Chapter 2: The Interview

She didn't want to cry, but she couldn't help it. The sobs kept coming, and coming. She was so lost, so alone. She had no idea where she was, how she got here, or how she was going to get back. How was she going to survive? What about her parents? Would she ever see them again? Would they ever find out about what happened to her? She could imagine their worry and their pain, and it just made her cry harder. She hadn't been the best daughter or the best sister around, what with her selfish tantrums and demands, but she did care, and she really didn't want to hurt them like this.

And what about her job? Her deadlines? She'd worked so hard to become a journalist. She wasn't in her ideal job, but she'd held onto the hope that one day, she'd get a better one. Now…

Now she was in a fantastical land where elves and orcs and trolls walked and dwarves delved deep into the earth to create marvels that twenty-first century civilizations, even with all their technology, could never achieve. If her judgement was right, then she'd just —well, it was actually Daffodil who did it, unintentionally— saved Boromir and thus complicated the entire Aragorn-is-king situation.

Someone handed her a white linen square. "Here, lass," said a kind deep voice. She looked up to see the weathered face of the red-bearded dwarf who had to be Gimli.

"Th-thanks," she hiccupped as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Wait. How could she even understand them? The books had been written in English, but she'd read enough to know that the peoples of Middle Earth did not, in fact, speak English. The language they spoke was possibly distantly related to Old English, but even that connection was tenuous. This was too strange. She was feeling faint again…

'Get yourself together, girl,' she told herself sternly. 'How are you going to do great journalism when you panic at the slightest unexpected change? Now breathe. In. Out. In —hiccup— out. At least there isn't a language barrier, the way there is supposed to be.' Finally, she managed to get herself to stop crying. Taking a deep breath to make sure she didn't burst into tears again —unfortunately, there were no guarantees about that— she turned to the dwarf. "I don't suppose you'd want this back?" she asked, referring to the handkerchief.

"Ah, keep it for the moment, lass," he said. "You might need it soon enough." He probably didn't want her snot and tears, not that she could blame him for it.

"Thanks, again, Mister...?" She could guess his name, but she didn't want him to know that. She didn't want any of them to know she knew a lot more than she let on. These were dangerous times for these people, and she wouldn't be surprised if they saw her has a threat or a spy or something. The illusion of stupidity was her best defence.

"Gimli, son of Gloin," said the dwarf. The men —men, elf and dwarf, she really should be saying— told her their names. Not necessarily their real names. Aragorn, for one, introduced himself as Strider, until she asked about why Boromir had called him Aragorn during the battle if his name was Strider. That made for a moment of uncomfortable silence until Aragorn said most people called him Strider.

"And you are…?" The ranger left his sentence hanging.

"Leila. Leila Han," she said.

"Where do you come from, Leila?" asked the ranger.

She considered this question very carefully. "I come from a far eastern country beyond the desert," she said honestly. China was a far eastern land beyond the Gobi Desert, if one were looking at it from a European's point of view.

"I did not know there was anything beyond the desert," said Aragorn. "How did you come to be here?"

"I don't know," she said. That was another honest to God answer, although she wish it weren't. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"You are, indeed, astute," said Legolas.

"It will not be difficult to find out whether you are trustworthy or not," said the ranger. He took her wrist and placed one finger lightly on where her pulse was. "Tell me your name again."

He ran through a series of simple questions, such as about her gender, each time indicating whether she should lie or tell the truth. Leila was beginning to suspect Aragorn had learned some rather surprising interrogation techniques that Tolkien himself had not known about.

Once he'd established her pulse patterns, he began asking her the hard questions. "I will know if you lie," he said. "Are you working for the enemy?"

Words could lie. Pulses could not, and the girl's pulse told him she was telling the truth. She was also hiding something, but the most important thing to determine was she was not a threat. Whenever she lied, her pulse spiked. She might have schooled her face, but she had yet to school her mind. That was a very good thing as far as Aragorn was concerned. His only interest in her had been whether she had been sent along as a spy for the enemy. Everything else was her business, as far as he was concerned. Right now, he had more pressing concerns, such as the fate of Merry and Pippin.

