When Muses Attack!

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A/N: I’m glad that you can identify with my plight. Sort of “group therapy for writers” isn’t it? ;-)

Elerrina Rose – lol! He chose me – I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t have asked for His Royal Wickedness, that’s for sure! LOL! He just appeared and began haunting me!

Emmess – well, we need to find that university and cancel that class – immediately! For the sanity of writers everywhere! LOL!

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“So, are you going to tell me what happens at the end or not?” I ask. We’re getting to Lothlorien now and I still don’t know what happens to him after she leaves.

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you die or what?” I demand, growing tired of his brooding silence. He’s slipped into one of his moods again.

He sighs and looks out the window. He’s restless but he doesn’t want to talk.

“Maybe you should go home for a while,” I suggest. “I can beta what we have so far and polish it up a bit. You could get some rest, see Galadriel.”

“No,” he finally says. Then he adds, “You know I could come back if I died, don’t you?”

So that’s what’s been bothering him. Poor beggar.

“Yeah. Is that what happens?” I ask a bit more gently now that I know what he’s been brooding about.

No answer. Just another sigh. I walk back to the bed room and reach to the bookshelf. Instantly, he is beside me.

“Not The Book,” he warns anxiously.

“If you die and come back I’ll need to know how it happens,” I tell him with a frown, my hand hovering on the shelf.

“No. You have me. Not The Book,” he says again, reaching out and laying his hand on mine, pushing it away. “I will tell you.”

I eye him curiously. He fears The Book for some reason. When he first came to me, he demanded that I hide it and all the others from his sight. Dutifully, I buried them on a shelf behind various others in my collection. The only one he can tolerate is LOTR its self. Why I don’t know. Well, I think I know but I’m not sure. He won’t discuss it. I’m thinking that maybe The Book has some sort of power over him. That maybe it would show him how “unelvish” his behavior has been and thus do something bad to him. I dunno. All I know is that he doesn’t like it and I am not allowed to use it as long as he is around. LOTR he doesn’t care about. But I am forbidden from using The Sil or any of the other reference books regarding the subject of elves.

“OK. No Book. What happens?” I ask, sitting on the daybed.

He doesn’t answer me, he just stares at the bookshelf moodily as if The Book could jump out and grab him.

“What is it, dude?” I ask him gently. Something is bothering him and it’s more than just the threat of The Book.

“I don’t want to leave,” he finally says and sits down next to me.

I shrug. “Then don’t,” I say. Seems pretty simple to me.

“You don’t understand,” he looks at me, his steely gray eyes soft now. “I don’t have a choice.”

It’s becoming clearer to me what’s been bothering him. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Is it a certain time limit you have or what?” I ask him.

“In a way, but not actually,” he replies. He’s hoping I can figure it out so he doesn’t have to tell me. Well, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed so he may need to hint around a little more.

“The story?” I ask. “If I finish the story then you have to go?”

He nods. I grunt. How do I feel about that? Well, as a writer I want to extract every bit of information from him that I can. I want him to tell me all, give me more stories. I am greedy and selfish, concerned for my own reasons.

“Why is that bad?” I probe. I’m not understanding why leaving this place for the beauty and serenity of Lothlorien could be a bad thing. And it’s not like he has to go back to work or school or anything. Hello! Walking around in a beautiful forest all day isn’t my idea of “work”, bud!

He sighs and looks at me sadly. Like he had hoped I’d be more perceptive. Sorry, hon, I’m about oblivious sometimes and you’ll have to work with me here.

“Look, sweetheart, if it would make you feel better I’ll take a day or two off work and just write everything you tell me,” I offer helpfully. “That way all your stories would be captured.”

He doesn’t answer. If he weren’t so melancholy I’d yell at him again for being so obscure.

We sit there in silence for a few minutes and I suddenly realize what he’s been trying to say without actually saying it. I giggle.

“You’d miss me,” not a question.

He looks at me then lowers his eyes guiltily, gazing up at me through his dark lashes. AAAAAAHHHHHHKKKKKK! I wanna scream when he does that. Makes me all squishy inside and that is not a good thing. For a split second I wonder how he can have dark lashes and be blonde. I KNOW there isn’t bleach in Middle Earth. Or is there?

“Awww, honey, that’s sweet,” I manage to murmur to him and pat him on the shoulder.

After a few minutes he cuts to the chase – finally!

“Would you miss me?” He asks.

Numerous answers stampede to be the first out of my mouth. “Awww, of course” mercifully beats “like a stick in the eye” but just barely. He is pleased by my answer. I sigh thankfully. In one of his moods, it would be hard telling when he’d return if I’d insulted him again.

The truth is that I would miss that hateful old thing. I will miss that hateful old thing when he is gone. According to him, it’s not if but when. Although we’ve been together for only two months it seems like I’ve known him much longer. I guess in a way I have. He’s always been there, lurking, hinting, watching and waiting to make his move. He just had to wait until the time was right to do it.

In a way, I’m going to be rather sad to finish this story and see him leave. Knowing him he will slip off without saying “goodbye” because that’s how he is. But that’s ok. I don’t want to get all squishy and mushy on him, either. I want to ask him if he could visit me again but I refrain. Part of me doesn’t want to know the answer and part of me can’t bring myself to suffer another bout of his puffery. So I just sigh and sit there with my hand patting his well-muscled shoulder in consolation before my mind slips back to that bleach question again.

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