Okay, there are a few points you might want to know about before you begin reading:

FIRST: This will be mainly MOVIEVERSE. I'm giving a fair warning, so, please don't hurt me if I don't describe or mention too many things pertaining to the books.

SECOND: I TRY, TRY, TRY as hard as I can to keep ALL characters in character, but if they do seem somewhat or majorly OOC then please let me know in a normal, polite manner. I will edit and re-post if I have to.

THIRD: I have no idea if my characters are going to be Mary Sues/Gary Stues or whatever you call a male OC. Mary Sues annoy the hell out of me, but somehow my OCs always end up, even just a little bit, sounding or acting like them. So I'm apologizing firsthand about that. And if it gets to be that bad, please, I'd appreciate if you would tell me so I can try and fix it.

FOURTH: This is NOT A LEGOMANCE! Let me repeat that. This is NOT, and I mean NOT. A. LEGOMANCE! 'ahem.' Moving on.

FIFTH: This will more than likely be AU-ish. So there's your heads up about that.

SIXTH: I'll stop rambling now.


-Starts PreFellowship now, then continues through all three movies, to more than likely postRotK (if I can manage it)-

DISCLAIMER: Whatever you recognize, I don't own. Both the nameless girl and 'Coal,' though, are purely their own inventions.

WARNINGS: TENTH WALKER (I know, I know. . . .);Language, violence, and POSSIBLY slash later on. . . .much later on. . . .but I haven't decided yet. It wouldn't be anything extremley graphic, anyways.

Oh yeah. Pairings are still up in the air, despite what you may believe when you read.


SUMMARY: AUish. Movieverse. Frodo is dreaming of a very strange place. Faramir is haunted by very strange people. A strange meteor falls from the Earthen sky, and now, two siblings find themselves seperated in ME with very different problems. When one finds herself traveling amidst hobbits and rangers, the other is considered a spy by the soliders of Minas Tirith. And even though all they want is to find eachother and get the hell home, fate is cruel and karma is a bitch. Will either of them survive the harsh face of reality? You'll just have to find out. . . .


xx 1 xx

There is silence in the trees. There is silence in the grass. There is silence in the cloudless, endless sky; there is even silence in the wind which whispers by. And all that is lovely, green, and lush, is beautifully silent in its serenity.

For a moment.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Frodo!"

The boyish hobbit, so absorbed in the thick parchment resting against his drawn knees, with his hand so steady as he presses the ink tip down, stroke after stroke after bold, graceful stroke, that he does not hear the relieved voice of his gardener coming up behind him.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Samwise Gamgee pushes a hand through his tousled, strawberry blonde curls. His face is flushed, crème white sleeves pushed up well past his elbows as he ambles over to the broad trunk of a very tall, very leafy, and very ancient tree.

Where, at the base, his friend sits so immersed in his sketch, dark brows just slightly creased above narrowed, concentrating eyes. Eyes that are much too blue to be considered anything but fantastically surreal.

Swish, swish, swishing through the silvery tresses of grass, Sam then leans up against the rough bark of the tree to peer intently over Frodo's shoulder. His contrasting hazel eyes grow wide with shock.

He might have known the dark haired hobbit was a decent enough artist, but the picture so casually, and yet so elegantly scrawled across the yellowing parchment steals Sam's breath away.

It's an ink sketch of a girl. Not a hobbit. Just. . . .a girl. And a girl Sam doesn't recognize, but can discern almost immediately nonetheless from Frodo's countless, vivid descriptions of her over these last few months.

This girl is sitting on the edge of a wall, her tall and lanky frame stretching out languidly over shadowed bricks. Her shoulders are hunched forward in what could be sadness or simply bad posture; bizarre, baggy breeches and an outlandishly fitted tunic of some sort hang lazily off of her bony limbs. She has a long, rather crooked nose, pronounced cheek bones, and a pair of small, but full, pursed lips. Her hair is just above shoulder length and poorly cut, uneven and choppy in all of the strangest places, hanging jagged in her downcast eyes.

