PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

Chapter XXXIV: A Lengthy Resume

Have I ever told you how much I hate horses? I know I told you about the time I rode Faramir's horse (well, more like I lay on top of the horse while we fled from ringwraiths on wings). That wasn't exactly the best introduction to horseback riding so it makes sense that I would develop an intense-dislike-boarding-on-phobia of horses.

"Can we walk?" I asked as Éomer's horse lurched uncomfortably beneath me. I opened one eye, saw the grass passing beneath me in a blur, and tried not to throw up.

"Are you certain you are a friend of Gandalf Stormcrow?" asked Éomer.

"Of course." My grip on his shoulders tightened. "Just look at the ground…"

"Stop your complaining," said Éomer. "My horse will not let you fall unless I command her to."

"Will you command her to?" I asked weakly.

"That depends on whether you are silent or not."

I prodded him in the side. "You're so an orcish man."

Éomer frowned. "What strangeness do you speak of now?"

"Never mind."

The riders of Rohan (and me, I was there too) galloped across the plains. Éomer led the group as we sped towards to Fords of Isen in west. Grasslands and rivers spread out as far as the eye could see with boulders and villages dotting the lands.

You've been to Rohan before but only in passing. All right, let's see if I can remember everything Éomer told me...

To the west, Rohan reaches the River Isen, near Saruman's Isengard, and the River Adorn, which separates Rohan from the unfriendly Dunlendings (who you know very well). To the south, Rohan reaches the edge of the White Mountains and to the north, the river Limlight. To the southeast, Rohan and Gondor's borders meet each other at the Mering Stream. Rohan's land is divided in half by the river Entwash,

At this time, Rohan was roughly a third the size of Gondor, comprised mostly of pastures and grasslands (which makes sense as Rohan is the home of the horselords). Other than restored Gondorian fortresses, such as the Dunharrow, the Orthanc, and the Hornberg, Rohan is comprised mainly of small villages and farms. The only large cities of note are the hill fort and capital, Edoras and one of the oldest towns in Rohan, Aldburg.

Oh hell yeah! Éomer should be proud of everything I remembered from his lessons—and he always said I was a bad student.

We had been riding for about an hour or so, and my fear of horses had not lessened in the slightest. The Rohirrim all moved as if the horses were a part of them, their bodies leaning forward and back with the beat of the mares' hooves.

Trying to distract myself from the fear that radiated through my body, I surveyed my riding companions. Éothain kept shooting me disdainful looks whenever his mare drew near. I was pretty sure that guy had it out for me, and I decided to start sleeping with the Sword Breaker under my pillow. Westeld was silent for most of the ride, which I was willing to forgive him since his face had turned stark-white and he looked as though he might fall out of the saddle at any moment. Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, was too serious for his own good. He was handsome enough, I suppose, but he had a grim set to his mouth that made him look older than his actual years. Taysend talked without thinking and would often insult people (mainly me) with his well-meaning jokes. Gaenry seemed nice, at least; he smiled whenever I caught his eye. And then there was Dorthin.

Dorthin and I had a psycho-connection. We had an understanding going on between us. I would make a face at him and then he make one in response. We had secret conversations between the two of us all through the weird faces we made at each other. (The conversation would be something like Me: I'm hungry. Dorthin: I had eggs for breakfast.)

Éomer led us into a forest. The horses dodged this way and that through the trees, the fallen leaves and twigs cracking under the thundering hooves.

The branches snapped against my shoulders as Éomer's mare led the way. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dorthin ducking under a low tree branch. I scowled and stuck out my tongue at him. Dorthin pursed his lips and squinted. (Me: This sucks. Dorthin: It is always like this.)

As we went deeper into the forest, the mood grew more and more somber. Gaenry stopped smiling, and Dorthin stopped talking. A heavy silence settled about us, and the only noise was the repetitive sounds of the horses galloping, the branches cracking, and the wind rushing through my ears.

