Following the Road

Being an archivist, you saw him more often than your heart could withstand. He was always in the annals looking for some manner of tome or scroll and he always found you no matter where you were to inquire about locations of things or the topics contained in them. You were worried your admiration for him had formed some sort of beacon that he could track you with. But, you hoped that if it had, he would have at least said something to give you an indication of where you stood.

You'd been informed by your fellow archivists that your affections for the herald were not subtle. A disheartening fact if true because it meant that Elrond had no doubt noticed that you treated him quite differently. And he'd never said anything about it.

It was enough of an answer without giving one. You'd been attempting to squash your affections, truly you had. There'd been a few suitors over the course of the last year that you'd entertained as part of your attempt to move on. But they'd all been...lackluster compared to Elrond.

And you knew it wasn't fair to compare them to him. Elrond was as close to perfection that a person could be in your eyes. It wasn't possible to outshine him.

One of your friends had suggested leaving for awhile - you had a cousin in Eregion that you could ask to stay with. And maybe, you'd meet someone there that would keep Elrond far from your mind for the next eon.

The truth to the last part you weren't so sure of.

"You're staring again," Pelliel muttered as she elbowed you.

With a few rapid blinks, you felt your eyes come back into focus and were ashamed to know that she was right. You'd been staring at the herald for who knows how long. It was lucky that he was too absorbed with his readings to have noticed.

"Sorry," you muttered back, looking back to the scroll you were supposed to be translating for the High King.

Pelliel scoffed to herself as she slid another scroll towards you, "I know you can't help it - I need that cross-referenced when you can, its sigil is old for Lindon,"

You nodded wordlessly, accepting the new scroll and immediately comparing the sigils before you against your other examples. There was a moment where your eyes strayed from the task to rest on Elrond yet again. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he held two books open before him. One of his hands moved in time with his reading. You felt a small smile settle on your lips. He was adorable.

Beside you, Pelliel pushed a laugh through her nose that sent a creeping embarrassment to your face. You forced your eyes away from Elrond once more and back to the scroll before you.

After a few moments had passed and you were certain you would be able to control your wandering eyes, you let yourself fall into a studious silence. The only thing to break it was the occasional shuffle of vellum or the scratching of quills as you and your companion worked.

But, so suddenly it made you jump in your seat, Pelliel cleared her throat and spoke in a voice too loud to be called a whisper, "Have you heard word from your cousin?"

"Ah," you sputtered, turning to look at the dark haired elleth beside you, "no? No, I haven't yet."

"Hmm," she hummed, turning to a new page in her tome, "I hope she writes to you soon - I wouldn't want to travel to Eregion when the weather turns."

Her words made you raise an eyebrow but she did not turn to meet your gaze. Instead, her attention seemed to pointedly be on the tome before her but it was easy to tell she wasn't really reading anything. "When the-?" you began to say but you were cut off.

"Oh, I just remembered, I forgot to grab one of the records I need," She announced in a stiff voice as she abruptly got to her feet, "I'll be back." And before you could say anything, Pelliel had turned and vanished between the rows of shelves.

You were left blinking in confusion at the elleth's hasty retreat.

And, almost reflexively, you felt your befuddled gaze slide over to the elf who had no doubt witnessed the commotion. Your suspicion was confirmed immediately. Elrond, much like yourself, was staring at where Pelliel had vanished, his brow now pinched in confusion rather than concentration.

As if sensing your gaze, Elrond's flicked to meet yours. "That was..." He began before pausing, his mouth slightly agape as he fished for the polite word.

"Strange?" You supplied and delighted in the small laugh that slipped from the herald.

Elrond shook his head ever so slightly as he straightened his posture. "I was looking for a nicer word but yes, strange."

You smiled to yourself, letting your gaze fall away from the herald's. He was adorable indeed. And it was a bitter thought to know that you were probably living in one of your last moments with him. As soon as you heard word from your cousin, you were intent on leaving Lindon.

Your fingers traced over the edge of the scroll you'd been laboring over for the past hour. There was no real desire to return to your work.

"Did I hear correctly," you looked up immediately to see Elrond rising from his seat, "that you are going to Eregion?" He asked as he crossed to the desk you were seated at. The herald's hands rested behind his back and the expression on his face was one of gentle curiosity. You could feel a sugary sweet swell of fondness coat your heart.

"Oh, ah, yes," you answered, pressing your lips together in an effort to keep yourself from saying anything foolish, "yes, I am only waiting on word from my cousin to see if she would offer me lodging." It was hard to keep meeting his gaze. Elrond's grey eyes were so soft every time you looked into them - like summer rain clouds rolling in.

He made a hum in the back of his throat and for a moment you figured that that would be the end of it. It wasn't like the conversations between you and the herald had ever stretched on very long - it was always moments spread out between each other that tucked their way into your heart and claimed it for the elf before you.

"How long do you expect you'll be gone for?" It was almost frustrating how well he commanded your attention. Every time Elrond spoke, you were compelled to look at him.

His head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, almost like an intrigued bird.

"I'm not sure," you lied and it felt like a bitter poison in your mouth, "a while." Forever. Or until you are able to forget Elrond - whichever came first.

He repeated your answer in a whisper and you could tell he did not like the weight of it on his tongue. "Well," he began, removing a hand from behind his back to carefully smooth out a discarded scroll that had closed up on you. Your eyes watched the movement like a cat spying a mouse and you were ashamed to admit to the unbidden thoughts that rushed your mind, "perhaps I could accompany you on your trip? I've always longed to see the great city for myself."

You could feel your heart plummet. Elrond come with you to the city you were running to to escape him? You had to say no. The whole point of leaving was to forget him. If he accompanied you and knew where you lived it would never squash the longing. Your treacherous mind would always dream of him rushing in to confess his love for you. No. Absolutely not.

"Oh, well," your eyes flickered away from his hand but were unable to settle on any one point again, "I wouldn't want to drag you from your duties, Herald Elrond."

"It would be no bother, mellon nin, but if you are certain..." he sounded sad. Elrond sounded sad. You looked up at him once more to see a foreign expression on the herald's face. You'd never seen him look sad before.

"Do you..." he began before pausing to wet his lips, "you're not planning to return to Lindon, are you?"

Your eyebrows pinched together. How had he...?

"I see," he said, his face still downcast but you could see thoughts swirling behind his eyes, "May I ask why you are leaving?"

You swallowed, unsure of how to answer that in a way he would not think a lie. "I..." you pressed your lips together, "there is someone I care deeply for in Lindon who does not feel the same," you began, deciding a half-truth would be better than a full lie, "and I fear my heart will never let him go if I am still here."

Elrond was quiet for a moment and you watched his face flicker between too many emotions to name in a fraction of a moment as he digested your words. At length, he landed on what you could call a resolved but sorrowful expression, "well, he is a fool to not return your affections."

You couldn't help but laugh, a dry and hollow sound as it slipped from your lips. But Elrond could not find your reaction humorous.

"I am serious. Any elf should count themselves lucky to hold your favor," he emphasized, settling both his hands on the table before you. The new posture cast a slight shadow over you and made you look up more to meet his eyes.

"A fool indeed." You mumbled softly, almost dazed from his proximity.

Elrond's lips ticked up in what you could dare call a small, proud smile and you were quick to snap your attention away from the movement. With him so close, you were sure he would catch every slight change in your expression. "I am glad you agree," he paused before he spoke his next thought, "If you'll forgive me for speaking out of turn, I do not believe you need to leave Lindon to let him go," Elrond straightened up a little as he spoke and if your eyes were not playing tricks on you, you believed you saw a bit of a flush creeping up his neck, "I have often found that the best cure for an aching heart is familiarity."

A frown pulled your lips down of its own accord, "It is the familiarity that causes the ache, I see him nearly every day."

"Every day?" Elrond repeated in a soft voice. "Then perhaps a change in routine?"

You raised an eyebrow at him. He was certainly adamant you not leave Lindon.

"A change?" You repeated, the same as he had earlier, "How do you mean?"

Elrond pursed his lips and it was plain to see he was debating with himself on whether or not he should speak the thoughts he wanted to. At length, he seemed to resolve himself, "You say you see him nearly every day - I imagine it must be in the same place often," his tongue momentarily darted out to wet his lips before he resumed, "I enjoy a walk through the palace gardens when I'm feeling the need for a change of pace...perhaps you'd be willing to join me, mellon nin?”

You felt your lips part in shock and Elrond was quick to catch the change in expression.

"I don't mean to be too forward,” Elrond began again, his pace much faster this time as his nerves grew apparent, "I just believe that maybe, if this elf does not see you as regularly, he may realize he is being a fool,” he took a deep breath, catching how quickly he had began to speak, "distance making the heart grow fonder," His face had grown red by now and you were certain you could see the flush beginning to creep towards his ears. "Or maybe he will see you in the company of another and come to his senses?"

Did he...? No...

"Elrond," You whispered and delighted in the way his eyes immediately snapped towards you, "Are you implying that you would like to make it look like we are courting?" The question was out of your mouth before you could pause to think it over.

The flush on his face deepened, "I am...I just know that if I were to see...someone I cared for but did not necessarily, ah, know how to court with someone else it may spur me to action." His tongue momentarily darted out to wet his bottom lip. You weren't sure you'd ever seen the herald look so uncomfortable before. And you weren't sure you enjoyed it.

Your blood began to take a chill. Did the thought of being seen that way with you disgust him so? "You do not look thrilled at the idea." You pointed out, beginning to push your chair back from the table. You were making him uncomfortable...

"I am not fond of deception." He muttered and you were certain that was only part of the truth.

"Well," you sniffed, a familiar choking ball had begun to form in the base of your throat, "I would not wish to make you uncomfortable, Herald Elrond, so I must decline."

With that, you fully shoved your chair back and rose to your feet, preparing to flee as Pelliel had done.

The choking in your throat was joined by a roiling in your stomach, the familiar sting of shame was growing stronger by the second. You needed to leave now.

But as you rounded the table, attempting to run from the tension in the air, you were stopped by Elrond's soft call of your name and his hand wrapping gently around your wrist. "Please, mellon nin, do not run from me," Elrond's voice was wounded and it beckoned your eyes to him once again. Only to find an equally wounded expression upon his face, "Allow me to explain myself at least..."

"Elrond," you tried to tug your wrist away, but there was no real strength in the gesture, "I have mucked this up well enough, I don't need you to spare my-"

He said your name again, firmer this time and you let your protest die on your tongue. When Elrond was certain you had truly paused in your retreat, he relaxed his grip on your wrist until it was only a feather-light hold. Your eyes were drawn to his hand once again and you watched as his hold fell softly to your own hand. But, Elrond hesitated until you raised your gaze from his hand to his face. "May I?" The herald asked when he caught your eye, his voice barely above a whisper. You offered an unsure nod, wary of his sudden proximity.

Moving slowly, as if trying not to startle a frightened deer, Elrond clasped your hand in his. Once again, your eyes fell upon it. It was strange to see him cradling your hand. The feel of his palm against yours was electric, stirring not so dormant butterflies in the pit of your stomach all over again. When you were able to pull your gaze back to his face once more, you knew you weren't imagining the slight tremor running through him.

Elrond's lips parted, the beginning of a thought dancing between them, before he closed and opened his mouth again. His eyes flicked across your face, darting from your own lips to your eyes, away to your joined hands, and back all over again. Maybe...maybe you'd been wrong - he wasn't uncomfortable with you...maybe he was nervous. Treacherous hope stirred in your chest, swirling with the ball of your own nerves trapped in your throat.

"Forgive me, I am a coward," Elrond began at length, taking a microscopic step closer to you. His other hand rose from his side to take your free hand in his, "and I am quite selfish."

"Elrond-" you tried to cut in.

"No, please, meldanya," he interrupted , his grip tightening, “I have put this off for far too long."

Meldanya...my beloved...

With a steadying sigh, Elrond began again, "I have admired you for so long but I fear that my own cowardice has kept me from expressing my affections," his grip grew tighter, becoming less and less tentative as the seconds ticked by, "I have wondered if you felt the same and if you do, if I am the fool who holds your affections and did not realize, I am appalled to know that I have made you believe otherwise. And if you still desire to leave for Eregion, I will not stop you, but," he swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing with the movement, "but I could not live with myself if knew that our last meeting ended so sourly."

