Howdy y'all! The longest chapter yet deserves the longest author's note; feel free to skip it.

I hope y'all enjoy this chapter (and huge thank you to Sensara for a million of the most thoughtful reviews ever!). It might be a bit longer before my next update. No, I'm not going on hiatus or anything, just don't expect two or three updates a month anymore, at least for a while. Frankly, I'm a really slow and inefficient writer—each chapter takes more effort and thought and rewriting than I'd like to admit, and a fast update schedule isn't always sustainable.

To get a bit more personal than any of y'all'd want, my anxiety is pretty bad (thank you, world events) and writing this story has been a great distraction, but lately I've been leaning on it way too much, getting pretty heavily distracted from work and other responsibilities that I'm already struggling to stay on top of. So I'm going to step back a bit, just for a while, and try to reset my priorities and my schedule. If you don't see an update for a month or so, you'll know it was a success!

In the meantime, I'll leave y'all with my new (least) favorite joke: What's the difference between the US Capitol building and Mordor?

One does not simply walk into Mordor.

Chapter 21: Nothing Gold Can Stay

"Here." Boromir tossed a wooden sword to me. "This will serve you better in practicing offensive maneuvers."

I frowned down at it; the dense wood was nearly as heavy as the blade Lanion had chosen for me. "How?"

He swung his own practice sword around, testing its weight. "I have seen the hesitation in your movements when we sparred in the past," he said, turning back to me. "You are reluctant to press your advantage because you fear hurting your sparring partner. Am I right?"

"Yeah, a bit," I admitted.

"It is a common concern among new soldiers. But you need not fear causing any lasting damage with this." He smiled indulgently, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: I probably wouldn't have been able to hurt him with my real sword either. "You will master proper offensive technique much more easily like this. Now, attack me."

His straightforwardness caught me off guard. "What—now?"

"Do it!"

I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on the wooden hilt. "I hope they have good doctors here," I said, in an attempt to hide my nerves. "Because you'll need one!" I lunged forward, and his booming laugh rang out in the clearing as our swords clashed.

Boromir proved to be a very different teacher than Strider. While I'd been practicing with my sword since the Council, Strider had focused on teaching the hobbits and me basic self-defense; he likely thought that offensive strength would come with time, or maybe that it wasn't needed. But Boromir clearly thought differently (given how readily and loudly he complained about Strider's teaching methods). Perhaps he felt, like me, that we didn't have time to learn things slowly.

"You must parry faster than that," Boromir chided me, his wooden sword point pressed to my stomach. My own sword had been knocked violently from my hand a moment earlier.

Days had passed since we'd begun—though I couldn't count exactly how long it had been—and I found myself cautiously optimistic about my progress, despite getting the wind knocked out of me on a regular basis.

"I know," I sighed, picking up my blade and trying to hide how out of breath I was. "But hey, I got you a few times, didn't I?"

"Admirably so," he conceded, grinning and massaging his bicep, where I'd managed to strike him, hard. I returned his smile proudly. "You forced me back many paces. But you promptly forgot your footwork; you stood in one place far too long. You see how all your momentum was kept on your front foot?" He demonstrated, taking his stance again. "I am surprised I did not knock you to the ground at once, unbalanced as you were."

I nodded, copying his stance and shifting my weight experimentally.

"And you are too tense," Boromir added, "with too much strain carried in your neck and shoulders." He stepped forward and gripped my shoulder as evidence, shaking me back and forth gently. "Like a brittle reed you are! Such a stance weakens the strength of your arm and the grip on your sword," he said. He moved closer and clapped his other hand over mine, his fingers calloused and warm. "Feel your grip there! It is no wonder I disarmed you so easily." He tightened my hold on the wooden hilt and smiled encouragingly. I met his eyes and swallowed, suddenly more disarmed than ever.

"How you berate our poor Bee!" Legolas stepped into our clearing with Gimli in tow. "Come now, Man of Gondor. She would do us proud in combat!"

Boromir released me hastily. He stepped back, the smile slipping from his face as quickly as it had come. "Of course she would," he said, folding his arms. "I meant no insult."

"It's alright!" I waved them off. "I need to know where to improve if I'm ever going to get any better." It was true; I had worried that Boromir would go easy on me, but he seemed to be treating me like any of the other soldiers he'd trained in Gondor. Well, he probably wouldn't have grabbed their hands like that…I cleared my throat. "Where are y'all off to, then?"

