A Note From the Author: This is a story that I wrote, and which is posted on under the name Intarille (an account which is no longer accessible to me, since I cannot remember e-mail or password), when I was first entering high school. In all this time since its completion, some 7, almost 8, years, it has still lingered in my mind. Upon re-reading it recently, I thought I could do a much better job with this storyline than my 14-year old self had. As such, I am re-writing it. It is an exercise in reminding myself what I loved so dearly about writing since graduate school, I believe, has sucked my love of it right out of me. Also, it has been many years since I concerned myself with anything LOTR, and considering how large a part of my life this story was at one time, I am pulled again to it. I hope that you enjoy this readjustment to an old tale.

Disclaimer: A large portion of the characters and plot herein, though not all, is the property of Mr. JRR Tolkien. This is a fanfiction meant for the pleasure and enjoyment of its author and readers, and never meant for profit or publication.

. . .

Ch. 1 A Quiet Life

Upon opening the door, Duke greeted her with a pleased gasp and rushed to meet her in the entry-way, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor of the apartment, his breath coming in happy puffs. He put his large, wet nose into the palm of her hand, snuffling as though looking for treats. He gave one tremendous puff out, which flared out his cheeks, as his nose quit her hand and looked up at her happily, sitting himself immediately in her path. She held out a flat palm, indicating that he should stay, as she reached back into the hall and began pulling in the mirror which she had just bought not an hour before. Aila kept her left leg straight, blocking the avenue to the door so that her dog couldn't escape or come near the large mirror. The mirror itself was quite heavy, and Aila was forced to resort to dragging it along the floor on its indelicate feet until the entirety of the mirror gained the entry hall of her small apartment. After having pulled it far enough to then be able to close her front door, Aila left the mirror in the hallway. Curious, Duke walked all about the mirror, sniffing and occasionally shooting out an inquisitive tongue, but after a few minutes he gave up the mirror entirely and followed his mistress into the kitchen.

The Doberman subsequently plopped his haunches down in the very middle of the kitchen, easily the most inconvenient spot, as was his habit. Aila chuckled and tossed him not a small piece of the vegetable she was chopping. He snatched it from the air quickly and easily, gaily crunching, his eyes alight, and he watched her doings intently. Occasionally, Aila ruffled his ears on her way from sink to stove, her fingers easily and unthinkingly finding and scratching that happiest spot behind his ears that made Duke's tongue loll contentedly from his mouth.

After dinner, she returned to the entry hall, hands upon her hips, as she considered the best way to move the large, heavy mirror, and, indeed, where she wanted to keep the thing. It had been a strange evening, after leaving work she had happened across a garage sale sign, perched precariously on a small stick in the road's grassy median. She couldn't remember the last time she had gone to a garage sale, or in fact if she ever had, but found herself turning to follow the directions, as though some fancy had taken her. Immediately upon exiting her car she saw the thing, that grand old mirror. There was some part of it that was quite ugly, actually, but perhaps not in a significant way. It's design was quite overdone, perhaps elegant in its day, but it's wood was old and stained and the glass, upon closer inspection, showed a large crack in the upper right corner. "A family heirloom," the woman had said, coming up from behind Aila. The owner smiled softly, her gray hair and kind eyes suggesting that she was well into her fifties, explaining that the mirror had been her late husband's, who had died many years ago of cancer. Since she had never remarried or had children, there was no one to pass the mirror to, and she could no longer stand to ignore it and could no longer stand to own it. A very short time later, the mirror rested lengthwise in the backseat of Aila's car.

Now the mirror stood obstinately in her apartment. It certainly did not go with the general decor of her apartment, for which she preferred simpler and more elegant designs. There was something, however ... something which had attracted her to this mirror and caused her to bring it home. She left it in her living room for the moment, perhaps later in the evening she would drag it into her bedroom and see how she felt about it there. For now, she changed into flannel pajama bottoms, donned slippers and a soft robe, and made herself a cup of tea. She sat then on her couch, but rather than watching television, her gaze turned out her large glass sliding doors, watching the Boston evening turn darker. It was the very end of September but it seemed to her that fall was quite over and done. She would be very surprised if it were not snowing in the Northeast within the week. Duke jumped onto the couch and settled beside her, his head resting in her lap. She stroked his head fondly and automatically, sipping her tea, and losing herself in thought.

