Warning: Language, maybe. Hints of gore.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the writing. And Neena. And Sértan.

This chapter is thanks to Kerowyn6, who's been dilligently reviewing in the hopes that I'll update. So I have. More notes after the chapter.

Figwit woke.

He kept his eyes closed for a few long moments, though, keeping as still as he could while still breathing. He wasn't quite sure if he'd fallen asleep of his own volition (exhaustion) or had been knocked out during a particularly intense 'play' session.

Given the lack of severe pain anywhere on or in his body, Figwit cautiously assumed it was the former.

Since it was silent all around him, he finally allowed himself a peek at his surroundings. The Elf immediately regretted it; tears leaked past his eyelids as he squeezed them shut. Everything was a painfully bright white. From the brief glimpse he'd gotten, he seemed to be alone in this sea of light.

Figwit wondered if this was the Halls of Mandos, and was struck by sadness and relief both. The former was because he would no longer grace the peoples of Middle-Earth with his presence, and the latter was because that meant was free of a certain Sueling.

After some time, he figured that it was quite unlikely that he was in the Halls. It had been described differently in the lessons he'd had as an Elfling; plus he really doubted that the Valar would deprive Arda of the gift of perfection that he was.

Figwit lay in his foetal position, a strange feeling sifting through his body starting from his toes and moving up to the tips of his ears. It took him awhile to realise that this feeling was happiness; something that had been quite exempt from his life for quite a long time. He was almost giddy with it and laughter bubbled out of his mouth in the form of a loud giggle.

He laughed and laughed until the tears that streamed down his cheeks were from his mirth rather than from the dazzling surrounds. He'd escaped! After so long being tortured by MarySues and Neena Sueling and that creature called Muffin, after so long he was finally free. He'd escaped, even though he knew not how. He'd escaped.

Given this newfound freedom, Figwit rolled onto his back, opening his eyes again. This time he was prepared for the vivid whiteness of the sky – or what he assumed was the sky – and just stared. He couldn't perceive any imperfections in the seamless expanse; drawing the conclusion that the flawless sky was not unlike himself.

He would've been content to lie there, given that there was no threat of danger whatsoever, but Figwit was not an Elf graced with a good attention span – though he was graced with enough flawlessness for this not to matter. Whatever. He jumped onto his feet in an unlikely feat of acrobatics, casting his gaze about as he hummed his theme song under his breath.

Just because no one was around to hear it didn't mean he shouldn't practice.

And there was no one around. It didn't take a genius to figure that out – although, yes, Figwit was a genius. Why'd you have to ask?

Well, poo. An absence of people meant there was no one for Figwit to dazzle with his mad skillz. Practicing was all well and good, but he much preferred instant gratification; Elleths falling at his feet left and right, cooing at his quality, that sort of thing. Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

Before he could complete this thought – between you and me, it does take a long while for any thought to complete itself in Figwit's head, despite his 'genius' – he was distracted by a bright light. (There's that lack of attention span again.)

It may have been odd for there to be a bright light, given the previously described surroundings, but this light was intense enough that everything else seemed dimmed in comparison.

The light was accompanied by a soft choir of music; words to describe it would be 'orchestral' and 'angelic', but as these are words used in our Earth rather than Arda, they'll not be used. Tears sprang to Figwit's eyes (for the third time) as he heard this music, thinking that he'd never heard anything as pure in his life. Given that he's an Elf, let it not be forgotten that that life would span a longer time period than expected.

The bright light continued being bright, and the divine music continued being divine, and a hand reached out and touched Figwit's cheek.

This hand was connected to a forearm and an elbow and an upper arm, and then to a shoulder and – well, suffice it to say, the hand belonged to someone and wasn't merely floating in space. This someone was unknown to Figwit – especially because the light was still much too dazzling to catch any details or features.

As if on cue, the light dimmed. The music softened. The hand stroked down Figwit's cheek so fingers could grasp his chin and tilt it upwards.

Figwit gasped.

OoOoOoOoOo

Getting Faramir and Pippin out had been surprisingly easy.

It was Gimli who managed to open the lock on the cell door using metal scraps he called lock picks. Sauron sneered and resolved to demand more secure locking mechanisms. Sértan just watched silently, and with a touch of fascination.

Aragorn paced the length of the cell, muttering under his breath. Doubtless he was still smarting from Gandalf's lecture. But if the Sod had been stupid enough to suggest that they all escape while the lock was, er, unlocked, well then he deserved all the scolding he received.

