PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LVII: The Door To My Destiny

There was a sliver of sky above me. It was blue. There was a rock sticking in my back. More than one rock. Kind of like I was lying in a bed of rocks. Or a mountain path.

I sat up, rubbed my aching back, and looked around. A mountain path was right. I was sitting on a flat, narrow pathway. the ground covered in small pieces of shale that had probably broken off from the steep, stone cliffs that stretched upwards on my left and on my right. I was somewhere at the bottom of a mountain crevice, sitting amongst the forgotten rocks, sunless weeds, and cobwebs.

I shivered. Cobwebs meant spiders. Hopefully they were little spiders; I'd had seen more giant spiders than one person needed in a lifetime.

Wherever I was, I'd never been here before. It was a barren mountain path. Gray, sheer, cold, and rather frightening. It felt…eerie. I guess that's the word I want. Eerie. Like a great shadow had fallen over the mountain, even though the sky was a bright blue and there was not a cloud in sight. But still, the mountain path seemed jagged and sharp, and the air was hazy—I had to concentrate to keep my vision in focus. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders and shivered again. I wanted to Skip soon.

Whenever I Skipped to a new place, I was faced with an inevitable question: should I stay or should I go?

Maybe if I stayed in the same spot on the path, I would just Skipped away and never witnessed the horrors of Dunharrow. Or maybe I wouldn't Skip away. Maybe I would just stay in the White Mountains there until I starved to death and died on some random, eerie mountain path. In the end, however, I chose to walk forward. If I remember correctly, the reason was that I didn't want to spend a second longer in the mountain path than I had to. It frightened me worse than any haunted house I'd been through with Nick and Bonnie (and, believe me, when I say that haunted houses were not my strong point).

So, getting to my feet, I staggered along the narrow, jagged pathway. My arms and legs ached from the rocks that had struck me, and the wound in my chest where I'd been shot a couple months early was aching. And it didn't help that the air in the mountains was thick, making it difficult to breathe. I drew my arms up close to my chest so I would not accidentally touch any cobwebs.

I have having very bad luck with mountains recently. First, I'd spent a few hours on the doorstep of Erebor, avoiding Smaug's fire, and now I was wandering a mountain path with pale rocks and cobwebs. Mountains should not be like that. Mountains should be happy places. Think Julie Andrews singing "The Hills Are Alive", that kind of happy place.

There was a grating sound high above me. I looked up just in time to see a flat rock tumbling down the side of the crevice. It bounced off the cliff walls, cracking and shattering.

With a shrill scream, I stumbled forward. The rock hit the ground and smashed into a thousand pieces, sending sharp shards flying in all directions.

"Frig." I knelt on the ground, staring at the cuts and bruises that covered my arms. Then, I glared up at the thin strip of blue sky. "This frigging mountain is trying to kill me!"

No response.

I was half expecting a hole to open up in the rocks and the mountain would speak. They seemed like the type of mountains to be possessed by an evil spirit. However, the rock face remained still and impassive.

I sighed, got to my feet, and carried on walking. Though every once in awhile, I would glance back at the broken rock. I really thought the mountains were trying to kill me.

The path made a sharp turn to the right and I followed it, my feet crunching against the shale. A chilly wind swept through the crevice, blowing my blonde hair in all directions. I ran my fingers through the tangled mess and sighed; I certainly hoped I wasn't meeting my true love any time soon, not until I got a shower and new clothes. I turned the corner—and that's when I came face to face with the Door.

I can give it no name other than the Door. The Door is one of the greatest/worst things that has ever happened to me. Some call it fate. Some call it fortune. Some call is karma. Thorin calls it dumb luck. I call it "All The Skipping's Fault."

The Door wasn't really a door, but more like a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. It was about two feet taller than me with a slanting frame. I would have thought it was naturally made except for the gibberish written above the door. I could make out what the signs said. There was an eye and a guy lying on the ground with a sick in his chest. Not idea what that meant.