"Our princeling here has offered to introduce me to the blacksmiths of Lorien," Gimli said eagerly. "I know they can be nothing to the craftsmen of the Lonely Mountain, but it shall prove interesting nonetheless. Perhaps I'll teach them a thing or two, eh?" He elbowed Legolas in the ribs excitedly.

"Yes, put your blades down and join us!" Legolas offered.

I stared at them, remembering their constant arguments over the past several weeks. "I'm in," I said eagerly, curious to see more of their strange new camaraderie.

"Not so fast," Boromir said. "The hobbits will be joining us to practice once they've finished their latest meal. It will be good for Beatrice to spar against new partners."

I hesitated. I saw the wisdom of his words, but the idea of sparring with Sam made me wince. I'd been avoiding him like the plague since we'd gotten to Lothlorien, unable to stomach seeing fear and mistrust and anger in his eyes. It was cowardly, I knew, but I couldn't help it. Any apology I offered now would seem insincere, though I knew that was just an excuse to stay away.

"Ah, but perhaps on our way to the smithies, we might stop at Nelion's workshop," Legolas added casually. "A master violin-maker, I have heard."

"What?" I cried, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "For Pete's sake, why haven't you brought me there already? Let's go!" The elf laughed as I set my wooden sword aside to join them.

"Until tomorrow, then, Beatrice," Boromir said, turning away.

I faltered, suddenly disappointed—but of course he couldn't come along, he had to train with the hobbits. "Right. See you later, then."

Trying to seem nonchalant, I followed Gimli and Legolas into the forest.

"Ah, here we are, the master luthier himself," Legolas announced after about a half-mile, waving me towards a little workshop and chatting in elvish with Nelion, a reedy-looking elf with long silver hair.

"Oh, this is incredible," I exclaimed, taking in the violin-maker's workshop. "What's he doing now, Legolas?" For several minutes, Legolas chatted with Nelion and translated his actions for me as the craftsman polished gleaming pieces of wood and fitted them into a slender frame.

Lothlorien violins were unlike anything I'd ever seen, their wood so pale as to seem white from a distance, their strings like threads of moonlight, their scrolls delicate enough to resemble new rolls of parchment.

"On to the smithies, eh?" Gimli said, clearly impatient to move the party along.

"Already?" I was entranced, reluctant to leave. The luthier raised an exasperated eyebrow at me, shrugged, and carried on with his work. "Y'all go ahead. This is way more interesting," I said, settling down on an empty workbench as Gimli and Legolas moved on.

The shadows lengthened as I watched the violin-maker work. Every now and again other elves came and went, bringing Nelion thin sheets of undyed wood, boxes of gleaming strings, and bottles of polish.

I was just contemplating leaving to go to dinner—the Fellowship had taken to eating together near our rooms most evenings—when another elf entered the shop and picked up one of the violins, its structure completed but the wood still dull and unpolished. She began to play, clearly testing the instrument's sound quality, and I gasped. The music was beautiful, improvised and unstructured as it was, and for a moment the workshop seemed bathed in gold, pale and gleaming. For a moment—a few seconds, a minute, an hour, I couldn't say—I was enthralled, and lost myself in the melody.

"What do you write with so odd a script?"

I jumped violently at the sound of Boromir's voice, nearly spilling my inkwell over the parchment I'd spread out on the bench.

"Oh—hey," I said, shuffling the parchment over so he could sit beside me. "I'm just transcribing the piece she's playing," I explained, gesturing eagerly to the violinist. At the confused look on Boromir's face, I added, "Do y'all not write music this way in Gondor?"

He frowned, studying the five-lined staffs I'd meticulously inked onto the parchment. "I could not tell you," he said, looking almost embarrassed. "I was never musically inclined myself, and I admit I have given no thought to the methods used by our bards."

"Oh," I said, my enthusiasm deflating like an old balloon. It was too much to hope, I supposed, that a warrior like Boromir would have any interest in music. "So…what brings you here, then?"

"Legolas mentioned that the elven music had put you under a spell," he said solemnly. "I came to make sure you did not miss dinner."

"Thanks," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'll be there soon. I just want to get a bit more of the music down first." I hesitated. "You don't need to wait for me—I don't expect everyone to care about this kind of thing," I added, remembering the snide comments from my friends back home and feeling heat rise to my face.

But Boromir frowned. "I would not be here if I did not wish it," he said. "Perhaps I will come to understand what has captivated you so."

