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DISCLAIMER: Anything herein that resembles the property of Mr. George Lucas, Mrs. JK Rowling, Mr. Peter Jackson, Mr. Larry and Andy Wachowski, Professor JRR Tolkien, or Mrs. Rumiko Takahashi, is entirely intentional but with absolutely no intent of libel or cause of any injury to said respective artists. No money has been or ever will be made off of this or any of this author’s convoluted interpretation of ‘fanfiction’ so there’s no use of lawyers agonizing over it. Standard fanfiction waiver applies.


Boundaries of Mirkwood
Chapter 1
“Abigail of Wellington”

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.”

-Nursery Rhyme

Old, arched windows aligned neatly in a row cast amber shafts of light onto equally symmetrical rows of books. Made of dark, ornate wood and nearly reaching the ceiling, the bookshelves numbered upwards of forty. All the books were neatly stacked, never over-capacity as in some ill-kept libraries in which their contents teetered on the verge of a landslide. Not here.

A petit figure stood at the end of a row bathed in sunlight. Long, lovely, blonde hair tied back tight swished about madly. Her eyes raked over volume bindings guided by quick, polished, and nimble fingers. She was, as some of the local boys had uncovered one day whilst attempting to ascertain the exact geographical location of Timbuktu (for the purposes of annoying a certain over-bearing professor to which they succeeded), an intriguing and engrossing figure. None of them had yet approached her.

Today, she’d thrown on cream cardigan over a silk camisole adorned in a pattern of pink roses over her favorite long, pale green wool skirt. Her attire was usually chosen that it might give her the appearance of her true age, twenty two. Based on her stature alone, one may have easily mistaken her for a twelve-year-old. Fortunately, she was gifted with distinctly feminine curves, allowing strangers to at least grant her the benefit of having gone through puberty. If that did not sufficiently convince them, usually she only need open her mouth and recite her favorite passages from Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde in perfect Middle English (“Nas nevere yet seyn thing to ben preysed derre, / Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre”) and would then be mistaken for a professor.

There were no admirers today. Not that Abigail would have noticed them. She loved the books completely and they absorbed all her attention. Love called from the binding crackling in anticipation as the cover was opened, the way they pages sensuously arched towards her, the words begging for her eyes to ravage them (as Chaucer would certain delight in such a description of them!). Their fresh, clean scent, their smooth touch, the rough bound, embossed covers; their whole being engrossed her. While other little girls had a favorite doll to take to bed, Abigail had a favorite book (Harold and the Purple Crayon, by Crockett Johnson, although, to be fair, she also had a favorite blanket).

A faint gonging of the university clock tower drew Abigail from her work of re-shelving. With a sigh of annoyance, she picked up several heavy editions and briskly strode through the dimming beams of light toward the front desk.

Her confident stride slightly faltered at the edge of a stairwell spiraling up to the second story’s children section. Memories of faded youth struck her. Of Harold and her golden childhood. Of lazy afternoons spent in sprawling New Zealand fields with sheep grazing off in the distance, their baying adding faint music to the breeze. Reading was endless then for it was without the obligations of term papers. It was merely a game for her pleasure, not a means to an end grade. According to her schedule, she should shortly be attending lecture for three hours. The topic was a dusty 15th century piece of literature, and she found this particular professor’s voice irritating. Going and listening to some literati drone on about assonance (which the other students should already know!) suddenly felt unbearably pointless. Pining, her throat tightened with longing to go back to the way things were before. Back when reading was for reading.

It struck her then that she didn’t technically have to go to class. She was getting straight A’s and so long as she meticulously read her chapter (which she already had), lecture wouldn’t prove any assistance other than solidifying the material she’d already learned (which didn’t serve much of a point being as it was about the consistency of concrete). And if her professor inquired as to her absence, some subtle subterfuge would suffice for her prior attendance record was impeccable.

Yes. A little foray for one evening couldn’t possibly hurt. It’d probably do her some good. Finals would be coming up shortly and it’d be best to get her tension out now while she still could.

She deposited the large, cumbersome tomes on a nearby table and climbed upstairs twirling a silver ring on her finger, as she had a habit of doing when nervous or excited.

Immediately the atmosphere changed. These neat rows of metal shelves were still immaculately kept, but were definitively different. Standing little more than a meter tall and adorned with cartoon book characters in every variety of color (not to mention lording over the large block alphabet on the well worn carpet beneath her feet), they stood in joyful contrast to the gravely stoic monument to learning below.

Enraptured and suddenly struck with a fancy, Abby began to giddily riffle through the Rs in the fiction section with all the assiduous care she gave to the tomes, until, at last, she reached Rowling. The library, of course, had multiple copies of all the books in the series, but the majority had been made off with. This didn’t frustrate Abby in the slightest. A broad smile covered her face, immensely pleased by the knowledge that among the Wellington children, at least sixteen were happily engrossed with the misadventures of Mr. Harry J. Potter.

Tucking The Philosopher’s Stone safely into her backpack, Abby barely caught herself from skipping out of the library (and it’s lucky she did because the pinched-looking librarian would have disapproved of skipping employees).

Situating the brown bag on her shoulders, Abby walked with her bike across the student speckled lawn to the narrow creek behind the library. Back there was a lovely grove of old holly trees, a winding creek running through it, and a wooden bridge crossing. The light may have been a bit dim, but was serene, infrequently traveled, and the wider branches looked like an inviting spot to sit and read. She leaned her bike against a post on the bridge and carefully climbed onto the rail (risking redundancy, Abby was rather short) and reached for a lower branch. Despite her size, she was strong from lifting tome after tome and a superb climber due to her rather out of character affection for rock climbing.

Trusting in her sturdy Doc Martins to grip the rather narrow rail, she grasped onto the equally sturdy-looking branch and began to pull herself up, eyes focusing on the safer part of the limb closest to the trunk, just out of her reach. As she brought one leg up, the limb creaked in protest. Her position was precarious; two hands and one leg on the branch. With all her body working to bring her upright, reaching for another branch to steady or catch herself should the limb fail was out of the question.

With utter finality, a loud crack sounded as the limb gave way. Blindly, she reached out, merely grasping onto a feeble twig which promptly snapped. Abby’s heart rose up in her throat as she fell in panicky swiftness toward the shallow brook below, and for some time there was naught but darkness after.

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