AN: I do not own Lord of the Rings, or any of its characters. I own just my own creations, as well as my story plot.

Yes, it's a holiday miracle! I'm back with a new story! I know I promised an original story, but I've had such horrible writer's block, I decided to take a break. Then, one day, I got my spark back, and here we are!

This particular genre is somewhat outside my usual comfort zones, but I've always wanted to write a Lord of the Rings fan fiction. It was after re-watching a couple of the films that I got my creative spark back (after having been stalled for ages).

In addition, for those who are sticklers of the books: please remember that this is my first attempt at a LOTR fan fiction. I've only seen the movies (a few dozen times), and read the books a couple times. I actually took a class on Tolkien in college, but that was a long time ago, so I'm going to stick with the films. I will occasionally mix the two together once in a while, but most likely will stick with the movies.

Please enjoy, and don't forget to review.

Chapter 1: Traveler:

I had always felt like I didn't belong.

I know, it's something many people say at a point in their lives, but I had always felt as though a small battle was going on inside me. I felt as though my heart or soul had been split into two very different halves.

One part always felt young, excited with new things, and anything wondrous. I always loved the stories many others outgrew, like fairy tales, legends, and myths; anything having to do with heroes and adventure. Things others put aside by their early teens, I still clung to.

The other half of me was what most would call an 'old soul.'

Technology was something I avoided, for the most part. I used it at work, of course, and to send emails to friends, but that was all. I didn't play video games, or spend hours texting on my phone, and I avoided social media like the plague.

No, I preferred physical books, listening to music, and the peace of being at home. I yearned for reading and learning, of finding depth in whatever book was in front of me, and sharing everything I knew and learned with others, to try and help them if they needed advice, to somehow make the world a little bit better.

But unless it was online and part of whatever was trendy, nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. Even my parents didn't listen, believing I was too young to know what I was talking about. I was 'disconnected' from the world, in more ways than one.

More often than not, I wondered if I'd been born in the wrong century. I believed in honor, chivalry, and wisdom. I believed in showing kindness to others, and that men should be courteous to women by being a gentleman. I did not see a problem with a man holding a door open for a woman; it was someone being polite, treating the other person respectfully.

So, perhaps I was more 'old-fashioned' rather than an 'old soul,' since all that I held faith in was fading from the world.

I often wished that I lived in a place where my thoughts could be accepted, and my opinions heard, rather than laughed at or waved aside as unimportant.

What is that old proverb? Be careful what you wish for?

My trip to New Zealand had sort of been my choice; a surprise gift from my father, he had said it was either New Zealand or Japan.

As I didn't speak a word of Japanese, the choice had been obvious.

I planned the whole thing: hotel, flight, currency exchange, and of course, sightseeing adventures. And since I was going to the land where the infamous Lord of the Rings films had been made, how could I not include a visit to the Hobbiton set?

The flight had been brutal, the time change difficult on my poor, inexperienced, travel-worn body and brain. I knew I'd made a mistake choosing to visit the film set only a day after landing, but the rate had been discounted, so why not?

A long bus ride later, I stepped into what I felt to be the best part of Middle Earth.

I'd loved the Elves and Dwarves in the books, but felt that, had I been born in the texts, I might have fit in better with the Hobbits. They certainly shared the same appreciation of food that I did.

While the other tourists flocked towards the hill that held Bag End, vying to get the best selfie or souvenir photo, I turned and took a less obvious road. Besides, I would be here all day; I would get my chance to visit the most famous Hole in the Shire later.

I stopped at a small shop selling some cheap food, and decided to go for a small picnic on my own. There was a small hill overlooking the area, so I figured I'd set up there and wait out the crowds.

After finding my way up there, I used my jacket to sit on while gazing out at the waving green grass, colorful flowers, and the whispering trees.

In that moment, I felt something click inside me. I truly believed I was in the Shire, watching Hobbits come and go about their business, laughing and trading jokes as they went. I caught a faint smell of burning firewood, cooking food, and plants growing, all things Hobbit-like.

As the hours passed, my small picnic slowly made its way into my stomach. The sun began to set, and I knew I had to get going. The bus back to the city would leave soon, and I really wanted to get a photo of myself in front of the green door of Bag End.

