Author’s Note: This story is written solely for my own amusement, and with all due respect to Tolkien. Any changes made to his original characters, and the times in which they lived, are only for further ease of writing.
***
‘“What do you think you are doing here?” the red-haired elf interrogated me. She had a raven-tipped arrow pointed at my throat, and the whole situation was uncomfortable in the extreme.
I was about to reply, “It’s none of your business”, but then thought the better of it, after fully apprehending the expression in her eyes.
“Tauriel, don’t be so rough with the child.” A blonde elf had joined us through the trees. He led my white filly, Nora.
“So that’s where you went to,” I addressed her. “You were frightened, weren’t you, when this person jumped out at us?”
I felt the female elf’s arrow prick.
“Would you be so kind as to address your speech to me, imbecile?” she hissed.
Naturally, I was angered.
“Very well,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to tell me why you jump on a person as soon as she enters a stretch of woods and force her to sit against a tree, while you point that flimsy excuse for an arrow at her?”
Tauriel was too enraged to utter anything intelligible, and came as close as an elf can to spluttering.
“Legolas,” she managed finally, “would you please come and teach this upstart how to address her elders and betters?”
She spoke in Elvish and would have been very discomfited to know that I understood every word.
The blonde elf looked amused.
“A very beautiful upstart, I would say,” he replied in the Common Tongue, surveying me.
“I did not ask you for comments about her appearance,” Tauriel snapped, but she nonetheless withdrew the arrow from my neck, returning it to its quiver.
“Don’t mind Tauriel,” Legolas told me. “As Captain of the Guard, she takes it as her duty to enquire concerning the business of anyone passing through Mirkwood.”
“Can’t she be more polite about it?” I asked.
Legolas responded to my question with another.
“What is your name, child?”
Now I was doubly mad. When one has just turned fourteen one doesn’t enjoy being referred to as “child”, even by an elf.
“I am Feadora Goldwine,” I proclaimed proudly. “The daughter of Dorgo Goldwine and Prinula Underhill, and I have run away from home.”
My two accosters exchanged a look.
“May I ask why you ran away?” Legolas at last proffered, with a seriousness that was a bit overdone. I realised he was entertained by me.
“You may not ask,” I retorted. “But, since you have, I’ve run away because my father won’t let me marry the boy I love.”
He and Tauriel exchanged another glance. Then Legolas took a step toward me, holding out his hand.
“Would you like to get up?” he queried.
I eyed the offered hand as if it were some unsightly object and rose of my own power to my feet. Legolas smiled, which furthered my indignation.
“Since you have left home, you must be in need of provision,” he instigated. “If you come back with us, my father would be happy to give you everything you require.”
“I am sure he would be,” I answered, my tone sardonic, “but elvish food doesn’t agree with us hobbits.”
I mounted Nora.
“If you knew whom you were addressing, you would faint with shame,” Tauriel informed me furiously. “Legolas is the son of King Thranduil, Ruler of all the Wood-elves.”
I was determined not to allow this awesome news to appear to have any effect upon me.
“We should be very happy if you would come,” Legolas said, gazing up earnestly into my eyes. I confess I thought his behaviour strange at the time, and I should have known better.
“Would you?” I asked, indicating Tauriel, who grimaced.
“Well, my father and I would,” the elf prince said, looking at her, and smiling.
“Well, then . . . fine. I think, after all, that I will need some food.”
I pretended to give in unwillingly, but in reality I was eager to see both the home of the Wood-elves and the famed King Thranduil. And it is not every day that a hobbit maid can boast of being the invited guest of the son of an elf-king!
Being an elf, Legolas did not respond, “I’ll say!” to my acceptance of his invitation, but there was flattered laughter in his blue eyes.
“Tauriel, you lead the way,” he directed his companion. She didn’t seem too happy about this command, but slung her bow over her shoulders nevertheless, and stomped on ahead, while Legolas took hold of Nora’s bridle.
“I can handle my own horse,” I told him in annoyance, and he dropped back to walk beside me.
“Who did you want to marry?” he questioned quietly. I glanced down at him quickly. But, for the first time, his expression was sober.
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and Legolas waited. Then,
“Frodo Baggins,” I said.
“And, why will your father not let you? Is he homely?”
“Frodo is the handsomest young hobbit in the Shire,” I asserted, my face hot. “Dad won’t let me marry him because he thinks his uncle, Frodo’s guardian, is crazy.”
“Bilbo?” Legolas smiled. “I have seen quite a lot of him, and he is definitely not crazy.”
I was surprised, but then, suddenly, remembered.
“Pippin Took said once that Bilbo had told him about a ‘fine young elf’ who was there at the Battle of the Five Armies. Was that you?”
Legolas nodded.
“It must have been,” he said solemnly.
“And there was also a red-haired elf,” I went on, “who was ‘always minding everybody else’s business’.”
The son of King Thranduil was obviously biting his cheeks to keep from laughing. He puckered amusedly at Tauriel’s spine.
“Oh, why didn’t I realise it before?” I exclaimed. “That was Tauriel!”
