Courtly Behaviour

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know she was there, watching him even as he watched Fred on stage. Lilah was a complicated creature, but in the end transparent. When her gift of the Helm of Habraxis didn’t entice him to spend the afternoon in whatever sex games she’d thought up, she was bound to come looking for him.

Wesley sighed and turned slightly so he could catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his vision. Sure enough, there she was in bronze-brown shining perfection, dressed for work and play, glaring daggers in Fred’s direction as she climbed the stairs to the stage. He didn’t have any real hope of seeing Fred face to face that afternoon, not surrounded by her dogged body guards of Angel and Gunn, nor did he even wish to pursue that romantic avenue again. He was honestly interested in her theories, and if it needled Lilah, well, that was an added bonus. He’d left the super symmetry and string theory article on the coffee table deliberately, and like the possessive animal that she was, Lilah picked it right up as soon as he was out the door. Or, that’s what he supposed had happened.

It was no good, this ‘relationship’ between them and he knew it, but the lawyer did have a hold over a portion of his heart, the small part left unfrozen after too many betrayals. And he over hers, he imagined. It was never easy, but then what in his life ever was. Idly, he ran his fingers over the still tender, fading scar on his throat.

Fred was onstage now, being introduced by Dr. Seidel. Wes was vaguely familiar with the professor’s work, but hadn’t heard of much in the way of publications from his research group recently. Not giving the professor a second thought, he chuckled along with the rest of the audience at Fred’s opening joke, smiling faintly at her portrayal of the stereotypical physicist in cardigan and glasses.

He wasn’t sure when he first noticed the ripples in the fabric of reality forming over Fred’s head, but he didn’t even have to think before he was sprinting out of his seat and down the stairs. Unfortunately for him, the crowd was running away from the giant snapping tentacles coming out of the hole near the ceiling, so he had to fight against the current of panic. He nearly turned and walked away then; away from the people who had turned their backs on him mere months before, the people who scorned him even when he returned their precious Angel. It would have been so easy to let the crowd carry him back, to be satisfied with the token attempt. But in the end, no matter how cold and disconnected he had become, he couldn’t watch them die, not when he could help.

Angel and Gunn had already reached the stage and Gunn had his arms wrapped around Fred’s waist, preventing the… thing… from yanking her up into the portal. Fred was frozen in fear; her worst nightmares of disappearing into another Pylea had crippled her beyond fighting back. Angel fended the creature off with a microphone pole, jabbing and slashing somewhat ineffectively. Wesley stumbled up the steps, pulling a long dagger from the holster on his leg. The demon finally had gotten around Angel’s makeshift weapon, wrapping him in a strangle hold. Wesley hesitated only a second before sprinting forward and slashing the blade through the slimy skinned tentacle.

In that brief moment when a look of unexpected gratitude flashed over Angel’s face, Wesley found himself gripped tight, lurched off his feet, and upended. The beast released Fred in favor of a less anchored human and the last thing Wes saw before he was sucked into another world was Fred’s surprised glance and Angel’s look of astonished guilt. Then there was nothing but incredible pressure, a feeling of disorientation, and the sight of a very solid looking lake shore rising up to meet him.

*** ***

As soon as they saw the tomb that Moria had become, Boromir knew that the company’s luck was going from pretty darn terrible to outright horrid. He’d seen more than his fair share of death in his life, but crunching over the skulls of slain dwarves and orcs made his skin crawl. When Frodo was snatched up by the snakelike arms of the lake creature and spun around in the air, he wasn’t all that surprised. It just seemed likely and inevitable that if a bad thing could happen, it would. To top things off, now they were all wet and cold and exhausted. As he, Aragorn and Legolas flung themselves into action, blades and arrows flashing in the starlight, he had to admit, prepared as he was for the worst, he was a little bit startled to see a shimmering portal open into the sky above the beast. It showed a sideways and slightly upside down view of a woman with long dark hair speaking in front a crowd.

Unfortunately, Boromir wasn’t the only one to notice another potential meal, and the creature thrust several of its tentacles through the opening at the young woman, who was frozen for a moment in what looked like a remembered fear. The Fellowship wasted no time in taking advantage of the distraction provided by the hapless young lady and her rescuers and neatly sliced Frodo away from the yawning mouth. He dropped into Aragorn’s waiting arms, shivering and terrified. The beast shrieked in anger, and, snapping up a dark clothed man from this foreign world, hurled him like a stone at the offending party. The man’s body landed with a sickening crunch on the side of the lake, narrowly missing a frantic Merry and Pippin. The company was retreating rapidly into the mine for some level of safety, but Boromir stooped to grab the broken body of the man before following the others.

A resounding crash behind them caused the company to turn and witness the destruction of their only way out. The mine’s entrance hall was plunged into inky darkness until Gandalf lit the room with magical light from the end of his staff.

“We now have but once choice,” muttered Gandalf. “We must face the long dark of Moria.” The company fell in behind him, gradually making their way up the stairs.

Trailing behind, Boromir laughed a bit hysterically. The others paused, still stunned and shaken, before looking back at him. Boromir dropped the unconscious man on the wide stairs, with a flourish of his hands as if to suggest, what now?

Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but closed it slowly, unsure of this new development. He had seen a great many inexplicable things in his existence, portals to other dimensions being one of them, but to find one on this quest, and one that stole a man from his home and hurtled him into a time of great darkness and evil… he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more at work here than hungry lake monsters and phenomenal bad luck. The man had been brave to fight the beast, he would give him that, and in these times, bravery was a quality highly valued. Gandalf also could feel a faint magic around him, an aura of mystical energy, but wasn’t sure if it was intrinsic or a relic of his transition to this world. The wizard looked from the dark clad man to his reluctant rescuer and frowned.

Boromir wiped the murky lake water from his face, pushing his sodden hair from his forehead, and shrugged impatiently. “Well? What about him?”

Chapter One: Into The Dark

The Fellowship, soaked, grouchy and nervous, all climbed back down the stairs, stepping over long rotted corpses of dwarves and orcs, and gathered around the fallen stranger. No one spoke for a moment, waiting to see if Gandalf would take the lead. When it became clear that the wizard was keeping his own council, Aragorn knelt down and placed his fingers on the side of his neck.

“Well, it appears that our interloper is still alive.” He tilted the head to get a look at the slightly bleeding lump on the back of the brunette’s scalp and frowned. “He seems to have hit his head upon landing, but there’s nothing to be done until he wakes up.” Suddenly his eyes widened and he pulled down the collar of the dark charcoal shirt. “Do you see this?”

Gandalf lowered his staff to better illuminate the shadows and Boromir gasped, “He should be dead! That kind of wound would kill a man in minutes.” He reached out and traced the scar lightly with one finger, mirroring the man’s own action minutes before. “How could he survive having his throat sliced all the way through?”

Gimli growled out. “It’s witchcraft. Leave him and let’s get on with this!”

Aragorn shook his head. “We can’t just leave him here. And we know nothing about the world he comes from. What may be impossible here may be common place for his world. Look at his clothes; they’re nothing like we would find here. They’re so smooth, even if this looks like wool.” He held up a limp wrist encircled by a heavy silver watch, blue face gleaming in the faint light. “And this? The workmanship similar to only what the elves could produce.” He shook his head. “No, we can’t say witchcraft, but it may be wise to exercise caution. Anyone who can withstand such an attack… well, we should be careful.”

Legolas peered down, his blonde hair falling forward over his shoulders. “He feels different. Not like a normal mortal.”

Gandalf finally spoke, “Hmm, you noticed that too? He’s not like men from our world, but he is decidedly mortal. I could be wrong, but he may have some experiences in magic. Or we could just be feeling the after effects of the portal.”

The hobbits all crowded around, edging the larger people away. “Even if he is magical, he needs our help,” Sam said firmly. “What kind of heroes would we be if we left him here to die? Maybe if we give him some water, he’ll wake up.”

A calmer Frodo unhooked a water bottle from the outside of Sam’s pack and handed it to the portly hobbit. Sam leaned close and dribbled a bit of water onto the stranger’s mouth. At first there was no reaction; then he moaned slightly and coughed, spraying water in all directions. Everyone leaned back to give him some room to breathe, and obligingly, the man opened his eyes.