I gathered my things, settled my backpack into place, and turned to make my way back down the path.

Only instead of solid ground, I fell into nothingness.

When I started to climb into consciousness, I could not even begin to describe the sounds that met my ears.

It seemed like a language that only nature could speak. One moment, it was water flowing with a tone of urgency, like a stream cascading down as a waterfall. Then it shifted, becoming a soft wind whispering past my ear, gentle and warm, soothing to my panicked mind. Then, last, was a rumble so deep, it felt like a thunder storm beginning to break.

I thought I heard the faintest of words, something about 'too early,' 'too soon,' and 'gone before the task is done.'

Who was talking? Doctors, or nurses? Possibly some emergency team? I was starting to feel intense pain and numbness, but before I could so much as whimper, a gentle hand caressed my cheek. For a brief moment, it felt as though I were being touched by starlight and moonlight, my mind filled with pale silver and dancing flecks of pure beauty.

"Sleep, child," whispered a voice that was female, but also the eternal vastness of a star-lit night sky. "There is much we would have you do, and so we bestow upon you a gift before your task has begun. Should you succeed, the rewards shall be far greater than you could ever imagine."

Then the world went dark again.

When I fully woke, I felt warm, like I was surrounded by soft, pleasant golden sunlight. For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, wondering I'd died and was going to be taken to whatever afterlife awaited me.

Then the pain started, and I couldn't hold back a whimper as stiff muscles cramped, and twisting cords of hot and cold pain shot through my body. The light was still warm, but now it was too bright for me.

A gentle hand rested on my head, and I could swear I felt streams of cool water flow through my veins, easing the pain and relaxing every muscle in my body. A voice like warm liquid silk spoke in a questioning tone, but I could not understand what was being said, and said so, in my own language.

The voice went silent, and was joined by one that was rougher, more human rather than the one that had first spoken. The rough voice was followed by a coarse hand on my forehead, and I had the sensation of some sort of energy rippling through my entire body.

"There," the rough voice said, full of satisfaction. "It is done. She will understand us now."

The gentle, smooth hand retreated, but the other remained, gently patting my cheek in a fatherly manner. "Rest now, little one. You've quite a bit of healing before you."

When I finally managed to force my eyes open, I thought for sure I was dead. The light was soft and bright, and I felt as though I were resting on a cloud, with soft wisps of air coasting across my skin. For the first time in many years, I felt completely safe and comfortable.

With minimal effort, I was able to roll my eyes around to take in my surroundings. I was lying in a large bed, with the most comfortable mattress and pillows I'd ever been on. The sheets were soft, like silk, but seemed weightless.

It was the décor of the walls, bed, and furniture that struck me most, though. Everything looked to have been carved from wood; the walls, bed, chairs, tables, and even the ceiling! Where in the world was I?

I twitched my left thumb, digging the nail into my hand. Pain shot through it, quick and sharp. Yes, I was definitely alive, and awake.

When my brain accepted the fact that I was not, in fact, dead, it immediately began appreciating that fact, even as it started questioning where I was. A hospital, or possibly a recovery center? They had those in New Zealand, right?

I started sniffing the air, and found nothing that indicated that I was in a hospital. I'd been in them often enough when visiting friends and relatives to recognize a sterile environment. But there was no antiseptic scent, no beeping monitors or machines, and no voices over an intercom.

Lifting my head slightly, I checked my arms, searching for the inevitable IV drip and medications. I was shocked to find nothing except a few scrapes and bruises, with every inch of skin cleaned of dirt. I know I had to have fallen from that hill, so I should have been filthy. Had someone given me a bath?

The thought made me blush, since the last thing I needed was a complete stranger looking at my belly fat and flab. I wasn't overweight, but I was close, and had no doubt that whatever doctor was tending me was going to have something to say about that.

"Good morning," a rough, but warm voice said.

Squeaking in surprise, I turned and saw the kindest-looking old fellow slowly walk into the room. The caring look on his face reminded me of my late grandfather, and the twinkle in his grey-blue eyes would have put Santa Claus to shame.

