This so sucks. Don't get me wrong, it's great to get out of the city -- I'd just like to do it once when somebody's life ISN'T at stake, you know? Just once, I want to go somewhere because I want to, not because the fate of the world is at stake or something, and they need everybody who can hold a bloody sword.

I'm getting off the soapbox now. Y'all can look again.

It's a sad, sad day when you can get so blase about war. That when somebody warns you you'll be outnumbered, you can shrug and say 'happens all the time.' I so wish I wasn't one of those people. I lean back in my saddle, hooking one leg around the front to hold me on and stretching. Tosun nearly falls off his horse. Hal snickers, then Legolas's brother -- whatshisname, the dark-haired one -- kicks him in the ankle. I shake my head. People are so confusing. I don't care who they are. They're all bloody mad. It's a long bloody ride to Ithilien in the company of lunatics.

Fortunately, we're almost there. Then we can kill Leilanni, go home, and (hopefully) live relatively happily ever after.

Yeah, I know. I won't hold my breath, either.

We reach the edge of the forest, stash the horses, and watch the Elves vanish in that absolutely freaky way they have. If you can find an Elf in a forest without supernatural powers, I will give you money. Real money.

Faramir makes an odd noise, shakes his head, and rolls his eyes heavenward. Elves make him nervous, especially Hal. I have no idea why. He's a lot like Boromir in that way -- Elves make him nervous. Dwarves don't, they're too earthy, like Men. You'd be amazed the things you learn from listening to conversations between groups of drunken males, not counting the bawdy songs.

Although those are certainly educational.

One thing that sucks? Slinking through the bushes, once you get used to it, doesn't take up nearly enough of your concentration. It gives you far too much time to think, about far too many things. What's going on back home, future plans, the battle up ahead, random shit. I hate my brain.

Not like we all don't know what my main thoughts are on -- Legolas, my brothers, my men. I have a three-track mind, which is better than a lot of people I know, who have a one-track or no-track mind. Not that I would be talking about my brothers....Nooo.

I can hear Boromir muttering something under his breath about Edana and not moving nearly as silently as Faramir thinks he should. Of course, I think he's being obnoxiously loud too, but I might be biased. He's not usually this distracted. Edana's getting to him, I know she is. I resist the ruge to stand up and cheer. It would draw too much attention to us. Yay, I am a tactical type person! Hooray!

We find a place where we can see the Orc camp and settle down to wait. Faramir's nervous twitches are all gone, and now he's the cool warrior, the level-headed leader. It's kinda scary, the way these people change personas. It's like mild scizophrenia.

I tilt my head, doing a quick head count of my own men, then checking the placement of Boromir's Men and Faramir's. It's habit. Making sure everybody's in the right place, so that we can get the fuck out of here with a minimum of injuries.

I'm a leader-type person! Yay!

I peer of my bit of bushes, and catch a glimpse of long blonde hair in the orc camp. Leilanni is pacing, waiting for her minions to wake, since the sun is still up. It'll be at least another two hours before sunset which is why we're here so early. As we have learned before, best to attack when they're not expecting it. And since Orcs sleep during the day....really the best time to attack, yeah?

I send a quick glance at Faramir, and he nods and gives a tight little grin. I nod back and wave my Men forward. Out if the corner of my eye, I see Faramir steal a quick kiss. From Eowyn, you perves.

She never saw us coming.

It is absolutely wonderful to have someone there to watch your back. If somebody gets to close to any of us, an arrow takes them out. There are so many bloody Elves in the trees, they outnumber the bloody birds. I catch Leilanni's eye, and she goes pale, and a Ranger almost skewers her. She squeaks, and, naturally, turns and runs away. I swear, something really, really awful, which I actually didn't learn from the twins, and take off after her, knocking Orcs out of my way. When I clear the battle, I see a flash of long pale hair vanishing into the woods.

That fucking coward. I can't stand people who run away from their problems.

One thing I have to give Leilanni -- she's fucking FAST. Good thing I've been getting all that exercise, yeah?

And this evening, since we know that one thing a battle of good verus evil is NEVER complete without, Middle-Earth theater presents -- The Evil Lair.

A fucking cave. Naturally, huh? Have I ever told you how much I hate caves? Why, oh WHY, does it always have to be a cave?

I catch another glimpse of long blonde hair as she ducks into the cave entrance. I duck in after her, slowing down considerably, watching for her....BLONDE is easy to see, even in the bloody dark. It comes from experience. Yes, I am blushing. Shut up.

