Celandine's Chronicle (celandineb) wrote in cels_fic_haven, @ 2015-06-08 13:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | hp ficlets harry, hp quill-it 100.3, lotr ficlets frodo |
HP/LotR ficlet: More Things in Heaven [Harry, Frodo, general]
Title: More Things in Heaven
Author: celandineb
Fandoms: HP, LotR
Characters: Harry, Frodo Baggins
Rating: general
Length: 1115 words
Summary: Suddenly Harry's not in the Leaky Cauldron any more.
Note: For quill_it, 100.3, prompt 58, "spirit". For espresso_addict who thought Frodo might give Harry interesting advice. I'm not sure that this qualifies as "interesting advice" but I hope it's an interesting situation, at least. The title is, of course, from Hamlet, act I, scene 5.
Maybe someone really spiked the butterbeer? Because this place doesn't look familiar at all. The last I remember, I was sitting in the Leaky Cauldron having a pint and reminiscing with George. He got all misty, and now, poof, he's gone and I'm in a totally different pub altogether.
I look around cautiously. It's darker in here than the Leaky, but there seem to be a lot of children, so maybe it's not a pub after all?
No, wait. They're not children. Some of them have beards. And the short ones without beards all have enormous feet. Bare feet. Hairy bare feet.
Something about that tickles the back of my mind. I take a swallow from the pint glass in front of me—beer, not butterbeer, but it's not bad—and think hard. Merlin. Big hairy bare feet. They're hobbits. And the other short people must be dwarves. There are some bigger folks, my size, as well.
Am I dreaming? Or did George play one of his more involved practical jokes on me and somehow dump me into a movie set? I heard that there was a remake of The Lord of the Rings in the works, and that's what this seems to be… except that there aren't any cameras that I can see, and this all looks too real to be a movie set.
I must be dreaming. At least the beer is good, right?
There's a stir at the bar and then one of the little people, the hobbits, moves in my direction.
"Frodo Baggins, at your service," he says, setting his glass down on my table and hoisting himself into a chair.
"Er. Harry Potter, at yours," I reply.
That seems to be the right thing to say, because Frodo smiles. "Welcome to the Prancing Pony."
"Is that where I am?"
"Well… near enough. The real thing is long, long gone, but a few of us chipped in for this re-creation." He looks around with satisfaction. "It was always a good place to meet travellers and learn the latest news, you understand, and old Barliman Butterbur makes everyone welcome, the little folk and the big alike."
"All right," I say doubtfully. "But, er, aren't you dead? Or something?" I vaguely remember that Frodo sailed west at the end of the books, but what happened to him after that is unclear in my memory. "And why am I here? I'm from the real world, and Middle-earth is just a story."
Now he laughs. "Do you think I'm some kind of ghost or spirit, or imaginary creature? Poke me."
I do. He feels solid to me. Real.
"I don't understand." My voice sounds more plaintive than I would like.
"We're both real. Or both fiction. Whichever you prefer to think of yourself as; it doesn't really matter." Frodo nods at my glass. "Can I get you another?"
I hesitate before agreeing. Frodo hops down and takes both our glasses away, bringing them back refilled.
"Thanks." The beer goes down smoothly. "This is very good."
"Gandalf's enchantment," Frodo confides. "Strider talked him into it, or so he claims, but I think Gandalf was happy for the excuse. He was always fonder of both ale and pipeweed than he wanted anyone to notice."
"Gandalf," I repeat, my head spinning. "So I am in Middle-earth."
"No, you're in the afterlife." He shrugs. "Heaven, Valhalla, Annwn, Elysium… whatever you want to call it. The Hall of Heroes."
So now I know where I am, I guess, but it still doesn't make any sense, except that apparently I'm dead.
Frodo apparently senses my confusion, because he adds, "It's meant to be a reward. Not everyone ends up here, obviously." He gestures around the room. "The inn isn't nearly large enough. There are others, of course, and we can move between them as we like, and visit the places where those who are not heroes go too."
"So heaven is a kind of city?" I ask, trying to understand. "With different neighbourhoods, and locals, and so forth?"
"More or less. You'll understand after you've been here a while," says Frodo.
"And it has fictional characters too?"
"No. We're all real, Harry. That was hard for Sam to understand too. Out there," he waves his hand, "where you came from, you saw that as reality, and so my world for you is fiction. But for me, it's the opposite. My world is real, and you're fiction, and so are Ged, and Rand al'Thor, and Lessa, and Taran, and Paksenarrion, and…"
"I've never even heard of any of those people," I say. "Except Taran. I think. He sounds kind of familiar."
Frodo nods. "The Prydain Chronicles. Taran and Eilonwy drop in here from time to time. Her bauble is similar to Galadriel's phial that helped me in Mordor, you know."
I finish my beer. "So everything in books is actually real?"
"Pretty much. It's rather fun once you get used to it, especially since, being now beyond death, you don't have to worry about it. I've had some good conversations with Sméagol, for instance. Gollum," he adds when I don't recognise the name.
"So the villains are here too, as well as the heroes?"
"No. Nothing truly evil gets to this place. Sméagol's sacrifice redeemed him, or so Gandalf explained it to me. But Sauron's not here, or your Lord Voldemort, or any such."
"I think I need another drink," I say under my breath. "This is all, er, rather unexpected."
"I know how you feel," says Frodo. "It took me a while to get used to it myself. I'm not sure why you ended up here, exactly—not that you're not welcome!—since there are a few of your people around already, and generally folks end up mostly with their book-kindred, as we call them. Maybe Dobby suggested it. He's quite the character and often visits. There aren't any true elves about, you know, since they are bound to Middle-earth and don't die as we mortals do, so house-elves are as close to elves as you'll see. Not very close at all."
"No," I agree, remembering a little now about the elves of Middle-earth.
"But listen. My advice to you now would be to take a room—Barliman has plenty for folk your size—and get some rest, and we'll talk more in the morning. I can take you on a bit of a tour if you'd like."
"That would be wonderful," I say gratefully. I hold out my hand. Frodo clasps it, and I notice the missing finger.
This may be heaven, but I think I'm glad to know that not everything is perfect here. Perfection would be awfully dull.