Title: The Scoop on the Rings
Characters: Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, OC, plus others.
Summary: A young reporter gets lost while trying to locate a crime scene, and finds herself interfering with an orc attack. How will she cope with suddenly being in a medieaval world that's facing an oncoming apocalypse, and more importantly, how will she land her front page story?
Warning: The OC is a total author avatar, down to her bimbo-ness. You have been warned. Also, sarcasm and self-mockery.
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Action Adventure

The Scoop on the Rings

Scoop: (n)Journalism. A news item, report, or story first revealed in one paper, magazine, newscast, etc.

Chapter 1: The Tip-Off

She stared at the forest. Lichens covered the trunks of the twisted trees and dry leaves from last autumn carpeted the ground. Brownish red toadstools peeked out from beneath them. "There ain't any way you can get in there 'cept on horseback or on foot," said the farmer, Philip Thorne. He'd been the one who'd found the body in the forest and called the police. The body was believed to be that of twenty four year old Manny Wilkins, who'd been charged two years ago with manufacturing meth. Manny had failed to turn up to court nine months ago and the police had been searching for him ever since. It seemed Manny had had a very valid reason for not turning up.

"Could I…perhaps…borrow a horse?" Leila asked as she fiddled with the spiral binding at the top of her notebook, hoping she looked cute and innocent enough for him to relent and say yes. That was one of her 'weapons' for getting people to talk to her. They said a lot of things when they assumed she was a harmless Asian bimbo. That made for good quotes. However, this time, it was harder. No one lost anything when they gave her quotes. Here, she was asking for a horse.

The farmer looked her up and down. "Can you ride?" he asked her when he'd decided she was going to bring the horse back after she was done. It could be a while. There was a crime scene in the middle of that forest. Not only did she want to cover the crime, but if possible, do a little feature on the lives of forensic scientists —not the scientific side, but the human side. These were people who dealt with the darkest aspects of human nature daily. Surely they had stories to tell. With the world's current obsession with forensic cop shows, it would probably be well received. And if it was going to be well received, allowed or not, they'd probably let her publish it instead of having her send it off to a magazine somewhere else.

"I took lessons when I was little," she said. That much was true. What she didn't tell him was she had had a one hour lesson every two weeks and stopped before she'd learned to canter properly. Then again, he didn't need to know that. "Please? I would be so grateful, and I will be sure to mention your farm in my article." He was, after all, the one who'd found the body.

"I s'pose I could do with some publicity," he mused. "All right, then. You can take Daffodil."

Daffodil, it turned out, was a monster of a horse, with black patches that made him look more like a dairy cow. Leila wondered if she was going to be able to straddle the animal, but there was nothing for it. There was a story inside that forest and being the most junior and only reporter in that newsroom, she had to produce results if anyone was going to ever treat her as an equal. Otherwise, she'd be stuck with pumpkin contests and ethnic celebrations for the rest of her life. Such was the burden of being a reporter of an ethnic minority.

She used the tallest step of the mounting block, wishing she'd worn stretchier pants which would allow for more movement. She only ever wore her favourite skinny jeans when she went out. Her big tote, with all her essential items including a pair of black leather heels and a tank-dress —one never knew who one was going to interview in the course of a day; she'd walked into work one day and had been told she would be following the prime minister around all day— was transferred into a saddle bag. Only her phone, her pen, her voice recorder and her taser remained in her pockets.

Daffodil stood still as she mounted. His ears flopped as he dozed contentedly and it seemed as if he hardly noticed the additional weight until she dug her heels into his flanks. He ambled forward, more inclined to an afternoon stroll than a brisk trot. It took a few more kicks to convince him that time was of the essence.

Somehow, her body still remembered how it felt to be on a moving horse, and she began to move with Daffodil's gait as he broke into a trot. Up. Down. Up. Down. Perhaps this was going to turn out to be a good day after all. She'd forgotten how much she loved being on horseback.

Tree after tree after tree passed her by. However, there was no sign of yellow police crime scene tape. She took out her phone to check the GPS, only to find it wasn't working. Dammit. If she didn't get there soon, the police, the crime scene units, the coroner and the corpse would be gone, and she would have no one to interview. If she didn't have an interview, she would have no story. And if she didn't get a good story soon, she was going to be stuck writing about fluffy bunnies and biggest pumpkin contests for the rest of her journalistic career.

Then, it was as if her prayers were answered. She heard voices. Actually, She heard a lot of voices, the clang of metal, and what sounded like war cries. Where there was chaos and panic, there was probably a good story. She kicked Daffodil into a canter. It took a few tries, but he finally got the idea. She clung onto the saddle and his mane as she bounced so high that once or twice, she felt as if she would fly right off. Her butt was numb. That was probably better than the alternative. The voices drew closer. So did the clanging.

She screamed as something flew right by her head. Something long and sharp with a pointy end. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk behind her. Leila lost her cool. She'd wanted a story, but she wasn't the type of journalist who would risk being shot at to get the story. Her dream was to write for Vogue, not Al Jazeera! Another arrow flew past her. Daffodil snorted. He didn't like this either.

