Portals: When My Story Ate Me

Prologue

The evening light was fading in my ‘office’. I pushed my makeshift desk (the coffee table)aside to click on a stand lamp. Its buttery yellow light softened the harsh blue of my computer. I ran my fingers over the keys again.

Where was Travenor? Ah yes. My dauntless hero had just stopped by the Emin Muil.

A slight stab of guilt dug into my conscience. I ought to be writing my real book right now. But I brushed the thought away with a sip of tea. I had promised to post my next chapter of this LotR fanfic to my writer friends, and I couldn’t do that with only two hundred thirty-seven words.

Now, what was supposed to happen next? I settled down again to let the words flow through my fingers into the screen. Or at least that’s how I imagine it. In reality they come in a bit of a jumbled mess that I have to smooth back over a few times before I’m satisfied enough to move on.

It’s getting late. I leaned back against the couch to glance over my work. A burning sensation behind my eyes blurred the words for a moment. I blinked it away and reached for my tea.

My mug’s empty.

Ah well. I’d just rest my eyes for a few seconds.

Just another minute…

Chapter 1

I woke to a knock on the door. It echoed through the hall and shook away my lingering dreams of the Pevensie family starting a world famous ice cream company. Their starring flavors were Colormen Lemon and Giant Toothpaste. I lay for a moment, still confused by how that should be a flavor of anything, let alone ice cream.

The knock came again, louder this time but also hesitant. Like a hiccup after a big scoop of dwarf pumpkin ripple… never mind that. I rolled to my feet.

A quick glance in the hall mirror reassured me that while my sanity might be temporarily gone, my hair was still miraculously presentable. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

A tall, dark headed man stood there. He surveyed me with some surprise, but it was nothing compared to my shock at his appearance. My head went suddenly empty of every reasonable thought.

Grey eyes, high cheekbones, and a squarish jaw. He looked exactly like Travenor. He even wore a travel stained green cloak, its ragged edges telling of many misadventures in far off lands. Misadventures I had caused, more or less. I swallowed.

“Ah. Hi.” My voice cracked, so I tried again. “Can I help you?”

“Perhaps.” The Mysterious Man ground out in a civil monotone of professionalism. There was that cynical look in his eyes. I had seen it once or twice in my imaginings of Travenor, but somehow I never caught how pompous it made him look. I shook my head. Surely this poor chap wasn’t my character. That wasn’t possible.

Right?

He looked down at a paper in his hand. There were fantastic runes on it. I gaped a little.

“This is the Small White House With the Dead Hydrangeas?”

Wow. Rude. I frowned.

“They’re not dead. They’re hibernating. It’s November. What do you want, Mister?”

I was surprised to see he was abashed at my annoyance. He nodded a few times and brushed his nose with his thumb, as if to make sure it was still there. How funny, Travenor did that too. Then the man drew himself up in an air of authority.

“I was merely repeating the directions I was given.” He bowed. “I am searching for the second Lorekeeper to finish the company.”

That was it. I stepped back and nearly went toppling over through the open door. He caught my flailing arm and righted me, the gentleman. I whispered his name in awe.

“Travenor, son of Mandilar. It’s really you.”

I would have hugged him, but I remembered in time how culturally unacceptable that would be. Instead I curtsied and bid him come in for some tea so we could talk. He acquiesced with another bow.

I led him to the living room where he gave my laptop and stacks of notebooks a suspicious glance. I swept them safely off into my monogrammed computer bag and stashed it behind the bookcase.

“Just sit here a moment while I get the tea, and then we can talk.” I sped my used mugs into the kitchen. Ignoring an unnatural impulse to wash my little mountain of dishes, I set my filled tea kettle onto the stove. The pantry only had a box of gingersnaps and a half eaten pound cake from Grandma’s. I piled them both generously onto my only serving platter. It was an Arthur Court grapes pewter thingy also from Grandma’s, and I hoped it would give my guest the proper respect a dúnedain deserved.