I recalled Westeld's words about an ambush. My grip on Éomer's shoulders tightened as I pictured what we might find. Maybe coming with Éomer had been a bad move on my part. I'd asked to tag along without thinking; I just hadn't wanted to be left alone in a strange town, especially not when orcs were roaming through Rohan. Besides, the Skip had thrown me in Éomer's path again for a reason. Maybe I was supposed to visit the Fords of Isen, maybe I was supposed to go with Éomer to Edoras and meet the king. I don't know. But, God, I didn't want to see what fate had befallen poor Théodred and the other riders of Rohan.

The horses broke through the line of trees and water splashed in all directions as we entered a shallow, rocky stream. Éomer reeled his horse around and began trotting downstream.

"Is it far now?" he asked.

"No," croaked Westeld. "Not far now."

I glanced at Dorthin and grimaced. (Me: I don't want to see this.)

Dorthin raised one eyebrow. (Dorthin: It was your choice. Do not do anything suspicious Ana.)

I tilted my head to the side and bit my lip. (Me: Do I look suspicious to you?)

Dorthin scrunched his nose. (Dorthin: Extremely suspicious. They will throw you in the prison as soon as we return.)

"Where are we?" I asked.

"The Fords of Isen," said Éomer grimly.

"Already?"

And then, I saw the first dead body.

It was on the edge of the shore, where the tree roots met the shallow water. The soldier laid face down, the strands of his dirty, blond hair floating on the river's surface. Blood colored the water around his body, and the tree roots were streaked with red.

For a second, a painful second, I thought it was Boromir. I know that was ridiculous because Boromir had dark hair and this man was blond, but still, they were both tall, broad-shouldered men. And they were both dead.

"Who is that?" My voice sounded soft and far away, as if it no longer belonged to me.

"A man of Rohan," said Éomer. "He lost his life fighting for his people. Honor him, criminal that you may be."

I glared at Éomer's back. I wasn't really angry at him, but I needed something to focus on besides the dead body that reminded me so much of Boromir. "I'm not a criminal. And I have a heart too, you know. It's beating inside my chest, just the same as yours. I know what death means. Not everyone can be saved."

The hard tone in my voice cause Éomer to glance over his shoulder at me. For a second, I thought he was going to reply, but then, we turned the bend in the river and the full battlefield came into view.

Before that moment, the amount of death I had seen was limited. I had seen the Fellowship die, yes, but that was only nine people. This was a battlefield. Orcs and men were everywhere. Their bodies were strewn all over the river. The water was red. Heads were cloven, limbs were severed, and bodies were defiled. This was war. This was death on a scale I had never seen before.

I closed my eyes. Boromir's face flashed to the front of my mind. Arrows protruding from his chest. The fear and resolution in his eyes. He was going to die. He knew it. Did these men know it too? Did they see their future before the orcs brought sword crashing down into their skulls? Or were they surprised? Did they not even see it coming?

Then, I imagined Bonnie. She was still in Middle Earth, lost and confused—if she was even still alive. What if she had come across a group of orcs? Had she ended up just one corpse of many on a battlefield?

I took a deep breath. No. Don't think about it. Don't think about Bonnie that way. She was alive and well. She had to be. She was waiting somewhere in Middle Earth for me to find her and bring her home.

And then another image appeared through the darkness before my closed eyes. This one was, if possible, even more horrific. The White City was burning. Flames danced about the lower levels of the proud, stone city, consuming all in its path. Orcs feasted and devoured in the streets, and the corpse of the White Tree remained in the courtyard as the world of men fell into ruin. A memory, that's what it was. A memory of when I was twelve, and I was almost hit by a truck. A memory of fire and stone. A memory of death and destruction. A memory of the end.

I opened my eyes and carefully kept my gaze fixed on Éomer's back. I released the breath that I hadn't realized I had been holding.

Don't remember, I told myself. Forget the White City. Forget Boromir. Forget that these bodies were once living men.

Westeld was weeping, clutching his wounds and staring at his deceased companions. Taysend had dismounted from his horse and had rushed to the side of a fallen man. I watched, wordlessly, as Taysend tried to shake the dead man back to life, calling out a name over and over again.

Dorthin's head was bowed as his horse trotted through the water. "Mordor will pay for this."

Gaenry slithered down from his horse and, filled with a sudden rage, yanked a helmet from an orc's head. "These orcs are not from Mordor."