"Come on, boy," she said. "Let's go." She'd call the police and once they'd cleaned up this mess, whatever it was, she would report on it. But until then, she was getting out of there. That was, she was planning on getting out of here until she heard a snarl behind her, and turned around to see something that she'd thought only existed on DVD.

A great many somethings. Oh...—this was never going to be published, so no censorship was necessary—…shit.

—

He had failed. He had failed them all. He had failed Frodo, he had failed Merry and Pippin, and most of all, he had failed himself. Boromir felt his strength flow out of his body with his blood. Still, he forced himself to stand. Hot blood trickled down his side. No son of Gondor was going to fall before his last breath left his body, and he still had plenty of breath. Black blood splashed onto his face as his blade cleaved the skull of an orc into two.

He knew he was going to die. It was fitting. He had broken his oath to Frodo and to the Fellowship. He had let the Ring's lies trick him into betraying everything he believed in. He'd lost his honour and only his death could possibly atone for that.

Just as the orc archer was about to take aim again, a scream almost as sharp and long as that of a Nazgûl rent the air. The orc's arrow flew wide as what looked very much like a cow charged into the fray, distracting the orcs. The 'cow' ran into the orc archer. The arrow flew wide and grazed a tree trunk, taking a good portion of the bark with it. It was at that moment that Aragorn chose to make his appearance.

—

There was nowhere else to go! The way she'd come was now blocked by what she hoped were not, but were most likely, orcs. And they were the big ones that appeared at the end of the first Lord of the Rings movie. What were they called again? Ah, yes. Uruk Hai. She was probably not even a snack for them.

'Please let this be a prank,' she prayed as she wheeled Daffodil around. The leading orc snarled, revealing teeth that could not possibly be fake. Cops didn't like the media, but they didn't hate the media this much, did they?

That was it. Leila turned Daffodil around again and headed deeper into the forest. It was the only way she could go, since the way back was now blocked. Daffodil didn't need more encouragement. He didn't like this situation any more than she did. Only, as he surged forward, they found themselves in a clearing with more orcs and a clearly wounded dark haired man trying his best to fend them off and failing. The man favoured his right side, from which one of those black arrows with extremely thick shafts was protruding. His sword was in his left hand. Judging from the way he had to adjust, that was not his sword hand.

She saw an archer raise his bow to aim at him. There was nothing for it, and it wasn't as if she could control herself anyway. She screamed again, distracting the orc long enough for the man to leap out of the way. The distraction, by the way, had not been deliberate. She'd just screamed because she'd thought someone had been about to die in front of her eyes.

Now, she had the full attention of the orcs. She didn't even like being at the centre of attention amongst humans! Orcs were…bad.

Yes, that was the in-depth analysis of a highly trained and coherent journalist. Not.

There was nowhere to run. The orcs chasing her had caught up. She could either give up and die now, or she could die fighting. Or, rather, she could die while trying to fight. Her best friend had been the fencing champion, not her. Leila was more of a flight person than a fight one. She pulled out her taser. A fat lot of good that was going to do, but it was the only thing she had.

Or was it?

Ideas whirled through her head. She had a horse. Armoured knights on horseback were the tanks of the Middle Ages. Bohemond of Antioch had used one hundred knights to defeat one thousand light Muslim cavalry. Granted, Daffodil was no trained destrier, and she was no armoured knight, but they were just going to have to improvise.

"Come on, boy!" she screamed at Daffodil. The already nervous horse bolted forwards. One orc poked his iron lance at her. It was sheer luck that it didn't skewer her. She touched the lance with her taser. The jolt of electricity travelled down the weapon to send the orc into a series of convulsions. Lucky break.

The archer took aim again. Not cool. She thought quickly. "Finally!" she shouted at a point behind the orc. "What took you so long?"

The orc fell for it and turned to shoot at the imaginary foe behind him. Leila took the chance to pull up beside the wounded man, who wasted no time in hauling himself into the saddle with one arm. "Are you mad, woman?" he demanded.

"Most likely!" she replied as she kicked Daffodil, who needed no encouragement to make a run for it. Warhorse he was most definitely not.

"Never mind. Turn around!" he shouted. "They've taken the hobbits!"

Hobbits? Hobbits? Leila's overwhelmed mind couldn't process the information. All she knew was how much she wanted to live so she could interview this stranger she'd picked up in the middle of a forest, go back to the office and hand in her piece before deadline today. This was sogoing to make the front page.

Oh, and then she was going to call the police, of course.

Then again, perhaps she'd gotten her priorities all muddled. Survival was much more important than a front page story, although the two were not mutually exclusive.

Another man burst out from amongst the trees, followed by a small but ferocious red whirlwind. What was with these people and their archaic weapons? Hadn't anyone heard of rifles? And what on earth was wrong with rubber bullets anyway?

"Aragorn!" the man behind her shouted as he parried an orc lance with his sword. "Gimli! Legolas!"

All right. She was either in a coma, or…someone spiked her water or her food or her perfume. There was no way in hell Aragorn and Gimli and Legolas were real people. While she loved them a lot, she knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Then again, the man had also said something about 'hobbits', so perhaps he was the crazy one. However, they were both seeing the orcs, which seemed, unfortunately, very real.