Concentrate, Kayli, concentrate, you really can't afford to fuck up, not even against this bitch.

BAM! Ow, ow, ow. Throwing rocks at your opponents is NOT fair fucking play! Come down here and fight like a man, you bitch!

Yes, I realize that did not make any sense. I grab the rock she threw, aim, and fire as hard as I can. I hear a shreik, and feel a little surge of self-satisfaction. Yes, I am a petty bitch. Woo-hoo.

"You gonna stay up there, aiming rocks like the bloody coward you are, or are you going to get your tail out from between your legs and get up the guts to get to fight me face to face."

"Pfft," she says. "You wouldn't stand a chance."

I laugh at that, actually laugh. "Right. Tell me, who's been training the men of Gondor for the past, oh, YEAR?"

She sniffs and steps out in front of me, holding her sword like she's had at least one lesson with the weapons coach. I draw my second blade, and assume the battle-ready stance. As Robin Hood would say: prepare for the fight scene. She holds her hands up like she might know what the hell she's doing -- after all, I've fought her enough. She's not too bad. Here's hoping I'm better.

We circle each other for a moment. She has a bit of an advantage with a long blade, granted. She can strike from a greater distance than I can with two little short blades. Then again, I have an advantage with two blades over her one, and also my SO extensive training. Or exhausting, whatever word you choose.

She moves first. If there's anything my training has taught me, it's that your enemies are often impatient.

She swings at my head,.and I duck left and under, bringing the left blade over to cut her side. Apparently, Yoda was right about some things. Anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. And, y'know, bloodshed.

She lets out a cry of pain, clapping one hand over her bleeding side, and I step off to the side, keeping narrowed eyes on her. I could kill her, just stab her in the back, but somehow, I can't bring myself to do it. Goddamn training. I HATE being the honorable one. Boromir's a bad influence.

Leilanni takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Some of the shadows shift at the mouth of the cave, the bottle moving closer. I can hear that ugly, harsh language from the orcs, like needles in my eardrums. I can hear familiar battle-cries -- 'Lasgalen!' 'Imladris' 'Elessar!', mixed with some Elvish and Dwarvish I don't recognize. And also curses and screams, the usual sounds of battle. I HATE battle. Remember what I said about hating battle? Multiply it by bloody 10 and you'll have some idea of what I feel when I march into nearly-certain death. Think about it. How would you fucking feel?

Leilanni launches herself at me, apparently steadier than she thought, and the battle begins for real. As much as I hate to admit this, deep under the broiling hatred is a tiny smidgen of respect. When she keeps her head on her shoulders and doesn't tweak over the little shit, she's actually relatively good. I've seen better, of course, but she's not too bad. It's really a pity -- we're pretty much equals.

The shifting shadows at the door lend our little duel a kind of surreal feel. The sounds of battle are quieting outside, and the Men -- namely Boromir, Faramir, Tosun, and Gimli -- are probably starting to look for me. Another five minutes pass, thrusting, blocking, swinging, and occasionally bleeding. She's in worse shape than I am, but the losing side can get desperate and lucky. And the winning side can get sloppy. Since I've spent the last six months preaching to my Men about the same damn thing, I'm trying to be extra careful.

I score another small hit, on Leilanni's arm, and more shadows start shifting at the entrance. I see long blond hair out of the corner of my eye, definitely not Leilanni's, but I keep my concentration. Suddenly, she shrieks and charges. Like I said, she's bloody FAST, even bleeding and tired. I manage to knock the sword out of her hand, but she pulls a small knife from somewhere and we go at it again. I manage to slam one blade into her side the same time she manages to bury her knife up to the fucking hilt in my shoulder. I cry out, Leilanni lets out a shriek of triumph and grabs her sword again.

Well, that's one arm useless. Fuck.

I drop the blade and try to block her sword with only one hand -- harder than it sounds, trust me. And, once more, I would like to ask you -- WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?

I see more movement out of the corner of my eye, and watch as Leilanni's eyes shift that way. And I bring my other knife up and around as hard as I can, slipping it easily between her ribs. Then I stumble, fall back against the wall and slide down it. I don't see her die. Everything goes black.