However, as uninterested as he was in her, he knew he did not have it in him to leave a helpless, hapless female out here alone in the wilderness to fend for herself, no matter how much of a burden she was. Then again, she was the one who had a horse, and Boromir was in no shape to march such a long distance after the orcs that had taken the hobbits. If they wanted the horse, they were going to have to take her along.

To say she was relieved was the understatement of the year. They weren't going to kill her, and she might just live to go back home and forget about her foray into insanity. Leila still wasn't sure how she was going to get home, but she had to do it somehow, right? She didn't belong here, amongst the trees and medieval men with their big swords.

However, until she could get home, she would have to deal with everything that came her way. To be quite honest, she didn't know if she could do it. At home, no matter how difficult things got, both at work and personally, she always had people to support her. Her friends, her family…

Here, she knew no one. She knew nothing of their ways, their culture, their worldview. Sure, she'd read about them in books and watched them on the big screen, but that wasn't even close to enough. She didn't know the second thing about these people.

She used a tree stump to scrabble into the saddle. It took her a few tries because it wasn't as tall as the mounting block she'd used. Boromir refused help and stubbornly hauled himself behind her. He smelled of stale sweat and blood and wood smoke. It would take some getting used to, but considering all things, the situation could have been much worse. Besides, in a few days, she would be smelling as rank as everyone else, barring Legolas. Not even the bottle of Envy by Gucci in her bag would help.

"Thank you," Boromir suddenly said. His voice was comfortably deep in a way that sent shivers down her spine. He sounded nothing like the actor who had played him. Then again, she hadn't expected him to. This was the real Boromir of Gondor, not Sean Bean. Not that there had been anything wrong with Sean Bean's portrayal of Boromir.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you saved my life," he said. "It was foolhardy move, but I am grateful."

"Actually, saving your life was mostly an accident," she said, "but you're welcome."

"An accident?" he said as he kicked Daffodil into a trot. "So you accidentally pulled up alongside me for me to get on the horse?"

"His name's Daffodil, and that part was deliberate, but you can't really expect me to just leave a man to be killed. Any decent person would have done the same thing."

"Then I thank you for being just another decent person." All conversation petered out as they settled into a worry-filled silence. Leila wondered what else her presence was going to change. She hadn't been here for half a day and already, she'd saved someone who'd been meant to die, thus throwing a wrench into the politics of Middle Earth. What other consequences would there be? She didn't want to think about it. History was all about the butterfly effect. Change one little thing, and the changes cascaded through time, growing bigger and bigger until it culminated in a completely different future.

They did not stop until the moon was high and they were close to the borders of Rohan. Legolas had wanted to march through the night, but then he had conceded he was the only one who was capable of doing so. In the stillness of the night, only the grass moved, and one could have been forgiven for mistakenly believing all was well with the world, excepting the slight orange glow, barely visible, in the east.

But Boromir knew. He'd lived with the evil that lurked there all his life. Its darkness had killed his mother and driven his father to madness. If Frodo and Sam did not succeed in their quest, then the darkness was going to kill them all. That thought alone kept him from sleeping, even though his body was tired. His mind kept going, whirring with unbidden and unpleasant thoughts. He thought of all the people who had placed their hopes in him. He thought of his failure. He thought of his determination not to fail again.

If he was going to find Merry and Pippin and rescue them, he was going to need his strength. But, the harder he tried to fall asleep, the worse things got. The thoughts that plagued his mind all seemed to be shouting at him at once so that even in the silence, there was a cacophony within his head that he could not quieten. His side throbbed incessantly. The grass rustled as Gimli rolled over, letting out a particularly loud snort before settling into his usual rhythm again. Aragorn and Legolas were silhouetted against the star-dusted sky, speaking quietly to one another in the elvish tongue.

On his other side, the girl was in a sleep so deep that nothing short of a battle could wake her. He envied her. She was so young, so naïve. What would he give to be that way again. He had not slept so deeply since he was nine.

To most men, the marks on the ground and the bent blades of grass would be meaningless. To Aragorn, however, they were a book of information concerning his quarry. Judging by the width of the trail and the length of the strides, he could estimate how many orcs there were and how quickly they were moving.