I carried it all back as soon as the water was boiling. My real china tea set looked nicely timeless beside the pewter platter, although paper napkins kinda spoiled the effect.

I poured him his tea before mine, and by instinct bowed my head for grace. He waited respectfully until I sipped my cup to try his own.

“I think that one’s your favorite, although I get it mixed up with Glorion’s.” I informed him with a shrug of my shoulders. What a pity I was wearing a sweatshirt and a rumpled jean skirt. This occasion really deserved a nice, flowing dress.

Lost in my thoughts as I was, I didn’t realize how oddly he was staring at me until he spoke.

“How do you know me?”

I wrinkled my eyebrows up into a long brown line. Didn’t characters recognize their authors? But then, I had never heard of an author who actually honest to goodness met her characters. It would be kinda awkward come to think about it. I sipped my tea to give me a moment to think. Best to opt for good evasion tactics.

“How did you know to come for me? Did Querel send you?”

At the look on his face, you would have thought I’d smacked him. He stirred his tea.

“No.” He finally spoke. “Querel is gone.”

“Gone? Already?” the gingersnap broke in my fingers. I hadn’t gotten around to writing that death scene. “How is it possible?”

“It has been a long road with many dark twists. This does not answer, however. Who are you?” He was still eyeing me, but I think the connection with Querel reassured him some. I grinned.

“I have many names in many places. You may call me Aenwest.” That was my favorite name from a long dive into an elvish dictionary. It made the whole thing seem so real. I leaned forward.

“So, what’s the quest? Are you searching for a silver star? Like Imaldris’?”

He tipped his head.

“Once more you show astonishing insight. Yes. That is our main quest. I was sent to bring the Lady Lorekeeper of the White House so we could continue the quest. Without Querel, you were the only other Lorekeeper Randall would trust.”

I gaped. I grinned. I groaned.

“Give me two hours to prepare. Feel free to look through the books in that bookcase.” I stood, hoping that would be enough time.

I ran to my room and instantly began digging through the closet. My Redwall outfit would do, minus the rabbit ears, and the leather backpack I’d got for my birthday last year would finally find its calling. Then I tried to make a list of all the things needed on an adventure like this. Food, medical supplies, extra socks….

When I made it to the kitchen an hour later, I was in my brown kirtle and had my bag almost full. I attacked the pantry shelves with a pillowcase.

Granola bars would keep on the road. There was half a bag of dried apricots that would also do. Their packaging was sadly modern, but I couldn’t help it. I had almost let the pantry when my eye fell on a lonely orange bag.

Cheetos.

Who knew what comforts I might miss in this foreign land? My Cheetos found a safe place between the bars and fruit.

Travenor stood outside the pantry door. He fingered his belt absently as he studied the plaque on the kitchen wall. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He called out to me as I swirled past him.

“Lady Aenwest, what language is this?”

“English.” I called back. “It’s technically my native tongue.”

He nodded intently.

“What does this sign say?”

I glanced around the door and grinned. “This house runs on coffee and Jesus.”

“What?”

“That’s what it says.” I put the last dishes into their respective cabinets. “Now just let me grab my log book and I’ll be ready to go.”

We walked together to the door, a tall Westron Man and a petite girl with an oversized backpack. I laughed as I locked the door behind me.

“We had better run before the neighbors see us.”

“Neighbors?” He sounded genuinely confused.

I turned around and froze as I took in a veritable forest of ancient trees where the street had been. The world as I knew it was gone.

@ellette-giselle @koshka

Here it is!

In which Aenwest gets lost inside her head, and dwarves need manners

Chapter 2

Travenor walked quickly. I scurried through the woods behind him, feeling remarkably like a squirrel trailing an elk. Sunlight streamed down through the leaves around me, creating a world of green and gold. Birds sang above us and leaves rustled underfoot. Why had I always thought woods were quiet places? This one was alive and chatty. I was going to have to change how I wrote woods.