I can tell I'm in the Halls of Healing even before I open my eyes -- this place is a little TOO familiar. It's the smell of athelas and herbs and wildflowers from the Hobbits. One of my arms won't move -- must be from the blade in my shoulder. I lift the other one to my face, open my eyes, and try to focus. The first thing I really hear is the sound of Hobbits arguing over second breakfast. Hey, at least that means it's still morning. What day, though, that's still a mystery.

"Oi, she's awake!" Pippin's cries, and immediately remedies the pain in my head by sitting on my stomach. Yeah, that was real helpful, Pip, thanks.

I make a funky little gasping noise and push at Pippin with my good arm. "Get off her, Pip!"

Wait wait wait -- didn't the Hobbits go home?

Who cares? I'll think about it when I can breathe. "Get off me, Pippin! I can't breathe!"

Frodo and Merry join forces and yank Pippin off the bed and through him on the floor, and Sam places a tray of food neatly on the bedside table, somehow avoiding walking on the other two.

"We thought you might be hungry," Sam says cheerfully. Of course they did. They're bloody hobbits. They always think you're hungry. At this exact moment in time, however, the mere thought of food is making me really really nauseous.

I shake my head and struggle into a sitting position, with Merry's help. Somehow, we all manage to arrange ourselves. Sam and Frodo are sitting in the chairs beside the bed, Merry's sprawled on the edge of the bed, I'm propped up on most of the pillows in the Halls of Healing, and Pippin is using my leg as a pillow. It's really, very strange. To be sorrounded by this many Hobbits, and no Elves or Men.

Elves. Legolas. I open my mouth to contribute to the conversation -- a first today, I'm finally sure I won't be throwing up if I do open my mouth -- but Merry beats me to the punch. "Legolas was here, but his father drug him out."

I frown. "King Thranduil's here?"

The Hobbits exchange glances, communicating in that creepy, wordless was they have. "Well, you and Legolas are gettin' married in a couple days, my Lady," Sam says.

I frown. That makes a good, what, two or three days unconcious? "How many days until the wedding?" I ask.

Another wordless exchange. "Three," Merry volunteers finally.

I just blink at them for a moment. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have once more spent more than twenty-four hours unconcious. Thank you, thank you VERY fucking much.

I flop back onto the bed and mutter a stream of obscenities that apparently impresses Merry and Pippin. "That was pretty amazing," Pippin whispers.

"Remind me about some of those, will you, Pip?"

I struggle back into a sitting position, ignoring the Hobbits protests. There's shouting, more than a little swearing, and some scuffling, and it ends with Pippin wrapped around one of my legs, Sam tugging on my arm, and Merry and Frodo forming a two-Hobbit barricade in front of the door, gripping the frame so hard their knuckles are white and the most stubborn expressions I've ever seen. I plant my hands on my hips and assume the voice that always makes my men listen. Of course, these are Hobbits, and immune to such things. Or something. Whatever, it's not bloody working. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, Frodo Baggins, you move right this instant!"

"No, ma'am," Frodo says firmly, hooking one heel more firmly around his cousin's leg. "We're under orders to keep you put."

And on that cheerfy note, Pippin gets a firmer grip on my leg and sits on my foot. Oh, this is just beyond ridiculous.

I end up in a one-armed wrestling match against two hobbits, with another hanging on my leg and a fourth gaping at me like a fish. I have Merry pinned under my useless arm and am currently attempting to one-arm-wrestle a laughing Frodo to the floor -- who knew the Ringbearer was ticklish? -- when light, familiar laughter reaches my ears.

God, I'm getting poetic. Just fucking shoot me, ok?

In one deft move, Legolas rescues Merry from under my arm and pulls Frodo to his feet. Pippin is leaning his head on my leg, still sitting on my foot, tears of laughter just pouring down his face. Merry climbs onto my bed and falls over laughing. Frodo collapses against Sam, who still looks like he's in shock. Legolas glances down at Pippin, arches an eyebrow, and looks at me. I plant my good hand on my hip and glare at him.

He's fighting not to laugh. I can tell. I hate it when he laughs at me. Even when I know I'm doing something stupid, something I know should be laughed at, I HATE it when he laughs at me. And he knows it, which is why he's trying so hard not to laugh.

Legolas slips and arm around my waist and kisses me quickly. I hear an 'aww', fake vomiting, and kissing noises from behind me. He smirks at me. "You're cute when you pout," he informs me, then ducks as I start to swing at his head.

TBC...

We're almost at the end now, folks. Thanks for everything.

My fingers move! Yay!