He heard her long before he saw her.

The wailing of the women was already beginning, their cries rising above the muffled din of looting. Girls and women, orphaned children, were already overturning bodies looking for loved ones, husbands, fathers. But the screams he heard were rough, horrible barks of horror and fear, shrieks of raw, physical pain, and his sharp eyes focused in on the soldier kneeling on the battlefield. Gimli and Aragorn, walking next to him, heard it as well, and their brows furrowed as they looked for the source of the terrible screams. Legolas's dark cerulean eyes found the warrior, and he knew. He knew. A sharp, cloying pain, fusing his muscles and turning his bones to lead, told him. Because the soldier kneeling was too slender, the downturned face fringed in dark brown hair, and when the warrior rocked back on their heels to scream again, he saw her clean profile. It was Sam, her sword thrown aside next to her, her shield a battered metal disc near her knees. She was clinging to a corpse, hugging a small frame to her, and Legolas felt nauseous. He was going to be sick, he knew it – because the soldier Sam was grabbing had red hair and a petite, short frame. Too small to be a warrior.

Gimli didn't know why his Elven friend broke into a run, for his eyes were not as sharp as Legolas's. But when he saw where he was running to, he knew, and Aragorn grabbed his elbow. "Don't, Master Dwarf," Aragorn said quietly. "Do not halt his grieving."

Sam was wild. Her screams had faded to low, primal coughs, her throat burning and raw, her voice nearly gone. But why hadn't the world stopped? Why were the first tinges of pink dawn streaking across the skies? Amy's body was not yet cold, still had a spark of life in it, and Sam clung to her, as though she could transfer her own immortality to her friend. A large hand dropped on her shoulder, and through a gauzing veil of blurred tears, she saw Aragorn next to her. Legolas plunged to his knees, his plaited blonde hair swinging in his eyes, and his long fingers were snapping at the buckles on Amy's armor. He tore the breastplate from her chest, tossed the metal aside, and brushed the short red curls from her eyes. His limbs were frozen, and a expelling of breath came between his teeth, his heart bleeding into the cold, frozen ground beneath him. This could not be happening. Why had she gone out? Why was she even in this battle? And then the tears came, they came thick and fast, burning tears which blistered his soul and tore his heart, tears which did not heal, only hurt. Tears of things not meant to be. Tears of things unfulfilled.

"Samantha, she is gone. Please, release her."

"NO!" The word, full of savage anger, hoarse and powerful, the sound of a lioness protecting her cub. "NO! Get away! Go away! Now!"

Two hands – one mailed, the other bare – latched around her elbows and brought her to her feet. She thrashed, head whipping from side to side, hair flying, and she looked up at Aragorn. His scruffy beard was wet, his eyes exhausted, and he was soaked with the blood of his enemies. "Please, Samantha, let Legolas grieve. We shall arrange for her burial." Aragorn promised, and shouted in pain as Sam buried her teeth in his wrist. His hand jerked from her shoulder, and she pounced over Amy's body again. Legolas was smoothing the untidy red curls away from Amy's face, and the ragged, broken sounds which were coming from the grieving Elf were painful to hear. Aragorn rubbed his wrist, looking at the dark teeth marks, and Gimli turned his head aside, wiping his eyes. "How much more will be taken from us?" Aragorn asked aloud. "How much more must we suffer until Sauron's scourge has been lifted from the land?"

Legolas's stream of Elvish, mixed words of grievance and curses, seemed to create a tapestry for the death and suffering around them. Mothers and wives, children and babies, they all looked for solace in the impassive gray clouds. The Valar looked down on them unfeelingly, and their mingled screams of grief wove through the blood clotting on the ground. Minas Tirith, the beautiful White City, was in ruins, and their families had been ripped apart. Legolas's Elvish was a poem, a song, a prayer for his lost love, for the flayed heart which had once been reluctantly in love with the young girl. And then, he finally went limp, his head resting on Amy's body, one hand gripping her wrist as though he could still feel the pulse coursing through her veins. Sam had collapsed, lying on her side like a wounded animal, and she made no move to stop Aragorn when he slung one of her arms around his shoulder. Half dragging, half carrying, Gimli and Aragorn brought Sam to the House of Healing.

And Legolas was left alone with the body of Amy.

In a cruel twist of fate, the sunrise which burst over the battlefield was magnificent to behold. Dazzling streaks of red blushed the clouds, accented with subtle tinges of gold and orange, and a sliver of fiery crimson was peeking over the mountains. The gray clouds began to part, and as the silver dawn faded to give way to a brilliant sunrise, all of Middle Earth began to grieve. For no matter how bravely they had fought, no matter how hard they had won their battles, the scars would never fade. They would always be there, mourning their loved ones, wishing they could to something, anything, trade their lives for one moment spent by the sides of their loved ones. Those who had never lost began to feel the storms of gray bleakness blanket them, and those who had lost almost everyone began to feel nothing at all. And still, he stayed there, one word running through his head, nursing his pain.

Why? Why his Amy? Why her? Why? Why? Why?

But it wasn't over yet.

The story continued.

A touch, feather light, whispered along his ear, and the sensitive point tingled. He drew his head up, and felt his stomach turn over in shock as he was met with a pair of gentle green eyes. Green eyes, exactly the color of leaves coming out in the spring. Green eyes which had been brave, terrified, filled with love, fear, hate, and anger. Green eyes which reminded him of his home, which were home to him. And those eyes were so tired, so bone-achingly weary, and his breath stopped in his throat. Her voice was the weak rasp of a kitten.

"Hey, Legolas."

