“Brit, what is this for? Don’t tell me that it’s for that bloody supermarket thirty miles away.”

“But Sebeka, it’s a nice place! And they sell frozen beef by the bulk there! Think of Celebithil! She’ll starve if you don’t give her something to eat!”

“Britannia, do you really think that I would ever let Celebithil starve?”

“Celebwen, please!”

“Manlethwen, no. Don’t even go there. The puppy dog eyes will not work this time.”

“Will you two please stop calling each other strange names?”

“Why, Mum? It’s only natural that I call her Manlethwen, as it’s the name Barrow Downs dot com calls her!”

“And Barrow Downs dot com calls you what?”

“Yavawen.”

“So? Why call her Celebwen then? She seems to be a Sebeka to me.”

“Aunt Cheyenne!”

“Mum!”

“Stop that, both of you. Now if your family hadn’t gotten into that accident so long ago, you wouldn’t be here to judge that, now would you?”

“True. Well, are we going or not?”

“We can go in the morning to the supermarket you buy Celebithil’s meat at,” Sebeka said. The three women left the grocery store to go to their home.

What is going on now? the dragoness thought, sensing the Yellowstone Caldera was going to blow. It was unlikely that the warnings would be any more, or even as many, as those in the 1885 Tambora eruption.

Sebeka, Cheyenne, and Britannia were going to arrive soon, and so they would be able to heed her warnings. The mighty beast then placed her head on her forepaws and went to sleep, dreaming of what her kit, or kits, would look like when they were born.

“Go faster, Cel!” Sebeka cried. The dragon roared in answer and strained against the currents.

There’s only one way I know to escape the ash! Do you give me permission to use it? the dragon asked.

“Go ahead! Quickly, though!” The dragon roared, and the flame formed a shining circle. The circle glowed red, then blue, then a shimmering, flawlessly pure white. The center went black, leaving only the bare edges, and then it flashed a white, and untouched green-forested lands lay beyond. Celebithil surged through.

Sebeka felt like she was being ripped in half. Flames licked on the edge of her consciousness, and she screamed in pain. The dragon roared, and the people keened and wept. Then, all went black as they landed.

Sebeka? Sebeka, is that you! You have pointed ears, and black hair! the horse asked in the dragon’s voice.

“Celebithil! You look like a horse! Not like your normal high-and-mighty Dragon self. Why are you not a Dragon any more?”

I’m a dragon, not a horse! Oh, my Gods, where are my wings? And why is the grass looking good? The horse made a weird laughing sound. I can whinny? Oh, Gods! I’m a horse. I’M A HORSE! Oh help.

“Ouch. My head hurts,” Cheyenne said, sitting up. Manlethwen gave a similar complaint, and Celebithil the horse was looking very murderous.

“Ohmigod! Celebithil’s a horse!” Britannia cried.

“And you look weird. You have blonde hair; you also have pointy ears and you’re tall.”

Oh, dear. Britannia, you’re an Elf.

“I’m a what?” the woman, now Elfling, breathed.

“Manlethwen. You’re Manlethwen!” the woman who used to be Sebeka cried.

“And you’re Celebwen!”

“I... I’m Celebwen?”

“That you are.”

There was a flair of light, and a young woman appeared, her dirty blonde hair a mess. As Celebwen watched, she saw the hair grow longer and brighter, the girl grow taller, and a few features kick in. Then, she had pointed ears, and Celebwen knew who she was instinctively.

“Erica!”

“Sebeka, which one is you!”

“I’m Celebwen, now. This is my cousin, Manlethwen, and my mom, uh... Mom, how’s Laurëgil suit you? It’s Elven, I know that much. It means Golden Star.”

“It’ll do, I guess. I’d prefer Cheyenne, but that’s not a real name here. Wherever here is.”

Someplace in Lindon, I believe. Celebithil said.

“Lindon... As in Gil-galad’s kingdom!” Celebwen cried.