Up ahead, there were signs that were much easier to read. Half a dozen orcs lay strewn on the ground, very much dead. They were not the large ones they had encountered at Amon Hen, but rather the smaller, more familiar breed that hailed from Mordor. Red eyes had been painted crudely onto their shields. Their innards had been torn out and most of them were in several pieces. Judging by the wounds on the corpses, they had been killed by the larger breed of orc from Isengard. Perhaps they were not working together. Perhaps they had had a disagreement. It was hard to tell without more time to examine the evidence. At any rate, he was not interested in determining how these orcs died. He was much more interested in their prisoners. Much to his relief, he found no indication that the hobbits had come to harm. Yet.

He surveyed the area more closely. The orcs had trampled the ground badly, muddling up most of the prints, but he located a trail that led to the side of the road. There, a green brooch in the shape of a cluster of leaves glittered in the cool morning sun. Judging by the size of the footprints, it had to have been Pippin who had put it there.

"The leaves of Lorien do not fall idly," the ranger whispered as he picked up the brooch. "They are less than a day ahead of us."

"Then let us make haste!" cried Legolas. "It pains my heart to think of those merry folk in chains."

"Just one question," said the girl. "Do you…say…have a plan concerning what we're going to do once we catch up with them?"

"We will find the hobbits and take them," said Aragorn, "and kill any who get in our way."

"So you'll just make it up as you go along?" she squeaked.

That question did not even deserve an answer, so the ranger said nothing.

It was not until late afternoon that they found any sign of civilization. Again, Leila recalled how all of this had only been half an hour in the movie. In real life, it had been two days. Two incredibly monotonous days where the only interesting things were dead orcs lying on the ground, and Pippin's brooch. She was looking forward to getting back to civilization again. Forget hot Rohirrim. She just wanted a hot bath. Never in her life had she gone this long without hot water and soap before. She was going to smell like an orc if she didn't bathe soon.

"Legolas!" Aragorn suddenly called from the front of the line. It could hardly be called a column; there were only five of them. Six, if one counted the four-legged one. "I believe I see riders!"

"Yes! There are five hundred of them. Their spears are bright and their hair is fair," called the elf as he shielded his eyes from the sun with a slender hand. "They are approaching quickly. I wager they are Rohirrim."

"The Rohirrim are honourable men," said Boromir. "We may be able to seek aid from them."

Leila craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of the Rohirrim. All she could see was something moving on the horizon. She couldn't tell who they were or what they were from this distance. However, as they drew closer, she began to make out details more clearly. The Rohirrim wore helmets adorned with long plumes fashioned from the tail hairs of horses. Their helmets hid most of their faces and their armour was a mix of plate and chain mail. Steel shoulder pieces with gold filigree depicting horse motifs, polished chain mail and leather breastplates. These were the horselords of Middle Earth. She wondered if they had much in common with the horselords of her own world; the Mongols and the Bedouin. Judging from the climate of Rohan, she wagered they would have more in common with the Mongols, who also lived on wide open grasslands, rather than the horselords of the deserts…

She was snapped out of her amateurish anthropological analysis when the horsemen reached them.

The wave swept around them, ringing them in. Spears were levelled at the company. Despite the fact she knew the Rohirrim weren't supposed to hurt them —but considering how things were happening differently, she could make no guarantees about anything anymore— sharp pointy things still made her nervous, especially if they were pointed at her. She didn't even like needles. Previously, the most dangerous situation she'd ever been in was passing through roundabouts in high speed zones. Wary Rohirrim warriors or truck drivers who thought they owned the road; which was worse?

The ranks of the riders parted to let a distinguished-looking young man through. Like the rest of his comrades, his long hair was fair and in need of a wash. Upon closer inspection, there was dried blood encrusted on some sections of his armour, as if he hadn't had the time to give it a thorough clean. Or, rather, his squire hadn't had the time. Great men never did their own cleaning.

"Lord Boromir! Well met! I had not recognised, garbed as you are," said the man.

"Greetings, Lord Éomer," said Boromir. "We meet again. I would have liked to say the circumstances were more auspicious than those of our last meeting but alas, it is not to be."