He made no move to harm them, merely blinking his startling blue eyes a few times, but what alarmed the Fellowship was that he showed no fear. His expression was clear and hard, the face of someone who had seen too much. He struggled to a sitting position against one of the steps and brought his hand to his head, feeling the lump. He said something, but none understood and looked at him blankly.

The stranger tried again, obviously asking something, but only received concerned shrugs in response.

Legolas nudged the dwarf. “No, he can talk, you just can’t understand him.”

“Neither can any of us. This may be a problem.” Aragorn offered his hand to the man who accepted it, swaying a bit as he stood. “How are we supposed to indicate the danger of this place without a way to communicate?” He shook his head in apology when the man said something else. “Well we can always do this old fashioned way.” The ranger pulled his sword from its scabbard and held it in front of him. The man arched an eyebrow warily but made no move to either run or attack. Aragorn gestured slightly with the weapon, miming battle, and waved his hand to indicate the corpses littering the large room. The man’s eyes followed where Aragorn pointed and he nodded wearily.

“That’s it? You wave around a bit and it's all clear?” Pippin shook his head. “And you’re supposed to be a king. Here, try this.” The young hobbit bounced forward tapping at his chest. “Pippin.”

The man broke out into huge grin, obviously laughing at some joke the others couldn’t understand, and mimicked the hobbit. “Wesley Wyndam-Price.”

Pippin turned back to the company ringing them. “See? That was easy. Introduce yourself.”

“Frodo.” As the ring bearer said his name, the stranger got a queer look in his eye and moved just a bit further away.

“Legolas.” The man, Wesley, looked at him sharply and said something, touching his ears. The blonde nodded. “Elf.”

Gimli came next with a grudging, “Gimli the dwarf.” At the puzzled expression, the dwarf rolled his eyes. “Gimli,” he said, tapping his chest. He then waved the axe around. “Dwarf.”

“Just brilliant, Gimli son of Gloin. Now he’s going to think the word for axe is Dwarf.”

“Well, what did you want me to do, mime being short?” He glared at the man of Gondor. Boromir shrugged and tapped his own chest.

“Gandalf.” At that the wizard spoke to the company at large. “Well, since it seems Master Wesley Wyndam-Price has grasped that at least we all have names and that there’s carnage littered about, perhaps we can continue the language lessons as we walk. It’s a four day journey to the other side, and I, for one, want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

The company of hobbits, men, a dwarf, an elf and a wizard, turned back up the stairs. Gandalf was in the lead, followed closely by Frodo. He had no thoughts that he stranger wished them harm, but he had reacted when introduced to Frodo. The only thing that Gandalf could think was somehow he was able to feel the power of the ring, and it made him uneasy. Frodo didn’t complain and walked along, exhausted.

Aragorn gestured after the others and Wes nodded, falling into line after Merry. Pippin stood beside him, determined to begin showing the new addition the ropes. Wesley couldn’t suppress a smile.

When Wes felt the first dribble of water on his lips, he tried to ignore it. It was so much more peaceful in the oblivion, away from all the chaos and pain that had been his existence recently. There was no haunting face of Angel as he tried to smother him, there was no knife at his throat when Justine took Connor, and there were none of the horrid looks of betrayal from his friends when they’d found out what he’d done. There was nothing at all.

But persistence dragged him awake and he sputtered, opening his eyes. There was a ring of people peering down at him but he couldn’t find it in himself to be all that concerned. What ever it was couldn’t be that bad since he wasn’t dead already. It was dark and gloomy, rather uncomfortable, and he seemed to have found his way into a Renaissance Reconstruction from the looks of the apparel. As far as he was concerned he could care less. He wasn’t in the belly of some inter-dimensional demon, and that meant life was looking up. He rubbed his eyes and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, where are we?”

They looked at him. Wes didn’t know if it was a lack of communication, or these… people… didn’t speak. When the short, bearded man rattled something back, Wes had a sinking suspicion that this wasn’t going to be another trip to Pylea, where even the restless natives had no problem issuing orders in a language he could understand.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask if you speak English? Or maybe one of the other eleven languages I happen to know? Granted, seven of those are demon, but you never know who you’re going to meet in my line of work.”

Nope. Nothing. He sighed and accepted the hand the black clad man offered him. "Thanks."

He seemed to be a leader of sorts, or at least had the largest sword, and when he drew it out, Wes watched with interest. He was either going to get run through the gut, which he sincerely hoped not, or the man was trying to indicate something. He looked around. Oh, that would be all the death and destruction; he nodded. It appeared to be another day in the office by the shapes of some of the deceased; they were obviously not human.

Demons or not, he wasn’t sure, but the host of men in front of him looked sufficiently apprehensive that Wes didn’t think it was something to be taken lightly. There was some discussion going on that he tried to follow, but it went too quickly. A detached part of the former watcher was excited. He was first trained as a linguist and translator when he joined the Council and had never had any real hopes of being assigned an active slayer. His first love had been languages, so he was actually looking forward to learning how these people spoke. Unfortunately without a written example, or some sort of primer, it was probably going to be the ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ approach to learning.

He couldn’t help his grin as one of the smaller men stepped forward, as if reading his mind, with the universal indication of name and uttered brightly, “Pippin.” The other names followed rapidly. A few caught his attention. The small person, Frodo, was cloaked in an evil that made Wes’ skin shiver. He’d been around enough dark magics in recent days to know the feel, and it was a surprise coming from such a sweet and innocent looking young man. One look into his haunted eyes, however, indicated that it was perhaps not Frodo himself who was tainted, but something on his person. That would fit with the protectiveness that the others showed him.

He was genuinely delighted at Legolas, recognizing him as a High Elf, something he’d only read about. He noted their word for it with a nod, but was a bit confused at the bearded fellow. He was obviously a different race from the other small persons, but when he waved his axe around, Wes wasn’t sure if he was indicating the weapon or his species.

All too soon, the white haired man indicated they should keep moving. Wes was inclined to agree. The air was close and stale, and he wanted nothing more than to be out in the open again. When Strider indicated he was to follow Merry, he fell into line.

Wesley was tired of the dark. It was sort of cold, and oppressive, and really rather gloomy. The caverns they traveled through were vast and awe inspiring, but in the end he knew he was just in a large hole in the ground, wandering on in search of something that no one managed to explain very well.

Granted, his language lessons were going much better than he could have hoped. The young hobbit, for that's what the smoothed faced, furry footed little persons were called, named Pippin was very enthusiastic, and kept up a running commentary about everything they saw. By the end of the first day of their march, he'd learned the names of about fifty types of cave features, the names of all the types of weaponry that the company carried, and different designations of the people around him. This morning's projects were verbs and other words to indicated intent or description. Wesley was impressed at Pippin's dogged instruction; he would not have been so patient. He certainly hadn't been when it came to his own charges years ago.

He also had to admit he was becoming rather exhausted. His head was throbbing, and though he ate what was provided him last night, he had a hard time keeping it down. He'd been hurt worse before, but had always been able to rest. There was a faintly frantic energy in the company that impressed on him the urgency of speed, and he couldn't complain even if he wanted too. They moved as quietly as possible, and Wes knew that whatever caused the destruction he'd seen in the 'lobby' wasn't gone.

No one except for the hobbits, or the hobbits barring Frodo, had any interest in attempting to communicate with him. The dwarf was borderline hostile, the white haired old man that Wes was pretty sure wasn't human, was lost in his own thoughts. There was some discussion about something called Mithril when they passed a vein of incredibly shiny metal embedded in the rock, but most of the group kept silent.

He knew that he was a burden, but he was also fairly sure he wasn't a prisoner. The leader, Strider, regarded him as an obstacle to be gotten around, a hassle he hadn't expected. Wes couldn't really blame him. If someone had dropped out of the sky, or however he'd arrived into the destroyed cave mouth, while he was working on a case, he was pretty sure he'd have been a bit abrupt as well.

