Disclaimer: The Hobbit and all its characters, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

How was it that she always got herself into these situations?

The young woman ran as fast as her feet could carry her, faster than she had ever run in what little she could remember of her existence, and still it was not enough.

She could hear the howls of the wargs behind her, the sound like wet, hot breath on her neck. It was more than enough incentive to lengthen her already impossible stride, stumbling her way through this ridiculous, never-ending forest as if Death were at her heels.

Death in the form of slobbery, flee infested mongrels and their hideous masters.

Go on ahead, she had said.

She just needed a rest, she'd said.

Stupidity, plain and simple.

As if she, the girl from nowhere, with no name and no idea where she came from, could possibly look after herself.

A low lying branch scratched her face, the sting of it making water come to her eyes.

Even that tiny fellow, what was his name? Willio, Bongo, Bilbo…yes! That's it! Even Bilbo knew more about fighting than she did! And that's saying something! She could hold a sword, her form horrible, palm sweaty and grip looser than a drunk after autumn festivities, but at least she could hold it.

The girl stumbled, frizzy curls flying into her face and sticking to her mouth. She caught herself before she could fall, spitting her hair out spitefully and dragging herself up over a huge boulder. Her clothing caught on the jagged rock and this time, she really did fall. Pine needles poked at her face, the sharp ends leaving imprints on her soft flesh.

The girl scrambled to her feet, bright eyes moving frantically before locking on a nearby tree. Her gaze shot up, taking in the old oak and its sturdy branches before bolting towards it.

An arrow whizzed past her, its inky blackness sinking deeply into the tree with a solid thunk.

She ran partially up the trunk, dirty fingernails clawing at the bark before jumping for the arrow and using its thick length as a springboard to leap to the lowest branch, a good twenty feet off the ground. It splintered as she leapt, shattering under the pressure of her moving body.

The girl reached for the branch, stretching out her arms and grasping it with strength she didn't know she had. Below her there was a low growl, the sound raising the hair on the back of her neck and making her insides clench. Scrabbling paws and harsh barks, the noises too loud for her ears, rang out in the silent woods.

She didn't look down, instead pushing herself to climb higher, to use her scraped and bleeding hands as levers and move.

It didn't matter where, it didn't matter how, just move.

She hoped the others had made it. That the strange Brown Wizard had been able to lead the Orc Hunters away.

The girl held on to the trunk at the top of the old oak as tightly as she could, pressing her face into the rough bark as she tried to hold back tears.

Oh, she was so scared.

She had never been so terrified in her entire life.

Why had she said that she would be fine? She was going to die, and it was all because she had wanted to take in the damn scenery. She had faked it, saying that she had twisted an ankle and she just needed a few minutes.

And that's all it took.

Minutes to hear the Warg Hunters, minutes to get separated, and minutes to run.

She could hear the Orc's laughter, their cat calls, as they urged their enormous hounds to shred the tree to pieces.

The girl clenched her jaw, fighting desperately to ignore the way the leaves were falling on her as the tree shook with each pounding collision of the beasts.

A warg howled and she flinched, gnawing at her bottom lip to stop from crying out. There was more laughter, laughter at her because they could see that she was afraid and they loved it.

Then suddenly it stopped.

All the howling, the snarls, the laughter.

The dogs stopped running at the tree and she thought that maybe, maybe, they had left.

The girl pulled her face away from its hiding place, carefully peeking around the tree's edge and looked out into the silence.

She shouldn't have.

Because the moment she did, she locked gazes with blue eyes that burned.

Pale skin and tribal scars atop that white, white warg, staring at her, defiling her, with his eyes.

And something inside her cowered because oh gods, Oh Gods, she knew him, she knew him, and it wasn't possible.

It couldn't be possible.

This place was impossible.

And that's when she knew, this wasn't a dream.

AN: I just watched The Hobbit and I don't know about everyone else, but the Orc Chieftain, Azog...wheew. I can't even adequately describe it. The way they portrayed him is stunning. I mean, he is beautiful, in a dark kind of way. So I figured I'd write something and see how it worked out. How'd I do?

Review Please!

~Delgodess