There were only two choices that that point. Go forward—into that dark abyss of a door—or turn around and walk back the way I came.

I turned around and walked in the opposite direction.

Come on, you can't even act surprised. You know me, as if I would ever willing walk through a scary door with the image of a man being stabbed above it. Uh-uh. No. Not happening.

But as I said, the Door was my fate/fortune/karma/dumb luck/All The Skipping's Fault. And according destiny-or-whatever-you-want-to-call-it I had to walk through the Door. So, destiny decided to bring the mountain walls crashing down on me.

I'm not kidding. There was a deep, cracking sound above my head. And then a grating noise. I looked up and saw three massive slabs of rock breaking off from the cliff walls and falling down, down, down towards my head.

I screamed.

And ran.

Right. Through. The. Door.

Almost immediately the pale mountain path disappeared from sight, and I was consumed in darkness. I don't know if the rocks crushed the Door or if the Door had just disappeared entirely, but whatever had happened, I was now sealed inside the mountain with no way out except to Skip. And, of course, I didn't Skip. That would be too kind.

At first, I didn't dare to move. I stood stock still in the darkness, breathing slowly and hoping my eyes would adjust to the pitch black. They did not adjust. There was no light. Just black. I took a deep breath. I had just walked through the secret tunnel of Erebor in the darkness, and I had survived that. I could survive this as well. I kicked my left foot out in front of me. Okay, all good. I took a step forward. I kicked out my right foot in front of me. Whack. My foot slammed into the wall.

"Shit. Frig. Ow." I clutched my foot and hobbled about, trying not to fall on my face. "Okay. Not that way."

This time, I stretched my arms out in front of me, like a zombie, and took a step to my right. Okay. So far there was no wall in that direction. I took another step. Safe. And another. All right. This was getting easier.

Trip.

I fell—hands outstretched in front of me—onto the rough stone ground. My palms grated on the rocky surface, and I lay there, face down, groaning as the pain ricocheted through my body. Every inch of my was battered and bruises, and I wanted nothing more to be asleep in a bed, any bed.

"I hate my life," I said.

"Living flesh." A voice cut through the darkness, sharp and clear, like a cracking whip.

The voice filled the darkness with an icy chill and sent shivers running up and down my spine. Anything that shouted "living flesh" was not something I wanted to deal with. I tried to crawl away, but pain shot through my right arm, and I let out a shriek of agony. I probably looked like a turtle, rolling around on the ground.

"I have not looked upon living flesh in years," said the voice.

I turtled my way across the floor. Suddenly, a heavy weight landed on my back. I think it was a foot. I screamed and pounded the ground with my good hand.

"I'm dead!" I cried. "You're mistaken! I'm dead as roadkill. Long dead, so please let me go!"

"I have never witnessed a dead person talking so much."

"I'm a very emotional dead person, and I have to let out my lingering feelings of resentment." I tried to wriggle away from the foot but to no avail. "I'm dead! Let me go!"

The weight of the foot disappeared from my back, and I rolled over to see my attacker. I screamed. He was no living being. His face had a white-green glow, and his smoky flesh was rotten and skeletal. His wispy clothing was nothing more than rags that had once been grand, and there was a decrepit crown rested on his molding head. My attacker was a ghost. I screamed again.

"A woman," said the ghost. He frowned. "The last time I saw a living woman…was long ago."

"Don't hurt me," I said, shielding my face with my hands.

The ghost sniffed. "Do not cover your face. You are pleasing to look at."

"Huh?"

I lowered my hands slightly and stared at the ghost's molding, glowing face. You know, in an earlier time—before he died and rotted—he was probably very attractive. One of those strong-featured men with charismatic faces, it looked like. His hair had become nothing more than black strands, but it had probably once been a full head of hair. He didn't have any eyes (only empty eye sockets, but I assumed that they would have been blue. The only problem was that he was over six foot. I don't do over six foot.

"Sorry," I said, getting to my feet. "You're not my type."

"Your type?" asked the ghost.