“Sh!” Legolas warned, but she had already turned.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, regarding me with suspicion.
“Bilbo Baggins,” I said, quite truthfully.
“Oh,” Tauriel replied, but she was clearly dissatisfied. She turned frontwards again.
“But, even if Bilbo was crazy,” Legolas said, reverting to the main point of our talk, “that doesn’t mean that Frodo is.”
“Dad said it runs in the family. And he says that Frodo has lived long enough with Bilbo to get his ideas.”
“Well, if Frodo is anything like his uncle, I am sure he is a very fine young hobbit,” concluded Legolas.
And that was the end of that conversation.
We travelled onwards in silence until the path between the trees ended, and I could descry a bridge over water and “The Elven-King’s Gate” before us.
“Tell the guards to open the doors,” Legolas instructed Tauriel, and we followed her across the lengthy bridge to the castle entrance.
Once we were inside the huge courtyard, an elvish groom seemingly materialised to take Nora to the stables.
“I will announce your coming to Father,” Legolas told me, as I gazed around with awe at the quadrangle’s tree-domed interior. “Wait with her, Tauriel.”
He left through a side door, and I stood alone with the unfriendly elf, who made heavily clear her displeasure at the arrangement.
To my great relief, she wasn’t disposed to obey his order for long, and commenced to edge away. But before she had fully receded, she changed her mind and approached once more to stand in front of me, her manner threatening.
“Do not try to steal him from me,” she whispered in menacing tones.
I was astonished, and confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. Before he met you, Legolas was as much in love as ever an elf could be. With me. If that changes, your life will not be worth an orc.”
And with this nice sentiment, Tauriel abandoned me to muse over all that can occur in a day when a hobbit maid decides to run away from home…’
I had written this story for our eleventh-grade literature class, which was discussing Tolkien at the period, and the other fourteen girls and our teacher of six years, Ms Mablewine, were silent when I finished my lengthy reading. I was pleased with the latter’s reserve, but discomfited at that of the former. Being teacher’s pet brought its punishments and its rewards, and I knew I was in for double of both today. My family, Ms Mablewine, The Tolkien Society, and the head judge at the Connecticut State Short Story Contest had all informed me that I was an exceptionally excellent writer, a prodigy, in fact. But the tale of a lovely hobbit maid who fell in love with Frodo Baggins and followed him to the top of Mount Doom had turned out so well mainly because of my empathy for the subject.
“Well, girls, what do you say?” Ms Mablewine effused finally, wiping her eyes. “It took your breath away, didn’t it?”
None of them responded, save for Patricia Lake. She was tall, elfin-faced (I will grant her that), and my worst enemy. She and her constant companion, Stacy Summter, were always thinking up ways to torment me. Stacy would probably have been a perfectly nice girl if allowed to go her own way, but she hero-worshipped Patricia and would do anything the other girl required of her. Truly, I was rather worried about what would happen to her if she eventually refused.
“I call it plagiarism,” Patricia said now, tossing her black hair. “Tolkien would never approve of his book being so…degenerated.”
My face drew near to a fire.
It’s fan-fiction, for heaven’s sake!
I knew she was furious at the way I had portrayed Tauriel, her favourite character, and that the others agreed with her opinion.
“Now, now,” Ms Mablewine mollified, attempting to be cheery and concealing her anger at Patricia’s obvious lack of depth, “Elanora has not plagiarised anything. She has just simply added another line, as you might say, to the story. A beautiful line. And it isn’t as if she is going to publish it.”
“Just don’t enter it in the Connecticut State Short Story Contest,” Patricia told me. “Because there is no way you will win first place with that.”
“Does anyone else have a story or poem?” Ms Mablewine deviated as I sat down, sharing my impression that affairs were disposed to get ugly.
No one had.
“I thought I asked each of you girls to write something,” she reminded chidingly, with disappointment. “Sometimes I feel as if I am speaking to fourteen deaf stones.”
“Don’t you mean fifteen?” Patricia corrected with a nasty look towards me. “We don’t all have the marvellous talent of Elanora Vanauken.”
“You still must try,” Ms Mablewine snapped back. “You are not in preschool, Patricia Lake, and if you persist in this behaviour, I will have to keep you in.”
“Keep me in, too, Ms Mablewine,” Stacy pleaded, and I felt sick.
“You didn’t do your homework, either?” Ms Mablewine enquired rhetorically.
Stacy shook her head.
“I was busy…” She glanced at Patricia who was watching her smugly, her arms folded on her desk.
“Busy with what?” Ms Mablewine demanded.
“We were training her dog,” Patricia volunteered with a careless shrug, evidencing disgust at her slave’s temerity. “And it takes a while.”
“You have been trying to train that dog ever since you bought her,” Ms Mablewine addressed Stacy again. “I should think you would know a lost cause when you saw one.”
Stacy was downcast.
“You both stay in,” Miss Mablewine decided. “And everyone will have to do double homework this weekend.”
“That is what happens when you disregard instructions,” was her answer to their groan.