"Elrond," you spoke into the pregnant pause that hung in the air, "I…ah..." you shook your head, with a soft groan at your own inability to gather your thoughts. The softest of laughs slipped from Elrond at the sight and you felt the sound sear itself in your ears. "Meldanya..." you repeated his earlier word in a hush, using it as an anchor for your tumultuous thoughts, "I cannot count how many times I've wished to be called that," you threaded your fingers with Elrond's and met his kind, grey eyes, "how many times I've wished you would call me that."

Elrond's eyes sparked, his delight at your admission plain to see. "I would call you it every day, if you wished, meldanya," he loosened one of his hands from yours to hold against your cheek, "for that is what you are to me."

For a moment, all either of you did was look at each other, basking in the still beam of sunlight you found yourselves framed by. Elrond's thumb absentmindedly slid over your cheek - the touch delicate and worshipful. You couldn't help but lean in to it, bringing your other hand up to rest against his chest. "I have been a fool, Elrond,” you whispered, "I could have spared us both some agony if I were but a little braver."

"I hold nothing against you, melleth nin," the herald bowed his head closer to yours.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes fell from Elrond's to his lips again. He was so close, it would be too easy to kiss him at this very moment - and it appeared as though Elrond's thoughts were much the same.

The hand on your cheek moved, dipping lower to cup your jaw and encourage the slight tilt of your head. Your heart rate began to pick up, knowing the herald's intentions. He brought his face closer to yours, allowing his nose to gently tap against yours. But then he paused, his lips a breath away from yours. And you knew that he was waiting - giving you room to step away if you so wished.

But you had waited too long for this moment. Tangling your fingers into the fabric of his tunic to anchor yourself, you pressed forward and gently sealed your lips against his.

The moment you made contact, you could feel Elrond relax and return the kiss in kind. His hand still held in yours guided you closer and you let yourself follow the pull.

He pulled away briefly and you thought for a moment that that would be all. A quick, chaste kiss to calm your flustered hearts but you were mistaken. Before you could pull too far away yourself, the herald surged forward again, capturing your lips once more. A startled hum rang in your throat that was swallowed up by the herald's own contented one.

Elrond pulled his threaded fingers free from yours to settle his hand over the curve of your hip. And you in turn, allowed both your hands to sneak around the elf's shoulders and hook behind his neck. This only served to encourage him further. The hand on your hip flexed involuntarily as Elrond's kisses began to grow quicker, chasing your lips every time you had to part. His second hand settled on your hip as well, pulling you impossibly closer and setting your heart to a racing tempo. Gods above had you been a fool to fear confessing to him.

Just as you began to let your hands creep up to tangle in the herald's hair (and just as he had taken a step forward so your back met the edge of the table) you were interrupted by the relived voice of Pelliel.

"Thank the gods above," she said, breaking you and the elf apart in a flustered flurry. You tried to take a step back from Elrond but nearly topped over the table and were only saved by his secure grip on your hips, "I did not think I could handle any more of your pining."

The elleth was grinning ear to pointed ear and you could feel the embarrassment coursing through your veins like a roaring river. Your grip on Elrond's shoulders tightened. "Well," she resumed, a mischievous gleam dancing in her eyes, "don't let me interrupt you any longer. Have a good evening, you two." She simpered before turning and leaving as abruptly as she had arrived.

The two of you stared at where she had just been like you had earlier. But, unlike before, when your eyes met again, you fell into easy smiles and hushed laughter.

Elrond bowed his forehead to meet yours, one of his arms snaking higher up your back to hold you close to his chest. You let him fold you against him, feeling as though your very being was suddenly made of sunlight. "I think she planned for this to happen, meldanya" the herald hushed almost conspiratorially to you, the pet name dripping like honey off of his tongue.

With that, she peered around, spinning in a slow circle as if a convenience store would suddenly materialize amongst the trees and rocks. And not just any convenience store. One with a public restroom. Her bladder screamed at her to find one ASAP. 

Instead, she stumbled over a tree root, and let out a very loud, “Son of a bitch!” as she hit the ground, her shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. 

A moment later, Aragorn stood above her, holding out a hand. “Are you all right?”

“You mean, aside from my bruised ego?” She nodded. “I think so, yeah.”

She laid her hand in his, his fingers wrapping about her wrist as he tugged and as she rose, he said, “Ego?”

“Yeah. You know,” she brushed leaf bits and tree bark from her backside, then looked back at him, “my pride.”

“Ah, pride.” He nodded slowly. “That I understand.”

“I hope I didn't ruin your meditation.” At his puzzled look, she gestured toward the log he’d been sitting on before she fell. “You were staring into the fire like you were thinking very hard about something. I hope I didn't disturb it.”

“No, you didn’t. I was just pondering our next steps, since Boromir has decided to take you into Marston.” He released her hand, then turned back to the fire. “We hadn’t planned for an extra body. Especially one—”

He cut himself off, but she smiled as she followed him back to where he’d been sitting, and sank onto the log beside him. “It’s okay. You can say it. One like me. I know, I’m a mess and I’m slowing you down and if you wanted to just go on and leave me here, I’d totally understand. I mean, I wouldn’t really like it, but I’d get it. I’m a liability.”

This time, when he looked at her, it was with utter confusion. “You speak quickly, you know, and it makes understanding you a bit difficult at times.”

Her cheeks warmed. Rambling was one of her tells when she was nervous or uncomfortable and right then, she was both. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. This is just… I’m  not cut out for this kind of life, you know? Camping out. Being on the run. Hunted. It’s really not something I do real well, apparently. I mean, not that I’m surprised by it, but to be honest, not many New Yorkers are hunting me down in the wilds of Manhattan, you know?”

“No.” He shook his head, his gray eyes tranquil. “I am afraid I do not.”

The heat in her cheeks worsened. “No, I—I guess you don’t.”

A heavy sigh worked its way to her lips, and she reached up to rub her forehead. “If Boromir wants to just dump me in this Marston, I totally understand. I’d dump me as quick as I could.”

“No one will dump you. But, have you any experience with a blade of any sort? Or any defense skills?”

“I know how to jump a turnstile. And I do have a pretty mean left hook.” As his brow furrowed once more, she made a fist with her left hand and punched him in the shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath and winced, and she couldn't help but grin. “That’s a left hook. Only if I was really pissed, I’d have knocked you off this tree.”

He returned her grin with a rueful one of his own and gingerly rubbed the spot where she’d hit him. “I’ll keep that in mind before angering you, Miss Brooks. You hit as a man would.”

“My father wasn’t worth much,” she confessed, glancing down at her hand, still balled as it rested on her thigh, “but he taught me how to defend myself. Just not with any weapons other than my hands and feet.”

“At times, you need no more than that. Unfortunately, the odds are strong you will need more, I’m afraid. Boromir will find the village blacksmith as well and he’s agreed to help teach you how to use a sword if you’re willing.” He smiled as Boromir came up behind him, rubbing one eye. “He’s been teaching the hobbits, you know.”

“I didn’t, but I hope he’s got a lot of patience, because I’m pretty sure he’s going to need every ounce of it.”

She hadn’t heard him come up behind them until his boots crunched softly on the fallen leaves, but then Boromir crouched beside her. “I’ll be fine, but” he gestured toward the road ahead of them, “we should go as soon as possible, so we don’t fall too far behind the others.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I just need to pee first.”

At both furrowed male brows, she burst out laughing. “I need to use the necessary? The privy? The loo? Which one is the right one before I get into trouble somewhere for being crude.”

This time, the dawning of recognition lit both somewhat scruffy faces at the same time, which only made her laugh harder. Especially when Boromir said, “Come with me and I’ll show you where we’ve been going.”

“Okay, but then you’re coming back here, right?” Her back stiffened at his long look. “No. You are not hanging around when I pee, you freak. I’ll be fine.”

“Miss Emerson, we have no idea what lurks around the woods.”

“No one has jumped any of you, right?” She waited for his nod, then continued, “So, I’ll be fine. I’ll even hold onto a big stick, just in case. But I am not about to have an audience.”

Boromir didn't look too happy, but he slowly nodded again. “Very well. But I will be nearby. Just in case.”

“Out of earshot, and out of sight.”

“Miss Emer—”

“I mean it. If I see you, I swear I’ll deck you.” 

“Deck me?”

“I believe she means to hit you,” Aragorn broke in softly. “And trust me, you do not want that.”

Boromir arched a single brow, looking from Aragorn to her as he replied, “If you say so.” 

Emerson stared up at him, realizing he was only barely holding in a laugh. “Try me, mister. You’ll see.”

“I’m certain I will.” Boromir nodded, his expression growing serious as he gestured and added, “I thought you needed to go?”

“I do.” 

“Then let’s go.”

With that, he started off toward the woods, not far from where they’d made their camp for the night. It sloped up, the path he followed narrow and uneven and she held her breath that she wouldn’t trip or twist her ankle or anything that might set them back even further. They weren’t overjoyed with being saddled with her, but at least they weren’t leaving her to fend for herself. It was a small consolation, but she’d take it just the same.

The woods here, in Middle Earth, were nothing like the woods she was used to. As they crested the ridge and the trees thickened, what light that had managed to break through the thick clouds, was almost imperceptible there. The foliage canopy was still thick, although the leaves were beginning to show hints of red and gold and yellow, and not only did it blot out the light, it also seemed to absorb the sound. The soft crunch of leaves and dying grass beneath her feet died away, the silence growing thick and eerie as it pressed in on her.

A hint of discomfort swept through her, made her walk a bit faster to bring her in step with Boromir, and without thinking, she slipped her arm through his. At his questioning glance, she said, “This place makes me uncomfortable.”

“There’s nothing here to fear. If there was, we’d never have lasted the night.”

“I’m not afraid. I’m just… uncomfortable, is all.”

She expected him to laugh, to tell her that basically she just admitted to being afraid and that she had no reason to fear anything. In fact, she braced herself for it. 

But then, to her surprise, he said, “These woods make many feel uncomfortable. But, worry not. Even if we happened upon someone, I’ll not let any harm come to you. You have my word.”

“Even if it meant you wouldn’t be slowed down by me?”

“Miss Emerson,” he paused, turning toward her, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, “know this, there is not a one of us who would allow harm to come to you. And you are hardly slowing us down any more than the hobbits are, and trust me, Merry and Pippin are accidents looking for a place to happen. Pippin more so than Merry, but you understand.”

He spoke softly, his voice low and even, and his expression was one of such utter seriousness, that she didn't doubt him at all. “Aragorn said something about getting me a sword. And that you might be willing to teach me how to use it? He said you were working with the hobbits, so—”

“He said that, did he?” 

For a moment, she had the horrible feeling she’d said something terribly wrong, and wondered if maybe Aragorn was just screwing around with her. He didn't seem the sort, but who knew with guys like him?

Still, she held his gaze as she nodded. “Just before you joined us, yes.”

“Do you wish to learn?”

“You know, if you’d asked me that two days ago, I’d have told you you were nuts. But now? And here?” She gestured to the gloominess that seemed to grow gloomier still as they stood there. “Yeah. I wish to learn.”

“Then I shall teach you.” The outer corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “But I think we should find you a sword more your size first. Somehow, I think this one—” he moved the pommel to swing the long-bladed sword outward—“might be a bit much for you.”

There was definitely a joke in there, but she didn't quite feel comfortable enough to make it just yet. A few more weeks, and she wouldn’t think twice about it. But for now? They thought her weird enough. Why let them think she was a jezebel or a witch or a harlot, or whatever they called women who liked a good dick joke in this world. 

So, instead, she just nodded, pressing her lips together to hold the joke at bay. When she trusted herself not to say anything, she replied, “Sounds good. Although, I think I’d manage your sword just fine.”

His smile wavered and she mentally head smacked herself as having slipped up so badly. Jackass! What happened to not letting them know you like a good dick joke? 

She waited for him to say something about it, but instead, he gestured down the narrow path. “We really do need to move, so go and find a tree and I’ll wait here.”

“A tree?”

“That’s what we use.”

“Guess I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“You probably should. We have to go.”

“And so do I, so wait here?”

“I won’t move a muscle.”

“Promise?”

“Miss Emerson—”

She held up a hand. “I know, I know. Okay, I’m going.” 