She passed her evening in this manner, alternating her gaze from out of doors to the things which occupied her living room. She had a large and impressive collection of books on either side of her television – a television which, as it happens, was rarely used. The books occupied most of her attention during her free time, when she was not in the mood to gaze absently and quietly about the place as she did now. Sometimes she was amazed by her own propensity to pass long spans of time merely sitting and thinking. Patient, waiting, watching. But, those moments of internal solace comforted her and calmed her in spite of her stressful life. Her eyes fell again on the mirror.

The general construction of the mirror was, she thought, of rosewood: a dark chocolate hue that was pleasing and absorbed the eye readily. The upper corners rose gracefully like castle spires, peaking in a shape much like an arrowhead. The feet at its base were clawed, but not like any animal's feet that she knew, as each foot had seven clawed toes. And across the top was an interesting pattern of loops and twirling lines, dots and accents. In fact, as she looked longer, it looked less like a pattern and more like script – indeed, there was little pattern to be seen in the design above the mirror's glass, and perhaps something was written there in a tongue that Aila did not know or recognize.

Arabic, perhaps? But it was not quite as flowing as that middle eastern language. The letters were not connected across the top, as they might have been were it Hindi. She thought briefly of old Norse runes, as the previous owner of the mirror had seemed quite European in her appearance, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. She knew little about the runes, but knew they were more blockish and disjointed than this script appeared.

The remnants of her tea had long gone cold in her hands, so she set the mug on her kitchen counter and called back to Duke, who had remained on the couch. "Bedtime?" she asked, and he obligingly stretched from the couch and followed her back into the bedroom. Aila fell asleep thinking nothing of the mirror.

. . .

In the morning, she woke early and went busily about her day without a glance over her shoulder at the mirror that still stood firmly in her living room. She went to work and her mind was entirely occupied in thoughts of her research and the strong desire that it not begin to snow or rain before she got safely home that night. She was required to stay behind at work that evening to conduct some fMRI scans for the study, and was not able to return home until late. Duke greeted her sullenly, unhappy that he had been left alone for so long. This continued for several days.

She spent the following Saturday with Duke, to make up for the time she had been forced to leave the Doberman alone. They went to the nearby dog park and she even drove him out to the harbor so that they could walk along the walk there. Aila had always loved the historicity of Boston and, strolling with her dog along the historic harbor, was succor for her tired heart. It had been a long week in the lab, but the weekend yawned and stretched happily before her.

That evening, Aila lie awake in her bed, flat on her back and staring at the mirror which she had moved into her bedroom. That strange language still perplexed her and she was turning over in her mind, again and again, the possibilities for its translation. Duke's back was pressed warmly against her side and his snores reminded her regularly that she still awaited sleep. The minutes crawled by, her hand automatically reaching to stroke Duke gently as he slept. His fur was warm and soothing. She lifted her other hand to her mouth, her lips parting to give her teeth access to the already too short nails she had bitten down. It was a nervous habit she had never quite been able to get rid of, and unhappily she thought of how such short nails made her already large, masculine hands seem even more masculine. She pulled her hand back down and rested it on her chest, outside the coverlet. Her eyes finally closed and she fell asleep.

Aila woke up again only a few hours later, in the dead of the night. Her room was dark and shadowy, it felt as though she were in a foreign place, and not her room at all. Her tongue stuck in her mouth and her throat was closed, and Aila swung her legs out of bed to get a glass of water. Duke groaned beside her, deep in sleep still but perturbed by her movement. She lifted a hand to his head and gave a few soft strokes. On her feet, she felt dizzy and ungrounded. Aila grasped the edge of her bed to lead her along, since her legs had not fully awoken from what had been a deep sleep, and Aila vaguely wondered what had woken her. She glanced blearily and saw that the red letters of her alarm clock read 3:16 AM. It was the first of October.

Stumbling now, her hands groped forward to find some purchase, some solid object to steady herself on as she blindly moved forward. Nothing came readily to her hands and she began, horrified, to fall forward, unbalanced and unsteady. Too late her fingers wrapped around an object, the mirror, and Aila's realization was terrifying. She would crash headlong into that mirror, its glass would shatter and dig into her flesh. The scars would remain in her pale skin for years, she guessed. She inhaled sharply, closed her eyes, and waited for the crash. Instead, she hit stone floor, not at all forgiving and she let her breath out in a pained groan. Slowly, she unscrewed her eyes against sudden light, where it had come from she didn't know. Mindful of her bruised side, she looked first at her hands on the stone floor, gray and worn smooth, but exceptionally clean. Surprised shouts began behind her.