Chapter Three: The Departure of Canon
LANGUAGE: Seeing as how the Fellowship speaks Westron and Amy speaks English, whenever the POV changes to encompass a different language, three asterisks (***) will separate the POV's.
PLUGS: Blatant OFUM jokes and PPC plugs ahead. Oh, yeah.
PERKS: Extra-long chapter. Aren't you lucky little people today?
WARNING: It's all AU from here. And yes, Amy is going to change as she adjusts to Middle-earth. Because if she doesn't, she's dead. And we wouldn't want that to happen. *cackles*
FEEDBACK: Thanks for all that I've received so far. I like it when people cut and paste their favorite parts in their reviews. *wink**wink**nudge**nudge*
MUSIC: 'The Official Hamster Dance'
Weirdlet: *ponders* Yes…I knew there was something wrong with her. Well, besides the obvious, of course. Thank you for the criticism.
"I'm cold!"
God, she's such a whiner.
"God DAMN, it's cold here," Amy muttered to herself, her rotten, yellow teeth chattering as she frantically moved her clawed hands over her forearms (and managed to scratch herself up quite nicely in the process) in an attempt to warm herself against the cool February morning air. "Who knew that Orcs were so sensitive to the cold? No wonder they didn't run after the Fellowship on...Caredres."
Somewhere, in a university near Minas Tirith, a small, fiery demon poofed into existence.
"Where is that stupid-ass Fellowship?" she muttered to herself as she trampled over helpless plants and sent small, furry woodland creatures running for cover. "I've been walking around for two hours in this shitty forest. The least they could do is have the courtesy to show up!" Never mind the fact that once the Fellowship "showed up", the next thing they'd probably do was probably "kick some ass". Leave her to her twisted fantasies.
Stumbling with her iron-shod feet over fallen logs and tripping through burrows and brambles, Amy continued her arduous trek through the underbrush of Parth Galen and, unbeknownst to her, complaining her way towards the Fellowship's encampment, where the Company was currently attempting to decide on a direction: East with Frodo, or West with Boromir? Frodo was presently asking for an hour to make up his mind, and leaving the Fellowship for good, though nobody knew it at the time. He was walking up a hill, and Amy was stumbling down the same one.
Lost in his thoughts, Frodo continued to wander. "West or East? Shall I make for Gondor, and give them the aid that they will surely need, or shall I fulfill my promise to the Council, and bear the Ring still to Mordor?"
"Damn it, damn it, damn it, I hate it here…"
"…But the Council laid it upon me to bear the Ring to Mordor. How can I bear the Ring on an errand West, when its doom lies in the East?"
"I hate Middle-earth. I hate it, I hate it. I am SO not going to see The Two Towers! Ha! Take that, Peter Jackson…Tolkien…whoever created this mess!"
"But, if Gondor falls, who then will know of what deed I have done? Would it not be better to take the Ring to the West and defeat the main strength of the Enemy? Then, when his host has fallen and his power has crumbled, the Ring could be brought to the Mountain of Fire and destroyed!"
"OW! My freakin' foot! Stupid tree!"
*KICK*
"OWWW! STUPIDER TREE!"
Frodo looked up. A loud, snarling voice, screaming some unknown curse, had just pierced through the trees. There! There it was again! A foul, evil voice that seemed to chill the very bone and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end:
"THE STUPID TREE BROKE MY STUPID FOOT!"
He furrowed his brown brows. "What was that? And what did it say?" He slowly drew Sting; he took in a breath sharply: the blade of Sting was glowing blue.
"If I had an axe, I'd chop you down, you stupid tree!…Oh, wait: I do. Huh. How'd that get there?"
Casting a dark look up the hill, Frodo sheathed Sting and immediately turned, fleeing blindly down the hill as fast as his hobbit feet could take him. Behind him, it sounded like someone was trying to fell a tree.
Suddenly, he ran into what felt very much like a great oak. With a grunt and a moan, he fell backwards onto the green lawn.