“Elanora, I would like to speak with you,” Ms Mablewine summoned softly as I was gathering my iPhone, and my books and pens. Patricia and Stacy were still seated at their desks, whispering and glaring at me. Miss Mablewine noticed them.
“Come into my office,” she suggested.
My literature teacher’s office was like all of those at Trentwood Girls’ Academy: posh and ordered. When the president of Harvard College had visited several months ago, he had commented that his institution could learn some things from ours.
Not behaviour, I had thought.
Ms Mablewine ushered me into a mahogany chair facing her desk and seated herself at the latter.
“I have a proposition for you,” she initiated.
“Yes?” I responded, dragging my eyes from the picture of a beautiful Shetland sheepdog being awarded Best of Breed at Westminster. I had desired a Sheltie for a long time, but Mom was allergic to canine hair. “What proposition is that, Ms Mablewine?”
“You know Governor Channery visited Howard and me yesterday?”
I nodded. Trentwood Acres was one of the most affluent communities in the state-beside Ridgefield-and celebrities and political figures were frequent visitors at its emerald courses and brownstone manors. At about the same time that the president of Harvard had bestowed his presence upon us, so had a much more prestigious personage: President of the United States Adam von Kruse.
“Well, Governor Channery told us his plans for another short story contest,” Ms Mablewine continued. “Even bigger than the state one. It will be called ‘Connecticut Freedom’, and the winner will receive the Connecticut Freedom Award, presented by the Governor, along with a cash prize of one million dollars. There will be a full scholarship to Harvard as well.”
“It sounds wonderful,” I enthused. “But it’s only for Connecticut residents, right?”
“All Connecticut residents, yes. But only one of them is going to win it.”
Her hand reached out and touched my arm.
“The Governor specifically requested me to ask you to enter,” she relayed seriously. “He said was ‘blown away’ by your last story.”
“Are there any rules?” I questioned, endeavoring to recover from this stunning compliment. “About what the story should contain, the genre?”
“It should be about freedom, as the contest’s name suggests,” Ms Mablewine clarified. “True freedom.”
“Easy,” I joked. “That won’t be hard to come up with.”
“I know you can do it,” she said. Her hand was on my cheek.
“Elanora, I think you may be the next Pulitzer Prize winner.”
“Don’t say that before I’ve even written anything,” I admonished, laughing. “But thank you, Ms Mablewine. I will certainly do my best.”
She stopped me as I was leaving.
“Yes?”
“I loved ‘Feadora’!”
It’s because a very handsome hobbit was the main character, I grinned as I paced down the portrait-lined hall to the literature class room. Oh, if only I could create someone like him!
I was apprehensive about opening the door. Patricia and Stacy were still within, and I would be alone with them.
But to my relief, and wonderment, the room proved empty and shaded, the lights turned off. I collected my belongings, checking for any mean tricks. In the past, Patricia had drawn mustaches over the pictures of Justin Bieber on my folders.
Satisfying myself that everything was in order, I departed through the back door, crossed Haversham Hall, and strode out onto the iron-fenced rear lawn of the academy.
“Well, if it isn’t the stupendous worldwide best-selling author,” Patricia greeted me, emerging from behind a maple with Stacy in sync. “So when’s the next Divergent coming out?”
“You’re supposed to be inside,” I reminded her, adjusting my school bag. I was always nervous when confronted with Patricia Lake.
“I don’t have the time to sit around in a boring old room at the pleasure of some prejudiced teacher,” she replied. “What were you doing? Talking about how wonderful Frodo is? A total wimp I’d say.”
My cheeks burned and my nervousness fled.
“Patricia Mercedes Lake,” I commanded, “you take that back.”
“You know there’s a joke about him?” she prodded, tasting success. “Now, what was it? Oh, yes! It’s-”
She got no farther. I promptly wacked her over the head with my bag.
“Don’t you DARE hit my friend!” Stacy had swiftly metamorphosised into a retaliating Valkyrie, punching me wherever she could. Patricia seemed stunned.
“Take back what you said about him,” I fumed while attempting, unsuccessfully, to avoid her blows, “or I will say something dreadful about Tauriel, who is a character Tolkien never even created and flirts with a dwarf.”
“And get your hands off me, you little brat,” I appended to Stacy, who now clutched hold of my blouse.
“That’s enough!” Patricia retorted, as if she were a Nazi judge. “Stacy, we need to teach this kid some respect for her elders.”
I was furtherly infuriated. Patricia was a year older than me, but Stacy was younger.
I would have jerked away from the latter, if Patricia had not prevented me.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Come on, Stacy, we’ll take her over by our garden shed where no one will see us.”
I could have held my own against Stacy Summter at any moment, but Patricia was much stronger than I, and versus the two of them together I was no match. They dragged me through the rear gate, into the Lakes’ adjoining back yard, and behind the nearby garden shed. Patricia pushed me up against the wall, then began to slap my face while Stacy obstructed my movement. And all the hate she had borne me for the past six years that her family had lived at Trentwood went into the blows.
“Let’s put her in the shed,” Patricia decided, tiring at last.