Maybe the fellow was just wary that Wes couldn't take care of himself. He had no obvious weapons that the others could see, but no one had made any overtures to find out if he could fend for himself. Wes had kept an eye out for discarded weapons as they walked, looking for a war-axe preferably, but hadn't found one that suited his needs. When he did, however, he wouldn't hesitate to pick it up.

Wes was slowly catching on to the dialect, as well as the differences in the way those around him spoke. He'd also discovered that two of the party, Strider and the elf, Legolas, used an entirely different language when speaking to each other, which they were doing now, a few people behind him in line. Wes cocked his head to listen. Without any real direction, he couldn't figure much out, but he could pay attention to cadence and inflection, which was useful in and of itself.

Aragorn bent his head to Legolas' and said, /He seems to be handling himself fairly well./

/Yes./ The elf frowned. /But there is still something that worries me about him. Why is he so calm? He hasn't tried to get away from us, or even expressed that much surprise at the goblin corpses./

The elf thought for a moment. /No, not evil./ He took in the man's appearance. He was tall, taller than almost everyone in the fellowship, and lean, with short cropped dark hair and faint stubble on his cheeks. His clothes were all dark, and hung close to his body, though they didn't look to be terribly practical for fighting. He moved with a wary, easy grace of someone used to watching his surroundings, and took in everything around him carefully. /Pippin seems to be making progress./

Legolas hmmd a non committal noise. /I think he's looking for something though./

/It could be anything. He's a stranger in a strange land, he's bound to be curious./

Aragorn smiled wryly, stepping over a pile of loose stones. /A knight perhaps? Defending his lady until the end?/ He shrugged. /Until we can ask him, we really can't know./

They stopped talking then as the man in question peered over his shoulder, watching them with his bright blue eyes. Legolas fell back to take the rear guard as Aragorn moved through the company to talk more directly to the visitor.

Wesley thought for a moment, searching for the words. "Moria… dark." His lips twisted up into an approximation of a smile. "And…" he sighed. "Apologies. I am…" A snarl passed over the usually handsome face.

Aragorn nodded. "It must be hard not to communicate. I'm sorry for not being more attentive." Wesley just arched an eyebrow. Aragorn shrugged. "And you probably didn't catch half of that. I'm glad Pippin can help."

At that, the hobbit decided to add his two cents worth. "Of course you're glad! Who else is better suited with this type of intellect… thing." He beamed. "Besides, this is much more fun than thinking about what's out there waiting to eat us." He shuddered.

Wes looked puzzled for a moment then grinned. "Yes, much… better? Than… Orcs?"

Aragorn was surprised. He had no idea that the language lessons had progressed so much. "Yes, orcs. They've taken over this mine."

The ranger shook his head at the unfamiliar term. "Demons? I don't know this, but they are an abomination. Created by Sauron; corrupted from elves." Wesley nodded. "They feast on the flesh of man, and live in the dark places. Cruel and heartless, they are the bane of civilized peoples. In the coming fight, orcs and the armies of Sauron will fight against mankind."

The king nodded. "Them as well. I don't know how much Pippin has told you, but these are dark times for Middle Earth." He frowned, grey eyes downcast. It was one thing to go through the motions with people who knew the score, but explaining the plight of the land he loved to a stranger made it awful in its reality. He was fighting; they all were, for a future unknown, a future to secure the rights of this world for generations to come. He sighed bowing his shoulders.

Wes tilted his head. He could only understand parts of the conversation, though much more than he could speak, but he understood the weight of responsibility. Holding the fate of others in your hands was a terrible chore, and one he had failed at in the past. Connor had been taken because of him and his misguided beliefs of unshared responsibility. He unthinkingly reached out and laid a hand on the shorter man's shoulders.

Aragorn turned to him, surprised. The stranger's eyes expressed such depth of understanding that he was brought up short. This wasn't a man who stumbled onto things; this was one who had obligations to a higher purpose. The ranger half heartedly smiled a thanks. The stranger nodded.

They continued on in silence for a few moments until Wesley suddenly brightened. With a faint cry of delight, he dashed over to a pile of corpses at the edge of a rope bridge. He tumbled them carefully over each other until he found what he was looking for, a broad bladed axe with a long handle.

Immediately the company heeled to a halt, watching him warily. Gimli roared a muffled outrage. "What is he doing?!? Those are my kin! How dare he disturb the dead!" He ran forward, axe raised.

Wesley spun around, the new weapon gripped in his hands as if it had always been there. The dwarf attempted to barrel into him, but he stepped neatly out of the way, swinging the axe experimentally.

Though wary, Aragorn grabbed the irate dwarf around the waist. "Hold, Master Dwarf. Look."

The whole company was watching now as the newcomer swung the axe around a few times experimentally. He moved with a grace that bespoke a lifetime of practice and more than a few hours of experience. When he noticed his audience, Wesley nodded formally, touching his hand to his forehead. Aragorn nodded back.

"Gimli, I am sure he meant no disrespect to your dead. Look around you. All of us are well armed, and it is unfair to expect him not to wish to arm himself."

The dwarf snarled, ripping his arm out of Strider's grasp. "Then he can arm himself with orc weapons. He has no right to the weapons of my kin." The stranger came forward, his hands extended in peaceful supplication, the axe laid across them. There was a cold glint in his eyes, and Gimli hesitated. This was a warrior, for all he knew a warrior fighting the same war he was, and he did nothing to earn disrespect. The dwarf grunted. "Fine. Keep the axe, but you had better do a dwarf proud. You owe me that."

The man thought for a second and then nodded. He straightened and leaned the axe over his shoulder. Pippin was at his side in a moment, Merry right behind. The hobbits eyes were bright with curiosity, and Wes was flattered. "I didn't know you could fight! What else can you fight with?"

Most of the company had set down their packs. Gandalf was leaning on his staff, watching closely, Frodo at his side. The elf was back there somewhere; Wesley could feel his gaze. The remaining hobbits had come closer, and Boromir sat on a rock outcropping. The future steward of Gondor called out, "Yes, what else can you do? Yesterday we were all wondering if you could talk at all. Today, you showed us you can, as well as your ability with an axe. What about a sword?" He drew his own from his scabbard, holding out in front of him.

Wesley winked and handed the axe to Pippin, who nearly fell over until Merry caught the other end. The former watcher stood loosely, hands down at his sides, Borormir stood, sword extended and parried forward for show. Wes took a step to the side and flicked his wrist. Out of the sleeve of his jacket flowed a multi hinged blade. Once fully extended, it locked and became a solid sheaf of metal. He mimicked the parry, laughing out loud as Boromir nearly dropped his own sword in shock.

"That's… impossible!" All of the fellowship crowded around. Boromir grabbed the other man's wrist, huffing at the complex system of attachment and housing. "How did we miss that yesterday?"

Gandalf chuckled to himself. "I believe there is more to this stranger than we could ever have thought."

Wes smiled sadly. "Yes." He flicked his wrist again and the thin sword retracted, folding away invisibly along his arm.

"I… understood magic." He pulled up the sleeve of his pea coat and revealed the spring mechanism on his arm. "Not magic."

"But you do know about it. I can feel it on you; the ripples in moral energy that tell me that you exist in that world as well." Legolas frowned. "How is that so? Mere men here have no magic of their own to speak of."

Gandalf chewed thoughtfully on his pipe. "No, they don't. But again, this could be a difference in worlds."

Wes knew what they were discussing, but he didn't have the words to contribute to the conversation. Frustrated he shook his head. Gandalf nodded. "Master Wesley may need a bit more of Pippin's instruction to be able to answer us properly. We should continue on." Reluctantly the others nodded; their curiosity about the newcomer was only growing.

Chapter Three: Up The Axe

Chewing on the piece of dried meat, at least he assumed it was meat, that the tawny haired hobbit handed him, Wesley thought wistfully of his standing date with morel and shitake gnocchi and Lilah over a bottle of Riesling. Once a week they'd meet and actually have dinner like a civilized couple. He' ask her about work, she'd prevaricate and inevitably do something that led to sex on the couch, or table, or shower. All in all, he rather enjoyed those nights.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could just taste a hint of mushroom now. Frowning, he decided that maybe it was just fungus on the meat instead. They'd stopped to camp in a small alcove that looked to be the remnants of a guard house when the mine had been inhabited by Dwarves. There was a tiny, well hidden fire for heating water and Wes accepted the cup of weak tea gratefully. It was amazing how much better he could feel after a cup of tea.