Sitting off to the side by Himself, Sauron did not expect the remaining Hobbit to approach Him.

Sértan tried a friendly smile, and succeeded where Sauron would have failed. "Well met, master Meriadoc."

"It's just Merry," the Halfling replied, looking a little pleased all the same. "I mean, you can call me Merry."

He bowed His head slightly, but made no move to continue with the conversation. He had no idea why the little being had decided to sit by Him, and could not even begin to guess at his reasons. Perhaps 'Merry' would explain.

He did. "I hope it's not too forward of me, Sértan, but I… I wanted to know about your home."

Sauron blinked. "My home?"

"Yes." Merry tipped his head to the side. "You said that you're a hero. I can only assume that you were trying to defend your home from Evilman."

Oh. Censored. He hadn't thought He'd need to –

"I cannot remember much of it," Sértan said sadly. Sauron had to make sure His face was appropriately wistful. "It seems so long ago that we were free of Evilman's tyranny."

"You mean you can't remember what your own home was like?"

Sértan shook his head. "I cannot recall anything. All I can see in my mind's eye is the snow, the endless fields of white upon white, stretching into forever. All I can see is the biting cold and the freezing rain; all I can hear are the screams of my people. Of my family." He let His voice shake a bit. "And then there is the dark."

"The dark?" Merry whispered.

"It was as if Evilman had swallowed up the sun itself."

Across from them, arms crossed above his chest, Aragorn snorted.

Sértan's face closed off even as Sauron glared. He'd actually put effort into that back-story – not that He would have normally needed to bother with such things.

A small hand landed on His knee, patting Him gently, and Sauron wanted to jerk away in disgust. Sértan looked up into Merry's kind eyes.

"Don't worry about Aragorn," the Halfling said. "He is a good Man, and a great King."

Sauron couldn't stop Himself. "He is a King?"

"Um, well – w-well, you see –" Merry was suddenly flustered, words tripping over one another as he tried to explain, face flushed. Gimli took the opportunity to interrupt.

"He would have been King of Gondor, lad, had we won the War of the Ring."

There was no trace of anger in the Dwarf's voice, only resignation, which Sértan decided he could respect. Sauron, unable to understand how anyone saw a loss of a war as anything other than a minor setback, did not respect Gimli at all.

"I did not know," said Sértan, "that Kings were so uncaring of others."

Beside him, Merry tensed.

"I did not know that your kind was so rude."

Sértan and Sauron looked up at Aragorn. The Man's eyes were hard, his arms still crossed, the line of his body suggesting nothing but a desire for conflict.

"My kind?"

Aragorn laughed, the sound of it low and ugly. "Come now, Peace-Maker. Do not think us so ignorant of your true purpose, or your true form."

Sértan tipped his head to the side. "I confess, sir, I don't know what you speak of."

"It's very coincidental that you come from another world, yet use an Elvish name and an Elvish appearance."

"There are other Elves here?" Sértan made sure to look around, peering at the assembled heroes as if he hadn't already determined that none were Elves. Sauron wasn't that stupid. More to the point, He had read through the report Thuringwethil had passed Him when He'd won the War. There had only been two Elves mentioned; one had defected, and the other was Neena's plaything.

Merry opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

Aragorn, having scoffed loudly, uncrossed his arms. His hands were balled into fists at his sides. "Do not play coy. You have clearly learned all you can about our world."

"I have very little information on this world, actually," was the mild reply. "I only know the things you all have told me."

"Spare us this act."

Gimli got to his feet. Sauron very unkindly thought that it didn't make much of a difference.

"Lad, perhaps you should calm down." His hands were raised placatingly. "It's a stressful time for all of us."

"No!"

Beside Sértan, Merry jumped. He thought it might be because the Hobbit had never faced Thorongil's temper. Not that it was much of a temper, it had to be said. Sauron's temper was renown; He did not even have to resort to the Voice™ for most everyone to cower in fear. That was why He was a better leader than the Sod.

Aragorn 'dreadful leader' Sodding-Heir-of-Isildur jabbed a finger in Sértan's direction. "Don't you see? 'Sértan' has poisoned your minds; ensnared you like the Enemy would."

This time the Elf frowned. "I am not a liar," he said firmly. "I am not a monster."

Sauron snickered gleefully.

"What are you saying, Strider?" Merry asked suddenly. "Is Sértan supposed to be a spy? Is he working with Evilman?"