She started down the path to put space between them. With each step that took her further from him, the oppressiveness of the trees all around her seemed to thicken and grow even more oppressive. Her mind was having a field day with her, making the air feel heavy and dank, muffling sounds until they were but low rumbles in her ears, like the sounds made underwater. A sense of sadness wound through her, one she hadn’t felt in years, and a lump rose unexpectedly in her throat. 

“It’s just this place, Em. It has to be.” She stepped around a massive oak tree, whose branches seem to scrape the sky itself. This would do. 

She peered around, but could no longer see Boromir. A hint of panic shot through her, her belly roiling the same way it did when she realized too late she’d forgotten a doctor’s appointment. “B—Boromir?”

Her voice echoed softly, but no response met it. 

Her instinct was to bolt, to run back to where she hoped he still stood, and just take her chances on her bladder not exploding before she could find a less scary patch of woods to use.

“Boromir!” 

The word rang out like a shot, far louder than the previous one, and what had been fear melted into relief when he called back, “I’m here, Miss Emerson.”

“Thank God,” she muttered as she unsnapped her jeans and a few minutes later, she was tugging them back up, thankful she didn't get anything on them. 

She stepped back around the tree when the first arrow whistled past her to embed itself in the tree she’d just been crouched at. Had she stood and remained there, that arrow would have hit her between the eyes.

A second arrow split the air, just missing her left ear. Her scream ripped free of its own and she didn't give a damn about trying to be brave as Boromir hollered back, “Emerson?”

“I’m okay!” She broke into a run as a third arrow came from nowhere and this time, a hot sting ripped across her upper arm, tearing her sleeve and digging a trench in her shoulder.

Boromir came bounding down the path, sword in one hand, shield in the other, as she went to her knees, grabbing at her wounded shoulder. It throbbed with each heartbeat, and the pain was enough that her stomach clenched and threatened to empty itself right there. 

“Get behind me!” His voice echoed through the trees as another arrow came their way, hitting the thick leather of his shield as he moved in front of her. 

She practically flattened herself against him. “You really didn’t have to tell me that!”

But as quickly as the first arrows flew, the forest went silent. Still, she didn't move, in fact, she fought to remain on her feet as the throbbing in her shoulder worsened, the stinging almost unbearable each time the torn fabric brushed the slash, and she glanced down to see blood seeping through the pale yellow fabric of her Farran’s tee shirt, her stomach lurching at the sight. 

He turned to her. “We should move. We can find a doctor in the village, but first—”

To her surprise, his voice cut off, his eyes widening as he gazed down at her. She reached for her wounded arm, trying to peel the fabric away as she said, “What’s the matter? Is it worse than I thought?”

“No,” he replied softly, shaking his head as he continued to stare at her. “I’ve seen you before.”

She froze, her sleeve forgotten as she looked back up at him. “What?”

He nodded, and this time, held his blade toward her. “Who are you and from where have you really come? And do not think to lie to me, lady.”

“Boromir, in case you’ve forgotten, there were a bunch of arrows just flying through here and there might be more, so maybe we can have this discussion somewhere a little less… arrowy?”

He shook his head. “They’ve stopped and you need answer my question.”

“You’re crazy because I’ve never seen any of you before yesterday and I’m pretty sure I need stitches or to be leeched or whatever it is you all do around here.”

“I have seen you before.”

“Yeah, a few minutes ago, before I went to pee behind a tree. Now, I’m not going to stand here and argue with you and wait for whoever it was shooting at us to reload and shoot again. You’re crazy if you don't think this hurts, you know. I really don't want to find out what it’s like to be hit by two arrows, if you don't mind. So, I don't know what you’re about, but I promise you, you’ve never seen me before.”

She didn't wait for him to respond, but spun around to head back toward where they’d made camp. Maybe it wasn't too late to catch up with them and say to hell with any other clothing or shoes. If she froze to death, it might actually be preferable at this point.

But Boromir seemed to snap out of whatever trance he’d been in as he finally re-sheathed his sword. “No, my mistake and I apologize, Miss Emerson. Of course I’ve never seen you before. That would be madness.”

“Exactly. Now, let’s go. Maybe we can catch up with the others.”

He fell into step with her. “They are no doubt already on their way. And we need to venture into Marston. Perhaps there I can learn who lurks in these woods. It was most likely a hermit who does not take kindly to trespassers.”

“For possessive hermit, he gave up pretty easily. Three arrows and he didn't come to see if he’d gotten me?”

“Let’s be grateful he didn’t.” His gaze fell upon her shoulder. “We should get you to a doctor first. Then we can worry about the rest.”

“Do they have Vicodin here in Middle Earth?”

His brow knit. “I beg your pardon?”

She held his look for a long moment, then sighed, the heavy oppressive feeling fading as they made their way back to the road. “Never mind. I didn't think you did. But, I’m sure it’ll be okay. Your doctor will probably give me a bullet or wooden spoon to bite on if it needs to be stitched.”

“If it needs stitches, I’ll find you some brandy or whiskey. Would that help?”

Despite her discomfort, she nodded. “Yeah. I think it might.” 

“Then let’s move, in case the hermit decides to come back.”

A fire crackled softly and the hobbits were bedded down for the night. Gimli’s snores had softened since Aragorn thumped him solidly once or twice earlier. But, as he peered toward the fire’s glow, Boromir saw Emerson still awake, huddled by that fire, her knees drawn to her chest, her thick fall of black hair a tangled mess from a day spent hiking a dusty road, made worse when they had to force their way through the thicket that led to where they’d set up camp for the night. 

He felt sorry for her. She was out of place, and if she was to be believed, out of her time and had no idea what to make of anything going on around them. She was lost in all sense of the word, and for that, he wanted to help her in any way he—or they—could.

“It’s madness, Boromir. You will raise eyebrows and should anyone come asking, any village will remember seeing a girl dressed as this one, who might not think twice about talking.” Gandalf chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe. “The risk is far too great.”

“And what happens as the night grow colder? Autumn is slipping away and she cannot possibly travel in winter, dressed as she is now.” Boromir turned back toward both men. “As I said, I am not asking. I am telling you. We will pass Marston in the morning and I will take her to get something else to wear. I won’t ask you all to stop, since I doubt it would take us long to catch up to you on the road.”

“And if something should happen?”

“Carry on and we will still catch up in time.” Boromir shrugged. “She needs proper clothing. I’d rather not have her death on our hands. For all we know, she is the daughter of someone important. Do you want to explain how she succumbed to snow or something?”

Aragorn shot him a look. “If anything, she belongs in an asylum, what with her talk of being from another world. Being mad would explain so much.”

“Would it?” Gandalf interjected before Boromir could. Shaking his head, the wizard went on, “Have you ever seen anyone dressed the way she is? Mad or not, where would she have found those clothes? They are unlike anything I have ever seen in all the ages. No, as mad as it might seem, I think she speaks true.”

Boromir rubbed his forehead slowly, then lowered his hand. “I also doubt she’s mad. Talk to her, Aragorn, she is as sane as you or I.” He looked from him to Gandalf and added, “As you say, mad as it sounds, I also believe her. She seems far too certain of this place she calls New York, and speaks of it the way I speak of Minas Tirith or the hobbits would speak of the Shire. Hers are not the ramblings of a mad mind at all.”

Aragorn hardly looked convinced, but still, gave a slight tip of his head. “If you wish to take her, I’ve no argument. But, take care. Keep a careful watch.”

“Of course.” Boromir straightened and made his way from the others to sink beside Emerson. “Are you cold?”

She shook her head, even as she shivered. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. Every time I’ve asked, you’ve been fine, even when you shake from the cold.” He shifted to rummage through his pack, coming up with his rarely-worn woolen travel cloak, which he draped about her shoulders. “It’s fine to admit you’re cold, you know. I’ll not berate you for it.”

She didn't look at him, but instead stared at the flames crackling softly. In the pale gold light, she looked absolutely exhausted and more than a little lost. He couldn't fault her, if what she’d claimed was true. Lost could not possibly even begin to describe what she must have felt at that moment.

He had no reason to not believe her. She spoke of this place with such conviction, describing her city with a passion not unlike his own when it came to describing Minas Tirith. Plus, she really had nothing to gain by lying to them about it, crazy as her claims might sound. They traveled with nothing of value for a highwayman—er, highwaywoman—to take.

Have you forgotten me already? For shame.

Boromir ignored the tempting whisper. No, he hadn’t forgotten about the one valuable parcel Frodo carried. But she didn't care about the One Ring. Did she? 

No. Her eyes didn't track Frodo’s every movement. She didn't seem at all preoccupied with him. She just seemed… lost. And she’d herself said that what she knew of their quest had begun fading from her mind. 

Now, she caught the cloak’s edges to pull it tighter. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He looked from her to the fire and back, then added, “Come morning, you and I will go into Marston and find you some suitable clothes.”

“What’s Marston?”

“It’s a village not far from here and likely the last one we will pass for some time.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don't have my wallet and even if I did, I have the feeling none of your shops would take plastic.”

“Plastic?” Now it was his turn to offer up a hint of confusion. “What might that be?”

“You know, plastic. Credit cards. Debit cards. Amex. Visa.”

“Is plastic your time’s basis for money?”

That earned him a wan smile. “In some ways, yes.” A wry laugh bubbled to her lips. “We do a lot of banking electronically. Plastic is what credit and debit cards are made of, so that’s what we call them.”

“So, what is plastic?”

“It’s a… well, it’s actually… it’s—ah—something. I don't know how to describe it, but it’s like this.” She shifted onto one side to tug something from the back pocket of her odd trousers, and rocked back before wrestling to pry the two pieces apart. 

It took her several minutes, but then she said, “This!” and held up the outer shell of the small, rectangular machine she now balanced on her leg. “This is plastic.”

He took it from her. It was lightweight, and smooth, warm from being against her body, and had very little give to it. “What is it?”

“A phone case.” She held up the machine. “And this, in my world, is a cell phone. We use it for… well.. for everything, I guess. That,” she pointed to the case he held, “protects this if it’s dropped or falls out of your pocket.”

“This?” He turned over the case and traced his forefinger along the shell’s inside. It felt almost like soft flannel. “Is this how that comes?”

“No.” She held up the cell phone, whose glass screen reflected his face back at him, then she turned it over to show its steel back. “This is how a phone comes in its natural state. The case is always sold separately and not all cases are created equally. But this one,” she reached over to tap the one he held, “is one of the good ones because I’m a clod and I drop my phone more often than I really care to admit to.”

“Then perhaps you should put it back on.”

“Like it matters here. See?” She slid her fingertip from the bottom of the phone’s black screen to its top and he almost dropped the case he held when the screen lit up.

He stared at it for a long moment, for it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. He’d heard of elf magic, and of course Gandalf was a wizard of sorts, but he had the feeling this would entrance both elves and wizards as it did him.  “It works here?”

“Yes and no.” She tapped something into the screen and held it up once more. “See? No service. Otherwise, look.”

With that, she scrolled through and swept up along the screen more than once, then held up the phone yet again. This time, the screen held images of what looked like rectangular cards, each bearing a different name and last four digits on its front. “These are what would be plastic, if they weren’t saved to the phone. But it’s all moot, since they’re back in New York and I’m where cell service doesn’t even exist.”

He stared at the screen. “You can buy things with this?”

She nodded. “It’s quick and easy and utterly useless here.”

As she spoke, she reached to take the lightweight case from him and snapped it back over the phone, then tucked it back into her pocket. “So, while you’re probably right in that I’m really underdressed for this kind of quest, I’m afraid I’ll have to make do until I find some way to support myself.”

He smiled then. “Worry not about it, Miss Brooks. We can settle up at a later date.”

She just stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Settle up?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “There’s no need to worry about reimbursing me for now.”

“Just how am I to reimburse you, when I just told you, I’m broke?” Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re thinking about taking it out in trade, you’ve got another think coming, buddy.”

“In trade?” He held her gaze, even as hints of anger crept into her pale eyes. “What sort of trade are you in? You just said you’ve no way to support yourself.”

“Wait… you mean I think an actual trade? Like carpentry or pipefitting? That kind of trade?” She rolled her eyes. “No, I mean the world’s oldest profession kind of trade. You know, you and me in a room that rents by the hour.”

Now it was his turn to stare as her words sank in, then, he shook his head. “No! That’s not what I was thinking at all. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“Because—well, let’s just say it’s not all that uncommon an occurrence.” She sighed then, raking her fingers through her hair, which seemed only to serve to make it curlier than it had been. 