Granted, the tea made him think of home, both England and L.A. And thinking of L.A. brought up Lilah, and Fred, and Angel, and the whole farce that his life had become. He couldn't help but wonder if Lilah had looked for him, had asked her beloved Senior Partners to get him back. He wasn't sure if she would, but he knew that Angel wouldn't. It wasn't only guilt and appreciation he'd seen in Angel's eyes; there was also relief. Finally Angel could be rid of the possibility of needing Wes's help, and actually having to ask for it. He snorted softly to himself.

The noise caught the attention of Boromir who sat on a low stone bench nearby. "Thinking of home?"

"Is it very different from here?" His face was uncharacteristically open with curiosity. The pile of hobbits by the far wall rustled and the bright eyes of Merry and Pippin shone in the gloom.

"Yes, it is very different. No hobbits, elves or dwarves." The hobbits exchanged shocked glances and Wes smiled. "And we are worse for it."

Pippin smiled proudly at Wes's complete sentence, elbowing Merry in the ribs. "See, he can speak whole sentences now!" Merry nodded and shushed him.

Boromir fingered the grip of his sword, eyes distant. He spoke softly, as if more to himself than his companions. "My city is very different from here too. Gondor, the White City, is something beyond words, beyond the tongues of man. To see the towers lit with the dawn, sparkling like crystalline snowfall, the ocean beyond, is incomparable." He looked around him with disgust. "Nothing like here, the dark and the gloom. Gondor was great once, the pinnacle of mankind, and it could be again. Ah, that I would see my city restored to splendor," he trailed off wistfully.

Wesley watched him with compassion, wishing silently to himself that he felt that way about his city, the City of Angels. It too had its gleaming towers of steel and glass, ocean mere minutes away. But instead of pride, LA only engendered feelings of pain and dissatisfaction. He looked down at the rocks by his scuffed shoes. These stones, marked by death and catastrophe here beneath the earth, seemed friendlier to him than the asphalt and concrete of his own home.

Strider walked up to exchange the watch with Boromir. He tapped the man on the shoulder and Boromir stood, blinking rapidly to draw himself back to the task at hand. "My pardon, Master Wesley, but perhaps we'll continue this discussion later."

The scruffy haired brunette looked over the newcomer and hobbits on the floor. "Perhaps you should get some rest. We have only a few hours here."

Wes nodded and watched him walk through the low stone door way. It hit him then, how surreal things felt. As if they couldn't be real. He couldn't be sitting in a vast underground mine, talking with mythical creatures, sipping tepid tea. Yet, here he was, and he'd faced much stranger things in his few years in California. Perhaps he'd feel a much larger sense of urgency and danger if he could just accept where he was.

He had to admit that the cavern was beginning to unnerve him. He'd been told that he'd joined the group of the 'Fellowship' right before the doorway to the mine collapsed behind him. It meant a forced trip through the ravaged home of the dwarves in the dark. He'd never thought himself a claustrophobic person, but three days of no sky, no light, no breeze, and his skin was starting to crawl. If he looked up, he would almost swear the cavern roof was shrinking lower and lower, waiting to smother them all. He knew it was illusion, but it didn't make him breathe any easier.

He shook his head. Maybe his problem was who he was instead. He was a watcher. He watched Gandalf watch Frodo, concern rippling over the wizard in tangible waves. He watched Boromir watch Frodo with a hungry, desperate gleam in his eye. He watched Aragorn and Legolas watch him with guarded suspicion. He watched it all, but it was with the gaze of an outsider, not someone truly invested in his fate.

It wasn't just the language barrier. For all intents and purposes, it was gone. Wes could follow a conversation well enough to contribute if necessary, and the bright little hobbit was always ready to help him work through whatever he couldn't grasp. The forced delay when the white haired old man played eeny-meeny-miney-moe with the passageways allowed Wesley to interact linguistically with the other members of the party, and it helped dramatically. His accent would always be strange, identifying him as a foreigner, but as long as he could communicate in the Common Tongue, he'd manage.

He wondered then, if it was only because he was here, away from it all, that he even noticed his behavior. The last few months had been that way, as if he was watching himself act through a life he had no connection to. The trysts with Lilah…the borderline stalking of Fred and AI…the driven compulsion to rid LA of evil on his own… It was all so… distant.

He wondered what it would take to make it real, this trek through the underworld. What would break down the barriers he didn't even realize he'd erected to keep the world at bay? He curled up then, as the others had done, pillowing his head on his folded up, now grimy, pea coat. He dreamed of feather beds and cappuccino on the boardwalk.

"This is our last day. We should pass through the Great Hall, from there to the Bridge of Khaza-dum. Hurry now, the end is in sight."

Gandalf ushered the group into the Main Hall. It was breathtaking, a true marvel, and Wes stopped in awe. He didn't even hear the others expressing similar sentiments as he stared around. Immense stone pillars rose at regular intervals, the tops disappearing into the gloom. Gandalf brightened his staff to illuminate further, but even then, Wes couldn't see the roof. He craned his neck, tilting back, and turned in a circle. Their voices echoed faintly, giving the impression of immensity, and he wondered what this place had been like when filled with dwarves. The hustle and bustle of every day living seemed so displaced from the cool, desolate space it had become.

A cry brought his attention back to the group, and he chased after Gimli with the rest as they followed him to a small stone chamber illuminated by a thin shaft of light piercing the darkness. The company looked around warily as the dwarf collapsed in grief on the sarcophagus. Gandalf picked up the journal and began to read, and Wesley felt the first stirrings of alarm. The elf and ranger felt it as well, and all looked back toward the entrance. Legolas bent his head to Strider and encouraged them to leave, but most of the company's attention was still on the wizard, reading about the doom of the previous occupants.

Wesley looked dispassionately at the corpses littering the floor, and wondered about the defensibility of their current situation. It certainly hadn't worked out well for the previous occupants. A crash came from the far side of the room, and all eyes were on Pippin. Wes winced in sympathy for his small friend, as he, too, had once been the one to call down disaster. All hopes of a quick escape were doused when the first drums could be heard in the deep.

Pushing the doors closed against the nearing cries of Orcs, the company drew their weapons. Wes arranged himself on the far side of the stone bier, across from Gandalf, behind the bows of Strider and Legolas, He wasn't sure what a 'cave troll' was, but when the swarm of demons crashed through the doors and met the arrows and swords of his companions, he had no time to puzzle it out. His first axe swing separated the head of an orc from his shoulders, spewing black blood all over Wesley. He grimaced, but made a return swipe to hack off the sword arm of another attacker. The axe had wonderful balance, and despite the age and disrepair, it left clean strokes through its victims.

It was only then he understood what a 'cave troll' was, when the giant hairless creature whalloped his way into the narrow room, large stone hammer knocking friends and foes alike. In the chaos of the desperate battle, Wes lost sight of the hobbits. He could hear, from behind him, the dull metallic thud and cry of assurance from Sam, and wondered what exactly he'd been doing with a frying pan. The troll took another few swipes with the hammer then resorted to flinging the massive chain attached to the collar around his neck.

It wrapped around one of the support columns, and Wes watched the elf nimbly scale the taught chain. Ducking another thrust, he almost missed Legolas's attempt to pierce the tough skull of the troll with arrows from mere inches away. Breaking free, the troll went after the hobbits, and Wes flung himself forward.

He didn't understand what made Frodo so important, but it was clear that no matter how much the others were fighting for their own lives, they placed the safety of the sad hobbit above their own, as if their deaths would be worthy sacrifices. In the startling heat of battle, Wes realized that he wasn't afraid of dying, that he'd died already in the grassy park across from his house when Justine slit his throat. He'd felt the life seep away in the cool of night and had never reclaimed it. Borrowed time though it may be, Wes also realized he didn't want to give it up, not yet. And while he was here he might as well do some good.