“Your dad or your brother will find me,” I warned, rallying some dignity, though most of it was as wounded as my face, “and you will be in serious trouble.”
“Oh, no, we won’t,” Patricia diverged with cruel glee. “Dad’s working over something with President Kruse and won’t be back till tomorrow evening-by which time all the impudence should be out of you-and Derek has no reason to come over here.”
“And Mrs Lake never comes over here,” her friend happily supported.
“Go get the key, Stacy,” Patricia directed. “I think I can manage her.”
Her friend did so, and I was smuggled in. Patricia shoved me onto the floor.
“And remember,” she alerted, “if you ever breathe so much as one word about this to anyone, we’ll stick Stacy’s Basenji on you, and you won’t look so pretty anymore.” She kicked me in the leg.
“Come along, Stacy,” she urged impatiently. “We better hide her bag and get back to the school before Miss Mablewine sees we’re gone.”
“Too bad you don’t have your phone with you,” she added to me, “or you could call someone to your aid. For the meantime, have fun being Frodo locked in Cirith Ungol.”
She slammed the door behind her, and the lock clicked.
I remained on the ground, crying. My face stung, and so did my neck, and my whole body hurt, both from the pummeling and the kicking, and from being pushed so roughly onto the floor. Why did Patricia hate me so much? I wondered woefully. I knew that Stacy didn’t-she was just following her supposed best friend’s lead-but the older girl had always appeared to hold some secret grudge against me, from the first day we had met over our yard railings, and my brother, Winston, who was eleven at the time, bragged to her that I was the best writer in the world.
Was it because I was pretty? But then, so was she. And we had such different sorts of beauty that it would be hard to compare the value of each.
We were of the same social status, of course, and I was no better scholar, save for the fact that I always completed my literature class homework on schedule.
It must, then, be my writing that permeated Patricia with jealousy. Even though she had repeatedly stated that she hated the art. Perhaps she couldn’t tolerate the fact that I was better than her at anything. And little did she know that I would have gladly traded my talent to be her friend.
The shed was not an unpleasant prison as such existed. It was immaculately clean, Mr Lake’s tools neatly arranged, his shining lawnmower in a corner out of the way, and the floor speck-less. At least his daughter had chosen the rubber work mat to throw me upon, and not the cement. It revealed some softer inclinations.
I rolled over. The arched ceiling with its cutting-edge light fixtures seemed to revolve above my eyes. I must be experiencing the effects of hunger, and I pondered with trepidation the fact that there would be no food for, at the minimum, twelve more hours, nor water either. Could I survive that long? But I believed in the innate humanity of my captors. If Patricia did not relent, I was sure that Stacy would.
I also realised that my parents would think I had been kidnapped, which was rather discomfiting. What if the Amber Alert went out everywhere, and then Mr Lake found me in his garden shed tomorrow afternoon, if Patricia and Stacy were not able to set me free? They would be in colossal, gargantuan, super-sized trouble, and would probably be grounded for a year.
The ceiling had become a tan and white merry-go-round. I remembered how much I had loved them as a child, remembered how Dad had lifted me onto the prancing dappled stallion on the carousal by “the Castle” in Washington, D.C. “Starlight” I had named him. I smiled. I would certainly think of a more unique name now. Something like “Skylight”. I closed my eyes.
“That’s funny,” I murmured. “I didn’t know I was outside.”
The ceiling of Mr Lake’s garden shed had been transformed into blue sky. “Lorien blue”, as I had put in a poem. You didn’t see skies like that in May. More like October. Grass pricked my arms and legs, and I sat up slowly, aware that blackness would veil my eyes if I did so too promptly.
I had been reclining on the posterior lawn of a castle, but one weird castle. It was composed of delicate domes and arches, but appeared to be built around, or perhaps conquered by, a huge, gold-leafed tree. Everywhere behind it and to the sides presided more trees, as graceful as itself, and all adorned with golden leaves, when they should have been green for summer.
“Maybe they’re genetically modified,” I observed out loud.
“I beg your pardon.”
I rotated swiftly.
Frodo leant languidly against a tree at my back and grinned. That is, at first I thought it was Frodo, in elvish garb, but a second later I knew I must be wrong. Frodo wouldn’t grin in that impudent way, and this, whatever he was, was at least far too tall for the Ring Bearer. Even in my position I could tell he reached a few inches above my head. And his feet were small.
“I wondered when you would get up,” the boy-as I had decided to call him-smiled. “Why did you choose this particular spot to take a nap?”
“I didn’t, I…” It occurred to me that I knew very little extra about my presence here than he did.
“Who are you?” I asked. “And what are you? Are you a hobbit, or an elf? You certainly can’t be a dwarf.”
The boy laughed. It was a nice laugh, and very like Frodo’s.
“You might say I am a true ‘halfling’,” he elucidated. “Half hobbit, half elf. My father is Frodo Gardner the Second, and my mother is the Princess Endeya, grand-daughter of Queen Arwen. And may I now ask who you are, and why you were at rest here, and what you meant by genetya modya faey? Is it ancient Elvish?”
I giggled.
“No, no. It-it’s hard to explain.”