Not exactly beautiful in a. . . .traditional sense. Or any sort of sense at all, (not in Sam's opinion, at least) but there is. . . .something, he supposes, as his mouth thins into an inquisitive line. Something is oddly fascinating about her, in something of a very odd manner. Maybe it's just the way in which she is dressed. Since when do girls regularly wear breeches?

"So you're still dreaming of her, then?" Sam muses.

This time Frodo does hear him, and he gives a startled jump as his head jerks back. As if he were just caught doing something he shouldn't be. A guilty flush paints his smooth, ivory skin pink.

"I don't know what it is, Sam." He says unhappily, thick lashes casting even thicker shadows over those troubled blue eyes. "I just can't seem to get her out of my head. She's so confusing, and it's very frustrating that I can't understand her or any aspect of her world at all."

"Hmm. . . ." With a scratch of his curls and a small frown, Sam sits down beside his friend. "It's a funny thing. . . . How you keep having these sorts of dreams. About this strange girl you've never seen in an even stranger land. Have you spoken to Gandalf about them?" He wonders thoughtfully. "I reckon he'd know what they mean, if anybody might."

Frodo slumps in a muted sigh. The quill in his hand hovers there, just above the parchment where he was softening the sharp edges in the girl's jaw. "Yes. I suppose he would." The crease between his brows deepens. "But I would hardly know where to start explaining these dreams to him. I mean, I can barely believe them myself." The dark haired Baggins looks to his gardener anxiously. "And there's no doubt that you must think I'm cracking up."

Sam grins, his hazel eyes glinting. "Well, Mr. Frodo, I've thought you were cracking up long before you started telling me about girls speaking queer languages and moving picture boxes and music coming out of tiny little circles that stick in people's ears. . . ."

Frodo can't help but grin back as he begins to carefully, oh-so-lovingly, roll up his finished piece of artwork. "Thank you, Sam." He shakes his head, untidy curls following his every movement. "You always know just the right thing to say to make me feel better." And he gives the blonder hobbit a push in the shoulder before climbing to his feet.

"I do try my best, you know." Comes Sam's easy chuckle. "But, seriously. . . ." Frodo offers him a hand, then pulls him up. They stare at one another for a long moment, under the cool shade of the old and towering tree.

"You should talk to Gandalf." Sam finally nods. His tone and jaw are firmly set. "He'll be here for Bilbo's birthday party, won't he?"

Frodo's gaze grows distant, then. He looks away from Sam and off into the vast green wood behind him, seemingly lost in the far away blossoms of honeysuckle and rose that glow hazy on the horizon.

"He'll be there." The Baggins confirms slowly. "I just. . . . I can't help but. . . ." He sighs audibly this time. "Oh. Never mind. I don't know what I'm saying." Frodo shakes his head again and forces a believable smile. "I'm famished! Let's go and have lunch, shall we?"

Sam blinks. Momentarily taken aback by the swivel in his friend's behavior. "Of course, Mr. Frodo. Lunch sounds wonderful right about now." But he closely notices, as they trudge side-by-side, back towards the comforting and familiar sight of Bag End, a grace of a shadow on Frodo's face.

A funny kind of shadow that maybe, just maybe, stirs with a hint of longing in the depths of his bluer-than-blue eyes. Because as long as he has known and been such a dear friend to Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee has never quite seen him smile in the way he does whenever he mentions that odd girl in his dreams.

And that is incredibly concerning, given the fact that the girl. . . .

"You know. . . ." He begins awkwardly, rubbing the back of his suntanned neck in an uncomfortable gesture. How can I say this, without angering him so? Sam bites the inside of his mouth as his brows worriedly furrow. "You know that she isn't, I mean. . . ."

Frodo glances at him with one of his one eyebrows arched high, so high, it seems to vanish underneath his flop of curls. "What is it, Sam?" Blue eyes too bright and much too innocent, but they appear to be expecting, or, anticipating, even, the reply that sticks inside Sam's throat. . . .