"Oh!" A smile bloomed on my face, and we sat in silence for a while, listening to the elven music. I kept glancing up at Boromir nervously, wondering if he'd get bored and regret coming to meet me out here, but he just looked thoughtful.

"What's the music like in Minas Tirith?" I asked at last. I'd managed to transcribe the elf's melody as best as I could, and I set the parchment aside to dry.

His eyes darkened. "I could hardly tell you. Long has it been since I have heard music echoing in the streets of my city."

"I'm sorry."

"A grand music hall once stood in the lower quarters of Minas Tirith," he told me. "But decades ago, as our need became dire, the hall was converted to a barracks for soldiers coming to our aid from Dol Amroth and other coastal cities, with some of its chambers now serving as armories." My face fell at his words, and he smiled encouragingly. "It shall not always be so, Beatrice. Music will come back to my city, and all the light and beauty it brings. You will see the music hall as it was, echoing with song. Perhaps you will perform there one day, before you return to your home."

"I hope you're right," I said. A lump had risen in my throat.

"The light of my country will be restored," he demanded, as though he could make it true by determination alone. His smile had faded, replaced by a look that made me cold. "No matter the cost."

"What if the cost is too high?" The words had left my mouth before I could stop them.

"No price is too high to pay." He stood abruptly. "I will see it done!"

"There's no need to get angry," I snapped, standing too.

"Nothing is more important to me than the safety of my people! If you suggest otherwise—"

Boromir's words were cut off by Nelion, who had apparently had enough of our talking interrupting his work. Griping in elvish, he waved an unstrung bow at us and shooed us away. I stammered an apology as we retreated.

"Goodnight, Beatrice," Boromir said shortly, once we'd escaped Nelion's wrath.

"Aren't you coming to dinner?"

"I cannot stomach another bite of elven food." His fists shook at his side. "I—I should not have raised my voice at you. I am sorry. This forest grates on me, and I cannot—"

"It's alright," I said hesitantly, recalling the stifling panic I'd felt in Moria. "I'll see you later."

By the time I'd sat down to dinner, I'd lost my appetite too.

I joined the hobbits for a second breakfast the next day, trying to make up for my lost meal. I reached over for a cup of tea and Sam stood abruptly, mumbling an apology and hurrying away from the table. I faltered, trying to keep a neutral face as the other hobbits exchanged confused glances. My stomach twisted. Miserably, I tried to force down a piece of toast when—

Beatrice?

I jumped, crumbs flying across the table. Lady Galadriel? Is that you?

She didn't speak in my mind again, but I was suddenly aware of her need to talk with me. I leaped up, ignoring Frodo's look of confusion, and hurried off, somehow knowing exactly where to go.

"Hi," I said, unsurprised to find Galadriel in a clearing waiting for me. She looked just as intimidating as I remembered, and my eyes fell to the ground. "Um—my lady."

"Hello, Beatrice. I trust you are enjoying your stay?" Her voice was warm, and, thankfully, spoken out loud rather than in my head again.

"Of course!" I fiddled with the lace at my sleeve. "You called me here, didn't you?"

Galadriel nodded. "Aragorn spoke with me yesterday. He intends for the Fellowship to leave Lothlorien in two days' time." She caught my gaze and held it sternly. "He expressed doubt that you should join them."

"What?" Panic flooded my veins. Did Strider really want me to stay behind? Did he—oh, God—did he know that I'd almost—

"He does not know," Galadriel interrupted my thoughts, and I scowled. This whole mind-reading business was still unnerving. "But I believe Gandalf spoke to him in Moria, expressing some amount of concern."

"Oh." I winced under her gaze and looked away. "Do you want me to stay behind, then?"

That challenging expression returned to her face. "Do you think you should?"

I opened my mouth to protest, then hesitated. Maybe…Maybe I should stay behind. I had overcome the temptation to use the Ring—of that I was certain now. But how much damage had I already done? Sam had lost all trust in me, and while I couldn't be sure if he'd told Frodo about what he'd heard in Moria, it was obvious that my being here made Sam deeply uncomfortable. It was chipping away, bit by bit, at his peace of mind. Maybe it was selfish to want to continue on with them. After all, I could find my way to Minas Tirith on my own, couldn't I?

But I thought again of Saruman's weapons storerooms, the stockpiles of firearms, the way the ceiling had given way under the explosives at the entrance to the mines. "I can't stay behind," I said at last. "Maybe—maybe I should, but what if the Fellowship needs me? I know I wasn't much help in Moria, but I'd never be able to live with myself if something happened and I wasn't there to help."