I sobered at his look. I had obviously said the wrong thing.
“I am quite fluent in Elvish,” he rejoined in a hurt tone. “I am sure I could understand it, if you can.”
I was indignant. He’d no need to emphasise the “you”.
“I am Elanora Vanauken,” I proudly retorted, though aware that my very surname would not bring the blush of shame to his comely cheeks, “and my father works for the President of the United States, and…”
I saw with chagrin that he was confused.
“It’s too much to explain,” I sighed. “We’re in different centuries. Or is it centuries?”
He didn’t enquire, “What are ‘centuries’?” Having once fallen into the trap of disclosing his ignorance, he wasn’t disposed to do so again. This kid was smart.
“To answer your question,” I said, “I have no idea why I’m here. Last I was aware of, I was locked in a shed in Connecticut. But I won’t stay here any longer, believe me. I am finding the atmosphere rather disagreeable.”
And it’s not the topography, I appended to myself.
“You are not at all like your namesake,” I chided the boy.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The only one that matters,” I snapped. “Frodo Gardner, don’t you know your history?”
“If you mean the one whom everyone is always comparing me to, I am thankful I am not,” he answered, leaving the tree. “It is as tiresome to be a hero as it is to live in the shadow of one.”
“If you aren’t one,” I commented.
He looked at me.
“You know, I could have the guards lock you up. You are trespassing.”
“Go ahead,” I invited. “I dare you.”
He appeared as if on the verge of complying, but then shook his head.
“Go on,” I urged. “Are you scared?”
“I may not be a hero,” he said with dignity, “nor do I want to be. But I will not lay hands on a girl, nor permit others to do so, no matter how impossible she is.”
I shot him a glance, and his blue eyes sparkled.
“You have all the looks,” I told him. “But none of the charm.”
He bowed.
“Thank you.”
I swallowed.
“What’s wrong?” I had not expected the concern that was in his query.
“I just feel thirsty,” I excused.
“Come.” He indicated the castle. “Mother will have something for you.”
He escorted me toward the tall, intricately-motifed doors, and two elvish guards opened them.
“I stay here half the time,” he explained as we stepped through the glass-ceilinged front hall, “and the other half in the Shire. Dad didn’t want to leave it, and Mother didn’t want to leave Lothlórien. So they decided on this arrangement. My grandfather Frodo lives at Bag End, but one day it will be mine.”
“Which place do you prefer?” I probed, gazing about at the statues and pillars, and the engraved doors that preceded heaven knew what.
“I think…I prefer the Shire,” he said after a pause. “I don’t know why.”
I wondered how he felt about being sent from home to home and back again, never seeing his parents together. It was almost like they were divorced.
Then we halted in front of an opening on hall’s right side. It ambled out onto a marble patio with a bench-attended fountain in its centre. Hedges flanked it, and flowers surrounded it, and it was pervaded with the thousand fluty languages of birds I had never heard before, save in The Lord of the Rings.
“Go ahead,” Frodo bade me, inclining his head, and the dark-haired woman seated on the bench arose and beamed at me. She resembled a human seraph.
“Mother, this is Elanora Vanauken,” Frodo introduced, easily repeating the name. And instantly I was grateful that my parents had given me that name, and not something like ‘Ashleigh’.”
“She is wandering in these parts and would welcome refreshment,” Frodo relayed.
Princess Endeya beamed again, and I perceived the similarity she bore to Arwen.
“Arvya, Trewen!” she summoned. Her voice was mithril, even as it was raised.
Two maids floated in.
“Bring refreshment for our guest,” she charged them, and they disappeared.
“Come and sit down,” she beckoned, patting the sun-heated marble by herself on the bench. I accepted it, and Frodo acquired a position at our feet. I ignored him, and bestowed my full attention upon the elf who was his mother.
“Where do you come from?” she questioned, her voice like carillons or the melancholy sea. “From Gondor? If so, do you bring news of King Aboron? How fares everything at court?”
“Oh, I’m not from Gondor,” I said with a laugh. “I am from America. It’s a long story.”
“You said that before,” Frodo remarked.
“I said it was too much to explain,” I corrected. “Not that it was a long story.”
Frodo made a motion with his hands, and Princess Endeya betrayed apprehension of the fact that her son and I were undisposed to compatibility. Fortunately, the maids entered then, transporting a silver salver upon which rested a silver vessel and three cups, and her consideration was diverted from this unpleasant reality.
She poured golden liquid into the cups and then dismissed her servants. I took a sip of mine. It was like champagne-which Dad had allowed me to taste once-only sweeter.
Frodo grinned at my enjoyment of the beverage. If he had been an American boy of the 21st Century, he would have remarked, “Good, huh?”
“I think I can tell you how I came here,” I initiated hurriedly to his mother.
I suited the action to the assertion, and both Princess Endeya and her son agreed that such an incident had never occurred before.
“I always thought Middle Earth was how the planet used to be,” I finished, and then remembered that Middle Earth had never been supposed to exist at all. I wiped a hand over my brow.