"Frodo!"
Blinking blearily, Frodo looked at the thing he had run into. It was Boromir. He had a rather strange look on his face, but Frodo didn't care. He was glad to see a familiar face, even if it wasn't as friendly as it had been.
"Boromir! Oh, I am glad to see you. There are Orcs in the forest, Boromir! We must warn the others!"
Boromir unsheathed his sword, the strange look flickering from his face as anger was kindled in his deep grey eyes. "Where?"
"I do not know," Frodo replied. "I was walking when I heard one shouting. I came to tell the others."
"Go, Frodo," Boromir replied. "Warn them. I will hold the filthy things off."
With a quick nod and a grateful smiled, Frodo scampered down the hill as Boromir strode purposefully in the other direction.
***
*CRASH*
Smiling smugly, Amy watched as the great tree she had bruised her foot on fell to the ground with a bang. Poor Middle-earth horticulture.
"That'll teach you to break MY foot, you stupid tree," she said as she proceeded to trek through the underbrush, now slashing down anything in her way with her newly discovered ax. She had decided that the best way for her to get out of this situation was to remain calm, cool, and collected. In every movie she had ever seen, it was always the panicky people who died.
But, inside her nearly-empty head, Amy WAS panicking. What had she done to get herself into this situation? And why was she here? She obviously wasn't here to help on the Quest; otherwise, the Powers That Be would have given her a more appeasing façade to hide her 21st-century helplessness behind. She racked her brain, trying to think up an explanation as to why she had been dropped into this place.
Her stomach suddenly gave a terrible lurch as something horrible dawned upon her. She had often seen her cat, Karl, play around with the mice he had captured: he would allow them to run a little ways away from him before pouncing on them, tearing their little heads off, and eating their still-warm bodies. Were the Forces doing the same to her? Toying with her before they struck her down?
She blindly sough answers from the sky. "What are you doing, whoever you are?" she asked quietly. If the Forces were there, They would hear her. "What's going on? Why am I in this body? Why are you doing this?"
The eaves of the trees swayed in a brief, passing wind; the bare branches rubbed against each other. On the ground, a gust of wind kicked up some dead leaves, which brushed past Amy and danced around her. It seemed that dead things were the only things in this world that remained un-repulsed by her.
A leaf brushed past her orc ear and stuck in her matted hair. In its dried concave area, she seemed to hear a very faint noise that echoed inside her ear, as if the wind itself was whispering to her:
'Ha ha.'
If it was possible for an orc to blanch, Amy did. Shock was quickly overcome by rage.
"DAMN YOU!" Amy screamed, grabbing the leaf and crushing it in her clawed hands. She turned her face towards the sky. "YOU DID THIS TO ME! This…this sick joke! What do you want? Do you want to see me suffer and die? Am I supposed to be the mouse in this little game of yours? WHO ARE YOU?!"
The wind ceased as randomly as it had begun.
"URG!" Amy buried her ax in the trunk of a tall oak tree, breathing heavily and growling. So that was it. This was someone's sick idea of a joke. She was the pawn in this game of Cat-and-Mouse. And, from her knowledge, the Mouse never, ever won.
Great.
She looked to the sky again. "How do I get out of here?"
Silence.
God dammit. I hate this place.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Amy's head snapped around. Someone was coming up the lawn towards her. Her heart began to race; orc adrenaline surged into her veins. She grabbed her ax's haft and yanked as hard as she could.
It didn't budge.
"Oh, come ON!" she squealed, pulling with all her strength, trying to force the ax out of the tree's firm interior. "Come ON, you STUPID AX!"
Too late.
The branches of the trees were pushed aside, and he came forth.
He was striding purposefully on his great, long legs, a drawn sword in his hand, seeming to be taller than mortal men. His hair was long and black, and hung to his shoulders in great, thick locks. His eyes were dark and grey; they burned with a cold fire. And, although Amy didn't know it, his name was Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor; and he was prepared to vivisect orcs in his full canonical glory.