We walked for what felt like miles. The trees grew thicker, and the undergrowth more sparse. The sun climbed up somewhere overhead as the morning drew on. My feet grew tired and I dropped a couple paces behind.

Travenor disappeared through a curtain of swaying branches. I took a deep breath and ducked after him. The branches swished above my head as I slipped through into open sunlight. We stood on the edge of a small clearing. A smell of roasting mushrooms permeated the place.

Before us in a little circle of trampled earth crackled a small fire so well built that it hardly gave off any smoke. Someone was sitting beside it, poking at his breakfast on the coals. He looked up at my noisome approach.

“Good morning, milady.”

I gasped back my excitement. It was Randal the Green in the flesh! His green cloak and wide brimmed hat were exactly as I had doodled in Algebra class. Randal was a Lorekeeper, since I was uncomfortable writing wizards, so he resembled an alternate universe version of Gandalf that meddled in Middle Earth and 16th century hat fashion.

I realized I was staring speechlessly at Randal. Travenor stood off to the side, a shadow of confusion on his stony features, although there was amusement too.

“Good morning, Randal of Green Brooks.” I tipped my head. “I am honored to meet you.”

“As are we to meet you.” he stood and looked about the clearing. Apparently I was not the only one missing.

Travenor spoke up. “Where are Dwogin and Onnendel?”

Randal looked at the treeline. It was almost impossible to read his face from that angle, as his hat blocked everything but his tall nose. He looked back, eyes twinkling.

“I believe our good dwarf is filling his waterskin, and Onnendel has gone to offer his advice.”

Travenor’s eyebrows shot up. That was hopeful. I hid a smirk at the memory of the last word battle I’d typed for those two.

Meanwhile, Randal bade me sit down by the fire as he finished cooking what I assumed to be our breakfast. I was suddenly reminded that the last thing I’d eaten was a gingersnap sometime early this morning. Man was not made to live on gingersnaps alone.

I didn’t have long to wait before the sound of a rumbling voice raised in disdain reached us.

“We dwarf folk are hardy enough for years under the earth. We have no need for soft words.”

“You will regret this lack one day.” My elf sounded thoroughly amused. In another moment he stepped out of the trees, closely followed by the angriest dwarf I’d ever seen. Of course, he was also the only dwarf I’d ever seen, but that was beside the point. His bushy red beard bristled in frustration all the way up to his squinted black eyes. He nearly came out of his skin when he saw me.

“Mae govannen!” I called in my best elvish as I stood to greet them.

Onnendel smiled, his cloudy green eyes turning toward the sound of my voice. I shivered at the strange pity and wonder they stirred in my author-heart.

“Who are you?” Dwogin’s rough voice splintered my nice little train of thought.

“This is the Lady Aenwest lorekeeper. She will be joining us.” Randal looked sternly at the dwarf.

“But, how old is she?” Dwogin stared at me, open mouthed. This was hardly the right foot to start an epic adventure on. For all accounts, I was at least a foot taller than him! I huffed.

“Don’t you know that’s not a polite thing to ask a lady?”

He looked a little surprised. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he hadn’t known.

“I am young. But so was Pippin when he joined the Fellowship of the Ring. Adventure does not always wait for us to be ready.”

“True.” Onnendel cut a blind glance at the dwarf. I smirked in the most ladylike fashion I could, and sat back down.

Then I felt my brain jolt. While I had left many parts of the Middle Earth landscape and politics the same, I had dropped the entire Lord of the Rings saga, to keep my elvish kingdoms strong as ever. Onnendel should not recognize that story.

But Onnendel had, apparently. Maybe the role play with Frodo had caused more character development than I’d thought.

Travenor pulled the two newcomers aside to update them on the situation, I suppose.

Being left beside the campfire with nothing to do was quite refreshing. I reached for the empty teakettle. Might as well make myself useful, especially as the other Lorekeeper looked to be in charge of getting breakfast. I filled the kettle and set it to boil before rummaging in my backpack for the tea.