"What is it?" asked Éothain, steering his horse around to that he was beside Gaenry.

Hands trembling with rage, Gaenry lifted the helmet so that we could all see the print of a white hand on the metal headpiece.

Éomer clenched his teeth. "The white hand of Saruman."

He carefully removed my hands from his shirt before he slid off the horse, leaving me alone on the teetering mare's back. I immediately tensed, but Éomer stroked his horse's mane and the mare calmed instantly.

Éomer's eyes moved from his horse and scanned the remains of the battlefield. Moments later, Éomer caught sight of someone he knew. He sprinted forward and threw the orc off a small Rohan soldier. The face of a young man, stained with blood, stared up at the gray sky. Éomer placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder and murmured, "Théodred."

My stomach clenched. So that was Théodred.

"How fares he?" asked Éothain, dismounting immediately.

"He is alive." Éomer released a mad, disbelieving laugh. "He is alive."

"Get him on a horse," said Éothain.

Éomer lifted the bloodied man, using his shoulder to support the his cousin. Théodred was barely breathing. His face was pale and his body was trembling. I felt the bile rising in my throat as I stared at Théodred's gaping wounds. What was this destruction?

"Here." Dorthin pulled his mare forward and held out an arm to me. "Come on my horse."

I shook my head. (Me: There's no way in Earth or Middle Earth that you're getting me to switch horses like this.)

Dorthin's eyes narrowed. (Dorthin: Do not dare to throw a fit. Read the mood.)

I took a deep breath (Me: I hate you.) and took Dorthin's hand. With the grace of a horse master, he pulled me from the back of Éomer's horse onto his. I flung my arms around Dorthin's waist and shrieked as his horse shifted uncomfortably under the added weight. Éothain helped Éomer put Théodred onto the white mare, and then Éomer hopped up behind his unconscious cousin.

"Quickly," said Éomer. "He has not much time. To Edoras."

The riders kicked their horses into action and the race began. Water splashed beneath the horses' hooves, and suddenly we were in the forest again, dodging branches and tree roots.

"I don't like horses," I muttered.

"Do not let them hear you say that," said Dorthin.

I glared down at the horse. (Me: I don't like you.)

(Dorthin: They can read minds.)

"No they can't," I said, prodding him in the back.

Dorthin glanced over his shoulder and frowned at me—only to be slapped in the face by a tree branch.

"Serves you right." I leaned forward and asked under my breath, "So, who is that?"

"You really do not know anything," said Dorthin.

I sighed. "Is my ignorance showing? Should I cover it up?"

Dorthin might have smiled at that, but he quickly sobered and said, "He is Théodred. The only son of King Théoden of Rohan. And Éomer's cousin."

"And he's dead," I murmured.

"Almost dead," said Dorthin. "Perhaps the healers in Edoras can help him."

"Or perhaps they can't." I had a sinking feeling in my chest that I was right.

The horses left the cover of the forest and galloped out into open fields. It had started to rain at some point during our time in the forest, but the downpour did nothing deter the riders. Éothain led the way across the grasslands with Éomer and his white mare not far behind. If possible, Théodred had become even paler than when the riders had first found him hidden underneath the orc. We were running out of time.

Dorthin glanced over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowed. (Dorthin: Don't look so sad. You did not know him.)

I raised my eyebrows. (Me: He's going to die. I don't want to watch a man die like this.) I bit the inside of my cheek and forced a smile. (Me: Rohan is really pretty you know. Even when it's raining. I never thought places could be pretty when it's raining, but look at these grasslands. It's gorgeous. Not as a gorgeous as Erebor, though.)

"What?" asked Dorthin.

"I like mountains," I said. "I mean, I guess I haven't had the best experience with them. I got attacked by a dragon twice, almost tortured by goblins, and chased by a balrog, but other than that, I think mountains are really pretty. Have you ever seen Moria?"

"No." Dorthin looked really confused.

"Moria is stunning. Like knock your socks off stunning. It's so vast and…vast. I don't know how the dwarves made such a kingdom but—hot damn—it puts those elves and their treehouses to shame."