"I don't – I don't know." Aragorn's shoulders slumped. "There's something strange afoot here, and I just think that it's more than chance that brought him here. He only appeared once Evilman did. Is that not suspect?"

Sauron sighed noisily. "The last world Evilman took over was mine. Why is that so difficult to understand?"

"Do not insult my intelligence," Aragorn warned, and Sértan snorted.

"You insult my very presence here – am I to sit idly by and accept your barbs without responding?" Surely the Man wasn't that stupid. Sértan considered this for a second, while Sauron rolled His eyes. Of course he was that stupid. It ran in the family.

Gimli broke in again, a great deal calmer than the would-be King. "Actually lad, have you any theories as to how you arrived here?" He graced Sértan with a smile, almost unnoticeable from behind his heavy beard. "Not to doubt your story, but surely there is a reason."

Putting his chin against his palm, Sértan made a considering noise. "I'm not too sure. I think it may have to do with the fact that I tried to kill him just before he came here."

"That is news to us," Olórin said, raising his not-inconsiderable eyebrows. He shot a glance at Aragorn, who looked to Sértan like a pot about to boil over. (Sauron thought the Sod looked like a soon-to-explode forge.) "And you tried to do this single-handedly?"

"Well, yes." Sértan's green eyes went to the floor. "Everything… everyone I have ever cared about has been snatched from me."

"Oh, please! Do not try to garner pity!"

"Aragorn!" Éomer looked stern, frown crinkling his large forehead. "This is very much unlike you. Are you sure it is not you who was been bewitched?"

The Sod made a frustrated noise. "The only one who commands witchcraft here is Sértan!" He scowled at the Elf, who looked back serenely. "I would name you Sauron, but he has neither the wit nor the cunning to don such a form."

Sauron hissed at this, hands itching to snap the Sod's neck. Sértan merely rose to his feet gracefully. Even at full height he was inches shorter than the dark-haired Man. How galling.

Olórin cleared his throat. "Now is not the time to fight amongst ourselves."

"Oh, we are not fighting," Sértan said, putting his hand on Merry's shoulder when the Hobbit scrambled to stand. "I am merely being wrongly accused."

"Wrongly," Aragorn said snidely, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

"Yes. Wrongly."

"Put aside your allegations, Aragorn," the Maia said sharply. "And do not bait him, Sértan."

Sauron did not point out that He was not at fault at all. It would be a pointless and futile way to exercise his jaw muscles.

"Now. You two may avoid each other, never speak to one another, whichever you choose to do. But I will not be party to any more senseless and petty quarrels. We will wait until Faramir or Pippin return with information; until then keep your opinions to yourself."

"All that will happen when they come back is that they will support the truth of my words: Sértan is a fraud and an imposter."

Sértan tried to hold back. Sauron did not.

OoOoOoOoOo

Maladictus walked.

This was easier said than done, given that he had Neena thrown over one shoulder, in what would've been called a fireman's hoist in modern earth, but had no specific name in Middle-Earth. Neena wasn't injured in any way (no one was quite sure if that was possible), evident by the soft snoring emitted from her sharp-toothed mouth, but she was still heavier than expected – sort of like how neutron stars were the densest of stellar remnants, despite their tiny size.

The Royal Nanny continued on, despite this difficulty, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no other way to gauge distance in this strange place; without any points of reference, Maladictus wasn't even sure if he was moving in a constant direction.

Still, it was best to be doing something. Given that Maladictus needed very little sleep – if any – the only activity left to do was to keep moving.

In the privacy of his mind not occupied with swearing, Maladictus wondered what had sent Neena and him to this place. It was obvious that their current predicament was connected with the attack on Minas Tirith, but how? Could it be a MarySue with powers akin to Neena's erstwhile mother? (He'd heard the stories.) Could it be some new force of Evil, come to challenge the Dark Lord?

Could it be some horrifying combination of both?

Even as he thought this, Maladictus had to shake his head. Surely not. No one like that existed – and no one would be stupid enough to make such a thing exist.

Probably.

Maladictus only wished that whoever – or whatever – was responsible had not banished them to a plane in which magic did not work. Earlier, when Neena had collapsed in her usual practice of completely and suddenly falling asleep, he had tried to light a fire. It wasn't for any usual reasons of lighting a fire, given that it had not become darker or colder, but it was a familiar action. Comforting, maybe, and staring into flickering flames would've helped with the boredom some.

