were actually more beautiful than even the Cullens, well, she assures herself it was her memory that had to be faulty.
Legolas tugs on her hand he is still holding, “Lady Bella, tell us where the gear is for your horse, and we will ready him as some of my group heads to gather our own horses.”
She just nods, and letting go of his hand, she waves her hand at a pile. One of the other elves pulls the cloth off, and is soon tacking up her horse. She shrugs, a little surprised that Urúvion is as calm as he is. She loves the horse, and though the owner had tried to talk her out of buying him when she had met him, they both took to each other.
Since then, she has had complaints about him being feisty in each and every stables she has boarded him in, but with her, he follows around the pasture and will often stand with his head over her shoulder. She had bought him when he was 2 years old and worked with him slowly until now, when he is 5. She planned to have a long time with him. One of the complaints she had heard was that he was uncut. They criticized her for riding a stallion, but she has never had problems, and if he really wants a mare, then, there is not much she can do about it. But she just couldn’t see making him a gelding.
So seeing these strangers and him allowing them to saddle him, is a surprise. Then the male that is doing it, asks Legolas, “Why such a heavy saddle for the horse?” The saddle weighed three times more than a normal human one, much less one of theirs.
She didn’t think of not answering him, “It is the lightest I could find. I couldn’t do a saddle that didn’t allow saddlebags, so this was the only option.”
All movement of the elves around her campsite pauses as they all turn to her. Legolas cannot help but ask, “Do you understand us?”
She nods, “Though I never heard the language spoken so fluently. Where I come from, it is not thought of as a ‘real’ language. I know of it because it is my…” and the language fails her, so she finally says, “Profession? Learning?”
Legolas thinks on these odd words, but he finally nods. “Your calling.” This fits better than any other to find a word to describe it. Their version of what she is trying to call it is called a calling for them.
She shrugs, then turns to the tent, and pulls the tent poles. She has done this so many times, that she is an expert on building and taking down her campsites. Last night, she had pushed for a clearing and when she and Urúvion had stumbled on the spot, she had basically built her tent and pulled off the tack from him. Only after making sure he was fine, she stumbled into the tent and just ate a MRE and tumbled into bed, not even bothering to change.
Within minutes she has the tent in its storage, and checking the site, nods as she has made as little impact as possible. This has always been a priority to her, to never make a footprint on the world.
Legolas had watched her movements, and is surprised when the dome structure collapsed so easily after a few tugs. But he is very impressed with her, and when she heads to her horse, he turns to mount his own steed that had come up to him.
He cheerfully greets Manwë and mounts her in seconds. He moves closer to her own steed, admiring the lines of the stallion. The horse obviously loves its master and had moved to her on his own. When she had added her bags, he had often reached back and played with her. She had laughed, and shoved his head away, and he just waited and did it again. But never did he actually make it hard for her; it was obvious he was playing with her.
Legolas smiles. It has long been known that Man often did not care for their animals the same way the elves did, but these two have bonded, and he is sure that the horse often follows her like their own do.
When she is up in the saddle, he moves beside her, and his group arranges themselves, as he asks, “Are you ready, Bella?”
When she nods, he gives the symbol, and the group leaves, silent as the leaves, disappearing into the mist, as if never there.
After a few silent miles, Legolas gets her attention, “Bella, I do not understand what you meant by a shoot site?” It has been one of the things running through his mind that he really cannot understand what she meant in any language.
His voice brings her out of her thoughts, and she looks to him. She frowns, and picking through her memory, “I am confused, Legolas. I would have told you earlier that I had traveled this way just yesterday, but none of this is familiar. I am waiting for the mist to burn off, to see if anything looks familiar.” It is puzzling to her, but she had been out of it when they found the campsite, she may of mistaken what she had seen.
It is a struggle to remember the language, but it seems the more she hears it, and even tries to speak it, the more fluent she becomes. She has looked down on the compass on her wrist, and they are traveling from the same direction she had come. But nothing looks familiar. Even the trees looked different.
Frowning as he turns her words over in his head, Legolas tries to think of something, anything to help her. After a few minutes he tells her, “I am traveling to Lórien. It is where the Lady is. She may be able to help you. If not, she will find a way to do so. But I will not leave your side until we know what is going on. It cannot be easy to find yourself in a company such as ours and knowing no one.” He is much gentler with her than he had been with humans the last time he has been among them.
She smiles at him, surprised by his observations. She then frowns, and asks hesitantly, “I have heard of your name, and the place that you travel to. But to me, they are tales, such as those told by the fireside. I am unsure if I should tell you, or should I wait until we meet the Lady?” She figures she can be honest, she clearly remembers who the Lady is.
He looks at her quickly, and then takes the words she has spoken quietly and with such great thought, through. He finally sighs, “As much as I would like to hear such tales, it is best to tell these stories in the safety of Lórien.”
She cannot help but laugh at him, and just asks, “Answer me one question, and it will allow me to think on things, and try to place them in the order they should be.” When he nods, she asks, “Do you know of the name Gimli?”
He frowns, and slowly answers her question, “The name is familiar. I think it was one of the dwarves that had visited Mirkwood many years ago on their way to the Lonely Mountain who had mentioned the name.”
And that told her so much that Urúvion throws up his head and looks back at her as she freezes in shock. When she does not react, he reaches around and nips at her knee, startling her.
Legolas watches her as she swallows a couple of times, and finally says in the language that she had spoken when first woken, “Oh my God. What have you gotten yourself in the middle of this time, Swan?”
He looks at her curiously, and says nothing when he can see she is overwhelmed. But he is even more curious about her reactions to the name of a dwarf, the son of a dwarf.
Final count: 2,980 words.