Yes. And it’s about five hundred years until the forging of the Great Rings.

“Good, we’re not in too much danger. Yet,” Manlethwen replied.

“We shouldn’t be in danger at all if this is 1450 years before the rings are made,” Laurëgil said.

“Mother,” Celebwen said, trying to keep a light tone and not scold the slightly older Elf-maid. “We’re Elves. We’ll live forever unless we’re killed or die of heartbreak.”

“How do you know we’re Elves?” Laurëgil said.

“I do. I can feel it in my blood.”

“You, Sebeka, are crazy.”

“I’m not Sebeka anymore, Mother. I’m Celebwen.”

“Celebwen, Sebeka, I don’t understand, but I probably never will. I’m Laurëgil, I guess, and Britannia is Manlethwen. I still don’t understand. And who’s the newcomer?”

“Erica, how’s Silmarien? It’s the name of a Princess of Númenor.”

“It’ll do, I guess.”

“Now for the question of where and when we are.”

Like I told you, in Lindon and about 1550 years before the One Ring is made.

“Alright, that makes sense. Basically, we’re in Gil-galad’s realm, and around the year 50 in the Second Age,” Celebwen said, fishing in her packs. “I believe that this is around the time the Dwarves start moving into Moria. Ah, damn! I don’t read English any more!” She was fishing through her Lord of the Rings book, and looking incredibly incensed.

“What do you mean?” Manlethwen asked.

“Just that. Look at this!”

“What is that language and those weird runes?”

“It’s English. We probably read either Quenya, Sindarin, or Tengwar now. Or all three. This isn’t English we’re speaking, either. Form the sounds of it, it’s probably Sindarin.”

“Can you translate English?”

“Maybe. I can remember the first paragraph of The Hobbit, effortlessly, and by that I can probably work out English from there.” She began to flip to the beginning of her book with a portrait of an old man walking up a road to a round green door stuck in a hill. She then began to speak out loud, and, after about an hour, she set the tome aside, saying she had developed a headache.

“Lovely. Just lovely. We are in the middle of nowhere, 1550 years before all Hell breaks loose—”

“As a matter of fact, Mother, it’s only about 450 years until Sauron begins to stir once again in Middle-Earth.”

“Okay. Still a long ways away. It’s someone else’s problem. We’ll be dead by then.”

“Let me remind you again that we are Elves. Silmarien, Erica, we’re immortal. It is our problem. And we can’t change anything, because it may make it so that Frodo’s Quest will ultimately fail. I’ll give you a basic blow-by-blow of what happens from here to when the Battle of the Last Alliance is held... Oh, crap. I can’t tell you; I brought my copy of the Silmarillion, but I can’t read English anymore. And the Silmarillion is in English.”

“Perfect. So basically you know next to nothing.”

“I know what was in the Appendices of Lord of the Rings. It isn’t much, but it got me here in knowing when we are, approximately. I know a few things, but not much. I’ll know much more come the later era in the Third Age.” There was a snort, and Celebwen looked over to Celebithil who was rubbing her back into the dirt.

I think there are some Elves approaching.

“Great. And how are we going to make it through Lindon with so much gear and no dragon to carry it with?” Laurëgil asked.

“We’ll have to use the hiking backpacks I brought, and sort through everything, then somehow dispose of all else without harming the environment. Who knows what animals will do when they find a bunch of flashlights and batteries on the ground?”

“Are we leaving the flashlights? I should hope not!” Laurëgil said.

“The batteries and books are some of the heaviest things we have. Thank goodness I decided to bring the shelters, and the Thermorests and sleeping bags. I also brought along plenty of clothing, for all weathers, mostly cold weather.”

“Why?”