"Dark hair, blue eyes, under six foot, defined features, muscular, cheerful personality." I paused. "And alive. Those are my requirements."

"I thought you were dead," said the ghost.

"I lied."

The ghost stared at me for a long moment. At least, I think he was staring at me—it was hard to tell since he had no eyeballs. Then, slowly, a grin spread over his face. If possible, the grin made him even more horrifying than before. "You are entertaining. Can I keep you?"

I swallowed. "I don't, um, keep well."

Smiling fading, the ghost frowned at me, his jawbone twisting a little to the right. "I do not understand."

"I don't keep well," I said, shrugging. "I mean, I can't even keep myself in one place—what makes you think that you can keep me?"

"I am a keeper," said the ghost. "I am the keeper of the Halls of the Dead."

I shuddered. "That's a creepy image. Please, don't ever say that again! Can't you be a little more cheerful?"

The ghost smiled, his rotten lips pulling back to reveal yellow-green teeth. "But you are cheerful enough for the both of us, Ana."

At this point, I had just about put up with all I could bear. I usually think Caspar the Friendly Ghost is terrifying, and this guy was a million times worse than Caspar—he had no eyes! And now, this ghost was using my name even though I'd never introduced myself and wanting to keep me in his frigging Halls of the Dead. Nope, nope, no way. If I could control the Skipping, I would have been out of there right then. Unfortunately, the Skips wanted me to remain.

"Hold the phone!" I said raising my hands in the air. "Stop. Firstly, do not ever use the term "us" when referring to you and me. That needs to end now. Secondly, how the frig do you know my name?"

"The Dwimorberg hears all," said the ghost.

"I don't believe that for a second," I snapped. "But thirdly, I am not staying the frigging Halls of the Dead. Nope. Not happening. You can't keep me here even if you tried."

The ghost tipped his head to the side. "I'm going to keep you, Ana. These mountains are dull when they are filled only by the dead."

"I told you!" I cried. I took a step back, the rough, mossy walls of the underground passage illuminated by the ghost's dull green light. "It doesn't work like that. You can't keep me."

The ghost stared at me through his empty eye sockets.

"I'm leaving." I got a whole three feet and then walked into a wall.

"Ow." I rubbed my aching nose and groaned.

"Are you lost?" asked the ghost eagerly. He moved closer to me, and the light emitting from him fell upon the black-stone wall of the tunnel.

"I hate you," I said.

"I like you," said the ghost. "And I am certain you will come to like me with time."

I glared at him. "Definitely not happening."

Once again, I tried to make my way down the passage. Unfortunately, without the light of the ghost, I couldn't see a damn thing, so I could take three steps and then have to wait for him to catch up before I could move again.

"If you are searching for the exit," said the ghost finally, "you are moving in the wrong direction."

I turned around, torn between screaming at him and jumping for joy. I settled on coolly asking, "You know the way out?"

"Of course," said the ghost. "I am the keeper of the Halls of the Dead."

"Please don't talk about the Halls of Dead," I groaned. "Whenever you say that, I can't help but picturing a morgue with hundreds of bodies. And then one of them moves, and it turns out it's the zombie apocalypse."

A deep, gravelly sound echoed through the darkness. At first, I thought more rocks were falling, but then I realized the sound was actually the ghost's laughter. His rotting lips were pulled back and his bones trembled with each rolling laugh.

"You are without doubt entertaining," said the ghost.

"I just want to leave," I groaned. First the Company called me entertainment on the road and now this ghost wanted to keep me as some sort of jester in the Halls of the Dead. I didn't think I was that amusing. I just wanted to live in peace.

"I will show you the way out," said the ghost. "But in return, you must entertain me for an hour. The Dwimorberg's halls can be awfully dreary. Entertainment is best."