Unfortunately, his spell words fizzled on his tongue. Any attempt at wordless casting had only led to him feeling like an idiot as absolutely nothing happened. It was galling and irritating to suddenly be rendered as useless as a non-mage.

Come to think of it, magic would've helped with travelling. Maladictus knew spells for determining true north, for escaping a maze, and even for gleaning a map of their surroundings (about 1-mile radius wide). There was even one for lightening burdens, which was what Neena currently was. All ineffective.

Fully prepared to bemoan his fate as creatively and as lengthily as he could, Maladictus was surprised to see a dark shape in the distance. It was not immediately apparent what this shape was, but the sorcerer didn't care. It was a break in the monotony of the surroundings, and that was enough for him.

Even so, if that shape turned out to be something dangerous, Maladictus would have to resort to melee attacks – his bootknife and sword were all the weapons he had. Perhaps he should wake Neena; her powers were not dependant on magic, but were an inherent part of her. Or so he surmised.

Before he could make the decision to shake her roughly out of her slumber, a kick was delivered to his chest by one tiny foot. The air rushed out of his lungs; Neena was inhumanly strong, and to have all that strength concentrated in one pressure point was not comfortable.

He dropped her, not doubting that he'd have a blossoming bruise in a few hours. She bared her teeth at him in what couldn't be classified as a smile, even by her standards.

"What that?" she asked, pointing a pudgy finger at the indistinguishable shape.

"What's that," Maladictus corrected. "I'm not sure. We're going to have to find out."

Neena perked up. "Muffin?"

"Maybe." He doubted it. "Could be something else."

The tone of her voice remained exactly as hopeful. "Figgy?" No doubt she considered the ridiculous elf a pet of hers as well.

"Maybe," Maladictus repeated. He let her take his hand, walking slowly so she could keep up with his longer strides. Another glance to the far distance confirmed again that the shape was still there, and still indecipherable. He wondered if it was a good idea to approach it, wondered whether this thing had been sent here for the same reason he and Neena had been.

He had many questions. Would they be answered, he wondered?

The distance between them and the thing was not insignificant. As they walked, the shape became bigger and bigger – though no less ill-defined – but they two were no closer to actually arriving before it. Neena, easily bored as she was, started singing. Tunelessly. And loudly.

To save his ears from bleeding, Maladictus asked her a question. Given the right prompting, Neena would chatter on endlessly without any further input. It was a very… noisy way of distracting her ("…an' I wants to also have many brushies to brushie Muffin an' ribbons an' wings an' –") but it was a small price to pay for a working sense of hearing.

"Nanny, wanna story."

Maladictus glanced down at his charge. Her orange eyes were wide and hopeful as she gazed up at him, toddling along steadily. If one had had no previous experience with the Sueling, and had never heard of her exploits, one would call this picture endearing.

Being aware as he was of her character and capabilities, Maladictus did not think it so. He did find her cute, as much as he could stomach using that word, but he thought that that rather came with the job. There was no use caring for Neena if he wasn't affected with a smidgen of fondness for the toddler-thing.

Because of this, Maladictus merely sighed and said, "What kind of story?"

She appeared to consider this question seriously, scrunching her forehead in deep thought. "…teeth?" she finally ventured, biting her lower lip in a way that didn't lacerate it all to Udûn.

Given that that was all the specificity he would get, Maladictus racked his brain. He had quite a few 'stories' about teeth – teeth within mouths, teeth without – and actually started sifting through them for those suitable for Neena before inwardly smacking himself. Neena liked gory stories.

"Right," he said, letting her start swinging their hands, "once upon a time, there was a girl who kept a jar of teeth on her desk…"

The tale (which was a true one, in case anyone was wondering) caught Neena's attention well enough, and Maladictus was engaged enough in telling it that neither noticed that they'd reached the 'thing'. They stopped. Stared. Neither gasped.

Then Neena squealed.

Right. There are many reasons why this update has been long in the coming. Uni and my mental health are a big part of it, but also the fact that most of the original readers are likely no longer reading this. And remember that I started this story in 2006 - I was fifteen then. I've changed. Sometimes I reread the earlier chapters and cringe.

These are excuses, yes. Fact remains that I don't feel this fic like I used to. I'm not going to abandon it, no, but updates are going to be very slow. Just a warning.

Also: to the anon that reviewed the first chapter, calling me a bitch and this story a waste of time, you can fuck right off.

-alien