Galadriel nodded, her expression unreadable.

"Are you going to tell Strider to leave me behind?" I asked hesitantly. "Or…"

"I have already advised Aragorn that you could be trusted to accompany them, if you believed it to be the best course," she said, and I let out a heavy sigh. "I merely wished to speak to you first. It is no small matter, accompanying such great evil into growing darkness."

"I'm not going to turn back now," I protested, folding my arms. "You already asked me, when we first got here, and my answer hasn't changed."

"Of course," she said kindly. "Though, if I am not mistaken, there is something you wish to ask me."

"Oh!" I nodded, unnerved again. "Yes, actually. It's just—you told me when we first got to Lothlorien that you might be able to send me home, if I asked you to do it. Did you mean it? Is it possible? Would I be able to come back, if—I mean, when this is all over, and get home from here?"

Galadriel's smile slipped slightly. "Forgive me. To my knowledge, I do not have such power: far though I can see, my glimpses of your Texas are faint indeed. I am sorry for misleading you, Beatrice, but if you are to return to your home, it shall not be by my hand."

My shoulders slumped. I'd expected that was the case, that she'd only made me the offer as part of her test. But something she said made me pause. "You can really see Texas?" I repeated. "From here, even faintly?"

"The Mirror shows many things. Would you like to look?"

A magic mirror? I gaped at her. "You mean it would show me my family, my friends? What they're doing right now?"

"Perhaps. It may show the distant past, the present, the many branching paths of the future. Come with me if you wish, and look." She gestured with an elegant hand.

I moved to follow her, then stopped. What was it likely to show me? My mom sobbing over a missing person report, new people moving into my gutted apartment, my friends laughing and talking without me as though I'd never been there at all? What if it showed me something so horrible I decided I couldn't wait to get back home any longer, something that made me turn my eye back on Frodo and the—"No," I said, a little too loudly. "No, I don't want to." Galadriel turned back to me and raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, my lady," I added awkwardly. "But I can't."

"I understand," she said simply, and I knew she'd heard every panicked thought that had flitted through my head. Maybe Boromir was right about this whole mind-reading thing, I thought, before pushing the notion away hurriedly; I couldn't even be properly annoyed with her, because then she'd be able to tell—

"I will leave you to return to your meal, then, Beatrice," Galadriel said lightly, giving me a knowing smile. Soundlessly, she departed the clearing.

"Elves," I huffed to myself, making my way back to the breakfast table.

I felt a strange sense of foreboding putting my traveling clothes back on, tying my hair back in a tight braid and lacing my thick winter boots. I repacked my bags with difficulty—I had to wrest the Kevlar vest from the maidservant Ressil, who was trying it on over her gown, giggling at its odd weight and bulky shape. "Thanks again for everything," I told her, folding the vest into my bag. She rattled off some elvish in reply. "Same to you, I guess," I said, shrugging, and hurried to join the rest of the Fellowship.

We gathered at the banks of a river Strider had called the Anduin, where a group of elves were preparing several elegant, white canoes for us. Sam was eyeing them with immense trepidation.

The Lorien elves offered their goodbyes, plying us with food, supplies, and gray-green elven cloaks. Then, to my surprise, Galadriel took each of us aside to offer us a farewell gift.

"This is for you, Beatrice," she said, holding out a long cloth-and-wood container shaped like a slender teardrop. I untied the delicate cord around the case, which opened to reveal an elegant, pale violin, just like the ones I'd seen days earlier. My jaw dropped. "A spare from Nelion's workshop," Galadriel explained, smiling as I gaped at the golden wood, the silver strings, the slender, curved bow.

I barely heard her, I was so enamored by the instrument. It looked too big for me, I thought worriedly, the elves being rather taller and longer-limbed than I was. But as I held the violin up to my chin, it seemed to change imperceptibly—or was that in my imagination? and suddenly it fit along my arm as though it were made for me. A magic violin, I decided giddily, and I heard Galadriel's warm laugh in my mind. "Thank you," I exclaimed. "This is incredible."

"Play it well, tree-friend," she said, "and may it remind you of home." With a smile, she moved on to give her gifts to the others.

I stared after her, speechless. Tree-friend?