“Are you all right, Elanora?” Frodo queried solicitously. He had been gazing up interestedly into my face throughout my relation of my story, and I was beginning to suspect that he had chosen his particular vantage point for a reason.
“I’m fine,” I answered abruptly. “But I’d better be getting home. My mom will start to wonder.”
I then realised that I had no idea how to return. How would I get back into the Lakes’ shed, anyway, from Middle Earth? And did I really want to get back?
“Oh, bother!” I groaned, not really meaning for my companions to hear me. “What am I going to do?”
“I can take you through Lothlórien,” Frodo offered, a bit too readily, and his mother smiled. “Perhaps Lord Elborn will know a way to get you out.”
“That would be wonderful.”
I concealed the sarcasm.
“You may take the horses, Frodo,” Princess Endeya said, re-summoning Arvya and Trewen to bear the drinking articles away.
I thanked her graciously, and she wished me a safe passage to my world and, proffering the hope that perhaps we would see each other again if the Fates decreed, and then I trailed Frodo to the doors. Once beyond them, we turned left. An elvish stable, reclining unsupported, greeted us, and white, and black, and bay heads draped over the willowy arches of its appealing stalls. At the threshold of one of them, a dog was lying, and she lifted her ears as we approached. She was all golden fawn and dove-white, with tipped ears and an exquisite face, and I would have sworn she was a Shetland sheepdog, if I had not been aware that there were no Shelties in Middle Earth.
She rose to her paws and came to us, her white-etched tail waving.
“Hallo, Nenya,” Frodo crooned, bending down to stroke her dark mask. “She is Mother’s dog,” he explicated. “She has any place in the house to sleep if she desires, but she prefers to stay with the horses. She is an Elinhuo, an elfdog, and a descendant of the Nenya my maternal great-grandmother Queen Arwen owned. Do you see the Lórien leaf on her forehead?”
He smoothed the dark hairs so I could, and I nodded.
“Every Elinhuo has that mark, since the first Nenya. It is said she received it when the Ring Bearer kissed her.”
“That is a wonderful tradition,” I stated, with no sarcasm this time. “Frodo Baggins is sort of my hero, you know.”
He nodded and straightened.
“I knew he was the second you woke up, the way you were looking at me.”
I blushed.
“It’s the way people usually look when they first see me,” Frodo divulged resignedly. “They think I will be like the Ring Bearer. But once they have been with me a little longer, they see that I am not at all like him. Nor will I ever be.”
The last sentence was proudly pronounced, but at the same time his tone was so close to regret that I glanced at him quickly. His voice reminded me of the time Patricia had told me that she hated writing and would never want to be a famous author.
“Which horse do you want?” Frodo changed the subject. I ran my eye along the many noble heads.
“That white one,” I selected, pointing to a particularly sweet-miened filly who reminded me of Nora from my story.
Frodo led her out, fastening her halter to an arch, then fetched a bay mount for himself. Nenya and I watched as he saddled and bridled both horses. I longed to pet her, but I knew I better not. The effects of such a liberty could be dangerous.
Frodo brought the white filly over to me.
“I forgot to ask if you knew how to ride. Would you like me to help you?”
My resentment reverted.
“No, I am an expert rider.”
Then I felt slightly sorry.
“But thank you anyway,” I softened the blow.
He didn’t respond, but abandoned me to mount his own horse, and I was sure I had once more hurt his feelings.
Well, he needn’t be so sensitive, I argued, then remembered that Frodo Baggins had been sensitive also.
I pressed Nora, as I already called her in my mind, into stride as his namesake’s bay moved out onto a pathway constructed by the trees. Nenya trotted alongside, and I attempted to broach a conversation.
“Why is your mother in Lothlórien, if her family is in Gondor?” I questioned.
Frodo was silent.
Very nice, I thought. Now he’s really angry.
“Do you suppose that I do not know what you think of me, what everyone thinks of me?” he demanded suddenly, viciously. “Do you not think it hurts?”
I couldn’t utter a sound. I was shocked, even though I had suspected some such ruminations.
“Do you suppose I do not want to be like my namesake? That I do not wish that I could be?”
“Well,” I managed, “you did tell me as much earlier.”
“I have always wanted to be like him,” Frodo continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Everyone is always telling me the ways I am not like him, and every time it is like an orc-stab in my heart. I am as enamoured with him as anybody is, if not more so.”
“Is that why you said you were not?” I suspicioned. “So it wouldn’t hurt as much?”
“Yes,” he admitted slowly. “Though it didn’t really help.”
“And when I said you weren’t like him…” I lapsed in horror.
He smiled then.
“It was easier to take it from you than most,” he acknowledged, and I found I was not discomfited by the compliment.
“I am so sorry, Frodo,” I declared contritely, inspecting Nora’s rippling shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You have already said it.” He journeyed into a narrative of his mother’s departure from her father’s house to live in Lothlórien, with which, since a childhood holiday there, she had fallen in love, and not even Frodo Gardner, whom she did truly adore and who-taking after his famous ancestor who could ride a horse and invented the game of golf-was tall enough to be looked up to by an elf, could keep her away.