I considered this for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. The sooner I go out of here, the better, and I was willing to briefly be the jester of a ghost if it meant he would get me out of here. "Deal." I started to extend my right hand, but then I paused. "Can you shake hands? You're a ghost, right, so you shouldn't have a corporeal form. But then you stood on my back earlier…"

"I can only have form when I am performing a violent act," said the ghost, staring down at my extended hand. He looked almost sad, though it was hard to read emotions into someone with no eyes.

"Oh." I dropped my hand to my side. "Well, anyway, I accept your terms. My name is Ana Stonbit—but you already knew that."

"I am King Ráoulidor of Dunharrow," he said..

Ráoulidor turned and began to drift down the tunnel through the darkness. I followed him, using the light he emitted as a guide and making sure I didn't run into any more walls or trip over anymore rocks.

"King?" I asked. It hadn't occurred to me that he was a king, though it made sense with the broken crown that rest on his head. Still, I didn't picture ghosts having a king That would explain the crown on his head. I snorted. "So not majestic."

"Majestic," repeated Ráoulidor. He considered this. "I once laid eyes upon true majesty."

I rolled my eyes. "I doubt it. There is only one true source of majesty in the world. All others are just pale copies."

"He was a small person," continued the ghost with a quick glance in my direction. "Small in stature, but his kingly bearing was overwhelming. He had a magnificent black beard and blue eyes—your type for sure. What was him name?"

"Was he a dwarf?" I asked.

Ráoulidor nodded.

"Named Thorin?"

"Ah, yes." Ráoulidor seemed to glow more brightly. "That was him."

"No way…" Well, that was another thing I could add to the list of things I didn't know about Thorin Oakenshield. He knew the King of the Dead. "When did you see Thorin?"

"He passed through my mountains," said Ráoulidor. "Once. I remember, he was majestic. Even more so than the kings of old." Ráoulidor released a forlorn sigh. "They do not create kings like that anymore."

"You know, Ráoulidor," I said, grinning up at him, "I think we're going to get along just fine. At first I wasn't sure, but now that I know you like Thorin—I might even be able to look past your decay and rot."

Ráoulidor glanced over his shoulder and beamed at me, flashing his broken teeth. "That is good to hear, Ana."

"We actually have a lot more in common than I thought. You like Thorin. I like Thorin, Your name is Ráoulidor. I love the name Raoul. It's like destiny brought us together."

Ráoulidor's glow intensified. "You think so too?"

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Destiny brought us together to form the Majestic Thorin Appreciation Club."

"Of course…" Ráoulidor's light dulled to an earthy green.

I think you and I can agree that I was and always will be fairly dense when it comes to things like this. You should have heard me rambling on about making Majestic Thorin Appreciation Club t-shirts, coffee mugs, bumper stickers, refrigerator magnets, and Pez dispensers. I finished my rant with a triumphant, "…And our slogan shall be—More Majestic Than You."

I stumbled a little on the uneven surface. Ráoulidor did not seem to notice. His eye sockets were focused on the dark, dank path in front of him.

"What's up?" I asked. "You've gone all quiet."

Ráoulidor took a deep breath (which was weird, now that I think about it, since he was dead.) "Thorin and I did not get along too well when we met. He is indeed majestic, but we did not get along."

I practically wilted with disappointment. "So you don't want to be part of the Majestic Thorin Appreciation Club?"

Ráoulidor's rotten mouth twisted, and then, he glanced down at me and asked, "Are you in love with Thorin?"

I stared at Ráoulidor for one…two…three…four…five…six…seven… seven seconds. Then I burst out laughing. And it wasn't cute, dainty laughing—you know 'm not capable of that—it was like an all-out horse-guffaw laugh. I clutched my sides and doubled over. "Me? Thorin?" My sides ached from laughing so much. "Oh that's good. Best joke since Nick tried to write Thorna fanfiction."

Ráoulidor watched me with an unreadable expression. "But…"

I straightened up and instantly all the laughter died from me. "No."

