Chapter Nine: Dawn
A/N: Nonexistent cookies go to those who can figure out who the Rider with the horsetail crest is, because it means you pay attention to stupid details like that, and I think that's good.

"Wake up."

Amy rolled over and twitched in her sleep, but slept on all the same.

"Wake up, Grûsbálk."

"Mmm…garg…zzzzz…"

"Grûsbálk, wake UP!"

"SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE…"

Azrat raised an eyebrow. The last being he'd heard snore so loud was a troll. But he didn't have time to ponder on that now; the sun was rising. He grabbed Amy's shoulders and shook them with little gentleness. Most people would have woken up from having their heads shaken so vigorously that there was danger of a whiplash, but Amy had just run more in three days than she had in three years; she slept on.

"This is ridiculous. How anyone can sleep like this is beyond my reasoning," Azrat muttered as he pinched Amy's nose shut. She sputtered and woke up with a start, nearly socking him squarely in the jaw as she leapt up in panic.

"What! What, what!" she cried, looking around for the source of immediate danger. What she saw instead was Azrat, looking at her warily, his head drawn back to avoid her flying fists. "What?!"

"The sun will rise soon," he said solemnly, handing her a weapon—a broadsword. "The Whiteskins are making ready to attack: can you hear them, their anticipation? The unsheathing of swords and the smoothing of spears? It's like the soft ringing of death all around us…"

"How very poetic. And comforting," Amy whimpered as she tried to manage her broadsword. "Gods, how much does this thing weight?" she whined. It was as wide as her leg, and nearly as tall. Try as she might, it was going to be impossible for her weak arms to lift it. She sighed and let it drop to the ground. Azrat looked at her oddly.

"What's the use?" she asked. "I can't pick it up anyway, so I'd rather be able to run for my life without it, even if I don't get very far."

"I'd feel better if you had a weapon of some sort with you," he said; he seemed uncomfortable. She shook her head.

"If I can't run, nothing can help me. But I appreciate the thought."

"Dawn is swiftly approaching," he said sadly, looking into the East. "What a way to go."

"Want to watch the sun rise?"

He smiled, amused. "Doesn't the sun hurt?"

"Yes. But a sunrise shouldn't hurt so bad, and besides, I'd like to spend the last few minutes of my life looking on something special, even if it is accursed."

He looked at her. "So would I."

They stood together on the outskirts of the ring of death and stared at the sky. It was a glorious pale blue, the color of Amy's contacts—when she had been human, that is.

Amy felt something on her side, something that felt like a hand—with sharp nails. She looked down to see Azrat's hand on her waist. She felt her face get hot, but she didn't speak or ask him to move it; and together, they watched the sky's color slowly diffuse from pale blue to bands of light pink and pastel orange. A yellow streak appeared on the horizon, and Azrat drew in a breath sharply.

"Here it comes."

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the sun crept over the horizon in the east. Its bright beams reached out, lazily illuminating the land little by little like the rising tide slowly seeping over the shore, engulfing everything it touched. The earth seemed to spring to life again, and the Riders themselves were stirring. Amy had never resented the sun more in her entire life.

Da-da-da-da-daaaa!

Amy quailed as a Rider blew a melody upon his horn, welcoming the coming of day—and the slaughter.

Da-da-da-da-daaaa-da-da!

Horn after horn answered his, until the air was filled with conflicting melodies. The noise was confusing the orcs; they looked about wildly as blast upon blast resounded around them. To any of the Riders, the song must have been uplifting, joyful, and inspiring; but to the Orcs, it was like listening to their own requiems. Amy clung tightly to Azrat's side, her only emotional anchor in this insane world, close to bawling in fear.

The Orcs gave a great war cry.

The horns of the Riders answered them.

There was a great shaking of spears and swords to accompany the cry, the Orc-host's last futile gesture of defiance. In the midst of their cries, one little voice, one little cry for mercy, was lost: "I don't want to die like this!"

The Riders burst forth from their lines like water from a sundered weir. The sunlight which was growing in intensity gleamed on their mail and their weapons glistened with the morning dew like the fangs of a rapacious beast. The pounding of their horses' hooves shook the earth's foundations, and Amy was more afraid than she had ever been in any earthquake.