The horses crossed a stream, their hooves pounding through the water, sending splashes in all directions. Westeld's horse sent a spray of muddy water into the bottoms of my jeans; not that it mattered, I was already soaked to the bone.

"I do not understand," said Dorthin.

"What does the little criminal speak of?" asked Taysend, pulling his horse within earshot of Dorthin's.

"Of dwarves and elves and other mythical beings," said Dorthin.

"Dwarves and elves!" said Westeld, still clutching his wounds. "Such creatures have not been heard of for many years."

"Shows what you know," I said. "Just you wait. They're going to show up on your doorstep one day and you'll be like, 'Oh shit, I should've listened to Ana.'"

"I have heard stories." Taysend was barely audible over the rain.

"That is all they are," said Westeld, "Stories.

"I beg to differ," I said. "Stories don't try to take off your head when they find you annoying. Stories don't make you climb giant trees to avoid the orcs that are chasing you. Stories don't telling you scary stories about how you're going to go insane one day."

"You have lost me," said Taysend.

"She always loses me," said Dorthin.

I raised my eyebrows in his direction. (Me: You understand perfectly well what I'm saying.)

Dorthin narrows his eyes. (Dorthin: Of course, I do. But I don't want them to know that.)

"What are you two doing?" asked Taysend.

"Secret conversations," I said. "We have our own language."

Dorthin scowled. "We have no such thing."

"Don't deny it." I prodded him in the side. "I make a face at you and you make one back and we have this psycho-connection thing going on."

Dorthin stared at me for a good long moment. Then he turned back to Taysend and said, "I know nothing of what she speaks. I would look over at her, and she would make a strange expression at me. These conversations are all in her head."

"What?" I cried. "We totally have a psycho-connection."

"You are odd," said Dorthin.

Taysend laughed. "The little criminal has strange fantasies within her head."

I was still trying to understand why Dorthin refused to admit that he had silent conversations with me. However, every time I tried to catch Dorthin's eye and make a face, he would look away. Damn him, he should acknowledge our psycho-connection!

I don't know how long we rode for, but it was long enough for night to come and go. The riders stopped briefly for the horses to eat and drink before continuing the race. We couldn't gallop constantly, not without killing the horses, so we kept up a steady trot, bordering on a canter for what seemed like hours.

The rain finally came to a stop sometime in the night, but we were all so drenched that it took until sunrise for us to start drying. All of us looked a mess. Dorthin's dark hair was plastered to his forehead and sleepless shadows had formed under his eyes. Gaenry looked as though he might fall off his horse at any moment and only sheer determination kept him upright. The energy had drained from Taysend body, causing his to move his a zombie, stiff and awkward. Only Éomer remained completely focused on the goal ahead, and I think that was only because the soldier in his arms was fading fast.

The horses galloped uphill, and I had to lean forward with Dorthin. I kept my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, terrified that I would go flying off the back of the horse and end up trampled underneath the hooves of Gaenry's sorrel mare.

"Almost there," said Dorthin.

I peered out from behind his back. We had reached the top of the hill and could see the grasslands stretching out before us. In the distance, there was a rugged looking hill rising from the flat lands around it. A town had been built upon the rocky hill, with a wooden fence and little houses. A great hall rested at the top of the hill, a green flags rippling in the wind around it.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Your ignorance is showing again," muttered Dorthin.

I scowled. "Answer the question."

"It is Edoras," said Taysend. "The home of King Théoden."

Taysend glanced at Éomer and then looked back at Dorthin. Dorthin shook his head. (Dorthin: Only Ana can have secret conversations with me.) I smiled smugly in Taysend direction, but he only looked confused.

Gaenry pulled his horse up beside Taysend's and the two had a quick conversation in undertones, shooting nervous glances in the directions of Éomer and Éothain.

"What are they talking about?" I asked.

"The king," said Dorthin quietly, "is sick. His mind has been corrupted by the growing shadow."

"Oh, yeah, Éomer said something like that."

"It was the king who ordered Théodred and his riders to pass through the Fords of Isen."

My stomach dropped. Wasn't Théodred the king's son? How could a father do that to his own child. I frowned at Dorthin's back. "But you still obey him."