“Well, worry not, because I am not about to ask you to take it out in trade.” 

“Good, because I’d rather freeze somewhere.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Might we try this again? And trust me, I offer no offense to you or to your more delicate sensibilities.”

For some reason, that earned him a smile and while he didn't understand why she found those words amusing, he was only glad she didn't take offense to them. Relief swept through him as she replied, “I think that would be a fine idea.”

“Good. Now, come tomorrow, we will find you more suitable clothing and when the time comes you have some kind of income, we can discuss repayment. But for now, consider it a gift.”

“Which I would absolutely appreciate and will fully repay,” she hesitated, “once I have something to pay you back with.”

He held out his hand. “A deal, then?”

She took it firmly and pumped his arm. “A deal.”

“Good. Now, tell me more about this place you call home. And tell me more about this plastic? It’s an interesting idea.”

****

If anyone back home could see me now.

Emerson almost smiled. No one who knew her would ever believe their eyes if they saw her there, sitting by a campfire. She’d only ever gone camping once in her life and that was more than enough for her to know she never wanted to do it again. 

Of course, she really didn't have a choice now, and while she still wasn't entirely sure this wasn't a dream, she also wasn’t entirely sure that it was, either. It certainly felt real enough. Besides, she couldn't recall ever having a dream this vivid and realistic, down to the cozy smell of the campfire itself, crackling merrily to keep her and Boromir warm, even while the others bedded down, one by one. 

She glanced over at him. He stared at the flames, hints of shadows beneath his eyes, and she wondered how long they had all been traveling when she crossed paths with them. As the minutes and hours passed, her knowledge of their story faded, so she couldn't remember when they left Rivendell. She was only certain they had left Rivendell because she’d overheard Gandalf saying something about Elrond and his realm. 

And Boromir looked as if he’d been traveling this way for some time now. His clothes—heavy woolen trousers, a burgundy woolen tunic embroidered with silvery white thread beneath a deep blue leather overcoat of sorts—were dusty and looked as if he’d slept in them on more than one occasion in recent history. His honey-gold hair was on the shaggy side and his goatee was somewhat neat, but she could see the stubble shadowing his cheeks as well. 

In fact, they all looked as if they’d been on the move for quite some time now, and all except Boromir were fast asleep. Every now and again, Gimli snorted, but that was the only sound aside from the gentle crackle and pop of the fire.

She hesitated, then broke the silence with a soft, “I appreciate the loan.”

He jumped, as if he’d forgotten she sat right beside him. Well, she had been quiet for most of the evening, but still… 

But then he caught himself. “There is no need to thank me. It’s cold at night and you were shivering.”

“Even so, I do appreciate it.”

He bobbed his head. “Of course.”

“So, where is this Marston? How far is it?”

“Not quite a league.”

“A league?” The term sounded somewhat familiar and brought her back to a book she’d read as a child, involving seven-league boots and two girls who wore them. If memory served, one step with those boots brought the girls over twenty miles from where they’d begun. “So, about three miles?”

“About that, yes.” He offered up a slightly sheepish grin. “I didn't know if you would know what a mile was.”

That grin unexpectedly twisted her insides and she couldn’t help but return that grin. “But you thought I’d know what al league was?”

“I stood a fifty-fifty chance.”

Without thinking, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re lucky I knew what a league was. I haven’t thought about it since I was a kid. But for future reference, I do know what miles are.”

“Did you travel much?”

“No,” she shook her head, “but I read everything I could get my hands on and I read about a pair of seven-league boots once.”

At his puzzled look, she explained what she remembered of the story, then nudged him again when his eyes suddenly brightened and he nodded. “I see… a pair of those boots would come in handy now.”

“To get to Moria? They really would.” A sigh came to her lips, bringing with it a tiredness she hadn’t felt since college and as she exhaled softly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. She didn't know why she did it, only that it felt right to do. “I feel like I’ve already traveled to the moon and back and it’s probably not even nine o’clock.”

“So sleep then,” he told her, gesturing to the bedroll they had all cobbled together for her use. “I’ve got the first watch, but I won’t mind.”

As he lowered his arm, she marveled at the way the thick band of muscle about his biceps and shoulder bunched and smoothed with his movement, and made her acutely aware of how tiny she was compared to him. He was nearly six feet tall, and judging by that one rounded shoulder, mostly muscle. Which made sense, since he was a warrior. Somehow, she didn't think he had much leisure time in which he could be lazy. 

She smothered a yawn. As appealing as the idea of sleep was, she was not one who enjoyed camping out and sleeping on the ground was usually a dealbreaker. But, she certainly couldn't tell Boromir that. Never mind she was pretty comfortable right where she was, with her head resting against him. And since he didn't seem to mind, either…

She hadn’t meant to stiffen, but the thoughts surprised her. He must’ve felt her sudden tension, as he asked, “Are you all right?”

Heat swirled through her as she slowly drew away from him to sit upright. “I’m fine. Just… a little nervous about sleeping outside tonight. That’s all.”

“You’ve nothing to fear. Should there be any trouble, I’ll see it long before it reaches us.”

“I know that’s supposed to make me feel better, but I have to be honest, I’m still nervous.”

“Worry not and just close your eyes. You’ll get used to it in no time.”

She glanced over at the bedroll they’d all sacrificed something for, in order to give her a placed to bed down as well. She certainly didn’t want to seem ungrateful, and for such a babyish reason like she was too damn chicken to camp out. Orcs were out there, somewhere, and while she’d never seen one, she had the feeling she didn't want to see any of them, not to mention, the thought of being awakened to a warning cry about them was definitely not conducive to being able to fall asleep quickly or easily. 

“Easy for you to say,” she told him, turning back to him. “You’re not the same kind of weenie I am. Do you know how long it’s been since I camped out? Years. Eons. It’s been forever. I mean, look at me. Do I look like a camping-out person?”

Without even glancing her way, he replied, “You do not.”

“No, I don’t. Because I’m not. And you want to know the truth?” She didn't wait for a response, but barreled on, “I’m scared to death to be sleeping out in the open like this. I know there’s something out there, but now I can’t remember what that something is, and I know something is probably watching us, but guess what? I can’t remem—”

“Saruman,” he interrupted softly.

“What?”

“He’s who’s watching us.”

“Saruman…” The name sounded vaguely familiar to her. Damn it, she wished she could remember the Fellowship’s story, but it was even foggier now, like a childhood memory she couldn't quite see in its entirety. And the harder she tried to remember, the more difficult it became. 

She reached up to rub her forehead. “I really just wish I could go home. Back to New York. Back to the things I know and can remember. And not only do I not know how to make that possible, I don't even know if it will even happen. Ever.”

To her horror, her throat squeezed shut and her eyes stung with unexpected tears. That was the worst part of this whole mess. She had no idea how she fell into this world and no idea how to fall back out of it and return to her own. She was trapped here—alone, no money, no means of supporting herself, no friends and no fam—well, no friends—and in the middle of an absolute mess that she knew nothing about.

Boromir eased his arm about her shoulders, gently pulling her against him. “I cannot imagine what you must be feeling, but know that we will help you if we can, once we’ve finished what needs be done. And I know that is hardly comforting now, but it will happen.”

She sighed softly, letting her stinging eyes close for a long moment while she gathered her thoughts, which were scattering in a thousand directions. A hint of hopefulness mingled with her sense of utter, uncomfortable helplessness and for that moment, his comfort was just that and she savored, even managing a smile as he gave her a gentle squeeze. All things considered, this could be far worse than it was, really. After all, she could be there alone.

With that, she opened her eyes and slowly pulled away. “I should at least try to get some sleep. And I know I already know the answer, but would you rather get some sleep yourself and let me sit up?”

As she expected, the look he gave her was equal parts amused and incredulous, and he shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Brooks. Get some rest.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s what you’d say.” She rose with a only a slight wince as her feet and legs let her know how they felt about her hiking over so great a distance, and made her way over to her bedroll. As she settled in for the night, she glanced over at Boromir, burnished gold by the firelight, his expression almost grim. All in all, if she had to be stranded in a foreign world, she could have fared a lot worse than being stranded in this one. So with that, she let her heavy eyelids slide shut, and she drifted off to sleep. 

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But, no matter what she did, no apps loaded. When she tried to call Ty, absolutely nothing happened. The only thing that worked was the music already downloaded to the phone, and icy dread poured into her as she tried each app on all three screens, only to find not a damn one of them did anything.

“This can’t be happening,” she muttered, closing out the last of the open apps. A sharp pain speared through her temples, and for a long, horrifying moment, she thought she might be sick. Her knees gave, and she sank to them slowly, the phone dropping to the dirt beside her. 

“No…” she whispered, shaking her head as she stared down at the reddish-brown dirt underneath her. “This isn’t happening… it just… it can’t be… How did any of this happen? I could I have possibly ended up here?”

She lifted her head. The others had vanished from sight and as she stared at the narrow, empty, dusty road, the sense of being completely alone nearly overwhelmed her. How did she get back to New York? Back to Farran’s? Back to where she belonged?

Tears clouded her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she muttered, “Knock it off, you dolt. Sitting here crying is not going to help you.”

She rocked back and stood, then jammed the useless phone back into her pocket. The ominous noises behind her seemed to grow louder, so she took off down the road as fast as her legs could carry her. She didn't care about her roiling gut, or her head, or anything but getting to the group of armed and trained men up ahead of her. Somehow, she had to convince them to let her stay with them. At least, until she figured out how she might get home. 

Her sense of urgency grew impossible to ignore. She burst into a run and sprinted around the bend in the road, her eyes filling with tears of relief as the Fellowship then came into view. They’d gotten farther away than she’d anticipated, and by the time she was thundering down on them, her lungs burned and her vision swam.

“Wait!” The word burst free on its own, breathless to her but it must have carried on the wind, for to her relief, they all stopped and spun toward her, almost as one unit. 

She didn't stop running until she’d reached them. Her head spun, much like it had just before she’d passed out in Farran’s, and her lungs still burned as she struggled to drag in air. Bending at the waist, she braced her hands on her thighs. “Thank… you… for-for… st—stopping…”

“What do you run from?”

She didn't see who’d said it, but it sounded like Gandalf, so he was the one she peered up at as she panted, “Sounds…”

“Sounds?” Gimli stepped up. Up close, he wasn’t quite her height, but rather would come to about her shoulder if she was standing upright, and seemed to be buried in a tangled mess of dark coppery hair that grew into his equally bushy coppery beard. Still, he was broad and carried his weapon as if it weighed nothing. “What sort of sounds?”

The burning in her lungs slowly abated as she drew in a last, long breath, and exhaled heavily. Finally, she was able to straighten up, and did so with a soft groan. I don't know, but they gave me a bad feeling, so I didn't think it’d be a good idea to stick around and find out.”

“You speak so strangely,” Gandalf replied slowly. “Where is it you call home?”

Resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder, she forced herself to hold his gaze. “A place called New York City. I originally came from across the river, in New Jersey. Now? I guess I don't call any place home.”

She looked from him, to Boromir and Aragorn. “Could I tag along with you guys, maybe? I mean, I don't know how to fight, and I’m not much one for roughing it, but… I have to tell you, the thought of just staying right here, completely alone? It scares the shit out of me.”

“Do you know what you ask?” Aragorn asked, his brow furrowing. “We are not on a sightseeing trip, you know.”

“I know,” she told him with a slight nod. “Trust me, I’m well aware of what you’re doing. I know you think I’m nuts, but I promise you, I’m not. I’m just… I’m just a little scared and a little freaked out and I know you don't know me, but I know you all. And I promise you, you can trust me.”

“You keep saying you know us,” he said. “But I do not understand how.”

“Yeah, I know. It sounds crazy even to me.” She tucked a lock of her hair back behind her ear as the wind picked up and it blew in her face to annoy her. It was too bad she hadn’t been holding her purse when she’d passed out. She had both a hair tie and a clip in it and either one would be welcome right about now. Her hair in her face drove her nuts. “And I’m not sure how to explain it without sounding like I’m crazy. And actually, I’m better with the book version of this story, although I do know the movies, but it’s just that I haven’t seen the movies in a while and they are kind of fuzzy in my mind right now. Although now that I think about about it, the books are also a little fuzzy, but maybe I’m just tired, so who knows—”

Boromir held up one hand. “Do you always ramble on so?”