Then he described his own life until the present day, various and sundry episodes from the Quest previously unknown save to the Fellowship of the Ring, and the many monuments that had been erected to Frodo and his brave companions.
Then he sighed.
“Those times are gone,” he lamented. “And I will never save Middle Earth.”
And I observed with an inward smile that he had gone from a reluctant hero to an eager one pretty swiftly.
“You can’t save what isn’t in danger,” I comforted. “And would you really want to carry the Ring? It was terribly hard for him.”
“I know,” said Frodo. “But I just want to prove to everyone that I can be as brave as he was. I do not want to be a disgrace to my name.”
“I don’t think you are,” I proffered a commendation.
“You thought so at first.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t really know you then. I’ve changed my mind on further acquaintanceship.”
He stared at me.
“You are different.”
His look was a bit too earnest, and I felt uncomfortable again.
“Frodo is famous in my world, too,” I switched the topic. “There was a spectacular movie trilogy made about his quest based on…his book. He became my hero after the scene on Mount Doom.”
Frodo Gardner didn’t answer. He guided his horse off the path, Nenya and Nora following, then took hold of my filly’s bridle succeeding his dismountal.
“Lord Elbron’s house is near. May I help you down?” This time I acquiesced to his petition. He held my hand as we entered the gilded woods.
“It’s beautiful here!” I breathed, noting the planted aspect of them and the zephyr their shimmering leaves touched.
Frodo nodded.
“As beautiful as the girl who sees it.” His voice had dropped, and suddenly he possessed both my hands.
“Elanora,” he beseeched, “Elanora, will you promise me that you will come back?” His sapphire eyes were as pleading as his tone, and I winced in his grip.
I nodded, unable to make any other sign.
“Yes, Frodo,” I pledged to him. “I will come back. I have no idea how, but if I’ve gotten into Middle Earth once, it must be possible for me to do so again.”
He almost desperately accepted my reasoning, then, as desperately, went on, “Then, could you also promise that…”
He was unable to complete the supplication, but he did not have to.
I nodded again, and answered his kiss.
His curly, raven hair was evolving into a windstorm, and I was spinning within it. Lights pierced above it, and the ceiling of a garden shed. Someone was shaking me.
“Elanora, Elanora.” Derek’s worried face materialised beyond my own, and his hands clutched my arms. “Elanora, are you all right?”
I reached mid-recumbancy with his assistance.
“Yes,” I assured him. “I’m all right.”
“Lucky Dad couldn’t remember if he’d locked his tool box,” Derek effused. “You know how he is. How long have you been in here?”
“Ever since Patricia and Stacy locked me in,” I replied lightly. Derek was horrified.
“The little beasts!” he fumed. “Wait till Mom and Dad hear this! They’ll be grounded for a year. For sure Patricia will. Come on, I’ll get you out of here.”
He commenced to lift me, but I objected.
“No, Derek,” I implored him. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Why not? Have the little devils threatened you or something?”
I guiltily shook my head.
“I don’t want them to get in trouble,” I explained, then swallowed. “They did me a very great favour by locking me in this shed. Please don’t tell.”
Derek stared.
“Elanora,” he said finally, “I do believe you are either a saint or insane.”
Perceiving his expression and remembering the scene with Frodo a few minutes prior, I worried. Of course, that had been just a dream. But still, it was the most realistic one I had ever experienced.
“Okay, Elanora, whatever you say,” Derek grinned. He gathered me up and carried me out into the clear afternoon air.
I saw neither Patricia nor Stacy for the rest of that day, nor the whole of the next. Derek transported me home in his Jaguar and concocted some wild story about my horse throwing me, whereat Mom revolved into a flurry and insisted that I go to bed right away.
“Do you think she needs a doctor?” she queried of Derek.
“No, no, no,” he soothed. “It isn’t that serious. But she does require some rest, and perhaps something to eat.”
I did not approve of his fibbing, but I also didn’t see what else could be done.
I told her about the Connecticut Freedom contest, and she was very enthusiastic.
“You’re sure to win, Elanora!” she prophesied. “Wait till I tell Dad!”
I only smiled and took another cookie.
Mom smoothed my black-and-pink bed-quilt.
“How would you like a Sheltie puppy?” she enquired.
I nearly spilled my milk.
“A what?” I cried. “Mom, you know I’ve been wanting one for a jillion years.”
She laughed.
“Dad called me from Washington,” she relayed. “And he said that he bumped into Dr Denton, who had just flown in from Los Angeles. They have a new medication over there that prevents the effects of animal-hair allergies. Which means, darling, that you may now have the Sheltie you have always wanted. We can start looking for a puppy as soon as you like.”
I re-placed the glass on my bedside table carefully because my hand was shaking.
“Oh, Mom! You are the best mother in the entire world. Thank you!”
All the passion of a fourteen-year-old was in my embrace.
“You are most welcome, darling,” she laughed. “I am so pleased that we could finally help to answer your prayers.”
I descried my former captors in church on Sunday. They did not betray any surprise at my presence, nor any apprehension regarding what that presence might mean for them. In fact, they ignored me altogether.
