MORE THAN A WOMAN

Chapter One – The Summer Rose

By the misted window she stood, like a fair vision from vanished years beyond remembrance. Her skin a haze of flawless caramel, her eyes huge and dark as the rayless depths of the ocean, her hair a sleek length of ebony, richer than a wealth of liquid diamond, blacker than the darkness between the stars, sweeter than the cloying kiss of love, and frightfully realistic as nylon weaves go. She might have been perfection’s own self, the very paragon of femininity, but for the fact that she was a man. A man named Steve.

A low roll of thunder erupted from a bruise-dark sky, as the first rain began to fall. Seventeen-year-old Steven Sawyer surveyed the night-swept world beneath him, pouting for all he was worth. Dusk lay heavily draped across the narrow streets of his hometown, leeching light and life from the towering heavens, and seeming to permeate the very core of his being. Yes, he was depressed. How could he be otherwise? His parents were away for the weekend, and while this in itself was a distinct cause for celebration as it meant he could behave – and dress – however he pleased, he was beginning to feel lonely. His best friend Myra hadn’t spoken to him in days. The two of them had fought, once again, over a man – a young oaf named Zachary, to be precise, with pierced ears and a frankly alarming taste in after-shave. Still, he had a motorcycle and cheekbones to die for, so that was settled. But apparently, Zachary preferred girls without male reproductive organs. The fascist. Myra and Steve had exchanged many a bitter word on the subject, and had even resorted to hurling novelty garden implements at one another. And following a series of hissy-fits rating at approximately 6.4 on the Richter scale, the two had parted on very sour terms.

Steve drew the curtains mournfully, and crossed his darkened bedroom with immaculate poise. The folds of his red satin ballgown trailed delicately across the floor – the frock was his mother’s, and fitted him rather well. He was a little flat-chested, admittedly, but it was nothing two sizeable handfuls of tissue paper couldn’t remedy. He sat now forlornly upon his bed, his vision blurring with unshed tears as the image of Myra in Zachary’s arms reared its odious head to haunt him. No, he must not weep! He hadn’t got where he was today without learning to avoid the hazard of smudged mascara. And with that, Steve gazed up into the only face beloved enough to dispel the dark clouds of sorrow from his heart.

“Orli…” he breathed huskily, staring up at the exquisite visage that covered practically every spare inch of his bedroom. Sometimes, Orlando Bloom’s smoldering brown eyes were his only solace. Steve lay back and closed his eyes. He began to doze, yet the heightening storm darkened his dreams. The thunder seemed to reverberate through his skull, and the lightning to sear his lidded eyes. And then, a single shard of hot white energy seemed to strike him alone, invading body and soul, and lingering unwavering within him like a pillar of pure, blinding agony. It tore his eyes open in a blast of argent fury and caused him to jolt fiercely into a sitting position.

Nothing could have prepared Steve for what met his gaze.

He awoke to the full glare of noon, the eye of the sun squinting through a gap in the twisted canopy of branches above him. Shapely grey trees reared up on either side, and he felt dwarfed by their monstrous size. Yet every bough and twig was elegant, finely etched and flawless, and bowing gently in a fragrant breeze. Steve gaped in wonder at his surroundings, suspecting he had just taken leave of any senses he may ever have possessed, and had finally gone utterly, incurably mad. Well, he supposed, as forays into insanity go, he’d heard of worse. Madness had a bad reputation, sure, but it looked fairly idyllic from where he was sitting…

“Who goes there?” came a sudden voice from behind. Steve drew himself to his feet, and turned with remarkable grace. Two tall, fine-featured men with long raven hair stood before him, tree-shadows spidering across their pale faces. They were practically identical in appearance, except that the foremost of the two – quite unsettlingly – wore a large silver spoon in the top button-hole of his shirt. Both were cloaked and hooded in soft woodland hues, and Steve fleetingly noticed that they also sported some rather fetching brown leather knee-boots. All in all, the two strangers were positively edible-looking… although the one with the spoon was a little on the sullen and pasty side.