The troll had Frodo cornered behind a pillar, and the hobbit called for Aragorn. The man tried, but found himself knocked violently against the wall. Disengaging himself from a tangle of mottled skinned orcs by removing a few limbs, Wes leaped a corpse and lifted Frodo with both hands, flinging him aside as the troll picked up the massive pitch fork Strider had attempted to use. The fabric of Frodo's tunic ripped, revealing a beautiful silver chain mail shirt, and he landed heavily next to Merry and Pippin. They propped him up, checking for injuries as the troll turned his attention to the newest irritation.

Wes regrouped and circled behind the snarling creature, weighing his options. Arrows hadn't worked, and Wes wasn't sure he could get the axe high enough to behead it. There was one more thing he could do, however. With a grunt, he swung the axe straight up between the legs of the troll. It imbedded itself with a sickening thwack, and the troll roared in agony. It fell slightly forward, leaning on one meaty hand, and Wes raised his right wrist, sighting down his arm. As the troll lurched forward, Wes triggered the mechanism over his pulse point. A thick wooden stake burst from under his sleeve and imbedded deep in the right eye of the troll. It uttered a bewildered squeak and slumped forward, dead. Wes was too slow to move out of the way, and found himself pinned beneath the smelly torso of the cave troll.

All around him, the fight was winding down. When the last of the orcs was dispatched, the rest of the company divided itself between the shaken but safe Frodo and the rather smushed Wesley. He pulled at his pinned legs, wincing at the pain in his ankle, but it wasn't until the dwarf himself lifted the shoulders of the beast up, that Wes could slide out. When the watcher's eyes met the dwarf's, Gimli smiled grimly.

Wesley smiled just as grimly back and clambered to his feet. The rest of the company looked at him with a mixture of appreciation, astonishment and amusement. Boromir strode forward and clapped him on the shoulder.

"No, not cave trolls." Wes shrugged and bent to yank the stake from the creature's eye. He wiped the blood and brain matter on the now filthy coat and reloaded the stake holder. "But they would be at home."

Digesting this new information, the fellowship looked around at the carnage littering the floor. They took time for a short breather, and were out the door at a run. The battle was far from over.

Chittering cries echoed through the great stone hall, and the Fellowship plus one accidental traveler ran towards the far end. Boromir glanced over his shoulder to make sure the little ones and Wesley were caught up, and shook his head.

The stranger was more than he initially appeared. Far from the scruffy battered lump the monster had thrown at the startled hobbits, this man was an enigma. He knew his way around weapons and could kill a cave troll, however unconventionally. Boromir hadn't missed the fact that the small spear like projectile had been made of wood, and was obviously designed to do something specific. He wondered what Master Wesley Wyndam-Price did that required wooden weapons. He also wondered what else the man was hiding, since now he was holding not only the axe, but also a medium sized dagger that appeared from a sheath by his ankle.

He reminded himself not to underestimate this Wesley. He was a man of cunning and fortitude, someone who could make a valuable ally, or ruthless enemy. And they knew as little about him as he did about them and their quest.

While his language skills had progressed, the brunette offered little to no information about himself or his world. They knew that there were no hobbits, dwarves, or elves, but he had said that he'd faced things similar to trolls, and he'd not been too surprised at the appearance of orcs. Boromir also had the feeling that even if Wesley was a native speaker to the Common Tongue, he would be reticent about personal details. Good warriors never gave away information that would allow an unfair advantage to their foes.

The man who would be king over Boromir's people had quietly cautioned them against sharing too much with the lean man in turn. He warned that even though the circumstances of his arrival were odd, that was no guarantee that he would help with their cause. Boromir thought this was a bit overly paranoid since Wesley had done nothing overtly hostile since he'd arrived, and in fact went out of his way to be helpful. He'd seen how the others guarded Frodo and had protected him with his own life on the line.

But Boromir did understand the need for caution, especially since Wesley had… reacted… to Frodo's presence. Where he, Boromir, felt a draw to the ring, a belief that the ring could help as well as hinder, Wesley avoided the hobbit as much as possible. Whenever Frodo, or the ring, got too close, a strange look of uncomfortable familiarity washed over his face, and the stranger inevitably moved away, as if it were unpleasant for him to be in the ring's presence.

From what he'd heard of the ring, all men, and most elves, felt compelled to use the ring for their own will. What this man had that allowed him to resist, and even repel, the ring, Boromir had no idea. The stranger might not even know himself, especially since Wesley didn't even know there was a ring to fear, for good or for ill.

Boromir could see the orcs streaming down from cracks in the ceiling and up from craters in the stone floor. He shivered involuntarily and gripped his sword tighter. He knew it would end poorly, no matter what tricks any of the others had up their sleeves. Cornered in a mine filled to the brim with goblins was no picnic on the plain. He joined the others in a loose circle, back to back. The hobbits were pushed to the center with the larger folk and dwarf taking up more offensive positions. Even Aragorn and the elf looked apprehensive, but the stranger had only a look of concentration and determination on his face. While not classically handsome, he had a presence that no one could ignore, a look in his grey-blue eyes that said they'd seen too much, that his world was full of pain.

They were soon surrounded by shrieking orcs brandishing all manner of armament, waving swords and axes, but surprisingly staying back. Perhaps they didn't like Gandalf's magic light, but Boromir was sure they wouldn't stay away long. He didn't know who felt it first, the orcs or the Fellowship, but suddenly they weren't alone. There was an 'other', a beast with heat and char on its breath.

The orcs looked around in confusion and fear, twisting to look in the direction the low roar had come. They dispersed as if by magic, crying and scuttling back into the darkness. Boromir turned with the others, facing the flickering light that moved behind the great stone pillars, and was utterly at a loss.

The light moved closer, a halo of orange flames just out of sight. The company edged forward to stand level with Gandalf, who tightly closed his eyes. The relief at the sudden departure of the orcs was soon overwhelmed by a general sense of dread. Perhaps it was innate, the fear of whatever lay just beyond the corner, or perhaps the creature brought the fear with him, a foul miasma every bit as present as the burning, singeing heat.

Wesley ran his hand down the axe handle and tilted his head as if listening. Gandalf opened his eyes and looked ahead. He ground out slowly, "A Balrog."

The entire group turned his way, and Gandalf asked in a whisper, "You know of Balrogs?"

The stranger blinked, thought a second, and burst into mildly hysterical laughter. The beast was coming closer and Boromir wanted nothing more to do than run, but Gandalf held out his hand to stay flight. Wesley stifled his laughter and said again, tightly, "Balroque!"

He thought for a second, opening his hand and staring at the palm. He shook his head slightly and said, "Not here, home, yes. But no- " here he said an unintelligible word. Gandalf shook his head, and he tried again. "No air freezing water, no breath." Frustrated at his inability to communicate exactly what he needed, he gestured in the direction they had been heading. "Cannot help, best to run?"

As he fled along the wickedly twisting staircases, Wesley wondered briefly if he'd been trapped all along in some sort of personally designed ironic hell and hadn't noticed it. He was covered in black bloody goo… sore, tired, and moderately out of sorts. The lump on the back of his head throbbed with every step, a pulsing reminder of the fragility of the human body. He was being attacked by creatures mildly more frightening than vampires, but considerably less so than most of the demons he'd hunted. The unfortunate thing, from his perspective, was they seemed to have a much better grasp of team work and archery. Wes hopped lightly as an arrow struck the stone beneath his feet.

It was the mention of a Balroque, however, that made him wonder. If this was a gigantic joke on his behalf, ha ha, he got it, best move on. If not, he figured the great cosmic karma wheel had just made another revolution and he wanted off of the ride. Who would ever have thought that the one question he'd gotten wrong on the Watcher certification tests would come back to haunt him.