The beginning of their clash was marked with a furious roar: the Riders were screaming; the Orcs were screaming; everyone and everything was screaming. Chaos engulfed the hosts and strangled them with its cruel hands. Spears and arrows flew; swords fell and clanged on shields or scraped across bone. Skulls were split; flesh was ripped; the air was filled with the sounds of death and despair. Horses trampled the fallen, men and orcs alike, and a deluge of blood washed over the long green grass, staining the earth a hideous red.

Blood pounded in Amy's ears. She might have been screaming along with everyone else; she couldn't tell. All she could see was blood, death, destruction, and mayhem. She had lost Azrat in the tussle, but all of her conscious thoughts had turned to one goal: her own survival. And, being sans a weapon, she had only one option:

She ran like a scared rabbit.

Adrenaline coursed through her body, giving her feet metaphorical wings, as she ran blindly and screamed her mantra at the top of her voice over and over: "I don't want to die like this! I don't want to die here! I don't want to die at all!"

'I *can't* die here, like this! I didn't want to come to this place! How was I to know it'd be so awful? I want to go home! Oh, God Almighty, please send me back to where I came from and I'll never do bad again!'

A mounted horseman galloped out in front of her, sword in hand, and it was then that Amy knew that God hated her.

She barely had time to look at the Rider, but saw that he had braided blonde hair like his companions, and his helmet bore a long white horsetail which accomplished its job of making him look taller and more threatening. Amy shrank back in horror at the sight of him, falling to the blood-drenched ground, tears spilling from her eyes as she babbled the Pater Nostrum and begged for forgiveness for every sin she had ever committed, from the time she had hit her brother as a three year-old to when she had stolen lip gloss last week and everything in between.

The warrior screamed in challenge. Amy screamed in terror. She scrambled wildly to avoid the horse's stomping hooves and the Rider's swinging sword. The Rider screamed again; frustration was in his voice as he hacked and slashed; Amy, her blood filled with adrenaline to the point of danger, evaded every swing, screaming the entire time.

"If I escape this nightmare, I'll never insult Tolkien again!" she shrieked to the heavens in a last-ditch attempt at salvation.

*SKRIT*

Amy's breath froze in her throat as a pain more intense than anything she had ever felt in her life radiated from her left leg all through her body. She fell to the dirt, screaming in fury and agony as she realized what had happened: the Rider had sliced her left leg open. The sound she had heard had been his sword scraping across her bone. Steaming blood poured out of the open wound, soaking her calves and thighs. She gasped in pain and despair, thinking, 'Why? I promised I would reform! Who…who of those…Powers…would still hold a grudge against me? All I did was adore Legolas and say a few lines from the book! Why, dear God, does that give someone a reason to want me dead?'

The Rider raised his sword again; he would not miss this time.

Amy closed her eyes. 'Then sayonara, and screw you, world!'

She felt a stabbing pain in her back as the Rider plunged his sword into her. Far off in the distance, she thought she heard Azrat's voice calling out to her: "Grûsbálk, Grûsbálk!" She tried to call back, but her vocal cords stopped working as the Rider cut her throat.

***

Azrat had lost Grûsbálk in the fray. He knew she was weaponless and perhaps the slowest, worst warrior he had ever come across in his entire life; thus, all his thoughts were bent on finding her; there was no way she would survive by herself.

He caught a Rider's sword on his shield and threw his attacker's weapon off, making a desperate slash at the young Man's throat. His sword clanged on the Rider's chain mail, eliciting small sparks that caused the Rider's horse to rear in pain and shock as they fell on its mane.

Azrat roared as loud as he could, thrusting his sword at the young man's stomach. The sword skirted off the Rider's buckler with a screech that hurt his ears. He drew back his sword for another strike when he heard a scream that resounded through the battlefield:

"If I escape this nightmare, I'll never insult Tolkien again!"

"Grûsbálk!" Azrat bellowed, recognizing her voice at once. He roared his fiercest at the Rider, hoping to scare the young Man or his horse. The horse whinnied and reared in fright; the Man yelled and tried to bring the beast back under his control. Dodging the rearing animal's flailing hooves, Azrat ducked underneath the horse as the Rider struggled to regain control of the thrashing animals, screaming at the fleeing uruk in Rohirric. Azrat managed to discern the words "Coward!" and "Churl!" from the Rider's tirade, but he didn't stop running.