Éomer commanded his men to lower their spears, as Boromir was a friend of Rohan. He dismounted, and Boromir followed suit. Leila wondered what she should do. No one paid her any attention, so she stayed put. If they wanted her out of the saddle, then someone would have told her, right? Besides, there was a chance that if she didn't move, no one would even remember she was there. "Who are these people you travel with, milord? You keep very odd company."

Aragorn answered before Boromir could say anything. "I am known as Strider, Ranger of the North, amongst other names."

"That is an unusual name," said Éomer. "Are you elves?"

Gimli muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like: "Do I look like an elf?"

"It is a compliment, my friend," Legolas murmured.

"Only one of us is an elf," said Boromir. "Legolas of Greenwood is of the fair folk. Strider, like myself, belong to the race of Men."

"And I am a dwarf," said Gimli with great pride. "Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service, Éomer of Rohan. Great things have been said of you."

"And I am at yours, Master Dwarf." The warrior's eyes strayed to Leila. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is there a woman in your company?" He raised a dubious eyebrow.

"We encountered Mistress Leila in the wilderness and she has kindly loaned us the use of her horse," said Aragorn.

"But what is a lone woman doing so far out in the wild?" Wouldn't they all want to know?

Leila dismounted and pasted on a smile. "I am a travelling storyteller who got very very lost," she said, hoping that would be enough. There were a few more raised eyebrows, but as she was not seen as a threat, they quickly forgot about her.

Éomer recounted the sad state of Rohan's affairs. The king, his uncle Théoden had fallen under the control of his advisor Grima Wormtongue and no longer paid heed to what anyone else said. Peasants were flocking to Edoras after their villages had been raided by wildmen and orcs, seeking shelter. The city did not have the capacity to house so many refugees who'd often left with little more than the clothes on their backs. Hunger was rampant, as harvests had been either ruined or taken by Saruman's hordes.

Boromir and Aragorn, in turn, explained the company's search for the hobbits, carefully leaving out anything to do with Mordor or the Ring.

"We may have encountered the orcs you seek," said Éomer. "We came across them last night and slaughtered them, and then burned their bodies on yonder hill." He indicated a column of greasy black smoke rising above the horizon.

"But…what of the hobbits?" demanded Gimli. "Did you see two halflings?"

"The hobbits would appear as children to your eyes," Aragorn elaborated.

"I am afraid there were no survivors," said Éomer.

"No!" whispered Boromir. He leaned against Daffodil's flank for support. Leila longed to assure him that the hobbits were fine and probably drinking ent draught in Fangorn, but she couldn't. One, that would cast a lot of suspicion on her. Two, it might not be the case anymore since other things had been altered. Three, telling them might just change history. If the company believed the hobbits to be safe, she felt they would most likely ride for Edoras with Éomer to help with the war against Saruman. Therefore, they wouldn't meet Gandalf, and Gandalf wouldn't have cast Saruman's spirit from Théoden's body in time, and there was every chance in the world they would all have been killed by Wormtongue's men, or at least imprisoned. She just couldn't risk it, if not for her own sake then for the sake of Middle Earth.

"I am sorry," said Éomer. He ordered his riders to bring five horses forward. "The most I can do for you is offer you these horses. Perhaps there is a chance that in the chaos, your friends escaped, but I would advise you not to place too much hope in this notion. As for myself and my men, we must return to Edoras with all due haste so I am afraid I cannot assist you in your search."

Gimli eyed the horses with distrust. "Thank you for your generosity, Lord Éomer," he said. "But I prefer my own two feet."

"Come, Gimli," chided Aragorn. "You cannot keep up if you do not ride."

"I will not be able to keep up if I fall and break my neck," argued the dwarf.

"You will ride with me, my friend," said Legolas. "I promise you, your neck will be fine." It took a lot of persuasion, but Gimli finally conceded that no matter how great a sprinter he was, he would never be able to keep up with horses. He let Aragorn and Legolas help him onto the back of a feisty grey stallion by the name of Arod. Aragorn's bay was named Hasufel, and the Palamino Boromir had been given was called Abrecan. Leila, of course, kept Daffodil. Warhorses were not for her.

They watched as Éomer and his men rode away, soon becoming nothing more than a dark line on the horizon as they headed home for whatever awaited them in the Halls of Meduseld. As the last rider disappeared, the company, too, set off for the hill where they were sure they would find their answers.