"Hello," I whispered, wincing as I realized my throat was dry.

"Ah, forgive me," he said, apologetically. "You must be thirsty."

I managed to struggle into a sitting position while he retrieved a cup and a pitcher, both made of beautifully carved golden wood.

'Since when did they start using wooden cups in hospitals?' I wondered, accepting one full of water.

Once the first sip of liquid caressed my tongue, I debated whether I should swallow, or spit it out. It was almost like drinking snow-flavored sparkling water –cool, crisp, light, and refreshing. It didn't have any carbonation, but the liquid almost danced on my tongue.

There was no possible way water could taste like this.

"What is this?" I asked, glancing into the cup.

It looked like water, but I wouldn't put it past them sneaking in some sort of liquid medication to help me feel better.

The man gave me a strange look. "It is water, of course. Granted, it is water drawn from Lord Elrond's personal well, but water nonetheless."

The look he gave me was filled with amusement. "What did you think it was?"

I was too busy sitting there gaping at him to answer. Whatever was in the cup had to be a drug of some kind, because there was no way he could have said "Lord Elrond" with a straight face. Plus, there was no Lord Elrond; he was just a fictional character.

A hand carefully took the cup from mine, while its mate gently closed my mouth.

"So, you know where you are?" the stranger asked. "Or rather, you seem to know Lord Elrond's name, so you must know you are in Rivendell."

'But it's a story!' the logical part of my brain screamed. 'A wonderful story, but still, a fictional story!'

Then he walked into the room.

She was touched by the Valar, of that Elrond was certain. Their power faintly shimmered around her, a mark very few in Middle Earth could see. He had known it for what it was the moment Gandalf had carried the poor girl into the valley, calling for help.

It had been a shocking sight –a young woman, unconscious and battered, as though she'd fallen down a hill. Elrond had not hesitated to reach for the limp form and carry it to the healing wings; his calling as a healer outweighed his questions.

But when he'd placed his hands on her, his power met one that was far greater than his own. It was unmistakably that of the Valar.

In the days since, while she slept and healed, he constantly wondered, 'Why a Daughter of Men? And for what purpose?'

Men were weak; after Isildur's failure to destroy the One Ring, Elrond knew this to be true.

But there was something in this woman that seemed…familiar. With the Touch of the Gods, it was almost as if the light of the Eldar was within her as well.

That had alarmed him, though he did not let it show, even to Gandalf. Would this girl have the long life of the Men of the West? Surely the Valar would not bestow immortality on a mortal! The Race of Men were unable to fully understand what that meant, and Elrond did not wish that burden on this poor girl, who stared at him with awe, fear, and respect.

But there was also recognition there, as though she knew who he was, before she had even been told his name.

Being the focus of such intense eyes was enough to shake me to my very soul. There was wisdom, age, sadness, and grace there, as well as something far deeper that no human could ever hope to explain. All he had to do was look at me, and I was more than willing to tell him anything he wanted to hear, answer any question he pressed upon me.

'Lord Elrond,' my brain said.

Even without the circlet he wore on his brow, there was no one else it could be. He looked nothing like the actor in the films, because Hugo Weaving was purely human, but I knew who it was.

This was an Elf, and even I could sense a strange, otherworldly power coming from him. Whether that power came from the Elven Ring he wore, or from his very being, I did not know, but it was beyond intimidating. If Lord Elrond, who was half human, could make me shrink inside myself, then I hope I never meet Lady Galadriel –she would easily turn me into a quivering mess, bringing me to my knees.

The weight of those grey-silver eyes fell heavily on me, and without even thinking about it, I bowed my head. "My lord," I murmured, keeping my gaze downcast.

Around me, the air seemed to freeze and vibrate, but that might have been my imagination. The many thoughts and theories that flowed through my mind nearly had my head spinning. If this was Lord Elrond, then the older man must be Gandalf the Grey!

I couldn't help but be both thrilled and terrified. I didn't know why I was here in Middle-Earth, with two of the most power beings in this world, and it was starting to make my stomach churn.