The world rushed by him, tinted with red, as he followed Grûsbálk's screams. She sounded like she was in pain, and Azrat could only hope that he wasn't too late.

Grûsbálk! Grûsbálk!" Azrat called out over the battle field. He scrambled wildly in his panic, dodging flashing swords and flying arrows as he rushed towards where he had last heard her scream. In his panic, his sight became impaired; he saw Grûsbálk's throat being slit by a Rider. What he didn't see was the young soldier he had parried, galloping up behind him with his spear ready.

***

The wind roared in Amy's ears…

She landed with a thump! on something soft and bouncy. Soft, fluffy things fell onto her face, and she ripped them off, staring at them in turn: her stuffed animals. She looked down at the thing she had landed on: her bed.

She looked at her hands: they were soft and pink, with well-manicured red nails and a silver ring on the left middle finger—just like they had been before her adventure. Her hand flew to her throat; there were no slashes. She lightly ran her fingers over her back; she felt no gaping stab wounds. Finally, she moved her hand down further, looking for any signs of the first injury she had sustained upon going to Middle-earth.

There were none.

'A dream?' she thought, then immediately shook her head. 'No way; dreams don't hurt as much as that did.' But as she looked around her room, she saw that nothing had changed in the slightest. Her dresser and desk were the same; all her posters were in order. She looked at her clock; it was the exact same time as when she had been pulled into the book. Nothing seemed to have changed at all.

But something had changed.

She had changed.

She felt different inside, like she had gained and lost a friend. She had felt empty before, without even knowing it; now she felt stronger, and—dare I say it?—wiser than she had before. She looked at the poster of Legolas/Orlando Bloom on her wall: He was still a hunk of gorgeous Elf-flesh, but she didn't feel the need to kiss the poster like she had before her dream. Instead, she was content to simply look at it and enjoy it for what it was worth, like…like she and Azrat had just looked at the stars and the sunrise.

She bounced a little on her bed, amazed that something so soft and luxurious, compared to where she had been sleeping, actually existed. The comforter felt smooth and wonderful under her fingers; she relished the feeling, as though she had never felt anything like it in her entire life.

She flexed her hands; they felt stronger, less dainty; she could actually see these hands doing manual labor, unlike the hands she had had before her dream—if indeed it was a dream.

She swung her legs over the bed; she remembered the painful three days of running and horrible sunlight she had endured.

"Could that…really have all been just a dream?" she said to no one in particular. Her question went unanswered, lingering in the room as she tried to sort out her thoughts.

"Of course…just a dream," she said, running her nails through her hair (no longer thick and unwashed, but long, blonde, and silky, like it had been before). "I didn't really go to Middle-earth and get turned into an Orc and cause the Fellowship to get killed and end up running around with a bunch of Orcs only to get my throat cut by a guy on a horse and fall in lo…" she trailed off of her thoughts as her stomach gave a huge rumble, like she hadn't eaten properly in…well, in three days.

Almost on cue, her mother called up to her: "Amy, dear? It's time for lunch. Would you like me to make you something?"

Amy cast a look at the books on her table and replied, "No, Mother, that's fine. I'll make something for myself."

"Alright, hun."

Amy picked up The Fellowship of the Ring and flipped through it absentmindedly. She remembered the promise she had made in her dream, about reading and memorizing the books and never insulting Tolkien ever again, should she escape the nightmare alive.

"Later," she promised the book, bounding off of her bed. She rushed out of her room, all her thoughts bent on one thing: food.

A small gust of wind whistled through her empty room, ruffling paper on her desk. Her stuffed animals stared, unblinking, ahead with their empty eyes, and the Elven broach of Lórien lay under her them, discarded and forgotten.

***

Amy arrived at school the next day in high spirits. She felt better than she ever had before.

She greeted her friends in homeroom, who were, as usual, chatting away about something the rest of the world would consider frivolous, but was to them was more important than peace in the Middle East, a safe, effective use for nuclear power, and the global destruction of all nuclear arms combined. Today, their topic was Kayla's new pants.