"We must. He is our king."

"Kind of a shitty king," I muttered.

The horses flew across the plains as the riders spurred them into a gallop. With the final destination in sight, the riders hurried the horses onward. Every second wasted was another second closer to Théodred's death. As we approached, the wooden gates of the outer wall opened, and Éomer led the way through the entrance and up the rugged hill towards the great hall. The townspeople, clad in black and gray, watched us through weary eyes as we passed. They seemed exhausted; the whole place seemed exhausted.

We reached a flat, grass area in front of some stone steps leading up to the keep. Éomer swung himself down from the horse and helped Théodred down, careful not to disturb any of his cousin's wounds.

"He is injured!" shouted Éomer. "Prepare him a room and fetch a healer. Quickly, quickly!"

The few people present rushed off, and a man dressed in chainmail led Éomer away. The other riders dismounted, Dorthin helping me down from his horse.

"So this is Edoras," I said.

"It has seen better times," said Gaenry. "We are at war. Nothing looks its best during war."

"Did I say anything?" I asked. "I just made an observation."

"You stated the obvious," said Dorthin. "It was not very helpful."

"Take the horses to the stable," said Éothain as four squires with grubby faces rushed forward. "Make sure they are properly cared for."

The squires nodded and led the horses away as Éothain helped Westeld to find some medical attention. I was left standing in front of the steps of the keep with Dorthin, Taysend, and Gaenry.

Just then, a woman with long, golden hair came rushing down the stone steps. She was ridiculously pretty. Perhaps not as pretty as Arwen, but still pretty enough to depress an average-looking woman such as myself. She looked like an ivory carving, with a smooth, pale face and flowing golden hair. Her long, white dress fluttered behind her as she raced towards us.

She came to a halt a few feet away and looked about nervously. "Where is Éomer? He traveled with you, did he not?"

"He did," said Gaenry.

"Who is she?" I asked in a whisper.

Dorthin sighed. "Remember our discussion about your ignorance."

The woman caught sight of me. Hesitation flickered across her face, but then she stepped forward and smiled. "I am Éowyn, Lady of Rohan. Éomer is my brother."

"I didn't know he had a sister," I said.

Dorthin snorted. "How could you? You have known him for a whole day."

"But we have history," I said.

"Who might you be?" asked Éowyn, trying to keep her tone polite even though our confusing conversation clearly frustrated her.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Taysend cut across me and said almost fondly, "She is a little criminal we found on the road."

"It was an accident," I said.

"Éomer is with Théodred, my lady," said Éothain, returning after helping Westeld find aid. He gave the riders and me an annoyed look before he addressed Éowyn again. "We found your cousin wounded from the Battle of Isen. He is not faring well."

Éowyn paled. "Where did they go?"

The moment Éothain told her, Éowyn turned and, with a half-hearted word of farewell, raced away, desperate to locate her brother and her cousin.

"I hope he's okay," I said. I didn't have high hopes.

"We all do," said Dorthin, patting me on the back.

He started to walk away, along with the rest of the riders.

"Wait," I said. "Where are you going?"

Dorthin looked over his shoulder me and grinned; though, given the circumstances, it was more a grimace. "We are going to do what we always do when we return to Edoras."

"Which is?"

Gaenry laughed bitterly. "Get drunk."

Slowly, a grin spread across my face, and I hurried after them. "Oh man, this is just up my alley."

"Just up your alley?" repeated Taysend blankly.

"I have the most impressive resume," I said. "I've participated in drinking competitions throughout Middle Earth. Mostly in Rivendell where I drank with Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond the Halfelven, as well as Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Gimli, son of Glóin, Merry and Pippin, hobbits of the Shire and B—and a sturdy man of Gondor. I mean, sure, I lost miserably every time, but you couldn't drink in better company."

"Well," said Dorthin. "You do have quite the resume."

"I trained under the best."

And that was how I was introduced to Edoras. I went to the tavern with the riders of Rohan and I drank myself stupid with them. Guess what. I lost the drinking competition horribly. But, on the bright side, my drinking resume got just a little bit longer.