Soon I’d rescued the frying pan from Randal’s absent-minded neglect. If the mushroom hash had been cooking when I’d arrived, it was nearly smoking now. I wrinkled my nose. A few more minutes and we would have had mushroom ash.

“Good.” Randal nodded when I showed it to him. “Just right. If all is ready we should eat. The day is not getting younger.”

Dwogin seemed to perk up a good deal with that announcement. We circled round the fire as Randal portioned out our servings. I stared down at mine and suddenly remembered I despised mushrooms. However, these were Middle Earthian ‘shrooms, so they should be better. Right?

Turns out, they weren’t. The tea helped. Some.

About the time I was resorting to swallowing mouthfulls whole, Randal unfolded a worn piece of parchment and announced that it was time to figure out what we were doing. He spread out a beautiful map, full of delicate ink drawings and mysterious notations. I craned my neck to see it better as Randal marked our position with a little pebble. Apparently I lived near the Misted Mountains. Somewhere above my head Randal and Travenor debated routes, but the conversation was too quick for me to follow, so I just enjoyed studying the map.

“So, why is this… Lorekeeper joining us again?” I heard Dwogin whisper to Onnendel. The elf frowned and told him to ask Randal if he wanted to know, but to please do so at a better time. I made mental notes to teach our dwarf better manners. It was slowly beginning to be funny again, but Onnendel was right. Dwogin would rue his rough speech one day.

“What do you think of the Sunborne pass, Lady Aenwest?”

I blinked up at Travenor in a mild confusion.

“Sunborne pass, also called Árëlonda in the high tongue. It will be clear this time of year, unlike the pass over Caradhras.”

“Oh.” Thankfully my brain cells pulled themselves back in order. “I would certainly not advise Caradhras. The last- well, we aren’t prepared for a blizzard. Sunborne is a hard road, they say, but passable. And we won’t have to come through Moria.” Because I had no intention of being underground in the dark for that long, or possibly ending up in a place full of dwarf bones. No thank you.

Randal was smiling at me, like he knew my thoughts. I smiled back.

“Let us clear this campsite then, and make for the Anvil Hillock. If we start in the hour, we should reach it before dark.”

And so I helped pack up the camp and set out into the trees. With a Company of such experienced travelers, what could go wrong?

@koshka @ellette-giselle

Welp, here’s this week’s installment. Enjoy!

In Which Books Lie, and the Sun Sets

Chapter 3

My legs were killing me. We had been walking for hours with hardly any real breaks, and I’d quickly discovered that even dwarves move at an incredible pace. The books lied. Muscles don’t miraculously strengthen when you get called from your quiet life of study and cookies.

We wound our way through the trees, following no path that I could see. Which made sense since Travenor was our guide. Maybe he hadn’t reached Aragon’s level of experience yet, but our young ranger already showed an affinity for backways and byways and noways-at-all.

I scrambled over another fallen giant. Its bark was a mass of thorny brambles that reached hungrily for my dress. I had to jerk it free behind me. Little bits of brown thread were left dangling in their clutches, which reminded me of another book lie. Characters on their first venture parade seamlessly through the woods leaving absolutely no trace of their passing. That takes training. I made a mental note to take some woodcraft courses before getting sucked into any book-worlds again.

“The path twists back a bit here.” Travenor’s voice called back through the group as he disappeared around a clump of trees. The rest followed one by one until I reached the bend myself and saw once more a line of cloaks marching up a little slope.

One of the figures paused and I watched his big hat turn toward me. He smiled as I scrambled up to join him.

“I think our path joins a ranger road up ahead. Walking will be easier then.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.

It was short lived. My breath came in rasps, my legs burned, and I felt preposterously annoyed. Yet I didn’t dare stop to rest or I’d lose sight of the group. I was already barely keeping them in sight at all.

However, the climb only seemed to get steeper.

Much steeper.

Turns out, dehydration makes the ground move in mysterious ways.