"So, you know where you are?" The smooth, dignified voice could only be Lord Elrond. "I can sense that you know who I am. If that is so, then you must know you are in my realm."

I swallowed hard, but didn't dare look up. "Yes, sire," I softly confirmed.

"Look at me, child." That was Gandalf. I could not refuse such a request when it came in such a kind tone.

When my gaze met his, he gave me a gentle, but firm look. "I found you near the borders of this land, clad in strange clothing and no guard. Your internal wounds were rather grave, but not life-threatening. Had I not found you, though, things would have ended rather poorly for you."

I didn't hear the Elf Lord move, but the sway of his robes caught my attention. My eyes inadvertently darted up to meet his, and I immediately felt as though I were caught in a grey fog. There was a gentle prodding inside my head, either from the Elf or the Wizard, but it quickly drew back, the fog lifting until I again felt the faint warm rays of the sun.

However, Lord Elrond's gaze did not waver as he said, "The Touch of the Valar is upon you."

My body and mind froze. I had watched The Lord of the Rings films dozens of times, but the books were something I was only faintly familiar with. I did know that the Valar were the deities of Middle Earth, but what would they want with me?

'Of course, knowing my luck, I've simply fallen from a hill in New Zealand, hit my head on a rock, and am now hallucinating this whole thing,' the reasonable part of my head said.

Wizards, Elf Lords, and gods –this had to be either a dream, or a horribly realistic hallucination…right?

But if this was real, and if the Valar had decided that they needed me for something, there was only one person I wanted advice from –only one that I could trust, without question.

"Gandalf?" I whispered as panic began sinking in.

I didn't know what to ask, but he must have sensed that I was nearing a mental and emotional break, for the next thing I knew, his hand brushed my forehead in a fatherly gesture.

"It's alright, my dear," he crooned. "Go to sleep."

And I did.

"Something must be done about her, Gandalf," Elrond told his old friend.

The Wizard gazed sympathetically at the young woman sleeping in the bed. "I'm not in disagreement, but she is quite a puzzle. She is mortal, of the lines of Men, but she has been given the attentions of those in the West. Their Touch has given her the Light of the Eldar, but it is faint. I believe her life will be long, far longer than any Man or Dwarf, but I cannot say if it will be the immortal one of the Elves –though it would not surprise me if it were."

As was his habit, Elrond began stroking his Ring of Power as he lost himself in thought. Such a personage had never existed, so far as he knew, not in all the previous Ages of Middle Earth. For her to be brought here, possibly from a different time or world, meant that this girl would have a long and difficult journey to travel before she found peace here –if she ever found peace in Arda.

"Will you keep her here, mellon nin?" Gandalf asked. There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he spoke. "She may be a good friend to a certain charge of yours, and if you claimed her as your ward, none would speak against her."

That thought did not appeal to Elrond's sensibilities. However…the girl seemed genuinely confused and frightened about her situation. He could not refuse her refuge in his realm, not if she truly was an innocent player in the Valar's game.

"Very well, Mithrandir," Elrond conceded. "She will remain here, under my guardianship until we know her full purpose."

Gandalf heaved a sigh of relief. "I thank you. Were it my choice, I would take her to Saruman, but he dislikes the presence of others in his Tower."

He glanced over at the corner of the room. "Something must be done about her possessions. They are from her homeland, and I fear that what is inside them may distract her from whatever it is the Valar wish her to do."

Here, Elrond hesitated. "I would not destroy what remains of her old life. I shall put them away, for when the time is right to return them to her."

Rising from his chair, Gandalf walked to the corner and retrieved the bag. A moment later, Elrond felt a small ripple of power, and blinked. "What did you do?" he demanded.

A grey-clad shoulder shrugged slightly. "A small preservation spell," the wizard calmly replied, with a small twinkle in his eye. "It will keep everything exactly as it is until she is ready to open it again. Once she opens the satchel, the spell will dissipate."

Well, he could hardly fault his friend for such a kind act. "I'm sure she will thank you, once she is reunited with it. But for now, I will store it where not even the most mischievous children could find it."

Especially not one in particular.

AN: Well, that was my first attempt at a LOTR fan fiction chapter. Please let me know how it went?