"They look great on you, Kay," Brandi gushed earnestly. "How much were they? Where'd you get 'em?"

"Abercrombie," Kayla said. "Forty dollars." In truth, Kayla had gotten them from the K-mart bargain bin for twelve ninety-five, but she wasn't about to tell her friends that.

"OMG, Amy!" Lindsay said, noticing Amy. "Don't you just love Kayla's new pants?"

Amy looked at her friend's pants briefly. "Sure, they're cute."

Her friends stared at her.

"What?" she asked.

"What did you do to your hair?!" Tory yelped.

"Huh? Oh, I got it cut. Yeah."

"Amy!" Renée exclaimed, pointing at Amy's head, now sans a good two feet of her previously knee-length blonde hair. "You mutilated your head! Why?!"

"It was getting in the way," Amy said.

"But it was gorgeous!"

"But it was getting in the way."

"You chose substance over style? Amy, are you sick?"

"No."

"Did you get hit in the head?"

"No."

"Did your brother slip something weird into your iced tea?"

"No, at least I don't think so."

"Then why?! You loved your hair, Amy! Why did you do this to yourself?" Jessie asked, trying to understand.

"Because…well, I just didn't feel the same way about it as I do now. In fact, I feel different about a lot of things."

Kristin leaned over to Melanie. "I think she's gone nuts."

"Have not," Amy said, sitting down in her chair. "I just feel different about stuff now."

"And where did this enlightening experience come from?"

"Well…I started reading Lord of the Rings over the weekend…"

Across the room, the ears of a mousy-haired girl with glasses pricked up.

"…And I just see things a little different now. I'm up to the birthday party," Amy said, extremely proud of herself for reading something that was not required of her, save that she had promised it in exchange for her life.

"Excuse me."

The group looked up. A mousy girl (whose name was actually Anita) was standing behind Amy, a large, leather-bound book in her hand. "You're reading Lord of the Rings?"

"Yeah," Amy said, looking at the girl. "You too?"

Anita held up her huge book. "For the eighteenth time!"

"Why bother reading it? You can just see the movies, Amy," Laura said.

"Oh, I'm not going to see The Two Towers," Kristin said.

Amy looked at her friend. "Why?"

"What's the point, if Legolas is dead?"

Amy's heart stopped for a second, then started again at an incredible speed. "What?!"

"Yeah. That stupid wizard Sauron's Orc army kills them all."

"Saruman," Anita corrected.

"Yeah, whatever. Don't you remember, Amy? Legolas dies last—and he looked so great when he fought with those knives!—but he still dies. And then all the cute little hobbits get captured."

"Poor Billy Boyd!" Tory sniffed.

"And then the Orc-host has a makeshift banquet and eats the Fellowship's carcasses," Anita said, "but they didn't show that—"

"EW!" the entire circle of girls exclaimed, save Amy (whose heart was beating so fast, she was sure they could hear it in New York), who just stared at Anita.

"—because they wanted to keep it PG-13."

"That's sick! I can't believe that! Ew!"

Anita shrugged. "It was in the Orcs' nature to eat people, if they could kill them. Tolkien came back from the war a little messed up, or so they say. That's mostly why his writing turned out so grim. I guess. His family says they never remember him being so grim, especially in his writing. They say he really loved the Fellowship."

"Then why did he kill them?" Lindsay demanded.

Anita shrugged. "Maybe someone changed his manuscript before it was published? I don't know."

"Uh, Amy? You okay?" Kayla said, just noticing her friend's condition.

Amy was clutching her face so hard that her nails were drawing blood from her cheeks. "Tell me, Anita…was there a…female Orc?"

"Yes…"

"What was her name?"

"Ah…" Anita looked thoughtful. "I can't say right now; she was only mentioned in passing, when she fell down a cliff, but I think her name was…Grûsbálk! Yeah, that was it. Grûsbálk. Why?"

"No reason…" Amy said. To her friends, she said: "Guys? Will one of you catch me?"

They barely had time the say "What?", because seconds after, Amy collapsed to the ground in a dead faint, and could not be revived for hours after. She was rushed to the hospital, and when she woke up, the only thing she would say was "I…was Grûsbálk…I…Grûsbálk…"

~The End~