A/N: I edited this one. I realized I didn't want more OC's. This chapter has a new ending.

Sam had only been gone for a second. Amy knew it. So why was she panicking? Amy had pushed herself away from the comforting arms of Aragorn - the ranger wasn't quite sure why she had been crying - and peered off into the distance, searching for Sam's familiar form. Sure enough, she saw Sam's willowy, tall figure striding resolutely towards the horizon, her stride never wavering as she trudged through small rivers and over little hillocks. She wasn't running, and Amy knew she wasn't crying. Sam never cried. Amy had only seen her cry once - but that was a long story. So why was she leaving the tiny knot of grievers still crowded around Theodred's flower-bedecked grave? Squinting hard, Amy focused on the distant horizon, dark green eyes narrowing as she strained to see better. And then, she saw it. Her breath stopped completely, heart hitching in her chest.

For against the backdrop of inky gray, a graceful silver stag pranced impatiently, Sam walking quickly behind it.

Amy wasted no time. She took off after them, ignoring the protesting shouts of Aragorn and Legolas. The ground was soft and slippery under her feet, slipping and sliding over damp tussocks of grass and scrambling up dunes. She needed to reach Sam. Guilt for doubting her friend surged up, but she batted it away quickly. There was no time to be guilty - Sam could be walking to her doom. All of the stories about misleading animals welled up in her chest, forming a tight knot that couldn't be shifted aside. Picking up her pace, she began running after her, shouting Sam's name. She couldn't afford to lose another friend. Lizzie was captive in Isenguard, and Amy knew in her heart that she wouldn't be coming back. Tears blurred her vision. She couldn't fight the war of Middle Earth alone.

09

Sam felt as though she were swimming underwater through a dream. Everything seemed distant and surreal, bland and tasteless while the buck in front of her was majestic and real. She kept reaching out to touch it, and her fingertips would barely skim it's flanks before he quivered and took off again, always staying within reach, just enough to keep her tantalizingly close. He was much larger up close - the size of a horse, but much more beautiful and graceful, with slender legs that danced as he moved, gleaming fur that was unmatched by the moon and stars themselves. Strangely enough, Sam thought she heard someone calling her name, but she ignored it. The stag needed her to come. So she would. Finally, the stag stopped dead still, large nostrils flaring as it tilted its horned, curved head backwards, sniffing the air suspiciously. A tiny rivulet of water was flowing at its dark hooves, the sandy bottom mere inches away from the surface of the water. Elegantly, the stag dipped its handsome head and drank regally, water flecking the minute hairs around its velvet muzzle. Tentatively, Sam reached out to touch the silky flank.

"I wouldn't do that, maiden."

Deep, immeasurably rich, chocolate silk wound around pure white velvet; thrumming with power untold and wise beyond eons of years. The voice was haunting, beautiful, and unreal. Sam pivoted slowly, hackles raising as she searched for the owner of the flawless voice. When she saw him, she stopped breathing entirely. For there, standing before her, was the most handsome, beautiful man she had ever seen. He was tall, impossibly tall, perhaps six and a half feet tall, and broad chested. A striking, regal profile ran between deep-set, unfathomable eyes that were the precise shade of the sky at high noon. Sharp features, ageless and beautiful, complimented his sinewy, lithe form. Dark hair was braided at the temples, pulled back to reveal slanted ears and a sculpted jaw line. Thick metal armor, polished to a high gleam, rippled over his muscles. A honey-colored bow was in his hands, a quiver of arrows strung over his back. The arrows were perfection, flighted with silver feathers that shone like stars. He had a glow, dazzling and brilliant, that surrounded him like a visible aura. Sam felt her heart feebly come back to life. Slowly, in a gesture she wouldn't have done for any living thing, she sank to one knee. A spark - more an ember - of humor flickered his eyes, and his mouth twitched slightly in the form of a smile. "A well-meant gesture, maiden, yet it comes decidedly late."

Sam couldn't speak. She felt suddenly horribly inadequate - her clothes were stained and muddied, brown hair dull and tousled, cheeks reddened, figure thin and wasted away compared to his vibrant life and commanding stature. Her eyes dropped to the ground. She felt a single finger tilt her chin backwards, sending a sheaf of brown-black hair shifting over her ears, and their eyes met. Shivers of power rambled up her spine, terrifying and alluring. She wanted nothing more than to run away - but her mind wouldn't let her. She was bewitched by those crystalline cerulean eyes, knowing and wise, threaded with a ghostly skimming of gray. Slowly, she stood, and she saw her tall figure was dwarfed by his mere shadow. Even his shadow glowed. She didn't know what to say; her mouth was dry as sand, tongue thick and unmoving. The man - or god, or whatever - shifted his gaze from her gold-flecked brown eyes and clicked his fingers. The stag stepped lightly over to him, and allowed the man to rest his hand on his head. "This is Amanfara, my servant. I hunted him for nigh on three nights before I captured him. He is a beast beyond compare." He inclined his head. "I sent him to watch over you, maiden."