Candidates had been asked to identify and discern the real and fictional demons that the slayer may encounter, list the manner and ways of defeating said demon, as well as their habitat and mating rituals. It had been towards the end of the test, and Wes was perhaps a bit over confident. The questioner asked about the Balroque, and he, in his youthful arrogance, said that they did exist. They were demons of a lower ring of a hell dimension, created out of flame and smoke, and rarely seen near human habitations. The councilman had merely raised an eyebrow, marked an x, and informed Wes he needed to study more carefully next time; everyone knew that Balroques were creatures of fairy tale, a boogey man of lesser demons.

Chastised, Wesley had swallowed his shame, locking it away with a thousand other miserable memories, nodded politely and left the examination hall. He'd gone back to study even more fervently than before; the chance to become an active watcher was too valuable to give up. The next time the test had been administered, he'd gotten a perfect score. Those results had sealed his placement as Faith's watcher when her own watcher had been brutally killed by Kakistos.

He couldn't suppress another small bark of laughter even as they hurried down a particularly treacherous stretch of stairs. To think, all these years later, he was proven right after all. He wondered if he really could defeat one, and thought perhaps the best conjecture was some sort of liquid nitrogen approach. It would quench the flames, seal the beast into a cage of ash and charcoal, and then they may have a better chance of defeating it. But given the distinct lack of modern chemicals in the near vicinity, he'd be happy to settle for running away, dignity mostly intact.

A chunk of the bridge like stairs had broken away, the gap larger than it was comfortable to jump, especially for the hobbits. The elf leaped the space lightly, followed by Gandalf. The orcs shot arrow after arrow at their exposed position, and Wes wondered, not for the first time, why the hobbits didn't wear shoes. Pippin just didn't have a satisfactory answer.

Boromir grasped Merry and Pippin his arms and gave a mighty heave, landing with less than his usual grace on the other side. Unfortunately, the leap knocked more of the unstable stone structure away, leaving Wes, the dwarf, Sam, Frodo and Strider trapped even further away. Strider threw Sam across, and turned to Gimli. Time was growing short, with both the Balroque, or Balrog, and the orcs coming ever closer.

"Nobody tosses a dwarf," grumbled Gimli, and Strider raised his hands and moved away, leaving him the choice. Wes mentally rolled his eyes and pretended not to understand the dwarf's request. He wasn't about to see his companion tumble down in the chasm below, not when he could help. Gimli sputtered and thrashed, but when Wes determinedly tossed him anyway, he landed safely on the other side. Legolas smirked, but Wes only ignored him and jumped himself.

Once everyone was back together and still traveling downward, Wes looked around. He couldn't help a small gasp of awe at the immensity of the cavern, smoky flames rising from dark chasms below. It looked like something out of Dante's Inferno with no Virgil in sight. He shivered.

It felt as if they were almost there, almost free, when they reached the bridge, what Gandalf had called the Bridge of Khazad-dum. Wes thought it looked an awful lot like the rest of the narrow, decrepit, stone bridges they'd been running over, but it meant that the end was in sight, he was willing to go with the name calling. Gandalf urged them forward over the bridge and no one needed to be told twice.

When most of the company was across, Wes could see just how right he had been all those years ago. The demon rose from the flames, long curved horns, widespread wings of flame, a roaring maw of pure heat and energy. When the wizard turned back to fight, Wes stopped. The others were already mostly across, but he took a few steps closer the gray clad man. Wesley knew magic would perhaps be the only thing to stop the beast, but even then, it wasn't a foolproof plan.

It was with shock, and not a little bit of envy, he watched the old man face down the demon without even a tremble of fear. When Gandalf cried, "You shall not pass!" it was almost as if he was made to face this creature of evil, as if he'd found his waterloo in the hellish depths of Moria. Determination was etched into every movement of every muscle and Wes stepped back, following the elf over the bridge. This wasn't his fight; he would leave it to who it called.

It wasn't cruelty or callousness that drove him away. He understood the magic in the air, the calling of one nature to another. He could feel it hum on his skin as he turned and watched the drama unfold. His magic was of a stiffer sort, buried in ritual and formula. He'd never tested the limits of his abilities, hiding behind the formality of sorcery rather than the more organic expression of pure magic. Watching Gandalf lash out at the demon of hell and heat, he promised to himself that should he live, he'd learn more about his magic. Regardless, he understood the workings of true great magic. It bound the participants into a ritual all its own for a finale blood and death.

Even as it appeared that Gandalf had won, that he'd beaten back the demon, banishing him to the depths of Moria, a flaming whip coil sprang from the darkness, wrapping around the wizard's ankle. When he was yanked downward, his eyes met Wesley's. A moment of understanding passed between them, and Wesley nodded. This fight was far from over, and the he would honor Gandalf's unspoken request to aid his companions.

Horror-struck, the rest of the Fellowship was rooted in place. Time seemed frozen as Gandalf slithered backwards, barely hanging on to the broken ledge of stone. He choked out, "Run, you fool!" and Aragorn grasped Frodo around the waist. A shower of arrows rained down and Wes pushed the others in front of him, running towards the light once more.

When the blindfold was removed, and Wesley saw the world around him, he felt as if he was in the light for the first time in years. He turned his face to the golden wood and smiled… the stunning, innocent smile of a small child out to play for the afternoon, far from the concerns of real life.

The golden trees of this magical forest reminded Wesley of imaginary lands he frequented in his youth. The bright boughs and glittering leaves were a haven from the all too harsh world he lived in even then. He'd spent hours running around the family manor, both inside and outside, playing at pirates and wild Indians, pretending to be Robin Hood or one of his Merry Men. In those dark and dreary afternoons, his worlds would be lit with magical lights, bathed in a golden sunshine so far removed from the typical English winter. To see these wonders now, after the long dark of Moria and the not quite so literal dark of Los Angeles, brought tears to his eyes and he felt something binding his heart begin to crack. It wasn't a large crack, or one that anyone else would notice, but as the grouchy elf, Haldir, announced their arrival at Caras Galadon, Wesley's heart swelled with unbidden memories and he was not unhappy.

Not unhappy, of course, being a relative term. This was such a shock to his system, and he gathered those of his companions, after the fright of the Dwarven tomb, that he was sure that none of them were capable of truly understanding what they saw. Perhaps Strider, or who the not-so-friendly elf called Aragorn, was not affected, but the watcher couldn't fathom how any of them were still standing upright.

They were worlds away from the previous morning, stumbling out of the cavernous gloom onto the boulders and sharp rocks beside a partially hidden entrance to the mine. That entrance seemed, to Wesley, to be as much of a portal to another world as whatever had allowed the water monster to snatch him away-- though infinitely more pleasant. If all adventures in dimension hopping were as pleasant as the dash out of Moria, Wes was pretty sure there'd be many more takers. Bright sunshine aside, Gandalf's death weighed heavily on all, and Wesley had resorted to physically carrying Pippin when it became clear that he was not capable of moving himself to safety.

Boromir had done the same briefly with Merry when Strider had ordered them all to press on, but it was the fey young hobbit that had taken Gandalf's death the worst, or at least as badly as Frodo. Wesley was all too familiar with taking the blame for other's deaths and downfalls, and tried to spare Pippin what pain he could. But in the end, they all knew how fruitless it would be.

Watching the tears streak down the little Took's cheeks onto his pea coat as they trotted along, Wes remembered his own tears in the park all those months ago. Bleeding sorrow and sadness with blood alike onto the dewy grass, he wondered what would have happened if he'd been found by friends instead of a homeless man that robbed him even as he called for an ambulance. Would it really have made any difference? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't about to leave his tutor to the same self destructive fate.

In the stunning brightness of their arrival in this temporary haven, Wesley paid no more real attention to his escort. Haldir, and his guard, had met them, rudely in Wes's opinion, soon after they entered the wood the previous day. Wesley hadn't taken Gimli's warning of a great sorceress particularly seriously at first, since the woods had no feel of evil about them. There was great age, yes, and a power that rippled through the air like twists of filigree clouds, but no darkness. Perhaps he should have listened, for the elves that met them there were less than congenial.

There were arrows, and arguments, and general bad will, but none of it had really made an impression on the wandering stranger. His thoughts lay other places, and the harsh words of a few unfamiliar elves weren't anything he was particularly concerned with, especially not elves that obviously knew Strider of the Many Names. There was some discussion in the language Wesley decided was the tongue of the elves as Haldir and his company was familiar with it, but like the Dwarf, Wes wished more of it were spoken such that he could understand.