“If we had stayed in America, we would have faced nuclear winter soon if we had survived the ash and pumice fallout. I also have food that we can use, Sterno stoves, the Propane stove, plenty of Propane, and other camping gear. In one of the bags is a bottle of bleach, some dunk bags and mess kits, a set of three tubs, and a small teakettle that we can use to heat water. I have about thirty large water bottles, like the huge ones used in water dispensers, so we’re somewhat set on water. We need to keep the water with us, but how we’re going to carry it is beyond me. Or how we’re going to carry everything else. I was kind of counting on Celebithil staying a dragon.”

“Okay, so we’re fairly well prepared.”

“Maybe. We can’t hunt, I know I can’t hit the broad side of a barn with a bow, and my fencing skills are mainly decorative. I don’t have any weight behind my swings, and I’d probably run screaming from the first Orc I see. We need to downsize, big time, in any case. Let’s start. Mom, can you grab that bag over by that tree? Let’s bring everything together.” She dug in one of the backpacks and came up with a massive shelter for picnics and the like. “Who brought this? It’s fairly useless unless we ca use it as a shelter for Celebithil.” She began to try and set it up with Manlethwen’s help, but they only wound up making it worse.

“Argh! I can’t set up a tent!” Manlethwen cried in vexation at one point. Laurëgil came up to help at one point, and only made it even worse than it had been.

“You’ve destroyed it!” the senior Elf-maiden said, throwing up her hands in defeat. Celebwen looked at her mother and made a face, to the extreme delight of Celebithil.

An Elf is supposed to be the essence of all elegance and knowledge. And you, an Elf, can’t set up a tent. This is hilarious! Celebithil said. Celebwen shot her an exasperated glance.

“Silvermoon, just shut up.” the Elf-maiden snapped. The horse looked up with shock resonating in her stance.

“I give up!” Laurëgil snapped, indicating the shelter. Manlethwen and Silmarien were attempting to make dinner, but all that ensued was an empty propane bottle, a half used box of matches, and a half-melted pan for water.

“Uhhh... Celebwen, we... uhm... we melted the pot.”

“You melted the pot? How is that possible?” Laurëgil asked.

“May I remind you that you somehow melted a pot on the electric stove we have at home? You apparently set water to boil and you destroyed the pot, almost set the house on fire, and made us have to get a new burner for the stove because you welded the useless pot to the stove!” Celebwen cried. Manlethwen laughed.

“That’s it. You worked at GSMHC Tomahawk Ranch for three years straight. You cook!”

“What’s GSMHC Tomahawk Ranch?” Silmarien asked.

“Girl Scouts Mile Hi Council. Tomahawk Ranch is the name of the site she worked at.”

“I see.”

“I used the name Eos there. It’s the ancient Greek goddess of the dawn.”

“I see. I was about to go there myself; my name was all picked out and everything. Name was Ashes.”

“Ashes? Whatever for?”

“Manlethwen means ‘Lady of the Blessed Ash.’”

“Okay... And Celebwen means Dawn?”

“No, Celebwen means Silver Lady. I believe that we are using the language of Westron since we are able to speak with the translations of Sindarin without having to resort to saying the same word twice in one sentence when not deliberate.”

“Food for thought. But not much, considering.”

“So, how are we going to get to civilization without a map?” Laurëgil asked expectantly.

“I’m not sure.” Celebwen then attacked the gear, and began maniacally sorting it into piles of ‘stay’ and ‘go’. The pile of ‘go’ was much bigger by the end then the pile to ‘stay’, and Celebwen was frustrated. “We can’t do without these things!” she cried, then tried to sort it into packs with the amount of weight that people could carry. The water was the big problem for transportation issues, and Celebwen finally asked if anyone minded staying in one spot until some of the supplies were worn out.

“Why don’t we go to the Shire? I’m sure the Hobbits wont’ be too put out. Or Rivendell.”

“Silmarien, the Shire is empty of Hobbits. They are probably on the banks of the Anduin still. That’s where Sméagol and Déagol found the Ring, remember?”

“Ah. What about Gondor, then? Or Rohan?”