“Usually? No.” Heat stung her cheeks and without thinking, she tucked that same lock back behind her ear. “But, when I’m nervous? Yeah. Sorry.”

The low rumble reached their ears at the same time and Boromir slid his sword free. “We should keep moving. I’d rather take on another body than deal with what might be coming.”

“Agreed.” A paternal smile accompanied Gandalf’s words and while he didn't look exactly thrilled at the prospect, Aragorn nodded, as did Gimli and all four hobbits. 

Relief swept through her as the group began moving once more, and for the first time since she opened her eyes in the weeds just off a rutted road in Middle Earth, Emerson relaxed. She still had no idea how to get home, but at least they weren’t leaving her to her own devices out here. 

Considering how many of them made up the Fellowship, they moved fairly quietly. Each one no doubt lost in their own heads. As they traveled down the road, she tried to remember exactly what happened in the book or in the movies, but the funny thing was, she found she couldn't quite recall either. Like, she knew she should know certain things, but for some reason, couldn’t recall it in that moment. All she could remember was they had to find their way to Mordor and destroy the Ring. 

She frowned as she struggled to remember something—anything—from the books she loved so much, only to feel no more than the beginnings of another headache. Why couldn't she remember, though? That made no sense to her. Why was she there, if only to fumble her way through the quest with them? And there was no one else she could ask, since her new friends were only just starting out on this damn journey themselves. They had no idea what awaited them and while she did know, at least back in New York, she couldn't help them at all.

“Do you really believe you come from someplace called New York?”

She started at the unexpected question, and looked up to see Boromir had fallen into step alongside her. “It’s not something I believe. It just is. I am from New York and I get why you think I’m making it up, but I promise you, I’m not. And I don't know why or how I ended up here any more than any of you do. But, I do appreciate you not leaving me to rot back there.”

“What did you see back there?”

“Nothing. I just heard it and felt it, I guess.” She met his sidelong gaze. “It’s tough to explain.  And I didn't like the way it felt, so I was really hoping you guys wouldn’t mind my joining you.”

“Are you up to this journey, though?” 

“I guess we’ll find out.”

He hardly looked convinced. “This is not a quest for one to find out whether or not they’re up to it.”

“I know. Trust me, I know just how serious this quest is, how important it is.” 

“So you’ve said.” His eyes narrowed before he turned back toward the road. “But you’ll forgive me if I don't believe you.”

“Well, yeah… I totally will.” She nodded slowly, her gaze going to the others ahead of them. She didn't know if they could hear her, but she also didn't really care if they could, either. “Because I can’t blame any of you for thinking I’m full of it. I’d think the same thing.”

“Full of it?”

“You know, making it up, lying, full of nonsense.” 

He glanced back at her, a slight grin playing at his lips. “So, I do suppose I think you’re… full of it.”

“I know you do. And it’s okay. Like I said, I’d think so, too. Especially now.”

“Why now?”

“Well, it’s the weirdest thing,” she hesitated, slowing her pace until she only barely moved, “but it seems to have gone fuzzy in my mind. And as the time passes, it gets fuzzier still. Like I said, I’ve read the books, I’ve seen the movies, but with each minute that goes by, it’s like I can’t remember them so clearly, you know?”

“So,” he met her pace, the gap between them and the rest of the group widening, “you claim you know who we are and what we’re doing, and now you’re also claiming you don't remember it? Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Rather annoying, that’s what I’d say. I don't like it, because at least when I remembered it, I could warn you all if there was any trouble ahead of us. Now?” She shrugged. “It’s like I don't know any more about this than you guys do. I can’t help you with it at all.”

“I think it safe to say we need no help from a witch.”

“A witch?” She had to be tired, for that made her chuckle. No one had ever accused her of being a witch before. “I’m hardly a witch. Look at me, do I look like I can do anything magical?”

To her surprise, he offered up a slow, up-and-down perusal of her, one that sent an unexpected ribbon of heat unfurling through her. Especially when his eyes seemed to darken ever so slightly as they slid over her. “No, actually,” he said at last. “I doubt you are capable of much.”

She scowled at him. “Thanks.”

“Look at it this way, at least you’ve no worries about being burned at the stake.”

“Wait… Is that even a possibility?” She stopped dead in her tracks. It was one thing for him to accuse her of being a witch there, when they were alone on this abandoned road. But what if someone else took the same thoughts into their head, and did so around others? Somehow, she didn't think it would be something taken lightly in this strange world. “Do you really think someone might take me for a witch?”

“It’s possible.” He kept moving, apparently oblivious to the fact that she’d stopped. “But I wouldn’t worry about it right now. Our worries are far greater.”

“Sure they are. It wouldn’t be your neck on the line.” 

Now, he paused. Peering over his shoulder, he offered up a slight grin. “You should probably keep up, unless you’d rather be left behind.”

“You kind of suck,” she called, moving once more, “do you know that?”

She hurried to close the gap between them, only slightly out of breath as she slowed alongside him. As she did, he replied, “I made you move, though, didn't I?”

“Yeah, because you suck.”

“Keep up.” He gestured to the sun, sinking toward the horizon to spread dark gold and pink streaks across the sky. “It will night soon and you do not want to be alone on this road then.”

“So, where are we heading, then? Please tell me a village or an inn or something like that?”

“Hardly. Although,” he sighed softly, “we probably will have to find somewhere where you might find warmer clothes, a traveling cloak,” he glanced down at her dark green Chuck Taylors, “and perhaps a sturdier pair of boots.”

“Sorry. If I’d known I was going to be zapped into Middle Earth, I’d have made sure to be wearing my Timberland boots.”

“I haven’t a clue what they are, but I gather they’d be better suited than what you’re currently wearing.”

She glanced down. The Chucks weren’t new, but they looked even older now, caked with the reddish brown dust that swirled up from the road with almost every step and definitely with the slightest of breezes. “Does it get cold here at night?”

“It does, yes.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I kind of wish I’d landed here in the summer.”

That earned her a grin. “When it’s hot and sticky?”

“Spring, then.”

Now, he chuckled. “Worry not. We will find you something, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, but how am I paying for it? My wallet is back in New York, sitting in desk drawer that I hope no one opens while I’m gone. The last thing I need when I get home is to find out someone had a field day with my credit cards.” She sighed softly, a new weariness creeping over her. She was so very tired all of the sudden, and wanted only to curl up in a ball right there, close her eyes, and just lose herself in a dream.

Unfortunately, that was not about to happen. She had to find some way to survive in this strange and dangerous world without money, without any form of identification and the possibility of people thinking she was a witch. Sigh. If anyone had ever asked her what she thought it would be like to find herself in The Lord of the Rings, this was not how she’d imagined it. Not even remotely close to what she’d have imagined.

To her surprise, Boromir’s hand curved against her shoulder. “Worry not about that, as well, Miss Emerson.”

Before she could say anything, he lifted his hand and said, “Now, hurry it up before we both end up out here in the dark,” and quickened his pace to catch up to the others, leaving her no choice but to do the same. Her questions would wait. The group, however, would not.  

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He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the Ring itself, but it was nearly impossible. He found if he put more distance between it and himself, the whispers were almost inaudible, and so he preferred to bring up the rear. It was more peaceful for him, in more ways than one.

The weather was on their side—blue sky with puffy white clouds rolling over head, the last vestiges of summer had finally begun giving way to autumn, which meant the days were warm, but the nights came crisp and cool. For one who’d spend the better part of his life in service to his country in its army, sleeping on the ground in all kinds of weather, during all seasons of the year, Boromir had no trouble acclimating himself to any terrain in any weather. But, given the choice, autumn was his favorite time. 

A cloud bank passed before the sun, casting them into shadow and that was when he saw the shape in the distance. At first, he thought it was an animal of some sorts, a deer perhaps, felled by a hunter.

But there did not seem to be another soul around aside from the fellowship. Without taking his eyes off the lump down the road, Boromir reached out to catch Aragorn’s forearm, growling, “Stop,” as he did.

“What?”

“Up ahead and to the left.”

Aragorn slowed, rumbling, “Everyone, wait.”

The others did as they were bid, with Gandalf turning to Aragorn. “Why do we stop?”

“There is something just off the road ahead. It’s probably no more than someone’s game, but even so—”

Boromir eased his sword from the scabbard at his left side and skirted the others. “I’ll take a look.”

He moved along the road without a sound. The shape did not stir. He peered skyward, searching for any carrion birds that would give a hint as to whether or not whatever lay in the weeds was dead or dying. But the only things overhead were those puffy white clouds. 

As he drew nearer, a hint of relief swirled through him. This was no wounded animal or prey.

It was a girl. A girl dressed in the strangest clothes he’d ever seen—form fitting trousers, odd-looking boots, a tunic that looked to be a size or two too large for her. She lay sprawled on her stomach, her untethered dark hair spilled all around her. 

She let out a low moan, and stirred, easing onto her back with a wince. He straightened up, but remained where he stood, over her, his sword still raised as her eyelids fluttered, then rose.

She stared up at him with puzzled pale eyes, her gaze sliding quickly from him to the blade he held. Those pale eyes widened, and without warning, she bolted up and away from him. “Who the hell are you?”

“I might ask you the same,” he replied.

She looked wildly about, her gaze daring here and there as she stumbled backward. “Just… just leave me alone, okay? I—is that a sword?”

“I’ll not ask you again.”

“Please,” she backed up against one of several large boulders that lay just off the road, “I just—I don’t…”

She sagged against the rock, her eyes closing, and without thinking, he let his sword fall to the ground as he dashed toward her and caught her about the waist as her knees crumpled.

He scooped her against him, lifting her easily as she was surprisingly light. She didn't fight him, her head coming to rest against his chest as she whispered, “I don’t feel so good…”

“Who are you?” 

“I don’t… I mean… I need to sit down before I barf.”

“Barf?”

“You know,” she looked up at him, “throw up. Hurl. Vomit. Have a reversal of fortune. Take your pick.”

Her sentence must have sapped her of what strength she had, for she let her eyes close once more and her head came back to rest against his chest. He gently knelt, and let her come to rest on the dry, brown grass, which crunched beneath her weight. 

“Boromir?”

He looked up at Aragorn. “I don't know who she is, but I don't think she is a threat.”

“We don’t know that she isn’t, though.”

“We outnumber her.”

“She can hear you,” the girl muttered. “And all she wants to know is where the hell she is.”

Emerson tried to force her eyelids to rise, but they were so damn stubborn and refused to obey. Her head also ached, worse than anything she’d ever felt before. Her stomach was no better, roiling and bubbling so badly, she was terrified she would throw up right there.

Wherever right there was.

The warm breeze skittered across her cheek, taking away some of the nausea radiating through her. If only her head would clear. Then maybe she could figure out just what the hell had happened. Where was the bookshop? Where were the customers? 

Where was New York?

Where was she?

Her stomach clenched, a sour taste rising in her mouth. She swallowed hard against it and as her head finally began to clear, she realized she stared up at a pale blue sky, with puffy white clouds rolling across it. She also realized she wasn't lying on the carpet inside Farran’s. 

“Where am I?”

She didn't mean for it to come out as a whisper, but it was all she could manage. She shifted, trying to sit up, but the sudden clench in her belly had her sinking back against the man who’d kept her from hitting the ground.

Now her eyes opened. “Never mind that, who are you?”

As she spoke, she shoved away from him, scrambling across the dirt and weeds to put as much space between him and her as possible. “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

He stumbled back, but regained his balance, holding out a hand as he said, “Easy, my lady. No harm will come to you.” 

“Who are you?” She looked from him to the others she’d only just noticed. Apprehension gnawed at her insides as she looked from the gaunt old man with the long gray hair and beard, to the elegant, almost pretty, blond elf, to the small red-haired man in armor, to the even smaller men who all stood staring back at her. 

“Who are you?” The man who’d held her countered, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And where have you come from? There was no one on this road not fifteen minutes ago.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don't know how I ended up here on this…” She looked down the winding road, her heart beating faster once more. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. There’s got to be a logical reason for what’s going on, for what’s happening. 

There had to be. Even if it was simply that she’d lost her fool mind. 

The man’s eyes grew colder still and his expression tightened as his hands came to rest on the sword at his hip. “Who are you?”