Oh boy. Sam struggles to spit it out. He's staring at the ground now and kicking a wayward stone along the roughhewn path, hands shoved in the pockets of his breeches. "She isn't. . . .real, you know." He finally mutters. "And I'm only saying this 'cause, from the way you talk about her, I mean- They're just dreams, aren't they?" The rest tumbles right out in a furious, embarrassed rush. Sam bows his head, miserable at having brought it up in the first place.

"I just don't want you to get hurt, is all, Mr. Frodo." He sums up lamely.

Frodo smiles then. A small, sad smile that leaves those blue eyes farther away than ever. He pats his friend's shoulder, but his fingers tighten protectively around the parchment down at his side. "I know, Sam. I know. There's nothing for you to worry about, I promise."

He doesn't know, though. He doesn't know at all. And poor Sam can't help fearing the worst as they descend through the wood, and the grassy hill of Bag End rises into view.

I've already gone and lost him to a dream, haven't I? Oh, this is not good. Maybe I should be the one to talk with Gandalf when he comes 'round to the Shire. He'll have to know why this is happening to Mr. Frodo. . . .and maybe he can help make those dreams go away.


The gleaming white city shines regal and grand beneath a full, silvery bright moon. The facets of the buildings and homes, so lovely carved into the side of the towering mountain, glow like walls of smooth and flawless diamond inside its protective light, making the breath of the young Captain of Gondor catch in his throat.

It never ceases to astound him. The splendor of his city. And as he leans out into the cool and whispering night air, drinking the magnificent sights in, his feels his heart just might burst between his ribs with so much pride for his family's kingdom. His father's kingdom. His brother's kingdom.

His kingdom.

It almost helps him forget his reasons for wandering outside so late in the evening to begin with. Almost, but not quite. The images are still so fresh and vivid in his mind, seemingly burned onto the insides of his eyelids, because whenever he does lay down and close his eyes. . . .

It's all he can see. And he's still struggling to figure out if this is a good thing, a terrible thing, or a downright peculiar thing. Faramir runs a hand through his gingery brown locks and sighs, enjoying the feel of the wind against his flushed face.

I only wish to understand why my dreams of late are of nothing but these strange people, and their strange world. . . . Is that too much to ask for? Truly? This is. . . .completely maddening! And who would ever believe me if I were to speak of these absurd matters, anyways?

The young man shakes his head dispiritingly. No one. Save for one soul. . . . I suppose. But I wonder. . . .does he honestly believe me? Or does he only humor me with kind words, as he decides whether or not I am still safe to be around?

Caught up in the worried and restless tangle of his thoughts, he does not hear the boot falls softly clicking up the stone path behind him until the someone speaks.

"I see I'm not the only one having difficulty finding sleep this night." A warm, familiar voices resonates on the air.

Faramir blinks, before casting a look over his shoulder. A tall, broad-shouldered man step out of the shadows, dressed in simple breeches and a loose fitting shirt. Much like what Faramir himself is wearing, though he is smaller and slighter in build than the Steward's favorite son.

The man's hazel-gray eyes are glinting in amusement as he joins the young Captain. "Dear brother, tell me, what has you awake at such a bleak hour?"

Faramir looks away from those intent eyes with a tightening in his throat. He does not speak. He finds the right words, or. . . .any words at all, to describe his feelings, are just beyond his desperate reach.

Boromir nods, as if he understands nevertheless. The humor in his face smoothes into something grave, and he stares out over the silver ocean of grass with his steady gaze unblinking. "I should know by now what disturbs you." He murmurs.

There's a moment of silence, one where Faramir turns back to his older brother with widening eyes.

"Yes, of course I know. Don't look so surprised." Boromir's lips twists up into a gentle smile. "It's that young man in your dreams who is troubling you again, is it not?"

Faramir swallows and gives an anxious, barely perceptible nod. "The girl. . . .he was with that girl again, this time." He admits quietly. And tries to ignore the unpleasantly bitter aftertaste filling his mouth after he says it.

Not to mention the fact that his brother is watching him now. So he feels his face grow warm beneath the inquisitive stare, though Boromir obviously can't read his mind. Or he hopes that he can't, because it does unfairly seem like he can, sometimes. . . .