“Lindon is just north of the Shire. Besides, it’s going to be over two thousand years before Gondor and Arnor are created, and even longer before the Mark is given to the men of Rohan.”

“I see. Rivendell?”

“Isn’t created yet.”

“Lothlórien?”

“Is still over the Misty Mountains, and besides, it’s too far a trek. We’d probably have to go through Moria, and though the Dwarves haven’t split with the Elves yet, I feel that they are a different race, and that we shouldn’t tell our knowledge to anyone just yet.”

“Good idea. Why don’t we try to find Gandalf then?”

“Good Gods. Don’t you people think! Mithrandir and the four other Istari are going to appear sometime around TA 1000. That’s over four thousand years from now!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Indeed. Well, you two can help Mom with the undestroyed tent, I’ll get supper going with one of the full propane tanks and a good pot, and then we will need to settle down for the night.” She poured four cups of water into the pot and set it to boil, a task which would take some time on a propane stove. Then, she went over to help the people knotted in the tent It took some doing, but she finally had them untangled and the tent up, the Thermorests and sleeping bags out, and the water boiling. She walked over and poured in one cup of the dehydrated soup mixture, throwing in several dehydrated vegetables to make it more substantial, as well as a few cubes of dehydrated meat that she had soaked to make softer. Celebithil came over and sniffed it before trying a cube of dry meat, spitting it out, and going after the grass.

That stuff is disgusting to me now. I don’t know why I like grass now instead of meat, but it must be a horse thing. The mare snorted and shook her mane as Celebwen laughed and stirred the stew, watching steam come off of the pot.

“The propane won’t last forever, which is how long we’re apt to live here, as Elves, unless we are killed or die of heartbreak.”

“Suddenly that passage in the movie Troy makes sense,” Manlethwen said. She looked up. “The one about the gods being envious of mortals, and that to mortals, life is all the richer. I think I’m going to loose my senses before the end of this life. If this life does end, which it very well may not.”

“Mm-hm,” Laurëgil said, tightening a rope about a stake. “It’ll take some getting used to, that’s a fact.”

“No kidding. Elves. Us. As in immortal beings, wisest and fairest of all,” Silmarien said, straightening the sleeping bags.

“We’re not prone to sickness or to cold, so we’ll have to leave the winter gear behind.”

“What about the horse?”

“Celebithil? I’m not sure about her.”

I very well may be immortal, being a dragon before I became a horse. My kitofoal may also be immortal.

“Holy... You’re pregnant, Celebithil! And you never told us! Dragons have gestation periods of three centuries. Then, when they do lay an egg, it takes three more centuries to hatch, and then yet another three centuries until the dragon is fully grown. By the way, Celebithil, why are you not showing? How far along are you?”

I became pregnant around the time the American Revolution was finished. I have about a year left, and so I don’t know why I’m not showing yet.

“Maybe because a horse’s gestation period is a little less than a year?”

Perhaps. It could be that.

“Come on, push! Push, Celebithil! I’m here,”

Ouch... This hurts... The bluish birth membrane appeared from the mare’s vagina. It had been a long fifteen hours of labor, and the Elves would have been tired, had they still been human. Celebwen gently took the foal’s forelegs in her hands and started to gently pull as Manlethwen stroked Celebithil’s neck. Then the foal was born, and Celebwen was ripping off the amniotic sack, the wet, papery substance giving beneath her hands quickly.

The foal was just that, a foal. But it looked strange. Draconic wings of a midnight black were limp and damp at its sides. The head was more like a dragon than a horse, with teeth coming down. The neck was as wide as a foal’s, with a soft, spongy scaly texture to it melding into fur as the foreparts smoothed into the hindquarters. The forelegs were shaped like a dragon’s, and had the same scaly texture as the neck and head. The feet were a dragon’s talons, the hind legs and tail the same as any foal’s legs and tail would be. The foal’s head swayed to and fro in the light, and it made strange cheeps.

“Come on, little one,” Celebwen said, gently reaching out.