Radagast had called me that too, but why? I had taken it for a strange quirk of the wizard's, but how on earth had Galadriel thought of the same exact epithet? Perplexed, I drew my thumb along the violin's strings, the four notes echoing, perfectly tuned, into the air.

As though in answer, the mallorn tree above me shuddered in a sudden gust of wind, a golden leaf drifting down to land at my feet—the last very straggler from autumn, leaving the branches bare above it. I picked up the leaf and held it up to the sunlight. It was enormous, well over a foot long, and it gleamed against the sky as though its veins were shot through with liquid gold. Tree-friend, I thought again, distantly, and tucked the glittering leaf into my new violin case.

With that, the elves ushered us into three gleaming canoes. I glanced at Boromir, hoping to share one with him, but Gimli pulled me by the elbow into his canoe behind Legolas, eager to show me his gift from Galadriel. Boromir met my eyes and chuckled wryly as he was dragged into his own boat by Merry and Pippin.

It was a long time before I saw him smile again.

With a final farewell to Lothlorien, we set off down the river. I had offered to row, but Legolas and Gimli flatly refused. As the hours passed on the water, I begrudgingly admitted that they had a point; I'd developed a good amount of muscle over the past few months, but the inhuman strength of my boat partners was something to behold. Uneasily, I rested my elbows on my knees and left them to it.

The days slipped by and the river widened and wound its way south. Tension seemed to be growing in the air with each passing hour, and I watched the land flow past on the banks, imagining new horrors behind each tree, each rock, each hill.

We were already so exposed on the river that I didn't dare play my violin, as much as I longed for something to break the silence of our travel. Still, I found myself clutching the instrument close to me, as though its presence alone might calm my nerves.

The others felt similarly jumpy; I could tell. They were oddly silent—even Merry and Pippin barely spoke. When the group did talk, it most often consisted of harsh, whispered arguments between Boromir and Strider, who couldn't agree on which path to take beyond the river.

Boromir. Was he going to die? I didn't know if we were on the same course as the film had taken, but if we were, I had a feeling it would happen soon. I took to glancing at him from my boat, feverish and tense, playing out horrible scenes in my mind. It might not happen, I told myself. It might not…I twisted my sleeve so violently that it ripped halfway to my elbow.

Wincing, I dug out a sewing kit Amarien had packed for me, but my hands were shaking so badly that my needles and thread tumbled to my feet. They're going to put his body in one of these boats and send it down the river. As I scrabbled at the floor of the boat for my thread, I ran my fingers along the pale wood, swallowing heavily. Am I sitting in his coffin? My stomach heaved and I wretched over the side of the boat. Nothing came up but bile, and I coughed violently.

"You alright, lass?" Gimli patted my back, hard enough to make my teeth rattle in my jaw.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Just…feeling a bit sick."

"I thought your stomach was stronger than Sam's," Legolas chimed in. In the canoe ahead, Sam's curly head whipped around in a scowl.

"I'm fine." I wrapped my arms around myself, wondering if I'd ever been less fine.

I wasn't the only one doing poorly. Boromir looked even more feverish than me—I caught him glaring intently at Frodo all the time, and his hands shook on the oars. Just as I had withdrawn from the others in Moria, Boromir rarely spoke to us now, except to argue with Strider, whose grave demeanor had reached new heights.

Sam, too, seemed to be at the end of his rope. On the nights I took watch, I noticed him sitting stubbornly awake, guarding over Frodo's bedroll even as he swayed with exhaustion. Clearly he didn't trust me to keep Frodo safe anymore—maybe he didn't trust anyone anymore. That knowledge twisted in my heart like a knife, all the more because I knew I deserved every angry, frightened look he sent my way. How much had he told Frodo? I couldn't tell, but Frodo looked more exhausted than all of us combined, barely speaking or eating, and twitching whenever someone addressed him or came too close.

A waterfall was roaring in the near distance when we stopped to make camp. Around ten days must have passed, although it felt like more, time having caught up to me in a confusing rush once we'd left Lothlorien.

It was still early in the day, but we couldn't go any further until we'd decided once and for all on a path forward—Gondor or Mordor. "The choice shall fall to the Ringbearer," Strider said reluctantly, and all of us glanced at Frodo.

The hobbit closed his eyes, getting to his feet. Looking rather sick to his stomach, he pleaded for an hour to decide, and retreated into the woods.

"Seems an easy enough decision to me," Sam muttered to himself after a while, folding his arms.