The red whirlwind, it turned out, was a dwarf with a braided red beard that was awfully reminiscent of a Viking warrior's. Covering them was the most beautiful person she had ever seen, male, female or otherwise. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and despite the fact he was in the middle of a life and death struggle —in which he was emerging as the victor— he still had perfect skin and hair. Supermodels would be envious.

They were still horrendously outnumbered. Mathematically speaking, they would each have to take down at least twenty orcs and Leila knew for certain she couldn't even manage the one. The orc she'd tasered was back on its feet already. However, the others more than made up for her uselessness in a fight. Together, the other four became a war machine. They were so well co-ordinated it was as if they'd trained for this. All Leila had to do was make sure Daffodil did what the man behind her wanted him to do.

The next few minutes was a blur of extreme violence and for Leila, she felt as if she was watching all of it from very far away while she steered Daffodil left and right, according to her passenger's instructions. If he'd been able to, he probably would have taken the reins from her, but the injury in his right side prevented him from using his right arm much, and he needed his left hand to hold his sword.

Blood splashed onto her boots as the man behind her cut down orc after orc. She was glad she was wearing black. Stains didn't show up on black. If she'd been wearing her favourite cream trousers…

An orc head bounced up and into her lap. The terrible face, forever frozen in a snarl, stared up at her with glassy lifeless eyes. If she'd been her usual state of mind, she'd have screamed again. Luckily, her survival instincts had kicked in and after the initial shock, she simply grabbed it by its matted hair and threw it aside. Her initial panic had subsided to be replaced by rational numbness.

The orcs, realizing they would waste too many of their number trying to kill them all, gave up and retreated into the trees. The dwarf made to give chase, but the archer stopped him. Now that it was all over, the adrenaline in her veins began to fade away, and it all came rushing back. She was in a completely different place. There were orcs, and people called Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. Her GPS wasn't working, as if it couldn't get a signal. No, there was no as if. It really couldn't get a signal, and it couldn't get a signal because there was no signal to be gotten. And there was no signal to be gotten because—

That last thought never got finished. Static appeared before her eyes as blood rushed to her head, and then she forgot what happened next.

—

If it hadn't been for Legolas' quick reaction, the girl would have simply fallen onto the ground. The elf caught her just before she hit it. Boromir almost followed her example, except his pride would not let him. It was just one arrow; one measly arrow that might or might not be the death of him. He was not some delicate maiden. He was a soldier. His legs almost gave away beneath him when he dismounted. Aragorn rushed to his side to support him.

"They took the hobbits, Aragorn," he gasped. "They took them, and I could do nothing. I've failed…"

"Hush," said Aragorn. "You should not waste your strength."

"The girl, is she…"

"She's fine," said Legolas, taking his fingers away from her neck where he'd been monitoring her pulse. "I believe she is merely in shock. You should be worrying about yourself instead."

The wound throbbed in his side. When he moved, pain lanced through him. With the rage of battle gone, it was impossible to ignore it. He winced as Aragorn helped him to sit down at the base of a tree. Legolas went to fetch water and Gimli started a fire. The ranger pulled out several bottles from his pack and selected some leaves from the nearby bushes. He pounded the dried powders and fresh leaves together to make a poultice. When the water boiled, he threw some more leaves into it. Pungent steam rose from the water's surface in translucent swirls. Aragorn took the pot off the fire and let it cool for a while before using it to wash the Gondorian's wound.

"This is going to hurt," he warned Boromir.

"I know," said the other man through gritted teeth. "Please, just do it." He tried to control his breathing and he was clutching the hilt of his sword in his left hand so tightly that his knuckles were white, but nothing could stop him from cursing as the ranger applied force to the arrow.

"It struck a rib," said Aragorn. "This is more difficult than I had anticipated." He said something in Sindarin to Legolas. The words were too quick for Boromir to follow. His mind was fogging up with the haze of pain. Legolas handed Aragorn a pair of pliers.

He tried to keep his breathing even. He tried to think about something else; anything else apart from the lancing pain in his side as Aragorn used the pliers to remove the arrowhead where it had been embedded in his rib. It seemed like a lifetime before he finally dislodged it. "The rib is cracked, but you are fortunate it did not puncture your lung," said the ranger as he applied the poultice. Boromir hissed as burning pain flared up when the mixture came into contact with the hole in his side, but it soon faded away to be replaced by a dull throb.

"If the girl had not suddenly appeared and distracted the orcs, I fear I would be dead by now," the Gondorian said.

"Where did she come from?" asked the ranger.

"I do not know, although she bears some resemblance to Easterling women."

"What is a woman of the Easterlings doing so far west?"

No one except the girl had any answers to that question, and unfortunately, she was very much unconscious.

Aragorn was finishing bandaging Boromir's ribs when the girl suddenly sat up. "But the deadline's today!" she cried. Her eyes were frantic. Then realization dawned on her, and whatever it was she'd realized, it didn't improve her mood at all. As she looked around at the trees, at them, and at the campfire, she burst into tears.