Her mouth went dry as she tried not to stare at that enormous sword. “I… that is… my name… I mean…”

“It isn’t a trick question,” he replied, his voice stern but not as cold as his pale blue eyes. “What is your name?”

She swallowed hard. Her name. What was her damn name? 

“Emerson.” She blurted it out as if she’d just suddenly remembered it. Which, of course, she had.

“Now we are getting somewhere, Miss Emerson.”

“No,” she shook her head, “Emerson is my first name.”

She looked from him to the others. “I answered your question, now please answer mine. Where am I?”

“The road leading to Rhudaur.”

“Leading to…” Her voice trailed off as she stared back at him. “You mean, like in the Lord of the Rings? That Rhudaur?”

His brow furrowed. “Lord of the Rings? What might that be?”

“What might—it’s a book—well, actually is a trilogy of books. About the One Ring and the quest to destroy it. How can you have never heard of it? If I didn't know any better, I’d swear you all were Lord of the Rings cosplayers.”

“Cosplayers? What does that mean?”

“It means… oh, stop! You know what it means. Now,” she looked at each one down the line, “tell me who you are and how you got me out of my shop into the middle of nowhere?”

“My lady,” the one who’d been holding her stepped closer, “we really do need to keep moving, so if you’ll but tell us where you were going—”

“Oh, no. You aren’t getting out of this that easily. I was on Tenth Avenue in New York City not fifteen minutes ago—or I think it was only fifteen minutes—and now, you want me to believe I’m on the road leading toward Mordor. So, I think the the least you can do is tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“Mordor.” The man’s brow furrowed and his sword sang as he drew it once more to hold it out toward her, which made her already-racing heart not only skip a painful beat, but race even harder now. “How do you know of Mordor?”

She’d once been mugged, when she’d first moved to New York, and the utter terror she’d felt in that moment was nothing compared to what she felt at this moment, staring at the glinting point of a finely honed sword, then swallowed hard and met his eyes. “Because I’ve read the books.”

“Books?” The old man shook his head. “What books? What are you talking about?”

She looked over at him for a split second before her gaze went back to the sword and the man she assumed was Boromir. His coloring was off, as Tolkien’s Boromir was tall and broad, with black hair and gray eyes, and this man wasn’t quite the six-feet, four inches that book Boromir was. And although his shoulders were broad and his chest wide, his eyes were a greenish-blue instead of gray and his hair was a reddish brown instead of black. However, his demeanor suggested he was Boromir just the same. 

“I’m talking about Tolkien’s trilogy. You, Gandalf, are leading them to Mordor where you, Frodo—” she glanced at the clump of hobbits—“will destroy the One Ring. See? I know who you are and I know where you are going, although I doubt there really is One Ring since it’s fiction, but if there was One Ring, and Mordor was real, I’ve no doubt—”

“Enough!” Boromir’s voice rang out and she clamped her mouth shut at the thunder in his voice and the darkness rolling into his eyes. “No one outside of this group, and the elves of Rivendell, know our quest. Who are you and who do you serve?”

Her blood roared through her temples, thundered in her ears, and her mouth went almost painfully dry as she whispered, “I told you. I’m Emerson and I serve no one. Well… that’s not exactly true, as Hillebrand and Ange are my bosses. At least they are until Monday, when Brody takes—”

“I’ve heard enough.” Boromir’s voice grew hot as he stepped closer. “Who told you we would be here and how did they know? And I will suggest you not ramble on, but instead answer the question.”

“Boromir,” the other man in the group, the one she now assumed was Aragorn, stepped up, pushing Boromir’s blade down with his hand, “I think perhaps we should just move on.”

“And if she follows?”

“I doubt she will.”

“You don't know that.”

“She’s standing right here, you know,” Emerson broke , “and you haven’t told me where I am, so you’re nuts if you think I’m just going to let you leave me here.”

Both Boromir and Aragorn turned toward her, their eyes wide and their jaws’ slightly slack. Both looked more than a little disheveled from traveling, but Aragorn also looked like he could use a good scrubbing in a hot shower. 

When neither one spoke, she waved her hand at them. “Hi, remember me? You brought me here and now you’re going to just leave me here?”

“No one brought you here,” Aragorn told her. “You were here when we arrived.”

Her stomach twisted with frustration over their refusal to give over and tell her exactly why they’d decided to play this godawful prank on her, who had put them up to it, and when they planned to bring her back to Farran’s. “Why would I be here when I live in New York? I don’t even know where here is!”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Boromir replied, glancing at Aragorn, then at Gandalf, “and we need move on.”

She waited to see if one of the others would speak up on her behalf, but they remained silent, although the stockiest of the four hobbits did offer up a sheepish look as they began moving past her. 

No. This is not happening.

There was no way possible this was her reality. It had to be some weird-ass dream and any moment, she would wake up, just like she did in the dreams where she was free-falling and woke up just before she slammed into the ground. 

Okay, it’s time to wake up, brain. 

Any time now.

Now would be a great time, brain.

Damn it!

“Wake up, you dolt,” she growled, her jaw aching as she clenched her teeth so hard, she wouldn’t be surprised to see them shatter.

Still, nothing changed. She didn't suddenly bursting back into the present, sitting up with a gasp like they always did in movies. Nothing around her changed. She was still on the dusty road, surrounded by hills and mountains, scrub grass and weeds. Only now, she turned to her left to see that the Fellowship had moved on, down that dusty, rutted road, oblivious to the fact that they were simply abandoning her in the middle of nowhere, and she had no idea how to get home. She had no idea where she was, or how she found her way there, and now, they were just leaving her.

To fulfill a quest that existed only in a book. 

Didn't it?

The sun beat down on her as she watched the group round a curve and one by one, disappear from sight. On their way to fulfill a quest. One that only existed in a book.

The silence grew thicker. There came no hint of breeze. No chirping of birds. The air held isolation and loneliness in its arms. 

What if she wasn't in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in upstate New York or in New Jersey. 

Was it even possible that she might actually be in the story?

No. That was crazy. People didn't just fall into books. 

In the distance, coming from behind her, she heard a low, faint but ominous rumble. She knew what tracked this group of travelers and she knew she did not want to still be standing there when those trackers reached this clearing.

She glanced in the direction from which they’d come, and then in the direction they’d gone, and as the rumble grew louder, she took off down the rutted road after them. 

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She looked up at Ty Addams, who was bringing up another carton of books—these non-fiction to be displayed on the next table over. It was Tuesday. New Release Day. And until that moment, she paid little attention to what James Patterson wrote, since there seemed to be no end to the number of novels with both his name and a co-author’s name on the cover. She’d stopped reading his Cross novels years ago. Besides, by the time she came in most days, the new releases were already arranged on the table, waiting to grab the attention of each and every warm body the moment they stepped into Farran’s.

Until that morning, the bookstore on Tenth Street in Greenwich Village was one of her favorite places on Earth and had been ever since she was a dorky little nine-year-old with glasses, frizzy hair, and eyeteeth so prominent, she used to tell people she was a vampire before baring said teeth as if she was about to go for the jugular. Not her finest moments, to be sure, as it just made people think she was weird instead of a vampire. 

But at Farran’s, it didn't matter. She could always find a book in which she could lose herself and forget, even if only for a few hours, that she was the weird kid. She’d gotten her first and only job there when she was fifteen, and after ten years—with breaks off for college and grad school—Angelina had finally decided to retire, which meant her job as store manager would finally be up for grabs. Considering she’d spent ten years—with those breaks off for college and grad school—working there and learning everything she could about running the place, Emerson figured she’d be a shoe-in for the job. 

“Over-qualified,” she slammed down another book, “do you believe that crap, Ty? Hillebrand told me I was too qualified to do Ange’s job.”

Ty’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Thud! Another Patterson hit the pile that grew messier by the second. “Do I look like I’m kidding? I came in early for this meeting, only to be told that they’re giving the job to someone else.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit, Em.”

“Yeah, I know.” She snatched another Patterson from the box, gesturing at him with it as she added, “And that’s not even the best part. Guess who that someone else is?”

The Patterson hit the stack, slid across the pile, and toppled to the floor as Ty said, “Do I want to know?”

“Brody. They gave it to Brody, of all people.”

Ty crouched to swipe the novel from the floor, but froze halfway back up. “Are you kidding?”

For the second time that morning, she shot him a long look. “Ty, you did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, right.” He straightened and set about neatening up her pile of books. “Sorry. Stupid question. But really, he’s an ass.”

“So much an ass,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping as she ignored the carton and helped him fix her mess. “I should’ve seen it coming, though. He is Ange’s nephew.”

“Yeah, but he’s an idiot.” Ty handed her the last book from the table, then skirted her to go back to the carton. “I mean, when he reads, his lips move. I’m surprised he finds his way home on his own every night.”

“Right?” Emerson leaned against the heavy oak table. “I can’t believe how much this sucks. I was counting on that job, you know? The money would have been nice. The benefits would have been awesome. And I’d be surrounded by books. What more could I want? And you know what really sucks? I had some great ideas for displays, for promotional things, for author signings.”

With that, she looked around at the all-too-familiar surroundings. Farran’s Bookseller took up a large portion of its block, and to her, it always felt like she’d stepped back into a time long gone by, with its brass door handles and the old-fashioned lettering on the green and gold awnings. The air was fragrant with the wonderful hints of ink and paper and old leather, and small overhead lamps with shades of multicolored glass, lit the shop’s interior to give it a soft and welcoming feel. She’d loved coming to Farran’s as a kid, as a teen, and as an adult and to have come so close to running it, only to have the rug pulled out from under her was like being punched in the stomach. 

“Talk to Jimmy, make your case. Maybe he’ll be able to talk Angelina into changing her mind.”

“They’ve already left for the weekend. Said they had a plane to catch and that I should show Brody the ropes. Nice, huh? First, they screw me over for the job, then they expect me to teach Brody how to do what was supposed to be my job.”

“I can stay, if you need me to.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Besides, don’t you have a life this weekend?”

“Yeah. Me and Katie are going skiing this weekend up at Stowe.”

Emerson glanced down at her watch. “You should probably get going, then. You’ll hit all kinds of traffic otherwise.”

“You sure, Em? I don’t mind staying.”

“Katie will kill you and I don't want that on my conscience,” she told him, shaking her head. “So, go and have fun. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Are you sure?”

She brandished the last Patterson at him. “If you ask me that again, I’ll clobber you with this. Or worse, I’ll make you read it.”

“Okay, okay.” Ty stepped back, hands held up, palms out. “You win. I’ll go.”

“Good. Have fun and I’ll see you next week.”

He was still laughing as he made his way toward the back of the shop to gather his things from the break room, while she turned back to finish the display. She didn't want to think about how close she’d come to getting that job, didn't want to think about now not only was the job not hers, but she’d have to take orders from someone she’d have to train. Unreal. 

After Ty left, and she was alone in the shop, Emerson finished up the display, then moved to the fantasy section, which was one of her favorite parts of Farran’s. Angelina had inherited the shop when her parents retired back in the late eighties and she had brought her love of all things fantasy to the business, which she and her husband Jimmy ran. The shop was divided by fiction and nonfiction, and then by genre, and each fiction section had been given its own motif. Fantasy had been Angelina’s love, and that showed in the way that section had been laid out—the shelves of heavy, dark wood, delicate trellis and archways set at each end cap for that aisle, larger-than-life wooden cutouts of characters and authors alike all combined to create an air that was mystical and magical in feeling. And Emerson had planned on bringing some new life to each section, and when she’d broached Angelina with her ideas, Angelina hadn’t let on she was planning to step down, and she certainly gave no indication that she planned on giving her nephew the position.

A hint of cinnamon and cloves hung in the air, carried over from the coffee bar tucked in the shop’s far back corner. It mingled perfectly with the scents of old paper and ink, of leather and glue, and whenever she thought about what changes Brody might make…

No, don't do that to yourself.

Maybe it was time to begin looking elsewhere. She certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her life answering to Brody of all people. Maybe the time had come to move on. 

She bit back a sigh as she straightened up a section of CS Lewis novels. The headache snuck up on her, and when she straightened up, she actually stumbled from the blinding pain that shot through her temples. It had her staggering backwards to knock into another set of shelves. Squeezing her eyes closed, she reached up to rub her forehead, the cinnamon and clove smell growing stronger and heavier by the second. 

Her stomach lurched. Her head spun. A soft ringing echoed inside her skull, louder with each beat of her heart. Horror bit into her when she realized she was about to pass out. 