"Well, perhaps they are friends." Boromir suggests.

Faramir snorts. "Unlikely." Which only conveys the wrong message entirely about this situation, making his face go from merely warm to burning hot as he looks down upon the rooftops of Minas Tirith. "What I mean is, um," He clears his throat. "They seem to be closer to one another than friends. That's all."

Boromir shakes his head and claps his brother on the shoulder reassuringly. "They could be siblings, then. You shouldn't worry so much. They are only dreams, are they not?"

The question echoes around in Faramir's head with an intensity to make his temples pound. They are only dreams. . . .but. . . . The young Captain shrugs, as if to react indifferently.

When really, something gives a sharp and painful tug in his chest at the bluntness and. . . .logicality, of Boromir's statement. If they are only dreams, then why does seeing him with that girl bother me? I certainly don't know either of them, and have no cause to dislike this girl. . . . By the Gods, what in the name of Arda is wrong with me?

"Sometimes they feel. . . .as if they could be real." Faramir reveals, somewhat embarrassedly. "In a different time, in a very different place. . . .in a whole other world. Perhaps."

Boromir gives him a long and thoughtful look. "Then maybe they are."

Faramir raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. His stomach gives an unpleasant somersault. He can't say anything, because, he can't bring himself. . . .to. . . .

"What I mean is that dreams. . . .they are odd, mercurial things." The elder sibling attempts to explain. "And they usually can be hard to understand; yet often there is more to them than first meets the eye. If you are dreaming of these people in this bizarre land, then there must be a reason for it." Boromir pauses, before shaking his head and chuckling. "I'm sorry. That didn't sound as well as it did it my mind."

But Faramir truly appreciates the gesture. His brother, despite his modesty, has always had a way with language that he himself just doesn't really. . . .possess. At least, not quite on the same magnitude as Boromir does. Charisma, it's called . Or something like that.

"No. I mean, thank you." Faramir manages an awkward smile. "It sounded fine. And maybe. . . .you are right. But then, I couldn't even begin to imagine what they might mean. I've been having these dreams for so long now, I can hardly remember when they started."

"Have you been able to catch a name? Either of the man or the girl, or where they are from?" Boromir wonders. "Because you have mentioned that their language. . . ."

Faramir's smile broadens into something more genuine. "Other than the fact that their language gives me a headache? Well, the girl has only mentioned one word I can grasp in Westron: 'coal.'"

"'Coal?'" Boromir repeats, thoroughly amused.

The young Captain grins. "It's what she calls him, so I gather that must be his name."

"Or a highly unusual pet name."

They share a moment of light laughter. It's overwhelming, how much better Faramir can feel about himself and this predicament after a simple talk with his brother. And it isn't as if he has anyone else to speak with about these matters, anyways. Which he doesn't. "So, you don't think I'm mad?" He asks. It's as if a crushing weight has been pushed off of his chest. The laughter must have helped.

"No, Faramir." Boromir smirks. "Well, no more than anyone else does, I reckon."

"That makes me feel so much better."

Boromir gives his sibling a punch in the arm. "And this is always what I aim to do, brother. Now go and get some sleep, you look utterly exhausted."

Faramir grins dryly, but is quite aware that he has dark circles beneath his eyes. "Your honesty is humbling."

"And you were expecting otherwise?" Boromir feigns a look of shock, which just makes Faramir punch him back as he starts along the stone path to his quarters.


"Good morning, actually."

And it's true. The blackish tinges of midnight have long since begun to give way to the rosy tendrils of dawn, creeping steadily across the horizon.

Faramir rolls his eyes, but it takes a long while for the satisfied grin to leave his face even after he enters his room. What was I so upset about? Dreams are dreams. Nothing more. He shakes his head and chuckles quietly to himself. Boromir is right: I do worry too much.


Is it any good? Well, I appreciate whoever stuck through to the end of the chapter, at any rate. 'I' like this story, and I think I've got a pretty decent plot for it, too. Let me know what you think so far; flame if you must, but, really, I'll only ignore you and keep posting anyways.