As they approached the pile of still-smouldering carcasses, despair gripped Boromir's soul, constricting his ribcage until he could hardly breathe. He'd failed again. It was his fault that the hobbits were gone. No one was more responsible than he was. Merry and Pippin had looked to him, and he had failed them.

"It's not your fault," said Aragorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. But the ranger couldn't possibly understand. Boromir had told no one of what had transpired between Frodo and himself earlier that day. If he had not tried to take the Ring from him, if he had not succumbed to its treacherous wiles, then perhaps Merry and Pippin would not have wandered out into the woods in search of their cousin, and they would not have been taken by the orcs. He kept on going over that day in his mind, reliving the shame. Why had the Valar spared him and taken the hobbits? He was the one who deserved to die, not them.

The ranger left him standing beside the pile while he searched for clues around the edges, examining all the marks on the ground, hoping against hope to find some trace of their friends. Gimli and Legolas searched through the charred bones, hoping not to find anything of relevance.

"I'm really sorry," said a soft feminine voice. He had been so engrossed in his despair that he had not noticed the girl, who was by no means stealthy, had dismounted and was now standing beside him. A breeze blew the smoke towards them, filling their nostrils with the scent of burned flesh and the first signs of decomposition. The girl turned pale and she swallowed rapidly, as if trying not to vomit.

Suddenly, Gimli gave a loud cry and scooped out something from the pile of bones. When Boromir saw what it was, he felt as if his heart had stopped. It was one of the woven leather belts that the Lady Galadriel had given to Merry and Pippin upon their departure from Lothlorien. It was all the proof he needed to see; all the proof he could bear to see. He sank to his knees and let out a cry of rage. The Valar were unjust! They should have taken him instead!

People had often told her she was too sensitive, and perhaps they'd been right. When Leila saw Boromir sink to his knees, she was almost tempted to tell him everything she knew. Somehow, her willpower won and she kept silent. She hated to see people in pain. It was one of the things that made her human and one of the things that had prevented her from becoming truly excellent at her job. One of the things she'd always hated doing was asking the families of accidents or crime victims how they felt about losing their loved ones.

Hesitantly, she reached out. Psychology books —and television shows— had taught her people generally wanted human contact during times of grief and shock. Why else would strangers hug one another after disasters? Still wondering at her boldness and wisdom —the former greatly trumped the latter— she put one hand on the Gondorian's shoulder and squeezed. Much to her surprise, he looked back at her. His eyes were filled with turmoil and anguish that she had never seen before. The raw pain almost made her cry.

"You should have let me die," he whispered hoarsely.

"I don't believe that," she said.

"Why? Have you any idea what I have done?"

She had nothing to say to that. To answer would be to indicate she knew his deepest, most shameful secret. So she simply shook her head and said nothing.

"Come and look at this!" Aragorn suddenly said as he bent down over something on the ground. The rest of them hastened to join the ranger, who was examining two shallow depressions in the dirt. "This is where Merry and Pippin lay. Look there. Somehow they cut their bonds." He followed the trail the hobbits had left behind, explaining what each mark meant. "Someone followed them. They crawled here, and into the forest of Fangorn."

The forest that loomed before them was a forbidding place. The canopy was so thick that essentially no sunlight reached the forest floor. The twisted trunks of the trees were covered in lichen that made them look more like bearded old men. Then again, Leila knew what lurked in that forest, so perhaps that was influencing the way she saw it.

"Why did they have to go in there, of all places?" asked Gimli.

"If I were a short defenceless person being chased, one of the things I'd do is climb a tree," said Leila. "People never really tend to look up."

"I guess you would know, wouldn't you, lass?" said the dwarf as they entered the forest. Even though it was not particularly warm in the open, the temperature of the forest was significantly cooler, and the air was more humid. It smelled of leaf mould and wet wood.

"I will have you know that I have never climbed a tree to escape from anything in my life," she said.

"Truly?"

"Well, I've never had to escape from anything before."

"What a charmed existence you lead."