“I… I…” Steve stammered in awe. He had suddenly deduced, from the strangers’ rather ridiculous ears, that before him stood two Elves. Yet his amazement was promptly overshadowed by an acute stab of embarrassment as he noted the stunned astonishment in the two Elven faces before him – both pairs of clear grey eyes were practically on stalks as they glanced over his face and apparel. Steve shifted his feet self-consciously.

“Hail. I am Elrohir, son of Lord Elrond Halfelven of Imladris,” the be-spooned Elf declared flatly, before Steve could muster the wits to string a coherent sentence together. “This is Elladan, my brother. Declare yourself this minute! We permit no dratted enemies to roam these lands.” Elrohir’s blunt greeting caused Steve only further confusion, and he gaped blankly at the Elf. Elrond of Imladris? The name was oddly and eerily familiar.

“O beauteous maiden!” Elladan wailed tragically, abruptly breaking his silence and falling to one knee. “I beg thee, grant me the gift of hearing thy name, but once, from thy heavenly lips! Ai! Thy radiance sets my very soul aflame, my heart a-flutter, my toes all a-tingle…”

“Heavens to Betsy!” Elrohir muttered irritably, glaring at his howling sibling. “Is it any wonder the ladies of Imladris have taken to carrying steel-studded maces about their persons lest you attempt to serenade them?”

“Forgive my brother’s churlish ways, sweet Lady,” Elladan retorted sniffily, surging to his feet and regarding Elrohir with a truly alarming pout. “He has no eye for a fair damsel, being rather more fond of kitchen utensils than he ought to be.”

“Why, I… oh.” Elrohir blustered, clutching his spoon discreetly to his chest. “That’s entirely beside the point. Now tell us your name at once, madam, or I shall be most… cross.” he declared with a curt nod.

“Summer-Jayne,” Steve blurted, moved by a sudden inspiration. “I’m Summer-Jayne Sawyer.” He was barely aware of the words until he had uttered them. He had instinctively assumed the most convincing female tone he was capable of, and – for reasons best known to himself, which in truth even he didn’t actually know – a slightly botched Texan accent. Well, it was a little late to question it now.

“Summer-Jayne Sawyer…” Elladan exclaimed gleefully, the words sounding utterly ludicrous on his Elven lips. “Summer-Jayne Sawyer! Ah, Lady! Thy name is like nectar to my ailing spirit! Balm to my weary mind! Sweet wine to my… lonely stomach! I feel I could fly! Fly!”

“Oh shut up you braying ninny! She could be a spy or anything!” barked Elrohir, cuffing his brother sharply across the ear. Elladan flinched, and scowled venomously at Elrohir.

“Are you a friend to the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth?” Elrohir demanded, fixing Steve with an intense glare and suddenly brandishing his spoon in a most disturbing fashion.

“Yes?” Steve answered uncertainly, after a long and painful pause. His mind was almost blank with disbelief. Middle-Earth! Yes, safe to say, he was having a fairly weird day.

“Oh goody!” Elladan squealed, “Elrohir, lets take her to meet daddy! Oh, do lets!”

“Oh fine, if its what the lady wants!” Elrohir grouched, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s not as if we have anything better to do, what with that war against the Dark Lord Sauron, and laundry duty, and that blasted squirrel gnawing away at daddy’s favourite bench…”

“Marvellous!” Elladan clasped his hands in joy, beaming at Steve. “Oh, you’ll simply adore daddy! He’s a funny old stick… a bit grumpy and prone to prophesying the apocalypse… and his carpentry isn’t up to much at all, but he’s awfully nice really. You’ll come with us, Lady, won’t you?”

Steve nodded shakily, unsure of how to reply. He didn’t want his limited knowledge of Elvish etiquette showing him up now of all times. His mind reeled with confusion. The very ground beneath his feet seemed unstable, although that might possibly have been due to his diamante stilettos. He lurched unsteadily across the rugged terrain, aided by a slightly bemused Elladan, as Elrohir turned and marched off into the thick of the trees, glowering and grunting with every stride.

“Eru knows what daddy will make of her,” the sour Elf murmured under his breath, as the three of them passed beneath the swaying shadows of the trees.