She ran.

She ran blindly, tearing past people, things, places, buildings. It was the most primal of all emotions, to just run away from terror and anguish and fear. Her legs moved automatically, but her eyes were blurred and she was blind, running without sight or hearing or any sense at all, except a searing, welting pain of seeing her friend in that damned palantir. It's a trick, it's a trick, she screamed to herself, not sure whether she was saying it out loud or in her head. She didn't feel her barked knees stinging as she took a corner too sharply and skinned her legs harshly – the physical pain was so fleeting, momentary; a breath of wind fluttering a dewy field, and then it was gone. But her emotional pain, oh, that tattooed itself in her mind and soul and heart, tearing at her savagely, a beast alive and roaring in her chest as it wreaked havoc on her thoughts. How could she? She didn't know how Lizzie was living with herself. How could she do such a thing? Betray them? They had been friends since childhood – identical loose teeth, the same sticky fingers from lemonade stands, soaked hair from countless water fights. They all fell in love every week with a different boy, and they gossiped over the phone endlessly about them. They had been friends – best friends. Inseparable. Unshakeable. Insurmountable. How could she? How could she? How could she?

Finally, after years and years of running, after decades of sobbing, she collapsed right where she was. She didn't want to move another step. She wouldn't move another step. Her red hair was being pulled sharply and unnaturally aside, yanked from the loose pin which was snagging a clump of red hair. In a fit of rage, she tore the pin loose and flung it away from her. She didn't want to be herself – she didn't want to be this miserable, sobbing, wreck of a girl. All her life, she had put on a smile and cared for people, helping Sam and Lizzie even when she felt like lying down and sleeping for a million years. She had worried for them, been the sensible one, taken the blame on countless occasions to keep them out of trouble. And what had happened? Dragged into another world, fallen in love with an unreachable man, lost her best friend, and the other friend blessed by the gods. What happened to her? Nothing. Betrayed. Stabbed. Torn apart. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to live either. She wanted to sleep and never wake up. There couldn't be anything more horrible than waking up the next day and being Amy, Amy, Amy all her life. What had she done wrong? What terrible crime had she committed to be punished in this fashion – both friends changed, one brutal and bloodthirsty, the other cruel and contemptible? Why was she the only one unchanged by this war, this accursed dream? Was it possible that she could wake up and find that everything was merely a drug-induced dream? An elaborate coma?

The blood from her scraped knees blotted her palms and left intricate webs of crimson against her soft hands. The pain was distant, and somehow it was tethering her to reality like an anchor far below a ship. The gauzy layers fell away from her eyes and she took a hiccupping, shuddering breath. She had no idea where she was, no idea how far she had run, no idea what she had screamed to the grieving city of Helm's Deep as she darted away from her problems. This was worse than having Lizzie die – she believed that. The idea that her best friend had turned from her, turned on her, was awful. They were on opposite sides – really on opposite sides, not just on opposite sides of a kickball team. Lizzie was trying to kill her. And what had Sam said? "We're going to fight Lizzie...And I might have to kill her." Kill her! Had Sam been lying? But there had been truth in Sam's face, Amy remembered that. Lizzie had turned evil. Suddenly, Amy hated everything to do with this world, this stupid war. She hated it! She wished none of them had ever come to this place – she wished none of them had ever gone to the Ground Round. She wished she hadn't been depressed about her birthday. It all went back to that, didn't it? If she hadn't been born, none of this would have happened!

The presence behind her was not immediately known to Amy. It stole up on her, unawares, like a veil of mist creeping over mossy ground. It was not a threatening presence, but not exactly a joyful presence. It was ... sad. And cold. Like a tear frozen on the face of a woman. Amy felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she tried unsuccessfully to calm her steadying breath. When she smudged the tears away from her eyes, she turned, swallowing hard, trying not to look as though she had just been crying.

He just stood there, those queer slate-colored eyes examining her, his dark hair grazing his jaw as he scrutinized her closely. Those eyes were so odd – always so restless, never standing still, leaping from place to place like a fox. When he moved, it was sudden and quick, his lean body stepping and adjusting his weight to make little or no noise; he was almost frightening in his eerie quietness. But when he stood still, like he was now, he stood as still as the mountains themselves, not moving a muscle, hardly even breathing, a powerful wolf tasting the air. She sniffled and tried to calm her unsteady breathing, not wanting to be seen bawling her eyes out in front of Aragorn. He had always scared her a little – his eyes seemed to look through instead of at you, as though he were peeling her apart, layer by layer, and finding something he didn't like much. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but tonight his eyes seemed soft and deep, the color of melted lead instead of iron frost. "Lady Amy," he said softly, "Your friends are worried."