“Lady!” That was Travenor. I stared at the grass blades waving blissfully above my head and winced.

“I think I tripped.” My voice was rough. Someone held a bottle to my lips and told me to drink slowly. As an author, I knew all about the importance of water discipline, so I promptly took the largest gulp I could get.

Sweet heavenly days! It was not water. I coughed and sputtered and gagged.

“What is that?”

“Miruvóre. I said to drink slowly.” Randal was laughing.

So. My story’s non-alcoholic cordials were quite strong. I wrinkled my nose and took a long sip from my own canteen.

“I think we have different recipes. Thanks though.”

Whatever was in the thing could not have been all that dreadful though. In fact, I think it really was Miruvóre, because although I was weary to the bone, I never stumbled after that.

We reached the Anvil Hillock about Golden hour. Four intrepid adventurers strode into the ancient tower ruins like a conquering army after a long battle. The medical unit followed with one casualty, walking wounded.

We shed our packs by a low wall and began falling into line. Randal immediately began giving orders to set up camp. Mission One was to build a fire for two partridges Dwogin had somehow caught along the way. I had no idea how he’d managed that, having been too preoccupied with survival myself, but judging from the smile splitting his beard, he was immensely proud of himself.

I gave a weary excuse for a salute and went to gather kindling. Which mostly meant dodging flying debris while the head Lorekeeper coaxed an unpredictable flame to life.

“Maybe you would like to rest a moment.” He told me when I nearly dumped myself into the fire along with an armful of windfalls. I gave him a grateful expression that I hoped was a smile.

The setting sun cast a brilliant golden stain across the sky. Every second deepened the effect with touches of reds and indigo. I wrapped my cloak closer and settled down on the rocks to watch. Onnendel stood alone on the stone outcropping below me, as still as if he had laid down roots. I frowned and looked away to watch the evening kaleidoscope display. The warm rocks were oddly comforting to my sore muscles. A yawn slipped out before I realized how hard my perch was. How Jacob used a rock as a pillow was beyond me.

In that instant I was struck with a hilarious limerick about exhausted rocks that have to ride in clocks. I dug into my pocket desperately only to remember the only writing material I had was my notebook and it was in my haversack back in camp. I heaved a beleaguered sigh of woe.

The limerick was gone forever into that land where unfinished story ideas live. It would likely come back to haunt me many nights from now, just when I was about to fall asleep.

The sound of voices below stirred me back to remind me that the dream world around me was infact reality. I gazed fondly down at my characters.

A round form stood beside the elf. Dwogin was whistling cheerfully now that his partridges were roasting. He tipped his head at Onnendel.

“It’s a fine sunset sure, but a bit chill to stand so far from the fire.” As if to prove his point, a gust of wind swept through the sparse foliage, causing the crumbled walls behind us to whistle dreamily.

“Perhaps.” The elf remained unmoved.

“Then why do you stand out here?”

“There is light deep in the heart of the west, and it warms me.” Onnendel smiled and turned his head toward the dwarf. Something passed between them which my eavesdropping could not catch. I slid a little nearer in time to catch Onnendel’s next hushed words.

“The shadows have blinded me, but I can see light if it is strong enough. It must be a dreaded shadow indeed to take the true sight of our people.”

Dwogin chewed his beard thoughtfully. They stood there for a few more minutes, watching the sunset together like friends.

“This Silverstar, it will return your sight?” the dwarf was almost as curious as I was. I had not even thought of this idea.

“It is said among the eldest of the Gleaming City that by the Star Imraldis led the bound people through the shadows, and from the Star all shadows must flee. I do not know if it will restore my sight. My father had the Silverstar, and yet the Black Dread still fell on us.” He swallowed. A gray look passed over his face and he turned away. Dwogin seemed about to ask another question, then appeared to change his mind. Perhaps he did have some discretion.

The sun passed beyond the horizon in a last flame of glory. We walked back to the camp as the evening birdsong died away.