"He's beautiful," Sam managed to whisper. "I've seen him a couple of times. Beautiful animal." She couldn't think of what else to say. He inclined his head once more, as if her answer had pleased him.

"I am Orome, Lord of the Hunt. And you, maiden, are Samantha Browning, visitor from America." he said. She must have looked surprised, for he arched a single eyebrow. "I know of you, maiden. The Valar watches over the race of Men, and we have done so since Time began." He patted the stag's head lightly. "And I wish to inform you I find you..." he searched for a proper word, "...interesting."

"Why?" Stupid girl, don't question him! He'll blow you to smithereens!

"Because women do not traditionally fight," Orome said frostily. "And yet I see a warrior within you. You need care and training to help bring it out, but you carry yourself with nobility and dignity." He lowered his eyes. "You must tread carefully, maiden. These are dangerous times. You shall need every ally you have to survive the bloody battles." He clicked his fingers again. "But hist! a lady approaches."

09

Amy couldn't believe what she was seeing. She didn't even know what she was doing. But Sam was talking in low murmurs to the most amazing looking man she had ever seen. Suddenly her vocabulary dried up when she tried to describe him mentally. All she could think was My God, he's handsome. And tall. And then, oh-so-surely, he flicked his crystal eyes to her. "Lady Amy. Blessed is our meeting. It is good to meet you in person."

Stumblingly, Amy curtsied helplessly, completely unsure as what to do. "Uh, Sam?" she croaked. "What - I mean - wait - huh? - who?" He didn't seemed chafed by her lack of words; instead, a tiny smile quirked the side of his mouth.

"You have a possession of mine, maiden," he said, arching one eyebrow. Amy's small hands immediately went to the seashell necklace strung around her throat. "Yes. The whistle was carved by me and passed down through my servants. Do not use it lightly, maiden - it carries more power than you can imagine."

Orome bowed low. "And now, maidens, a friend of yours approaches. It would be in my best interests to leave you now, with my blessing. Samantha - " he paused, and looked directly at her, searing crystal eyes into her very soul - "Call out my name, and I shall come."

Amy and Sam both blinked blearily. There was no sign of Orome or the stag - nothing but bland gray landscape and bleak gray skies. The two of them looked at each other. "Did that just happen?" Sam asked hoarsely.

"I think so," Amy said, gripping her seashell necklace. "We should get back to the others. I really don't like this. C'mon."

"What did he mean by 'a friend approaches'?" Sam wondered aloud. Amy perked up visibly next to her.

"Maybe it's Lizzie! Maybe she escaped from Isenguard!" Amy said, hope flooding her chest. Sam stopped dead in her tracks, and Amy half-turned to look at her. "What?"

"Amy..." Sam began falteringly. "I've been meaning to tell you..." she shifted her weight uncomfortably. "Lizzie...isn't going to come back."

Numb, fuzzy, shock. Incomprehension.

"I looked in Galadriel's mirror...Lizzie's going to betray us." Sam focused on the ground, throat blocked. "And I'm going to have to fight her." she looked up. "Amy, I think I'm going to kill her."

No. Impossible.

"No..." Amy said, shaking her head. "No, that's stupid. Lizzie wouldn't...wouldn't... No, Lizzie's an idiot, but, I mean, she's not a..." Couldn't say it, couldn't wrap her head around the words. Traitor. Betrayer. Judas Iscariot. Benedict Arnold. "She wouldn't."

"She will."

"No. You're making it up." Amy was falling back to her knee-jerk response - crying.

"I saw it, damn it!" Sam shouted. "Do you think I like the idea? Do you? Do you think I'm going to enjoy killing our best friend? No! But she will, and she's probably doing it right now. Don't you get it, Amy? Middle Earth twists everybody's thinking. She's not herself. Lizzie isn't Lizzie."

"Don't be stupid." The words were hard to form, unshapeable clay lodged tight in her throat. "She wouldn't. Lizzie's always Lizzie. She's our friend." And somehow, saying the words made it seem easier to bear. Lizzie would never betray them. Not their stupid Lizzie. Not their fashionable Lizzie. Not their friend. It took a moment for Amy to realize Sam was crying, silently, tears gathering on her cheeks, staining the ruddy skin.

"She will, Amy," Sam said roughly, voice harsh and empty. "She will, and I'm going to have to end it." She mouthed the last words, almost to herself. A dry sob rattled her chest, and she battled her emotions. "Lizzie will, and don't trust her. Please."

"You're lying." Dead, cold, lifeless words - a corpse lying on frozen grounds. Amy felt an unmovable lump lock in her throat.

"What?" Sam was horrified. "I wouldn't lie to you, Amy! I - we're friends, best friends!"