The room swam all around her. The buzzing in her head grew louder. She stumbled forward, then blackness sped toward her and she never even felt the floor as it rushed up to meet her. 

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He paused beside the large painting of the depiction of Isildur cutting the ring from Sauron’s hand. The air around him seemed to buzz, but he couldn't figure out where such buzzing might be coming from. 

No matter. He had no need to remain there, in that library, with its shelves of thick, leather-bound tomes. While the air in Rivendell itself was clear and clean and sweet, here, in this library, it held hints of mustiness, traces of mildew, and something else he couldn't quite place. 

He had come to Rivendell at his father’s direction, and the task that awaited him wasn't one he necessarily wished to take on, but Denethor had made it clear; it was his duty, both to Denethor and the people of Gondor, to see this quest through, and while he didn't agree with it, he knew he would see it through.

The Council would meet later that afternoon, and that was the only reason why he was in the library. But, the feeling of discomfort that crept over him as he stepped over the threshold only grew stronger with each minute he stood there, staring up at that painting. When he looked down, at the shards of Narsil resting on the sheet of pure white linen shot through with gold thread, the buzzing grew louder still and he realized it didn't come from the library, but from somewhere inside his own head. 

Then he saw her. 

A woman.

She’d appeared in the bizarre dreams as well, but always in shadow. Until now. Now, he saw her more clearly. She was tiny, with long, wild dark hair, and her eyes were wide with fear. He saw her back away from something only she could see. She backed away. Spun about. Dropped to her knees.

And disappeared from view. 

He started as if someone had screamed his name, although no sound shattered the library’s thick silence. Still, he spun about, half-expecting to see the strange woman lying on the warm pine flooring in front of him.

The floor was bare. 

A sense of idiocy swirled through him. Troubled by a foolish dream. What was wrong with him? 

Lack of sleep, no doubt. His journey from Gondor to Rivendell had been fraught with danger, encounters with orcs he’d rather forget, and he’d been almost three days without sleep. It was no wonder his imagination tortured him the way it did.

“Fresh air,” he muttered, stepping away from the painting, turning toward the elegant doors that opened out onto a terrace of white marble. “I need fresh air.”

His head cleared as he stepped out into the pale sunlight and the warm breeze swept across his face, but even as he strode away from the library, toward where the council was to be held, he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere, that dark-haired girl watched him.

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it’s subtle—blink-and-you-miss-it subtle—but you’ve worked beside him long enough to notice the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands hover uselessly over his keyboard like he’s forgotten what they’re for.

you watch him swallow.

someone turns up the volume on a laptop. tinny alien acoustics fill the room—crystalline echoes, a language that isn’t meant for human throats. subtitles crawl along the bottom of the screen.

—to fulfill his destiny— —earth will kneel— —he will lead them—

a nervous laugh breaks out near the copy desk. someone mutters, “well. that’s not great.”

clark stands so abruptly his chair skids backward.

“i—uh,” he says, already grabbing his coat. his voice cracks, just a little. “chief probably wants—”

“clark,” perry calls from his office doorway, phone already glued to his ear. his gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “don’t go far.”

you and clark lock eyes for half a second.

something passes between you then—panic, maybe, or something quieter and worse. a shared understanding that the ground just shifted and neither of you knows where it’s going to settle.

you’ve taken walks around the world with him before. late nights, stakeouts, quiet coffee runs where the city feels like it’s holding its breath. you’ve watched him carry the weight of things he never talks about. you’ve watched him watch the world like he’s afraid it might slip out of orbit if he blinks.

you feel it now, that same slow pull toward the dark side of the moon.

and there’s nothing you can do.

an hour later, you’re rushing to the rooftop of the daily planets, emotions so jumbled inside you feel like you might spontaneously combust.

the city sprawls beneath you, loud and alive and utterly unaware of how fragile its faith is.

superman lands behind you without a sound.

you don’t turn right away. you already know he’s there—the air changes when he arrives, like the world is paying attention.

“thanks for agreeing to this,” you say instead, steady. professional. you hold your recorder like a shield.

“you asked,” he replies. it’s clark’s voice, stripped of softness. lower. measured. every syllable carefully weighed like it might be used as evidence later.

you turn.

he looks the same. of course he does. blue suit, red cape, emblem bright against his chest like a target. but there’s something in his eyes tonight—something raw and unsettled, like a fault line just under the surface.

you’ve seen him upset before. controlled anger. righteous fury. this is different.

this is hurt.

“let’s get into it,” you say, because that’s your job, and because if you hesitate you might never start. “earlier today, a recording surfaced—”

“i’ve seen it,” he says quickly.

you nod. “the video appears to show your biological parents claiming they sent you here to dominate earth. people are scared.”

his jaw tightens.

“are you?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

he studies you for a long moment. when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “no,” he says finally. “i’m not scared. i’m angry.”

you inhale slowly. “because it’s not true.”

“because they’re wrong,” he says, heat flashing now. “because they don’t get to decide who i am.”

the wind tugs at his cape, restless.

you glance at your notes. you already know what’s coming next. the questions people are asking. the ones trending. the ones no one else will dare ask to his face.

you brace yourself.

“people want to know,” you say carefully, “what would happen if the video was true.”

his eyes snap to yours.

“what if,” you continue, heart hammering now, “you woke up one day and decided humanity wasn’t worth saving anymore?”

a muscle jumps in his cheek. “i wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“but what if you did?”

silence stretches between you, thin as wire.

“i’ve spent all these years, saving metropolis and other cities and countries, proving that i won’t,” he says, voice tight. “why is that not enough?”

you hate this part. you hate that you’re the one holding the knife. you hate that he’s looking at you like you’re the one twisting it. “because people are asking if your morality is conditional,” you say. “if it depends on how we treat you. on whether we disappoint you.”

“i’m not a god,” he snaps.

the sound echoes off the buildings below.

you don’t flinch—but something in your chest does. “i never said you were.”

“no,” he says bitterly. “but they do. every day. either i’m their savior or their executioner. there’s no room for anything in between.” he turns away from you, hands clenched at his sides.

you watch him like this—broad shoulders bowed just slightly, like the weight finally got to him—and something in you aches.

you remember the way clark once stayed up all night helping you fact-check a piece that wasn’t even his. the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it without ever asking. the way he listens—really listens—like every word you say matters.

you took those things for granted.

“so let me ask you this,” you say softly. “if the world turns on you… if they decide you’re a threat—”

he laughs, sharp and humorless. “they already have.”

“if they push you,” you press, “and they push you… what happens when you finally break?”

he spins back toward you. “is that what you think?” he asks. “that i’m one bad day away from becoming a monster?”

the question lands hard.

you meet his gaze and don’t look away. you’re not sure what to say at first. how do you talk to a god that won’t accept he is one? a god that you can only see as your sweet, nonviolent coworker? “i think you’re strong,” you decide. “and i think you’re human in all the ways that count. and that means you can be hurt.”

his expression falters.

“i think,” you continue, quieter now, “that scares people more than anything.”

the city hums below you. traffic. sirens. life going on, blissfully ignorant.

he exhales, long and shaky.

“i’ve saved this world more times than i can count,” he says. “i’ve picked it up and put it back on solid ground when it stumbled. and still—” his voice breaks. “still they’re asking if i’m their doom.”

you step closer without thinking.

“if you go crazy,” you say, the words trembling on the edge of something too personal, “will you still be superman?”

he looks at you like you’ve just reached inside his chest. “and if i’m alive and well,” he asks quietly, “will you still look at me the same way?”

your heart stutters.

this is the part you’re not supposed to cross. the line between reporter and subject. between truth and something far more dangerous.

you lower your recorder.

“i already do,” you breathe.

for a moment, the world holds its breath.

then—somewhere far below—a cheer rises. someone’s seen him. someone still believes.

superman closes his eyes.

and you realize, with startling clarity, that you might be the only thing keeping him tethered right now.

not his strength.not his powers.

you.

the interview detonates exactly the way you knew it would.

by the time you get back to the daily planet after your break, the building is vibrating—phones ringing off the hook, producers shouting from screens, interns sprinting like they’ve been drafted into a war they didn’t sign up for.

your byline is everywhere.

SUPERMAN DENIES LEAKED KRYPTONIAN CLAIMS: “THEY DON’T GET TO DECIDE WHO I AM.” 

you don’t read the comments. you don’t need to.

you can already hear them in your head.

what if he snaps? what if he’s lying? what if we’re already doomed?

clark is at his desk when you step off the elevator.

clark kent. rumpled suit. glasses slightly crooked. mild-mannered, kansas-born reporter who spills coffee and apologizes too much.

no one is looking at him. no one connects him to the man whose voice cracked on a rooftop an hour ago. that’s the thing that makes your chest ache the most.

you pass his desk without stopping. if you look at him—if you really look—you’re not sure you’ll be able to pretend. and pretending is the only thing keeping him safe.

“hey,” he says softly anyway.

just your name. quiet. almost lost under the noise.

you stop.

from the outside, it probably looks like nothing. two coworkers pausing mid-chaos. a beat too long, maybe—but no one’s counting.

you turn just enough to face him.

his eyes search your face, blue and worried and unmistakably clark, not superman. not the symbol. not the headline.

you lower your voice. “you okay?”

a pause. then, just as quietly: “are you?”

you almost laugh. you almost cry. “i did what i had to,” you sigh.

“i know,” he replies.

the way he says it—no accusation, no resentment—hits harder than if he’d been angry. you grilled him on a rooftop in front of the world. you asked the questions that made his hands shake. and he still trusts you.

that trust feels heavier than anything you asked him to lift.

lois lane materializes at your side like she always does when things get interesting.

“well,” she says, eyes sharp, voice breezy, “you officially broke the internet. again.”

you glance at her.

she’s watching clark too—not like the others, not casually. there’s calculation there. knowing. she knows. she’s known for a while now. longer than you have.

“you didn’t go easy on him,” she adds, tone carefully neutral.

you don’t look away. “i couldn’t.”

clark swallows.

lois studies your face for a second longer, then nods once. approval. or maybe understanding.

“perry wants a follow-up,” she says. “later. not today.”

she turns to clark. “you good?”

he forces a smile. “yeah. just—processing.”

lois squeezes his shoulder, quick and familiar, then walks off.

when she’s gone, the space she leaves behind feels too exposed.

clark clears his throat. “listen, about earlier—”

“don’t,” you interrupt, too fast. you soften your tone. “we can’t. not here.”

his mouth tightens in agreement. he glances around the bullpen, at the oblivious coworkers, the glowing screens, the normalcy that feels almost obscene now.

“tonight?” he asks. “the roof?”

you hesitate.

that rooftop is dangerous. it’s where the masks come off. where you stop pretending he’s just your coworker and you’re just doing your job.

but he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, and you know—you know—that he won’t let anyone else see it.

“tonight,” you agree.

the city is quieter after everyone has returned to their homes.

the roof smells like rain and concrete and ozone, like the air after something powerful has passed through.

clark is already there when you arrive. 

not superman. just clark. no cape. no boots. just a jacket pulled tight against the cold, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

that’s what guts you the most, every time.

the world thinks superman doesn’t need anyone.

clark kent looks like he needs you desperately.

“they’re still running it,” he says without turning around. “every channel. every site.”

you step up beside him, careful to keep space between you. “they will for a while.”

“i know.” he exhales. “i just didn’t realize how loud it would be.”

you watch the city lights flicker below, like a galaxy turned upside down.

“i keep thinking about what you asked,” he admits. “about breaking.”

you say nothing.

“if i did,” he continues quietly. “if something inside me, you know, changed.” he swallows. “would you be afraid of me?”

the question lands soft and devastating.

you turn toward him fully now. “clark.”

he flinches at his name—not because it hurts, but because it means you see him. not the myth. not the power.

“you’ve been called strong,” you say. “you’ve been called weak. you’ve been called everything in between.”

he lets out a shaky breath.

“but i know your secrets,” you continue. “and i’ll keep them. not because you’re superman—but because you’re you.”

he finally looks at you.

up close, his eyes are glassy. tired. human.

“you took for granted all the times i never let you down,” he says softly, like he’s confessing something. “and i didn’t even realize it.”

“you never let me down,” you say.

his laugh is quiet and broken. “you grilled me and then published an article within an hour.”