"I c-c-can't d-do it!" Amy said, a little hysterically, her breath jumping erratically. "I c-can't keep d-doing this!"

"Amy, you have shown strength far beyond your years," Aragorn said, still not moving a muscle. She didn't appear to be taking in any of his words, but his quick eyes noticed her shoulders slumping a little in defeat. "You have been through battles many would break under, and you have risen only stronger because of them. Lady Elizabeth's choice was her own, not yours. This is not your fault."

"W-why?" Amy demanded, fingers snapping to fists and carving deep crescent moons in her palms. "W-why would s-she do something l-l-like this? W-we're f-f-friends. Best f-friends."

"People change," Aragorn said simply. "You saw this in her all the time, and yet you deny it even now. There is an old Elvish proverb: 'The only thing that can be fully counted on is that things will always change'." He moved, one fast, sudden movement, and Amy felt herself being held in his arms. It wasn't romantic in the slightest, but the gesture was quick and alien to her for a brief moment. She hadn't so much as exchanged a word with Aragorn until now, but now he was holding her together, like a china doll about to break into pieces. She fisted a handful of his tunic and began sobbing in earnest, muffling her stricken cries in his chest for a while. "There, now, let them come," he reassured her, stroking her hair. "Tears hurt at first, but with time, they heal."

"S-she was my f-f-friend." Amy sniffled, unable to get past that one simple fact, that one concrete shred of evidence that still lingered in her heart.

"She may have been once," Aragorn said gently, "But I do not think she still is. The One Ring of Power is an elusive thing that can sway the hearts of even the strongest man." He broke off suddenly, jaw locking subtly. "I ought to know. My lineage has a remarkable talent for bending to the ill will of dark magics."

They stood there for a long while, Amy trying to stop her hyperventilating, Aragorn attempting to soothe the distraught girl. Amy broke away from him with a shaky laugh and scrubbed at her eyes, shivering at the sudden coolness of the chill breeze. Aragorn's gray eyes flickered, and he stroked the crown of her head as one might pet a cat. It was oddly soothing, and he ruffled her hair good naturedly. "Are you ready to return to your friend?" he asked her. "I suggest you find a washcloth and basin before you present yourself before your elven suitor, however."

In spite of herself, Amy laughed tremblingly. "He's not my suitor," she protested mildly, her quivering laugh still tickling her throat. She allowed Aragorn to lead her over to a well that stood in the middle of the street, and listened to the steady creak of the bucket being hauled upwards. Aragorn settled the aged, cracked bucket on the rim of the well and allowed Amy to splash water on her face and hands. A little smile was twitching the side of his mouth as he watched her.

"Oh?" He said, feigning curiosity. "Then those lingering glances you share are nothing more than looks from a friend? And those smoldering looks are not fraught with passion, but with the humor of a companion?"

Amy swatted him with her damp hand. "Shut up," she said, blushing furiously. "Smoldering looks, my hind end." She couldn't believe she was talking with the future king of Gondor in such a fashion, and it was still hard to conceive that he had cheered her up.

"Come, little one, Samantha will worry." Aragorn said, and led her back up to the keep. She looked marginally better – her face was still swollen and puffy from crying so hard, but her warm green eyes had a little spark left in them and she wasn't nearly as cold and empty as they had been before. He petted her head once more, and the two of them slowly made their way back to the keep, trying as hard as they could to leave the shells of their scarred memories behind them.

09

Lizzie pulled on a pair of mail gloves with satisfaction, tucking them into the ridged metal plates that covered her wrists. A flat silver strip extended from her wrist and covered her the back of her hand and her knuckles, and she examined her reflection with a little smirk. Her hair, usually down around her shoulders in glossy golden ringlets, was pulled behind her in an intricate plait that descended to her back. Her blue eyes were twinkling viciously, and they narrowed unpleasantly as she knelt to pull on her armored boots. The armor was incredibly heavy – it felt as though she were wearing a Hummer, tires included. But if they kept her safe, then she didn't care in the slightest. Her breastplate had on design on it, but the black color was polished to a high sheen. Several sheets of metal overlapped down her arms, giving her a spiny, prickly look that made her appear like the forked end of a dragon's tail. At her hips, two delicate swords were sheathed in beautiful scabbards, and she tried unsheathing them with a flourish, practicing. It felt good, and she held the blades crossed in front of her face for a moment, liking the image she had in her mind. A dangerous, beautiful queen about to go to war. She would teach those rebellious scoundrels a lesson they wouldn't forget in a hurry. But she would be merciful, she decided. They would bow and pledge their allegiance to her, or suffer like the swine they were. If they promised to obey her every command, then they would live. Those that pleased her would live like kings, she told herself. But those that defied her would wish they had never been born before she was through with them.