"Lizzie's my friend too," Amy said fiercely, body shaking with sobs. "She's my friend, and you can't stand being friends with her! You always hated her!"

"Hated her?" Sam asked in disbelief. "Hated her? I mean, we fought, sure, but - Amy, you don't seriously believe -"

She did. Sam could see it in her eyes.

"Amy, I love her. I love you both. Look, this isn't easy for me either!" Sam shouted, throwing up her hands. "I wouldn't lie to you, never. I'd do anything - anything - to help you. Please, you have to believe me. We can't trust her, Amy. We have to -"

"SHUT UP!" Amy was backing away, sobbing now, barely understandable. "Just shut up, Sam! She's our friend! Why can't you see that? She's our friend, and she's trapped somewhere, helpless - Maybe Galadriel was lying to you!"

"She wasn't Amy," Sam said numbly. "She wasn't. I saw it. We can't trust -"

"I can't trust you!" Amy shrieked. "I can't trust anybody!"

"Amy?"

It was Legolas. He had a hand on his knife and he was breathing hard, shallow breaths hissing between his teeth. His slender brows drew together as he looked at Amy. "What possessed you to run off like that, Amy?"

She was so frightened and angry that her name didn't register. She was so wrapped in her own emotions she didn't notice it was the first time he had used her name without 'Lady' in front of it. Instead, a sob coughed from her chest, and she clenched her arms to her sides. "Ask Sam!" she said. "She's - she's - telling m-me that L-Lizzie...L-Lizzie..." She couldn't get any farther. "She's l-lying!"

"I saw it, damn it!" Sam said, crying in earnest now, unable to make her see, make her realize. She felt the same way she felt whenever she looked at her mother drinking - completely helpless. Sam slammed her feet into the ground and began sobbing. Legolas was bewildered.

"Both of you, calm down," he began, but the two of them wheeled on him.

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

"Go away!"

Legolas looked at the raw hurt in Amy's eyes, Sam's puffy cheeks, and backed off a step. "Amy," he whispered. "Amy, please." His voice was soothing, gentle, caressing her soul. She whimpered to herself, burying her face in her hands. Sam couldn't take anymore - she bolted towards Edoras, away from Amy, away from everything. Amy watched her go, still crying.

"She's never lied to me before," she hiccupped. "Never. She wouldn't...Lizzie wouldn't..." She was incoherent now, winding down from her brutal sobs, collapsing into a piddled mess. Legolas crouched before her, tucking stray curls behind her ears. She batted his hand away like a cat would a mouse, clamping her arms around her knees.

"What did Sam say?" Legolas asked, his voice still soft, soothing, like a zephyr of summer breeze across a plain of grass. "Amy, you can tell me."

"She said...she said...Lizzie would...betray us." Amy fought to control her words. "But she's lying, I know she is! We've been friends since we were little kids...We - we promised. We would always be friends."

"She saw it in the mirror, didn't she?" Legolas asked, more wondering aloud than stating a question. At Amy's nod, he sighed slightly, releasing his frustration into the stiff breeze. What could he say? There were no words to comfort her, nothing but empty words, cold and frail. So he let her stay here, comforting herself, trying to block out the painful memory of his own visit with Galadriel.

"Legolas Thranduillion of Mirkwood...Why do you approach me so late?"

The white gown whispering over the small spikes of green grass. Her blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, smoky cerulean eyes regarding him coolly. The feeling of his bow beneath his hand, the weight of his quiver on his back. Her mirror sparkled in the bright moonlight, the basin of water reflecting the full silver moon, a coin tossed carelessly on a backdrop of velvet sky.

"I seek answers, my Lady."

"You shall find them."

Gripping the basin, worn stone under his fingers, light blue eyes sweeping the clear water, registering the images before him with difficulty...

(Amy, falling over a wall, pain written upon her face...)

(Aragorn, fastened to a Warg, flying into space, grabbing empty air as he fell...)

(Orcs, surrounding them, thousands upon thousands...)

(Samantha, straddling an Orc, knives in hands, slicing, hacking, stabbing, snarling...)

(Lizzie, perched atop a coal-black horse, long blonde hair plaited behind her, crimson cloak rippling in the wind...)

(Back to back with Gimli, their weapons glinting dully in red light...)

(The feel of blood on his hands...)

(Amy on the ground, life ebbing from her in slow waves...)

He watched Amy now, watched her get up, normally lively green eyes dull and listless. She looked down at him mechanically. "I need a bath," she said in a small voice, completely devoid of emotion. "And I need to sleep. For a long time."

Slowly, he nodded. Images from Galadriel's mirror threatened to crowd to his mind, but he told himself to mind the moment, concentrate on the broken young girl in front of him. There was a world to save, and a girl to comfort. He struggled internally for a moment, and then followed her back up to Edoras. Aragorn would no doubt wonder why they were gone, but Legolas had no answers, either for Aragorn or himself.

Especially answers concerning Amy.