One comment said by the lead elf gave Wesley pause. He'd said in a voice laced with disgust and not a small amount of fear, that they brought great evil with them. For one terrifying moment, Wes wondered if his past deeds were somehow branded onto his forehead, labeling him as someone doomed to share Judas Iscariot's fate in Lucifer's maw, as Lilah had insinuated. But it was directed at the sad hobbit, Frodo, and Wes wondered again what was so special that he was guarded with such ferocity and tenderness.

In the end, it made little impact, as he'd talked softly to Pippin and his small companions throughout the flight and night. Ignoring the looks and unspoken, unconscious accusations, Wesley tried to distract the miserable and uncomfortable hobbits. Thinking back on it all, he wasn't sure what he'd talked about, other than it was probably more about his father than he'd ever mentioned to anyone before. In a mix of broken Common Tongue and English, Wes had reminisced very quietly about his first tree house, so very different than the platform, or flet, high up in the trees where they had spent the night.

Orcs were nocturnal and everyone had been worried that the beasts would find them there and attack again. Perhaps they would have, but the elves had kept them well hidden. And so Wesley spoke of his home, his first home. The manor with broad leafed oaks that stretched wise and old over the bridle paths… the same oaks he'd hidden in, desperate for any reprieve from his oh-so-loving father-- the father that used cruelty like a tangible tool, the father that ensured that Wesley would never have any children of his own. For how could you raise a proper son if all you remembered was the pain and humiliation that drove you as far as your young legs could carry you? And later, it was the swift hooves of the fastest horses he could find. The fleet footed bearers of good will, the only reasons he stayed sane until leaving for the academy; he wished to find some horses here, though he'd seen no mention of them. And throughout his ramblings, Pippin had sat, shocked and trembling, at the edge of his vision, hanging onto every word as if was the only thing keeping him from tumbling down to the forest floor far below.

Flicking his glance to his side, Wes saw the wide eyed awe he was sure was evident on his own face reflected on the smooth planes of Pippin's pale visage, and he had hope. Hope not only for Pippin's eventual recovery from guilt and fear, but just perhaps, his own.

The sun was setting as they wound their way through trees ancient and old, and light ran streaming through the living wood. Wes's eyes darted this way and that, imagining those times he'd dreamed of a world such as this, the trees havens of secrecy and solidity. He sighed and breathed deep the sweet scented air. A faint smell of old leaves, life beginning anew, mingled with the sun drenched aroma of warm foliage, and the cool damp breeze of coming dusk. By the time they climbed the intricate stairs from the base of one massive tree towards the maze of flets and passageways high above, the sun was completely gone.

The only light was from some sort of sconce in set into nooks in the tree bark, and a peculiar glow that illuminated the arches of stunning complexity that seemed to designate living spaces for human sized creatures in the boughs.

All too soon, they were led to a broad expanse that resembled a stage, set to the base of a luminous stairway. The March Warden, or so Haldir appeared to be known by, stood off to one side indicating that the Fellowship and Wesley were to remain at the foot of the stairs.

The light from above, from the top of the stairs, became so bright that Wesley turned his head and squinted. He could vaguely see a pair of elves descending, a woman and a man, both quite blond, and both radiating that strange otherworldy elven energy that permeated the wood. These must be the Celeborn and Galariel that Haldir had spoken of from the ridge.

They were beautiful, as all elves are, but they also held something else around them like mantles. Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was magic, but whatever it was so overwhelmed Wesley that he took an involuntary step back. He shook his head to clear it, missing whatever the male elf said about secrecy.

Then She spoke. The tones of Her voice rippled over him like waves on a seashore and he stood, momentarily transfixed, and could no more have moved than flown from this perch. The light that flowed down with them faded, and left behind an aura of radiance that clung to her like a cloak. The blonde of her hair glimmered and shimmered, and the light of her eyes spoke volumes of time long past.

She spoke softly, "Yes, there are nine here, but not I think, Celeborn, the nine we expected. A stranger among you, found in dark times, yet one who was invaluable when the world made its presence know." She turned to Wesley then, studying him. "Welcome to our world, Traveler. I am Galadriel, and this is my wood, Lothlorien."

She narrowed her eyes at the unfamiliar term, but nodded in response. "I am afraid we have some matters to discuss with your companions that would not interest you. Perhaps you would enjoy freshening up."

"I'd like to freshen up, but does she ask us? No…" Sam whapped the back of Pippin's head and weakly smiled an apology.

"All in good time, Master Took. Haldir, will you escort Master Wyndam-Price to the guest quarters?" Galadriel effortlessly waved one perfect hand to another stairwell and smiled gracefully.

The watcher knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he did not doubt that whatever they were to discuss dwelled on the secret weight that bowed down even the staunchest shoulders of the company. He nodded to Boromir, acknowledging his piercing glance, and turned to face his guide. The elf Wes had been calling Pissy Elf in his mind looked as if he'd like nothing more to refuse, but swallowed his irritation and brusquely waved Wesley after him. Pippin sent him one last mournful glance before turning to face the Lady once again.

The stairs wound back towards the ground, and Haldir made no attempt at conversation. He continued to glare disdainfully in Wes's direction, but Wes paid him no mind. It was obvious that Haldir was not fond of outsiders, particularly those that endangered the safety of his people. Wesley probably qualified both as an unknown threat and a general annoyance, and it didn't seem as if elf had any interest in becoming familiar with the tall mortal man.

Haldir's attempt at intimidation did little to ruffle the watcher's confidence, however, and he internally debated telling him off. Unfortunately, Wes wasn't sure 'I've faced down Almost-Angelus, dated Lilah the Evil Lawyer incarnate, and kept Justine in my closet with a bucket for three months. You aren't even close to unnerving me' would come out the way he wanted it to. With his luck, he'd end up saying, 'I ate your mother's furry worm boat' or something equally as undignified. So he settled with returning the glare in stony silence.

All glares were forgotten in an instant-- the instant Wes caught sight of one thing he'd despaired of ever seeing in this brave new world. A steaming bath in a large, silver handled tub waited at the side of a mostly closed off, grass covered room. Next to it was a pile of softly hued clothes. Wesley could have wept with glee.

Baths, Wes decided, were possibly the greatest invention known to civilization. During his stint in LA, he'd almost decided that air conditioning should win that prize. Then again, spending five days covered in lake slime, mine grime, and orc goo, baths definitely took the cake.

He luxuriated in the warm water until it was beyond tepid, scrubbing all the bits of detritus from his body. Shaving didn't seem to be an option, and he vaguely remembered seeing no elves with facial hair. Maybe it wasn't an issue for them. He looked with distaste at the pile of dirty clothes. He wasn't exactly sure what sort of garments had been provided for him, but they had to be better than what he'd been wearing. Clothes for going to a physics lecture were certainly not the most practical for fighting for one's life.

All too soon, he grew cold and clambered out of the tub. The small pile of weapons next to his ruined pea-coat presented the next problem. Would it be rude to go armed here? The elves, while a bit trigger happy with their bows, seemed peaceful enough. But there was always danger… even when you least expected it. Decision made, he re-strapped on the dagger sheaths to his legs, minus one dagger lost to the lake monster. The stake launcher and sword holsters went on each wrist. The axe had been confiscated when they'd entered the tree city, and he hoped to see it again soon. It was a good weapon, and he wanted to make sure it was cleaned properly.

He turned the pair of soft suede leggings over in his hands and thought again of Robin Hood. The silvery embroidered tunic and tall leather boots only heightened the feel of make believe, and when he swung the cloak around his shoulders, he couldn't help but grin widely.

Wes whirled around to look at Pissy Elf. He lurked just in the doorway to the grass room with a stiff expression his face. He stood with his arms crossed, glowering, and seemed to want to say something. Wes just arched an eyebrow and waited.

"By whom?" Wes hoped he got the request correct, and when the elf just narrowed his eyes and gestured for the brunette to follow him, he mentally sighed.