She clanked her way over to the doorway, sparing a last, lingering glance at her room. It had been plain enough – scrubbed black walls, a flat cot stuffed with straw, a scratchy blanket piled in a heap on the floor. A chest dominated the room – her dresses were stored in there. When she returned, victorious and triumphant, she would get some decorators in here and have them update the place. Some furs on the floor, some of those nice tapestries they had in Rivendell. Thick embroidered pillows everywhere. And of course, a new room with plenty of windows. Perhaps a balcony or two, so she could lounge outside and gaze out over her prosperous land. Oh, it wasn't prosperous now – but she was confident she could change that. The Elves and Men would love her, and she would eradicate those stupid, smelly Orcs and Uruks. Maybe one or two kept to scare villagers and children, but nothing more than that. She slammed the door behind her and hurried down the curving stone steps, passing the guttering torches in sconces in the walls. Deeper and deeper she traveled, until she felt the tiny trembling in her gut that signaled the nearing of the horde of Uruks. The first column had left hours ago – it would take almost a full day for the entire army to assemble and then form into a comprehensive formation, but she would whip them into shape.

The huge doors opened into a flat stone courtyard that overlooked the entire Orc-camp. It was almost completely empty, save for the ugly Orc babes. In front of her, seven armored men stood, easily eight or nine feet tall, hands resting on the hilt of their swords. Behind them, eight black dragons reared and shrieked, their hideous maws snapping wolfishly at the smoggy black skies, chains tethering them to the ground by the merest thread of mortality. Lizzie felt small and insignificant, and she quavered inside her armor. She summed up every shred of her acting skills and pulled on her helmet, which was an exact copy of the Ringwraith's own. Now she was as blank and faceless as any of them, and there would be so much confusion nobody would notice an extra Nazgul in the sky. One of them, the tallest Nazgul there, seemed to be eyeing her with something like ghoulish disdain.

Are you armored, Highness? The Witch-King rasped inside her head, the voice slithering and crawling amongst her most intimate thoughts, a snake sliding along the dry, rustling leaves of her memory. She nodded once, forcing herself to be calm, to stifle the butterflies in her stomach. These...ghosts...would be under her command, soon. There was a throaty chuckle in her mind, a sick, wheezing snap. We bow to no man, Highness. Our allegiance is to the Lord Sauron alone.

"Enough!" Lizzie snapped loudly, startling herself. "We're wasting time! Do I have to do everything around here?" She marched over to one of the black dragons, parted away from the others, and slightly smaller. It hissed menacingly at her and battered the pavement with its wings, back feet stamping as it leapt into the air and was yanked down again by its chain. "Easy, girl," Lizzie muttered uncertainly. Were these – things – even female? She had no idea. "Easy, shh, c'mon." It didn't seem very content with her murmurings, and screeching a bloodcurdling cry at the heavens, causing Lizzie to clap her mailed hands to her armored head. "Ouch! Damn it, you stupid lizard!" She shouted, and this seemed to get it's attention. She threw herself at the dragon and scrambled on top of it, stepping unmercifully on its wing and causing it to squeal in pain.

She had barely managed to climb on when one of the Ringwraiths pointed at the chains, and they simply fell apart. Sensing the lack of tension, Lizzie's dragon took off powerfully into the sky, climbing twenty feet into the air with a single stroke of its strong wings. Lizzie actually screamed, clinging on for dear life as the dragon swooped low, ducking down over the Orc-camp, calling deathly screeches into the night sky. It barrel-rolled, and Lizzie felt the contents of her stomach working their way into her mouth as colors melted together in a dizzying swirl. She would have opened her mouth to scream again, but the breath was gone from her lungs and her head was spinning. If her hands weren't gripping the cold, leathery bridle with such unmitigated force, she might have fainted and fallen off the dragon altogether. Her blood pounded in her temples as the dragon righted itself and began flying along with the other seven dragons. She felt nauseous and ill as the steady beating began drumming an ache into her thighs.