Derek was very cold to his sister, but I was confident that he would keep his promise, even if he was put under torture to break it.
Patricia and Ethel vamoosed directly after Mass, and I did not meet them again until Monday morning (when I at length located my bag after looking in all the unusual places). I directly accosted the former at her desk in science class.
“Patricia,” I hailed, “I wanted to speak with you.”
She behaved as though I was some figment of her imagination.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured, in a lower voice. “It isn’t about locking me in the garden shed.”
She looked up.
“Then what is it about?” Her tone was of one not wished to be disturbed, particularly by the one presently disturbing.
“It’s about that new contest that Governor Channery is starting,” I elucidated. “You know, the one Father announced from the pulpit?”
She assented. At the time of the declaration, her mien had been covetous and something else.
“Yes. What about it?”
“Well,” I explained, “I was wondering if you wanted to enter it. Ms Mablewine requested me to ask you.”
“Me? Enter?” Patricia seemed offended. “You know I hate writing. What a stupid idea!”
She flounced away from me and re-conferred her entire concentration upon the book she had been perusing.
Aware that my next sentence was capable of wreaking havoc, I released it anyway.
“Do you really hate writing?” I probed, low.
She slammed the book. Mr Loomis, who had been explaining the periodic table of elements to Stacy gave us both a sharp look.
“Don’t be so noisy, Patricia,” he scolded. “And Elanora, would you kindly return to your seat? You can tell love secrets after school.”
I patted Patricia, head sunk on her arms, on the shoulder.
“We’ll talk later,” I said.
“Later” was lunch break. I did not feel hungry, and neither, it appeared, did Patricia. She met me by the same tree from which I had been accosted on Friday, and for once Stacy was absent.
“She’s talking with Mr Loomis again,” Patricia disclosed. “That girl just cannot understand the periodic table of elements.”
“Well, I wasn’t too good with it myself at first,” I excused. “Let’s sit down.”
Patricia accepted my invitation. She seemed in a friendlier mood, but I knew the reason for it.
“You do really love to write,” I stated.
She broke off a blade of grass and studied it.
“Yes,” she said at last. “It’s my passion.”
“Everyone said I was a genius at it,” she continued. “Until I came here and found that there was someone even better than me at it. It was a shock, and I didn’t even want to do my homework for literature class because I knew that it would always be compared to yours. That’s why most of what I’ve written for Ms Mablewine is…like it is. I put no heart into it.”
“But you shouldn’t have done that, Patricia,” I reproved her gently. “Didn’t you want to prove that you were better than me?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“It was no use. You are better than me.”
“There are many writers in the world,” I said. “And all very different. If God has given you a talent, which I know He has, you should use it. Not refuse it because you think it might be compared to someone else’s.”
Patricia’s azure eyes were on her cream-coloured flats.
“I would like you to enter the Connecticut Freedom Contest,” I informed her. “I think-I have a feeling-that you will win it.”
“How do you know that?” Patricia demanded in her old manner.
“A writer can see the writer in other people,” I explicated. “And even though you ‘put no heart’ into your work, as you said, I can tell what you could do if you did put your heart into it. That piece you wrote last month for Holding the Stirrup convinced me that you have the subject of true freedom well in hand.”
She stared at me, but then once more lapsed into dejection.
“There’s no way I can win it,” she said hopelessly. “With you entering it, too, as I am sure you are.”
I took a breath.
“I’m not entering it,” I said. “I told Ms Mablewine why. I have a novel to write, and I’m also getting a puppy. I’ll be way too busy.”
Patricia stared.
“But, you’re doing this for me?” she suspicioned.
I smiled.
“A little, yes. It was rather mean of me to run Tauriel down like that in ‘Feadora’. I’m very sorry, Patricia.”
“You, mean, sorry?” she marvelled. “I don’t care for Tauriel in the least. I only pretended to because I knew you disliked her. And it was Stacy and I who locked you in the shed and were so mean to you. And you never told, not even when Derek found you! He told Dad about checking on his tool box, and I almost died. Oh, Elanora, you are the sweetest girl ever!”
So professing, she embraced me, and I was inwardly singing.
“I’m very grateful to you for locking me in,” I grinned. “While inside, I thought up, sort of, the plot for my novel. It’s going to be great. About the grandson of Frodo Gardner who wants to save Middle Earth like his namesake, and does.”
“It sounds amazing,” Patricia enthused. “What are you going to call it?”
I gazed off into the distance of brownstone mansions and emerald courses, and black-fenced paddocks so similar to those in Canterwood Crest, and so different from the stable in Lothlórien, and I saw again the earnest sapphire eyes of Frodo Gardner the Third, and his raven hair as he bent to stroke the elfdog, Nenya. And I heard again his earnest voice as he said, “I just want to prove to everyone that I can be as brave as he was.”
And you will, Frodo Gardner, I thought. You will.
I would reunite his parents, and he would fall in love with a human, and…
I became aware that Patricia had asked me a question.
“Oh,” I answered hastily, “it will be called My Doom is Destiny.”