Ah. The lord accompanying the elf woman, probably her husband. He'd had hair like spun silver, but Wes could remember very little else about him. They wound their way through the base of the trees, and before long, Wes was lost. Eventually, however, they began to climb, and entered a simple, elegant room furnished with pale, carved wood. Sitting regally in an almost filigreed chair was the elf lord in question. His features were strong, but clean, and his eyes were shrewd. He wore his robes with regal pride, though Wes thought he could see humor glinting in the blue irises.

"So, you are the traveler spoken of by Aragorn. It seems a most fantastic tale. I do hope one day you'll share it with us, when you feel comfortable." The request was polite, but Wes heard the command in the tone and bearing of the speaker.

"As soon as my speaking will allow." Wes kept his movements still, calling on years of standing on his father's attention to prevent any nervous fidgets. He looked around, seeing shelves lined with scrolls and parchments, books and other bound objects, and couldn't keep the light of interest out if his eyes.

"Ah, I see you've noticed part of my library. Tell me, is there something here that would interest you?" The elf lord watched him closely.

"But you are also a fighter, so I am told. You defended yourself, and others, with great skill."

Wes would have blushed if the words were meant as a compliment. They were not, however, and were designed to provoke an explanation. "I… work… in a dangerous place. I have a… work, no, not work… calling? Yes, a calling to defend against the dark."

"By the dark, do you mean creatures of darkness, such as the orcs you fought in Moria?" Celeborn leaned closer, eyes intent.

Frowning, Wes tapped his teeth with his forefinger. "Shadow men who live on blood of live men."

Comprehension dawned on Celeborn's face, and he nodded gravely. "Yes, they are not unknown here. If you are a scholar, why do you fight?"

Wes sighed. Why indeed? In the beginning, he'd had no choice. A life preordained by his father; the Watcher's council was hereditary. But he'd learned to love it, the fascination of cataloging demons and languages, learning about the impossible, spending long hours with his nose in a book hundreds of years older than himself. But now, now there was much more. He wasn't sure when it had changed for him, fighting the good fight. It was certainly after he'd come to LA to work with Angel and Cordelia. Sunnydale Wesley had been an extension of the creature his father had created, petrified of failure, afraid to live his life on his own terms. Perhaps it was Pylea, the general in charge of the ragtag army, sending men to die as distractions and being alright with the choices he'd made. Or perhaps it was before that, when Angel had bottomed out in despair and left them all in a lurch, forcing him to think why he wanted to continue to live that life.

He was brought back from his mental ramblings by a tapping on the wooden floor. Haldir was lightly rapping the end of his bow at his feet, an unimpressed expression on his face.

Wes gathered his thoughts and responded, "I could not leave the dark and demons to… hunt… in my home. Someone must stand between them and… I do not know the word… people who do no wrong."

"Innocents. Yes, I think I understand you." Perhaps Celeborn did, for he stood, walking to Wesley's side. "There are many choices ahead for our world, many dark days. You have come to our lands in a time of great turmoil for an ancient shadow is once again stretching over Middle Earth. Most of our resources, the resources of the elves, are focused on leaving these shores, but some who are more invested in this land wish to save it from annihilation. Your traveling companions are some of those who fight against the dark, as you would say. Perhaps it is not an accident that you joined them when you did."

Wes raised incredulous eyebrows. "I should not be here. The monster attacked a… friend, not me."

"But yet you are here, and how shall you return?" Celeborn lifted a few scrolls, clearing a space at the table. He selected a few leather bound books, placing them in front of a chair. "As you said you were a scholar, and the others have said what a quick study of languages you have been, perhaps you would be interested in learning more about our world."

Our world. The words held a connotation that Wes hadn't even had time to think of. Between the confusion of his first attempts at communication and the frantic, adrenaline filled flight for his life; he'd not thought much about his future. How was he to return? And more importantly, did he want to? He looked around at the ethereal beauty of the wood, barely visible through the windows. Soft starlight and moonlight swirled together with the artificial lights that glowed from nooks and niches. There was purity here not to be found in his world, a taste in the air that held no pollution. His lungs were deeply grateful, and it had only been a short time.

If he listened, he could hear soft, mournful singing weaving in and out of the trees. The voices sounded as bells, clear and bright, despite the obvious lamentation in tone. The sadness of the words curled around him in an almost tangible way, caressing him, and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, both elves were watching him carefully.

"They sing of Gandalf, a great friend to the elves," murmured Celeborn. Haldir nodded, distracted, but was not unfriendly.

"I am sorry for his loss." Wes wasn't sure what the traditional expression of consolation was among these new people, and hoped he did not offend.

Celeborn smiled faintly, "Yes, as are we all. But all things are not revealed to us, not even to Galadriel, and surely there is some reason to this madness."

"Is there ever reason in madness?" a soft voice called from the doorway, and Wes was not surprised to see the stunning lady elf from before. The glow surrounding her was less obvious, but she pushed forward into the room with a presence that Wesley found remarkable. She smiled graciously at him. "Welcome again, traveler. I hope my husband has not been too much of a bore. Always fascinated by new knowledge; I'm surprised he hasn't asked you to write a book by now."

Celeborn gave his wife a somewhat indulgent smile and shook his head. "No, we were just discussing Master Wesley's future course of action."

"Ah yes, the future. Do you find, Master Wesley, that the future is a slippery commodity, always running away in directions we don't expect?" She looked at him intently, and Wes felt a brush against his mind, soft but insistent, gossamer with the strength of steel.

He pushed back, mental shields firmly in place. Galadriel gave him a piercing stare, only somewhat amused, and Wes relaxed. They had offered him no violence, only showing him hospitality. If she wanted to discover who he was, he was fairly sure she would be able to overcome any mental resistance he could mount. His magic was of a more tangible sort: use incantation A and relic B to defeat demon C. It did not do to be overly rude to one's host, no matter how much of a violation he felt it would be to allow someone else into his mind. But he did not know the ways here…

With effort, he slowly dropped his guard, letting her in. The silken touch of her mind against his caused goose bumps to ripple down his arms, and he shivered. Her eyes widened, and the touch became warmer, less hostile.

Outwardly, she smiled, offering him a seat, and casually sat herself. In his mind, however, that cultured, musical voice spoke to him with clarity as great as if she were speaking in his native tongue.

A sigh rippled through his mind, and he replied with the relief only experienced by those in a foreign land when they find others speaking their language. There was something about her that inspired trust, perhaps a sort of magic in and of itself, and he could no more have lied than cut off his own hand. Much to his internal amusement, and sorrow, he found himself responding in kind.

[Oh, I have been lost too long. The world, it spun away from me, turning upside down and sliding sideways. Where was I when it all became lost?] The words loosened something in him that he didn't know existed. To be able to speak of his fears and insecurities, to a stranger no less, was a novel, and heartening, experience.

[Those who dabble in prophesy must take care, for else the world warps, and nothing can be reclaimed.]

Wes hung his head, remembering that night in the park, once again, always again, and touched the scar on his neck with a wince. He didn't notice the looks exchanged by Haldir and Celeborn, nor the concern on Galadriel's lovely face.

[Am I to be lost forever then?] His fingers trembled as he laid his palms on the table top, idly tracing the carved swirls and whorls.

Aloud, Galadriel said softly. "Not forever, for all things have a time. Perhaps you will find yours here." He looked up, meeting her eyes, and she tilted her head. "Will you come with me? Before we reunite you with your traveling companions, there is something I would like you to see."

Wesley followed Galadriel from Celeborn's study quietly, still wrapped up in his thoughts. He could see Haldir out of the corner of his eye and wondered if he was an escort or a guard, not that it mattered. The singing continued all around him, rising and falling with the breeze, and subconsciously, Wes found himself adding his own contribution.

Nel Mezzo del cammin di nostra vita [When I had journeyed half of our life's way]
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, [I found myself within a shadowed forest]
Che la diritta via era smarrita. [For I had lost the path that does not stray.]

It was not a lament to Gandalf, however, and though she couldn't understand it, Galadriel paused to listen. Wes murmured on, aware of his audience but focused on the words.