Leila did not answer. Now that she thought about it, her life really didn't suck as much as she often felt it did. Sure, there was a lot of pressure at work and sometimes she just didn't want to go in, but at least no one shot at her or wanted to have her for a snack, and her world was not facing apocalypse just yet —although if climate change continued, that might not be the case. She supposed life was a lot more complicated back home, what with maintaining relationships with colleagues and not trying to look like a fool and not overstepping the boundaries of what she could or could not report on, but how could she explain all of this to people from Middle Earth who had never been in a modern workplace, and especially one like a newsroom?

Instead, she simply let the comment pass by. Perhaps, someday, she might tell them just what she really was, but now was simply not a good time. Damp twigs broke beneath her boots as she traipsed through the forest. The groaning trees had simply been part of the setting in the films, but being in Fangorn was very different from watching a CGI Fangorn on screen. How did the trees make those sounds? Trees, to her knowledge, had no structures that allowed them to vocalize.

"These are strange tracks," Aragorn murmured as knelt to examine the ground. "I have never seen anything like it. More toes than I can count, with a long stride…"

"What manner of beast would make these tracks?" asked Boromir. "Do you think the hobbits encountered it?"

"I cannot be certain," said the ranger. "But I do believe the hobbits were here. The tracks are less than a day old."

Ah, so Treebeard did stop by. Hopefully he rescued the hobbits as per the books and films or else Middle Earth was really screwed. Merry, after all, had helped to kill the Witch King in canon. If the Witch King ended up not dying because her presence had turned everything upside down, she didn't want to think what could happen. Alternative history always went down dangerous paths. She'd already messed up Gondorian politics.

They spent the night beneath the eaves of Fangorn, having tethered the horses outside the forest. Gimli was most unhappy about the arrangement, for he did not like the forest. Leila agreed with him, although she was more afraid of bugs than talking trees. What could she say? She was a city girl, born and raised in places with no less than three hundred thousand people at any given time. Bugs were the banes of her life. Admitting that, however, would probably get her laughed at until kingdom come.

'Why couldn't I have ended up being a Mary Sue with awesome powers?' she wondered. Sure, they were annoying to read about, but if she'd been a Sue, she could have conjured up bug repellent. Unfortunately for her, but not for whoever was going to read her story if she ever got around to writing it, there would not be any super powers a la the X-Men and no bug repellent.

Unless…

"Um…Strider?"

"Yes?"

"Are there any plants around that can keep insects and spiders away?"

Four pairs of eyes turned to look at her as if she was crazy. Finally, Gimli spoke. "Lass, you're out in the wilderness, facing orcs and talking trees, and you're worried about spiders?" he asked.

"I do not like giant spiders, but I doubt there are any here," said Legolas. "I would have noticed their presence."

"I don't like things that have more than four legs," she said. "Arthropods just scare me."

"Arthro what?" said Aragorn.

"It sounds like a royal name," said Boromir.

"Arthropods are a group of animals with segmented legs and bodies and exoskeletons, meaning their hard bits are on the outside rather than on the inside," said Leila. "The group includes spiders, centipedes, woodlice, lobsters…y'know."

"You truly must be a storyteller," said Legolas. "For your mind is filled with useless information."

"It's only useless until you need to use it," she pointed out. As per usual, Legolas had given her his cloak again. For all his sarcasm and his tendency to belittle her, he was quite chivalrous.

The lembas was passed around. Its texture and taste reminded her of fresh waffles with condensed milk, just not quite so heavy and sweet. There was the slightest hint of citrus to keep it fresh and light. It was quite hard to describe how it tasted exactly. It silenced the growling of her stomach, but it didn't make her feel quite satisfied either. She wanted something more substantial, like grilled prawns with garlic butter…

She sighed. Rohan was a landlocked country so that was highly unlikely. Besides, even if they were prawns, they were probably for royals, not commoners like her. Instead, she lay down on the lumpy ground after spending several minutes clearing away all the sticks and stones —and shrieking when a spider the size of her thumbnail crawled over her hand.

"I don't even want to know how many arthropods I'm gonna swallow," she murmured as her eyes grew heavy. She heard a chuckle.

"They're nutritious," said Aragorn. "And you look like you could do with some extra feeding."

She wanted to tell him she'd rather gain weight from eating full-cream gelatos than spiders, but even that seemed to be too much effort. Now that she was semi-comfortable, her eyes simply would not stay open.