"What do you think, Bee?" Merry asked, unwrapping a leaf of lembas and taking a bite. "You and Boromir are leaving us for Minas Tirith either way."

"Oh—that's right," I said hesitantly. I'd almost forgotten our original plan, swept up in all the things that could go wrong.

"It'll be a shame to part with you, lass," Gimli said, shaking his head. "If it comes to that, of course." I smiled at him in return, something tugging at my chest. It felt like years ago I'd first met them all in Rivendell.

The others passed around a meager lunch and did their best to make light conversation, when suddenly Sam leapt to his feet. "Where's Boromir?"

I glanced around. He was gone. Surely an hour had passed—Frodo should have come back by now too. My blood ran cold. "Shit!" Grabbing my bags, I sprinted into the forest, leaving the others looking bewildered behind me.

Time trickled by as I dashed through the woods—minutes, hours, I couldn't say. I peered through the trees as I ran, looking desperately for any sign of Boromir or Frodo. I wanted to call out to them, but refrained, reluctant to draw attention to myself.

At last I found Boromir.

He stood in a clearing, alone. He leaned motionless against the trunk of a tree, a hand pressed over his eyes.

"There you are," I gasped, relieved, but I froze as he turned to look at me. Tears streaked down his face. His eyes were wild, his hair snarled with leaves and dirt. He was shaking. "Boromir?"

He didn't seem to hear me, and I knew, suddenly, what had happened. It had consumed him at last.

Oh no—no, no, no…My fingernails dug into my palms as horror washed over me, quickly replaced by self-loathing, the unbearable thought that I hadn't even tried to stop him—but he hadn't succeeded in taking it, that much was clear. Frodo must have run off, and recently. Our Fellowship was beginning to break.

Suddenly determination seized me, its grip like iron. I had squandered my foresight once, but I wouldn't do it again. Nothing else would go wrong today, not if I had anything to say about it.

"Here. Drink this." I moved to kneel beside Boromir and offered him my water canteen, my voice matter-of-fact. He blinked down at the hunter-green plastic, a relic of the helicopter owner's camping supplies so long ago. "Just drink it, alright?" I pressed, forcing the canteen into his hands. "Come on, we've got to move."

He turned away from me, not meeting my eyes. "Leave me, Beatrice," he said tonelessly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"We need to get back to the others," I insisted. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

Boromir frowned, but before he could reply, the sound of clanking armor and pounding footsteps reached our ears. "We have company," he said, suddenly alert.

"What?" My heart leapt into my mouth—already?

"Orcs, I should guess. Many, and approaching fast." He reached for his sword.

"Wait." On impulse, I tore open my bag and pulled out the Kevlar vest. "Put this on," I said hurriedly, slipping it over his shoulders.

"Stop that—what is this?" he demanded, trying to shrug me off.

"Will you wear it?" I asked desperately. I didn't know how to explain—I didn't dare tell him more. "Please. Just—just for a while." It might stop an arrow, if put to the test, Radagast had said so long ago, and now I prayed it was true.

Boromir stared down at me sharply, as though trying to read my thoughts, but I shook my head wordlessly and zipped up the vest for him. It was bulky, but it fit over his tunic well enough, the elven cloak loose over it. "Beatrice, explain this madness!" he snapped.

Before I could reply, several armored creatures poured into the clearing, and he shoved me back, standing protectively in front of me.

As I drew my sword, my first thought was of the goblins in Moria. But no—these monsters were tall and broad, some of them even taller than Boromir, nothing like our adversaries in the mines. Then, in a flash, they were upon us.

Boromir killed one, then a second, before the third had even reached me. My heart shuddered in my chest, but this wasn't like our skirmish in Moria—I'd seen combat now, and the initial shock had passed. The first clash of my sword against my opponent's didn't stun me as it had before.

The orc charged at me. I balanced my weight as Boromir had taught me, my jaw clenched. Our blades clashed twice before I managed to slice through the creature's upper arm, nearly severing the limb. It roared in animalistic pain, sinking to the ground, and I stabbed it in the chest with all the strength I had.

I leaped back as it died, its body convulsing and twitching like a crushed insect's. But I didn't have time to be horrified—more of them were pouring through the trees. Boromir met my eyes, and without a word we began to retreat toward the river.

"There you are!"

I whirled around, wild-eyed, but it was only Pippin and Merry, out of breath from running. "Orcs," Merry exclaimed, gasping for breath and pointing back toward the Anduin. He'd dropped his blade again, a rock hefted in his fist instead. "Dozens of them!"