What by the Valar is that thing Celebithil said in horror, backing away from the foal. It chirrped and tried to stand. Whatever it is, I’m not taking care of it. You can, or it can take care of itself.

“Celebithil, it’s half horse half dragon. What would you expect!” Celebwen cried. The foal struck out and attempted another stand, then fell in the hay.

It’s messed up is what it is. That thing looks like it’s going to murder me if it tries to nurse. I am not going to mother a vicious beast like that. She looked at it and when it approached she tried to kick. Celebwen made gentle crooning noises and the foal/kit tried to shuffle over to her instead, trying to stay out of the way of Celebithil’s hard hooves. It tripped on its wings, and nearly fell, but Celebwen caught it and righted it.

“It’s a filly. Hey, little girl. How are you, sweetling?” she asked, looking at the filly. The foal/kit made the chirping noise again, and Celebwen told Manlethwen to find some goat’s milk and laden it with butter and lard. She came back within the hour, and had a pint of the mess in a bucket with a long hollow reed. Using a method she would use with any newborn, Celebwen dripped milk into the foal’s mouth using the straw. Soon the little one was asleep, her wings tucked about her. Celebwen lifted the foal and went out of the stall, Manlethwen following. Gil-galad was outside, his platnum blonde hair gleaming in the starlight.

“What is that, Lady Celebwen?” he asked, looking warily at the foal.

“Celebithil was a dragon before she became a horse when we crossed over to this world. When we came over, she was pregnant with this little one. The foal became something of a meld between the two.”

“I see. Is it a filly or a colt?” he asked, reaching out a tentative hand. The filly looked at him, felt his hand on her neck, and made the strange chirp again.

Aargh! Another one of the monsters! I had triplets! And I’ve got another in my womb! Celebithil’s voice roared in a panic. The five of them sprinted to the stall where three more of the foal/kits were laying, blinking in the light. Manlethwen, Laurëgil, and Gil-galad each scooped up a foal after cleaning it off slightly, and the five Elves and four foals made their way back to the palace, where they stayed in a royal suite, Celebwen sleeping with them and waking every two hours to feed the little foals. Three fillies and a colt. What a brood.

“Celebwen, do you mind if I take Herurondwen with me when I go to Mirkwood?”

“Ask her.”

We can’t stand it here. We need to be wild, unlike Mother. You found her wounded, and nursed her back to health. We will always be there if you call, but we need to feel the open skies, and to kill the enemies of the Elves. We can feel it singing in our blood.

“Then go. Fly high, and find peace.”

“Farewell, you four. These one hundred and fifteen years have been the most interesting of my life. I’ll miss all of you,” Manlethwen said as she patted her two Urulóki-roch’s on the neck, and they trotted out. Celebwen handed her two charges full rabbit carcasses, which they devoured in a heartbeat, and then the four odd looking beasts took to the sky. Celebithil came out of hiding.

They’re gone, finally. To live their own lives. I should hope.

“They’ll be wild and free now. I was surprised you lived this long, but I suppose you have many a good year before you. You are part dragon, as are those four. Since it took them this far to mature, I’d say they’re as immortal as you.”

They had better stay away in any case. And by the way, have you noticed how Gil-galad is acting around you? He’s downright smitten, or, more or less, in love.

“I see. Well, I... I know what’s going to happen, basically. My mind and memories haven’t been dulled in the last three hundred years.”

You never did choose life partners well. I just hope that you don’t wind up falling for Boromir son of Denethor when Gil-galad dies.

“Celebithil, I beg your pardon, but shut up. I don’t need your commentary.”

Oh my. Has Gil-galad asked you to wed with him?

“Yes. And yes.”

Oh help. I have a crazy Elf friend. Absolutely insane. She’s wedding with an Elf she knows will die when Sauron is defeated for the first time, and she most likely will also fall for a Man who will die in the War of the Ring!

“Celebithil, quiet. Are you getting fat?”