"But…"

"Don't you get started on me too," I snapped, cutting off the ghost king. "I hear enough of this from Nick, and I don't need it from you. Every time I see him, he's like, 'So have you and Thorin gotten together yet?' And I'm like, 'Nick, I will kill everything that you love!' Besides me. Because he loves me and I don't want to die."

Ráoulidor stiffened. "Nick? Is he the one you have feelings for?"

Cue more laughter. Ráoulidor's attempts to find out who I liked were funny. And annoying. It needed to stop. There were very few things I liked discussing less than my failed love life. So, I resorted to my usual bullshit to escape answering any more questions. With a dramatic sigh, I said, "I have one and only one love in my life."

"Who?" asked Ráoulidor.

"Gimli," I said, clutching a hand to my heart. "He's my fiancé. We're going to get married, and my bridesmaids are all going to be dwarves in pink fluffy dresses." I grinned. "Best. Wedding. Ever."

"Gimli?" Ráoulidor seemed to be somewhere between laughing and crying.

"He's an adorable ginger dwarf," I said, pretending to pinch the invisible Gimli's cheeks. "He's all the happiness I need in this word."

"Gimli…"

Ráoulidor came to an abrupt halt. I got two steps ahead of him before I paused and looked over my shoulder. I'd been so absorbed by our conversation about majestic Thorin and then trying to divert Ráoulidor's attention that I hadn't been paying attention to where we'd been walking. I'd just blindly trusted Ráoulidor.

From what I could see, we were standing on a smooth, flat floor. The stone floor was too neat to be constructed by natural means, which meant man—or some creature that resembled man—had made it. Perhaps Ráoulidor and his people had made it when they were still alive. Suddenly, Ráoulidor's light intensified in this area, illuminating the whole place with green light. I gasped. We were standing in a sort of stone courtyard. There was a staircase to my left, leading up to the ruins of a once grand building carved into the rock complete with arching pillars and images of mountains. To my right, there the floor broke into a black pit so wide and deep that I couldn't see beyond it.

"Where are we?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"My halls," said Ráoulidor.

My instinctive reaction was to say "Kind of trashy", but I figured insulting my ghost guide's home wasn't the brightest idea. Instead, I said, as politely as I could, "Home is home."

Ráoulidor didn't respond. He remained completely still in the middle of the courtyard, his eye sockets fixed somewhere in the distance.

"So, where' the exit?" I asked.

Ráoulidor slowly turned to stare at me. A shiver ran down my spine, and my skin prickled. I had a bad feeling about this.

"Why would I let you go?" asked Ráoulidor. "I have been waiting for you for years. Why would I let you go now?"

"What?" I took three steps backwards, my gaze darting left and right, searching for the exit. I could see nothing but crumbling stone.

"You said it yourself," said Ráoulidor, "we were destined to meet."

"Nope." I shook my head back and forth wildly. "I don't remember saying that."

"You spoke those words only a few moments passed," said Ráoulidor.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did." Ráoulidor took a deep breath. "It does not matter. You are mine. Forever. I waited, knowing that you would come. And now—"

"Ana? Why are you in the halls of the dead?"

The three figures—all alive and all whole—were illuminated by the orange light of the torch clasped in Aragorn's right hand. Gimli stood on Aragorn's right, his beard laced with cobwebs. Legolas stood on Aragorn's other side, looking exceedingly bemused.

""These halls have become considerably less threatening," said Legolas, "now that I see that Ana has come here and survived."

"Gimli! Aragorn!" Relief flooded through me, and I started running towards them.

However, I was prevented from hugging them by the glowing green ghost king who glided between us. His eye sockets seemed blacker than before as his regarded Gimli.

"So this," he said, his gravelly voice rolling through the stone halls, "is the dwarf, Gimli."

I laughed nervously as Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli turned to stare at me. Somehow, they instinctively knew that I was responsible for the ghost king's anger.

"How has he come by my name?" asked Gimli in a low voice.

I scratched the back of my head sheepishly. "I may or may not have told a ghost who wants to 'keep' me that you and I are engaged."

As you can imagine, Gimli was not happy about that.