The future Queen of the World wasn't off to the best start.

09

Sam lounged on Haldir's bed, feet stretched out in front of her. Her long, willowy figure was half-hidden under a cloak, but there was enough skirt ridden up her leg to make Haldir having difficulty looking at her face. Sam had taken to visiting him almost every day, bringing him food, gossip, and her usual snide comments that usually enticed a round of laughter from other wounded elves. They apparently liked seeing their Warden, thus incapacitated and vulnerable, becoming red-faced and swear like a sailor at the will of a smug little elleth. She plucked a grape from the dish sitting in the small valley between them – not small enough for Haldir – and popped it deftly into her mouth. "So, what's up, Joe Schmoe?" She asked idly, pressing the small fruit against her top teeth. The delicate skin broke and sweet juices filled her mouth and she made a vague noise of satisfaction in her chest. Haldir propped himself up on one elbow, his elegant silver hair spilling over his throat and bared chest. His torso was mostly covered with swaths of bandages, but from what Sam could see, he was heavily muscled.

"I do not know why you insist on calling me 'Schmoe'," Haldir said. "It's an inelegant, uncouth sounding word which you have never explained properly."

"Oh, yeah, and we wouldn't want the mighty Haldir to look uncouth or inelegant," Sam snorted. "Face it, I can call you anything I want and you won't be able to do anything but swear at me. And I'm used to that. And speaking of explaining words, you never explained what 'Auta miqula orqu' means."

"Go kiss an Orc," Haldir said promptly.

Sam arched an eyebrow in a magnificent display of confusion and ridicule.

"Pardon?"

"It means 'Go kiss an Orc'," Haldir said, muffling a laugh but couldn't help the smile that broke onto his strong, handsome features. "And as soon as I recover the injury you gave me, I will punish you quickly and thoroughly for every insult I have not been able to return that passed from your lips."

"Wait, the injury I gave you?" Sam said. "I thought we covered this – it's your fault."

If Haldir was feeling petty and American, his response might have been "Nuh-uh!", but seeing as he was a dignified Marchwarden, he couldn't exactly respond in this banal, but nevertheless enjoyable, fashion.

"Ridiculous," he said coolly. "I was saving your life. If you cannot see it my way it appears as though we have reached an impass."

"We reach impasses every day," Sam said, rolling her eyes. "And you weren't saving mine, I was saving yours."

"Ellith," Haldir tutted. "They continue to insist they are always right."

Sam smirked beautifully. "That's because we are, dummy."

"Your insults are self-depreciating and only lower my viewpoint of you," Haldir told her condescendingly. "Humans have the most preposterous insults."

"Oh, you haven't heard my insults," Sam said smugly. "But I won't repeat my best ones, mostly because I don't want to bruise your tender Elvish ears."

Haldir nearly had a fit.

"Tender Elvish – tender Elvish ears? By Morgoth, you make very free! I do not have tender ears!"

"They're pointy," Sam pointed out.

"So are yours," Haldir said pettishly.

"Only because I actually worked for them," Sam said, sticking her tongue out.

"They were a gift," Haldir snapped, becoming mildly annoyed. "A gift which you do not appreciate as of yet."

"So I get pointy ears and I live forever, big whoop," Sam said, yawning and snuggling back against the wall. "And it sounds like Mister Stuffy Warden needs his nap. Are we getting cranky? Huh? Yeah, my little Warden's getting cranky." Sam said in a babyish voice. Haldir spluttered, almost incoherent.

"Stop that infantile tone of voice!" He insisted. "I am not a child!"

"You act like one," Sam reminded him. "The day you start acting like a grown-up, you'll be treated like one."

"Eru, woman, if I were well I would put you over my knee and give you the taste of a stick!"

Sam wiggled her fingers. "Ooh, scary," she smirked.

Their banter would have gone on for a good many hours if Legolas had not burst into the infirmary, his blue eyes wild. "Gondor has lit the beacons!" he cried, voice ringing throughout the suddenly still hall. "And Rohan rides in answer!"

A/N: I decided to start putting my Author's Notes down here. Georgia was beautiful, but my mother-in-law was terrible. Don't ask. :) Anyway, I decided that all reviewers will now get a fresh baked cookie and public appreciation! So review, and be recognized!

P.S. Whatcha think of Battle-Lizzie, huh? Epic fight scene is coming up! SAM X LIZZIE!