“and i still stood by you,” you reply. “both can be true.”

something shifts between you then. the tension that’s always been there—the glances held too long, the conversations that drifted dangerously close to personal—tightens, sharp and electric.

“you’re my anchor,” he says before he can stop himself.

the words hang there, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to need one,” you say, unsure of what else to add on. no words feel adequate at the moment.

“i know,” he replies. “that’s what scares me.”

he steps closer. not touching. never crossing that final line. but close enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, steady and impossible.

“if i go crazy,” he murmurs, barely audible now, “will you still call me superman?”

you don’t answer right away. you reach out instead—slow, deliberate—and take his hand.

it’s warm. solid. real.

“if you go crazy,” you say, “i’ll still call you clark.”

his breath catches.

“and if i’m alive and well?” he asks.

you squeeze his hand. “i’ll be right here. holding on.”

for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to shove him into a destiny he never chose—clark kent leans into you like he’s allowed to rest.

and you realize, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that you’re his kryptonite.

not the thing that kills him.

the thing that keeps him human.

the first crack happens three days later.

it’s small. practically microscopic. the kind of thing only people who are looking for failure would notice.

superman is pulling a collapsed commuter train out of the river when his grip slips. just for half a second.

no one dies. no one is even seriously hurt. the train scrapes the concrete embankment harder than it should, metal screaming loud enough to rattle windows six blocks away. a dozen phones catch the moment from different angles—his jaw clenched, his arms shaking, the unmistakable hitch in his motion.

by the time he sets the train down safely, the damage is already done.

SUPERMAN STUMBLES DURING RESCUE. FIRST SIGN OF FRACTURE? IS HE LOSING CONTROL? IS OUR CAPED CRUSADOR NOW A DANGER TO US ALL?

you read the headlines from your desk, stomach hollow.

across the bullpen, clark spills coffee all over his notes.

“sorry—sorry,” he murmurs, blotting at the paper like it personally offended him.

no one notices. no one ever does. that’s the cruelest part.

they’re dissecting superman’s body language on every screen in the office—slowing the footage down, circling the slip in red like it’s a crime scene—while clark kent sits ten feet away, quietly unraveling.

lois drops into the chair beside you, expression tight.

“he didn’t lose control,” she says under her breath.

“i know,” you reply.

“he hesitated,” she continues. “that’s different.”

you glance at her. “you think they’ll care?”

lois exhales sharply. “no. i think they’ve been waiting for this.”

across the room, perry barks orders into a phone. “no speculation—stick to verified facts—no, i don’t care what the blogosphere is saying—”

your screen lights up with a dozen emails at once.

what if the video is true? what if he’s weakening? what happens when superman decides we’re the problem?

you close your laptop. you already know who’s going to answer those questions.

and you already know how much it’s going to cost him.

he doesn’t text you. he doesn’t call.

by the time night falls, the silence is so loud it feels intentional.

you find him anyway.

the roof is empty when you arrive—too empty. the air feels wrong, like a held breath that’s gone on too long.

“clark?” you call softly.

nothing. then—wind.

not the dramatic kind. not the thunderous arrival metropolis is used to. just a quiet displacement of air behind you.

“i didn’t want you to see that.”

you turn.

superman stands a few feet away, cape hanging heavy from his shoulders like it’s soaked through. his hands are clenched, knuckles white.

“see what?” you ask.

he laughs, short and bitter. “that.”

he gestures vaguely. at the city, the headlines, himself.

“i froze,” he says. “for a second, i froze. and all i could think was: they were right.”

you step closer. “no, they weren’t.”

“i’ve never hesitated before,” he insists. “never. and now? after the video… after the questions—” his voice drops. “what if something did change?”

your chest tightens. “you didn’t freeze because you wanted to hurt anyone,” you say. “you froze because you were afraid of proving them right.”

his eyes flick to yours. “and that’s better?”

“yes,” you respond immediately. “because it means you care.”

he looks unconvinced. “i keep hearing your voice,” he admits. “on the roof. asking me what happens when i break.”

you swallow. “clark—”

“what if that was it?” he interrupts. “what if that moment, that slip, that was the beginning?”

he looks enormous standing there, impossibly strong, and somehow more fragile than you’ve ever seen him.

you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.

your hand lands on his arm. he stills instantly.

you’ve touched him before—accidentally, casually—but this is different. intentional. grounding.

“you’re not breaking,” you say firmly. “you’re hurting. there’s a difference.”

his breath stutters.

“you don’t get to decide that alone,” you continue. “not when the rest of us keep putting the weight of the world on your shoulders and calling it destiny.”

for a long moment, he says nothing.

then, quietly: “i don’t know how to do this without being superman.”

the confession slices straight through you.

“you don’t have to do it without being him,” you say. “you just don’t have to be only him.”

his eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission. for something dangerous.

“i’m so tired,” he whispers.

you step closer. close enough now that the space between you feels meaningless. “i know,” 

his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours.

the city disappears.

there’s no symbol. no headlines. no destiny written in alien glass.

just two people standing on a roof, holding each other up.

“if i lose them,” he murmurs. “if the world decides i’m the enemy—”

“then i’ll still be here,” you say. “and lois will. and the people you’ve saved who don’t have platforms or hashtags.”

he lets out a shaky breath. “you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“too late,” you reply softly. “i already am.”

his hands hover at your waist—not touching, always careful.

“you’re dangerous,” he says, almost smiling. “you know that?”

you huff quietly. “funny. they say the same about you.”

“no,” he says. “you’re worse.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you make me want things,” he admits. “normal things. impossible things.”

your heart pounds. “like what?”

he hesitates. “like staying,” he says. “like choosing.”

the word lingers between you, electric.

before either of you can say more, his head snaps up.

sirens. far off—but urgent.

he pulls back, duty already reclaiming him.

“i have to—”

“i know,” you sigh.

he looks at you like he wants to apologize for a hundred things he hasn’t done yet.

“i’ll be back,” he promises.

you nod. “i’ll be here.”

he hesitates one last time.

then—so gently it almost doesn’t count—he presses his forehead to yours again.

and he’s gone.

the next morning, perry assigns you another superman piece.

you argue. briefly. futilely.

“they trust you,” he says. “whether they should or not.”

you sit at your desk afterward, staring at the blinking cursor.

across the room, clark types furiously, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red like he didn’t sleep.

no one connects the dots.

except lois, who watches you both like she’s counting heartbeats.

your phone buzzes.

‘did i mess everything up?’

you type back without hesitation. ‘no. you picked people over fear.’

a pause. then: ‘is that enough?’

you look up at him. at the man pretending to be ordinary. at the god pretending not to hurt.

you type: ‘it always has been.’

he looks at his phone. then, just for a second, he smiles.

and you realize the world may never stop testing him.

but as long as he keeps choosing humanity—as long as he keeps choosing you—he won’t float away to the dark side of the moon.

the leak hits at 9:12 a.m.

it’s not alien footage. it’s not another think piece dissecting superman’s microexpressions. it’s worse because it’s human.

ANONYMOUS SOURCE QUESTIONS SUPERMAN’S DUAL PRESENCE AT RESCUES AND DAILY PLANET. COINCIDENCE OR COVER? 

you feel it before you understand it. that cold, instinctive drop in your stomach. the kind that comes from knowing someone tugged the wrong thread.

across the bullpen, clark’s fingers stop moving.

he doesn’t look at the screen. he doesn’t have to. you can see the tension coil through him, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory from disasters no one else remembers.

lois is on her feet in an instant.

“that’s thin,” she snaps, already skimming. “circumstantial at best.”

“it’s enough,” perry mutters from his office doorway. “enough to make noise.”

the article doesn’t say clark kent is superman. it doesn’t have to.

it points out overlapping timelines. near misses. a reporter mysteriously absent during three major incidents. it suggests—not accuses—that superman might have a “civilian anchor point” in metropolis media.

you close your eyes.

someone, somewhere, is learning how to look.

clark finally exhales, slow and controlled. he pushes back from his desk and stands.

“i’m grabbing coffee,” he says mildly.

no one questions it.

you’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved. “i’ll come.”

from the outside, it looks normal. coworkers. friends. two reporters escaping the chaos for caffeine. but when the elevator doors close, the air shifts—heavy, electric.

“that was close,” you murmur.

clark stares at the floor. “too close.”

“you’re still safe,” you say quickly. “they don’t know. they’re guessing.”

“guessing turns into patterns,” he replies. “patterns turn into certainty.”

the elevator dings.

you don’t go to the cafe.

you go to the stairwell instead, pushing through the door and into the echoing quiet. the concrete walls smell faintly of dust and oil, the city muffled to a distant hum.

clark stops two steps in.

“i can’t keep doing this,” he says.

the words hit harder than any headline.

you turn to face him. “doing what?”

“lying,” he says. “hiding. watching you take hits meant for me.”

“that’s not—”

“it is,” he insists. his voice isn’t loud, but it’s shaking now. “every time you write about me, every time you defend me, you’re standing in front of the world while i stay behind the curtain.”

“that curtain keeps people alive,” you say.

“it’s starting to get people hurt,” he counters. “what happens when they connect you to me instead?”

the thought twists your chest. “clark,” you say softly. “look at me.”

he does.

“you are not ruining lives by existing,” you tell him. “you’re not betraying anyone by protecting yourself.”

“i’m tired of being afraid,” he admits.

the confession cracks something open between you.

you step closer. “then don’t be afraid alone.”

he laughs weakly. “that’s the problem. i don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“and yet,” you say, “here i am.”

he watches you like he’s memorizing your face. “if i stopped,” he says quietly. “if i walked away from being superman—”

your breath catches. “you can’t mean that.”

“i do,” he says. “at least for a while. let them breathe. let the noise die down.”

“and what about you?” you ask. “what happens to the part of you that needs to help?”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t know.”

you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “running won’t make them stop,” you say. “and it won’t make you happier.”

he closes his eyes at the touch. “you’re my weakness,” he murmurs.

you smile sadly. “no. i’m your reminder.”

he opens his eyes. “of what?”

“that you get to choose,” you say. “not krypton. not earth. you.”

for a moment, it looks like he might kiss you. the tension is unbearable—every unsaid thing vibrating between you, dangerous and inevitable.

then lois’s voice echoes faintly from the stairwell above. “kent? you vanish again and i start assuming secret tunnels.”

clark exhales, stepping back.

the moment slips through your fingers like sand.

that night, superman doesn’t appear.

not when a bridge locks up during rush hour. not when a warehouse fire eats half a block. other heroes respond. planes divert. systems compensate.

but the absence is louder than any cape.

WHERE IS SUPERMAN? HERO NOWHERE TO BE SEEN—HAS HE ABANDONED US? DID HUMANITY PUSH HIM TOO FAR? 

you watch the city from your apartment window, phone clenched in your hand.

no texts. no calls.

you try not to imagine him somewhere alone, wrestling with the kind of silence that eats people alive.

when the knock comes, it nearly stops your heart.

you open the door.

clark stands there, soaked to the bone, glasses fogged, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through a storm instead of flew above it.

“i needed—” he stops, swallowing. “i needed to see you.”

you pull him inside without a word.

the door clicks shut. the world narrows.

he paces once, then stops, hands braced on the back of your couch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“i didn’t go,” he says. you can hear the guilty clinging to his words.  “i heard the calls. i felt them. and i stayed.”

your chest aches. “why?”

“because i was angry,” he admits. “because part of me wanted to prove i could walk away.”

“and?”

“and i hated it,” he says. “every second.”

you step closer.

“i kept thinking about what you said,” he continues. “about choosing. about not being only one thing.” he looks at you then—really looks—and something decisive settles in his expression. “i don’t want to stop being superman,” he says. “and i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t need anyone.”

your heart pounds.

“i don’t want to lose you,” he finishes.

the words are quiet. terrifying. honest.

you close the distance between you. “then don’t.”

he reaches out, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. his hand cups your cheek, warm and steady.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

you don’t.

when he kisses you, it’s not explosive—it’s reverent. like he’s afraid this moment might shatter if he breathes wrong.

you kiss him back anyway.

he exhales against your mouth, relief and longing tangled together, and for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to rewrite his story—clark lets himself be held.

later, when he rests his forehead against yours, you feel the weight shift again.

“tomorrow,” he says softly, “i go back.”

you nod. “tomorrow, i write the truth.”