"Some of them have those Texas weapons," Pippin added. "Those gun things like Bee's, but bigger."

"What?" I cried, my blood running cold. It was Saruman, then. And we were surrounded.

Without a word Boromir reached for the gleaming horn at his hip. He put it to his lips and blew once, twice, three times, the sound unbearably loud, and we lifted our blades again as the orcs swarmed toward us. There were so many of them, more than we could ever take on, but what else could we do?

"Get behind me," I shouted at Merry, who had thrown his rock and was scrambling for another. Then the orcs were upon us, and I raised my blade with a yell—Boromir had said I was bold, and so I would be, no matter what—

A gunshot exploded through the forest.

Everyone jumped—the orc bearing down on me turned to look at the source of the noise, and I took the opportunity to hack my blade into its neck with a foul squelch.

"No!" Merry was shouting. Boromir had fallen to the ground, clutching at his ribs—he'd been shot.

I looked around wildly, panic flooding my mouth—and there, in a cluster of trees, stood the largest orc yet, hefting a gun from Saruman's storerooms. Some kind of hunting rifle, I thought, and something the orc clearly hadn't been trained to deal with. It had dropped the gun in its aftershock, but picked it back up and was taking aim a second time, the weapon clunky and alien in its clawed hands.

Boromir was staggering to his feet, pale and shaking. Had the bulletproof vest worked? I didn't know much about them—how much damage would a gunshot still do?

Before I could move the orc fired again, then again. The second shot found its mark—Boromir fell back again with a hoarse cry, staggering back to his feet with difficulty. I screamed, diving for my pistol and taking aim. I fired at the orc, the bullet going wide and shattering a tree branch far to the left.

"The witch!" one of the orcs called in a guttural roar, seeing the pistol in my hand, and suddenly they were charging toward me. I raised the pistol desperately. One shot left. But there were too many, too many, I didn't have a clue what to—

"Boromir!" One of the hobbits had cried out again—I couldn't see which. An arrow had pierced Boromir's shoulder, and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath—no, no—the enormous orc had cast its rifle aside in favor of a huge black bow, looking impatient that the bullets weren't having their intended effect.

It drew its bow again. I had to get to Boromir—I had to—

A huge, clawed hand grabbed at my hair and dragged me to the ground. I screamed, tears springing to my eyes as I twisted around, trying to stab my attacker, but I was only holding my sword one-handed, the pistol gripped in my right hand. I swiped at the orc's ribs, the swordpoint glancing off its armor, and it laughed, wrapping a meaty arm around my neck, choking me—

Panic overwhelmed me, greater than anything I'd ever known, and I wrenched my right arm behind me and fired the pistol into the creature's side—it dropped like a stone, black blood splattering across my cloak. I gasped for breath, the now-useless pistol hot in my hand. Boromir, where was Boromir?

I whirled around—he was still on his feet, the black arrow jutting horribly from his shoulder, his face twisted in pain—I could hear his labored breathing even across the clearing. The orc who had shot him fired again, the next arrow slicing deep into Boromir's arm. With a roar, he felled another orc, then another, pausing to sound his horn again, desperately—

"No!" Someone screamed—one of the orcs had grabbed Pippin, whose small sword clattered to the ground uselessly. Merry yelled a battle cry and ran to his aid, but was overwhelmed by another's grasping arms—no, everything was happening too fast—

Another orc leaped at me, and I raised the pistol in its face, jutting out my chin. Bold—you're bold, remember? "Stay back!" I roared, lurching forward. "Or I'll shoot!"

The creature hesitated, just for a moment, and I dropped the gun, cleaving my sword through its ribs with both hands.

"Merry—Pippin!" I yelled, whipping around, but I couldn't see them. My eyes fixed instead on the same creature who'd shot Boromir—it was drawing its bow yet again—

I dived for my pistol and ran towards Boromir, pointing the unloaded pistol at the orc. My hand shook as its black eyes met mine. I'm a witch—they think I'm a witch—"Drop your bow!" I bellowed, my voice coming out high and thin. "Shoot again and I'll—"

An orc barreled into me from the side—I crashed to the ground with a scream, pistol and sword clattering from my hands. Enormous arms hauled me into the air. I twisted away desperately, and something struck the back of my head. My vision went white.

And for the third time in my life, I passed out.

And with that, we're done with the Fellowship of the Ring. On to the Two Towers! See y'all soon(ish).