Chapter 6: A Letter To The Ground
A Letter to The Ground
I've had quite enough of Wizards, Hobbits and Dwarves for one lifetime...
But then Kili comes into the room from the kitchen, nursing a tall glass of what looks to be that sweet, sweet wine from earlier.
...Well, maybe not all Wizards, Hobbits and Dwarves.
He pauses upon seeing me, seemingly unsure of where to sit himself down. It takes me a moment to realize that, once again, I have taken someone else's seat. The polite thing to do, of course, would be to move; however, I'm not feeling very polite tonight.
"I'm not moving for anyone else ever again," I tell him with a smile, leaning my head back against the soft velvet padding of the armchair. "This is my dream, and I'll sit where I want. Unless it's got your name on it, Kili, you can piss off and sit on the floor... unless you give me that wine. I could do with a drink, the day I'm having."
By some miracle, Kili obliges, and I reluctantly surrender the seat, guzzling down as much of the wine as I can in the hopes that it will send me to sleep quicker, and maybe I'll be able to wake up and forget all this madness. I sit on the arm of what is now his chair, watching the quiet sea of Dwarves as they chew on the last of the Hobbit's food and smoke their musty pipes. Eventually the members of the group begin to fall asleep; Bilbo patters away to bed, and the almighty Thorin himself disappears, probably off discussing with the Wizard whether or not I should be allowed to travel with his band of merry men on this imaginary 'quest'. I laugh aloud to myself. Good luck with that, dear old Gandalf. You're gonna need it.
"What is it?" Kili asks quietly, himself on a drunken downer now from the earlier consumption of alcohol we all engaged in. He looks barely awake; despite this, he still sips from a half-filled tankard of what smells like fermenting beer, and a half-eaten chicken leg in the other hand.
"Oh, nothing," I say, my head against the spine of the chair's arm. "Just thinking about how wack all of this is... how are you, Kili?"
"I'm well," he says, "but I do wish you'd stop saying my name like that. It's Kili."
"That's what I said," I reason, "Kili."
"No," he beams, a little laughter in his voice, "you've been saying 'Keeley' and 'Feeley'. It's 'I', not 'E'."
"Kili," I say, trying to get the pronunciation right, with an 'I' as in... Igloo, or... Iggle Piggle." I look over to him with a smirk and say, "Maka Packa. The Ninky Nonks. Tombiliboos. Ha-hoooo."
"...What are you talking about?"
"...Never mind, Kili," I reassure him. I make sure to pronounce his name correctly, and he smiles in response. "I'm just off on one."
"Do you do that often?"
"Quite often, yeah."
"You have a most unusual way about you," he says in that voice which seems an octave too deep to match his face, smirking a little out of the corner of his mouth. "Unlike any other character I have met in all my years."
"And you're dressed like a rejected member of the Village People, so you can sit down, sonny boy."
"...I am sat down."
I shrug with a smile, not having expected him to understand. "So... what year is it, Kili?"
"You don't know?"
"I'm from very far away. Very, very far away."
"Alright... It's the two-thousandth, nine-hundred and forty-first year of the third age."
I laugh aloud. "Of course it is."
"Oh..." I giggle with a hiccup, the paracetamol not yet having cured me completely, "that's me, isn't it."
He hides a smile behind his gloved hand. "My brother likes you; he thinks you're hilarious. My uncle, he just thinks you're mad."
"And what do you think?"
"...I do believe you are quite drunk. So, which are you?"
I shrug. "Probably a bit of all three."
"Your clothes are... unusual," he notes, gesturing to my vibrant trousers, "very colourful. I've been wondering what the marks across the front of your garments mean, across your- uh- chest. I can't read them, they are foreign runes. Are they written in the language of your people?"
I look down at my shirt front, remembering the ice cube character and the horrifically cheesy logo.
"...Yes," I lie. "The, uh... language... of my... people. Yeah, sounds about right."
"And what language is that?"
Stop this, dude, I think absently... there are only so many lies I can weave before I deteriorate into a big, gooey mess. Here comes word vomit.
"Vulcan," I say. It takes all the strength I have not to bury my face in my palm and weep at my own stupidity.
"I've never heard of it."
"Very few people speak it," I lie. "Not even we Vulcans speak it. It is a sacred language... like... Welsh, or Latin."
"I've never heard of those, either."
"Well of course you haven't, no one speaks them."
"So you are a Vulcan, then? That's not a race I have heard of. I said you weren't a Hobbit."
I swallow hard. Why, Alice? Of all the things you could possibly have said, why on Earth did you tell him you were a Vulcan?!