Amy nearly wet herself.
He cried something in a foreign language at her. Amy didn't know what he said, and she didn't care. She had enough sense to know what to do when some angry guy comes at you, wielding a big-arse sword.
She ran.
Abandoning her ax, she turned and fled blindly the way she had come. She heard the man bound through the underbrush after her. She could only discern one word from his speech: his battle-cry:
"Lú Gondor! Gondor!"(1)
Ducking around the numerous trees as best she could, Amy fled, trampling the lust foliage with her iron-shod feet. She racked her brain, trying to think of where she had heard that word, Gondor, before.
Oh, God, oh, God…Umm…Legolas said Aragorn was its heir, and Boromir said that his father was the Steward of Gondor, whatever that is…so…AW, SHIT! The realization that this warrior was either Aragorn or Boromir finally dawned upon her, and filled her with new terror: she had seen how many orcs Aragorn and Boromir had slain in The Fellowship of the Ring.
Tears stung the corners of Amy's bloodshot eyes as the warriors footfalls came closer to her own. I'm going to die, she thought. I'm going to die in this God-forsaken place in this repulsive body and I'm never going to see my home again. I was just kidding, Peter! Or Tolkien! I'll go see The Two Towers, I'll read the books—hell, I'll MEMORIZE the damn things! Just let me LIVE! PLEASE!
The Universal Laws of Comedy kicked in.
She tripped
With an "OOF!", Amy fell over a large log and went sprawling to the ground. She got a mouthful of dead leaves, and dirt was kicked up into her eyes. Spitting and blinking, Amy's tears dripped into the dirt as one thought flashed through her mind: I'm really going to die here.
She closed her eyes.
***
The orc ran. Boromir followed.
A cold fury was brewing within him. A hatred of these orcs and the Dark Lord who they served. An anger at the Ring that was tempting him; a Ring that served the Dark Lord.
He grasped his sword tighter. This orc would not escape. No doubt it was a scout, sent by a larger orc party to spy on the doings of the Fellowship. He was resolved: here was one orc who would never look upon Mount Doom—or Isengard, wherever it came from—ever again.
The creature seemed to be weaving erratically through the forest. Boromir's brow furrowed. Why wasn't it just hacking and slashing its way through? An orc would think it easier to do that; Boromir knew that it would slow the creature down.
It did not matter. The thing was weaponless and afraid, and was erring in its terror. Boromir would overtake it soon.
Suddenly, the thing tripped over a log and landed on the floor of the forest. Boromir slowed his pace, and, when he drew up beside the creature, stopped.
The thing looked up at him with wet, bloodshot eyes. Boromir furrowed his brow again. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the thing had been crying.
It didn't matter. It was an orc; it was a worker of evil.
The thing put its head back down in the dirt, waiting for the final blow to fall.
He raised his sword over its head; the blade glittered in the sun.
***
Amy stared up at Aragorn. Or Boromir. He didn't look like anyone she had seen in the movie, but the movie no longer mattered, and neither did his identity. He was going to kill her. She was going to die in this strange, coarse world.
She put her head back down in the dirt. You sure didn't play with me long, she thought bitterly, hoping her message would somehow relay itself to the Forces. Next time you decide to randomly pull someone into Middle-earth, why don't you let them stick around for a little longer?
She waited. What was taking him so long?
The warrior moved next to her. She heard the soft clinks of mail and the crunching of dead leaves as he shifted his weight to his back foot. He was going to stab her to death.
She closed her eyes tight.
*Swish*
"Urk!"
(1) Forgive me: this is Imaginary Westron. It means, in my mind, at least, "For Gondor! Gondor!" *holds out her wrists and waits for the readers to slit them for inventing words*
Coming Up: Canon returns with vengeance. Nope, she's not dead yet, damn her.
Remember the Fords,
Simbelmynë
~Simmí~