Fumbling, questing fingers, ghosting across the side of her face, slipping beneath her unresisting head, cradling her nape as he tried to remember how to breathe. A thousand questions tripped from his tongue, stumbling over each other in his mind and never making it past his lips, and a low, hoarse moan spilled from his mouth. "Amy," He breathed. "Amy, melamin, what happened?"

She shook her head, unable to find words, merely closed her eyes and gave in to the overwhelming rush of unconsciousness.

Green.

She remembered that color. It was familiar – known. She remembered green grass, the tickle of it beneath her bare feet. She tried to remember other things, other places, other feelings, but it was too much and she let herself drift. She was lost in an ocean of her own consciousness, aboard a boat of her own imagination, somewhere gone and back again. Disjoined images and flashes tormented her – leering Orcs, roaring Uruks, screaming Nazgul – and had she been awake, she would have been horrified at the sound of her cries. Good memories were few, and she was left fighting battles over and over again. As with most nightmares, she was shackled to her own tortures, the keening sounds of battle searing her body and leaving her thrashing and convulsing. She could feel the hot spurt of blood over her hands again as she sent her blade biting into the throat of a Uruk. All over again, she felt the loss of Sam, felt the missing gap in her life, but she couldn't remember who Sam was. Whenever the feeling got too much, whenever the raging battle reached it's peak, she drifted.

It was easier to drift than to think.

Every muscle was latched together, and her tongue was cloyingly dry. It took every ounce of strength in her body, every shred of willpower, to crack open her eyes. Light, dim and purple as it was, still burned her vision, a stark contrast to the blackness in which she had been drifting. And it hurt, God, it hurt. Everything burned. But there was something important, something she had to grieve for, something she had to do, and she tried to open her eyes again. She was able to open it a little more, crack open her eyes a little wider, and everything was so fuzzy she wondered where she was. It became an exercise – fighting to open her eyes, to take in a little more of her surroundings, before she had to drift. Time was elastic, stretchy webbing which was of little consequence. An image which stayed with her was the sight of a huge golden bear – muscular and gigantic, broad-shouldered and massive. For some reason, this was also important. She couldn't remember how.

Noise hit her for the first time in decades.

" –awake?"

Tan. Gray. The stench of something rotting. Burning flesh.

Drift.

Hard. Soft. Blankets around her waist. Brown eyes. The tickle of growing hair around her neck.

Gone again.

And when she was finally able to open both eyes and keep them that way, there was quiet. She welcomed it. Her brain began to furtively test what was known and what was not known.

I am Amy Ricker. Known. I am seventeen years old. Known. I am in Middle Earth. Known. I was in a battle. Known.

My best friend killed me.

Known.

Drift.

Ah, her boat was waiting. It was easier to drift than to feel pain. She was afraid the pain would stay with her, scar her. Her boat ground against the shores, waking her from a dream which went unremembered, unknown. And then it happened – hit her with the force of an earthquake, a tsunami, a raging storm. She felt the cool blade of the knife slip between her ribs, the hot pain, the drifting so similar to this. But she couldn't drift again, couldn't force herself back in the boat. She began to cry out, thrashing, but something was holding her still, keeping her from moving. She felt carrion tearing into her flesh, razor sharp claws ripping shards of meat from her bones, the branding pain riveting her. Ugly, black, mottled faces of Orcs, bared yellow fangs, rotting black teeth. Crude, guttural grunts which compromised their language. One of them raised his blade, and she actually felt it biting into her neck -

She remembered the scream.

The sane part of her welcomed it.

Restraints had pinned her to the bed, coarse ropes tethering her in place. A leather strap had been worked between her teeth, and she felt half-healed sores along her swollen tongue and wounded mouth. Sweat, a sick, cold sweat, had soaked her skin and plastered her red hair to her head. She bucked her hips, trying to free herself, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder, pressing her against the mattress. "Shh, melamin, shh. Be still."

The touch soothed, and she found herself unable to drift again. She saw the lithe, lean form of Legolas leaning over her, and she relaxed visibly, allowing her head to loll back against the thin pillow. His deft fingers worked the gag from her mouth, the knots from her wrists. "You were injuring yourself," He whispered, his voice low. "The healers had to keep you from hurting yourself. You were biting your tongue, screaming, clawing at your side."

"...Lizzie..."

"She is gone, Amy. We found her. Samantha is arranging her burial."

The tears did not come. She wanted them to, wanted to cry, but the well of emotions in her mind had been tapped to extremity. So she let him hold her, let him weave his fingers between her own, and for the first time, she did not drift. She simply lay there, willing herself to focus onto his voice, which was murmuring a low, steady stream in Elvish. And as long as he kept talking, she could forget the Orcs. The carrion. The Nazgul. She could forget Lizzie.

In years to come, both Sam and Amy would suffer from night terrors. They were far more vivid from usual nightmares, far crueler and more emotional. While Sam would see every single Uruk she had killed, Amy would just see Lizzie. Just see those big blue eyes and blonde hair. And the three of them, Amy, Sam, and Lizzie, would always know that they were separated. Amputated. Ripped apart. Broken. Never to see each other again. And she wouldn't allow herself to drift, because the pain wasn't accompanied by tears. It went beyond tears. She felt scooped out, numb, hollow. Cold. Only Legolas's hands were warm.

Her short red hair hid two pointed ears.

A/N: I am sick. For the first time in almost a decade, I am properly and truly sick. Which is funny, because usually it's my kids getting sick, not me. So now James is running around the house trying to keep up with all the chores, and the kids are running wild. I'm sure this chapter is full of typos, so just try to read around them. Gah. Good night.