"...Yes. I am a Vulcan. We're a type of Hobbit." The word vomit is about to come up again; I try to swallow it back, but it's no use; I find myself creating the subsequent hand gesture and calling out,
"Live long and Prosper."
Stop it, Alice.
"...What was that?"
"That's uh... a blessing, in the Vulcan community. That's what my top says."
Stop. Say something else, anything. Just stop with the Star Trek lies.
Kili watches me, obviously noting my confused state, and I turn so that I can get a good look at his face. What a delicious face it is.
"Good grief," I say, dizzy from my delirium and trying desperately to find a new path to lead the conversation on, "you are attractive, aren't you? I mean, that brother of yours isn't bad, but you're a different story all together. I don't normally go for guys with better hair than me, but God damn, son, you're fresh out of a L'Oreal advert, aren't you? And those cheekbones... Irene Adler herself would melt."
...That's what you came up with?! What is wrong with you, Alice?! This is why Josie is your only friend. Even in your dreams you're a nutcase.
By some magic he grins broadly and I smile back, trying to act as though I didn't just make a complete and utter babbling fool out of myself.
"I understood rather little of what you just said, but I think it was meant as a compliment... It's a shame that I'm so drunk I probably won't remember a word of it by the time morning comes," he says, tapping the back of his rough hand on top of mine. "It is rare to hear such things."
"Come home with me," I say with a raised eyebrow, "'hearing such things' won't be rare where I'm from, I'm telling you. The Vulcan ladies will snap you up, pretty boy."
"And where do you Vulcans hail from?"
I try desperately to remember the place Gandalf suggested to me, but fail. Instead, I scramble through my imagination and drawl,
"Four Privet Drive, in the district of... uh... Hogwarts?"
...Right, that's it. Final straw.
If you could do me a favour and swallow me up, that would be much appreciated. I'm also not against spontaneous combustion, just for the record.
Any time right about now would be Great.
Lady Lavender the Vulcan of Four Privet Drive, Hogwarts
It's obvious that I say it like a question by Kili's contorted face. He ignores my uncertainty, however, and lends me a smile instead. I lean forwards on the arm of the chair to give him a grin, saddened that once I wake up, I'll never see this unusual cast of characters again.
"What a terrible name for a place... to be named after the warts of a hog."
"Awful," I agree, burning with embarrassment. "Tragic... terrible. A monstrosity of a place name."
It's just a dream, I remind myself. He isn't real; you'll be waking up any minute now. Don't get embarrassed.
"I was born in the mountains," Kili explains, "like all my kin. Have you heard of Ered Luin?"
I shake my head. He seems to consider something for a long moment, and gives me a look I cannot quite place.
"Thorin is my uncle, you know," he tells me.
"Really?" I say, genuinely intrigued; come to think of it, I remember Fili mentioning it earlier. Realisation sweeps over me.
"...That makes you royal, then."
He nods, smugly proud of his heritage, and goes on. "I'm second in line to the throne, after Fili... or is it third? I can't remember. This wine is getting the better of me."
I laugh a little; he is rather dreamy, drunk or not. Dwarf or not. And then, of course, there is the whole factor of him being... oh, what was it, now?
"It's a shame that I won't remember you when I wake up," I say sadly, leaning a little closer into the arm of his chair. "You're rather fun, for a figment of my imagination."
"I shall take that as another compliment," he smiles. "But now, my Lady-" 'My Lady?' Swoon, someone pass me the smelling salts- "I'll have to bid you a goodnight. I am, as you said, quite drunk, and need some sleep before the quest begins tomorrow. Goodnight."
I smirk a little. "Night night, Kili."
I lie awkwardly against the arm of the chair, tying my best to position myself so that I won't end up leaning- and drooling- all over him once I do fall asleep. It feels like barely five minutes that my eyes are closed, hung across the arm of that comfy chair, and then suddenly...
...I am flung awake once again by that terrible falling feeling. I bolt upright, clinging to the hem of my pajama shirt for dear life, and find that it is morning; I'm in my own bed, safe and sound under the covers. Thank God...
It was just a dream.
...Come to think of it, though, my bed feels awfully smaller.
And it's... snoring.
I look to my left, and almost die on the spot.
Kili, the imaginary Dwarven Prince, is in my bed.
AN: HUZZAH! We reach the modern world!
At the moment of my writing this, we have 7 chapters, 97 reviews, 87 followers, 47 favorites and 2,977 views. THE 7! IS IT A SIGN?! WITCHCRAFT, I SAY! And one more thing; I just spilled orange juice all over myself. Can someone please hand me the 'useless eegit of the year' award?