PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LX: A Trip To The Tropics

This was my first time visiting the scorching black stone of Mordor—and when I say "scorching", I do mean scorching. I was standing completely still—no effort required—and I was sweating. Beads of salty sweat trickled down from the roots of the hair to my forehead. My clothes stuck to my skin, and the world felt sluggish and hazy. A thick black smog filled the air, seeping into every pore of my skin, mingling with my sweat, so the world felt of heat and burning. Yeah…Mordor was definitely not my ideal vacation spot.

"Whew," I said, fanning myself with my right hand. "Next time could you Skip me to the tropics or something?"

Let me get one thing straight, Mordor was nothing like the tropics. The beaches were replaced by hot, black slabs of rock that ran across the span of Mordor like a jagged, hilly terrain. There was no glistening ocean water, but rather black smog that rose from the glowing volcano in the center of Mordor. There was none of the freeness, wide-openness of beaches. To the north lay Ered Luthui, the Mountains of Ash, and to the west lay Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow. They loomed around the lands of Mordor like the walls of a prison.

Considering all I wanted to do was sit down and try to process what future-Thorin had just said to me, I had come to the worst place. I couldn't sit down and think in Mordor. And even as I tried to mull over the meaning of the words "If it is your fault, then they are not meant to die," I found myself shifting uncomfortably and looking about as if afraid something would attack me.

I stood on a long, flat ledge that suddenly dipped off into a steep slope of which I couldn't see the bottom. There were no other living creatures insight. Not even an insect or spider (though that was probably a good thing) I was completely alone in this black land. At least, that was what I thought.

And then, a deep, thunderous roar rose up amongst the dark smog. It was an evil roar. The kind that makes your insides writhe and makes you want to curl up in the fetal position and never come out.

For a second, I just stood there, struck with a raw, trembling terror. Then, slowly, I inched towards the edge of the slope. I peered down and the froze.

Down. Below. Orcs. Thousands. Upon. Thousands. Orcs. Armed. Dangerous. Hungry. Orcs. Right. There. Below. Me.

Okay, okay, okay, I told myself. Okay, okay. It's okay.

(Obviously, it wasn't okay.)

I peeked over the edge one more time to make certain I hadn't imagined it. I hadn't. There were thousands of orcs in thick armor with the red eye painted upon their chests and banners. They were not in army formation but rather set up in tents with roaring fires. The black speech rose up among them like a thousand knives, and I cringed away from it. I could spot a few mountain trolls tied up at the edges of the camp, and some orcs threw rocks at the trolls for amusement. One of the trolls let out a howl, and I felt pity, something I never thought I'd feel for a troll. In the center of the camp was a crudely-made iron tree, its metal branches stretching out over some of the tents. It took me a moment to realize that corpses had been hung from the tree. The faces, the arms, the legs, the stomachs, had been torn open as the bodies of the Dark Lord's enemies had been speared onto the branches and left there as decoration. Blood trickles down from the corpses and left splattered patterned on the tents below.

I inched away from the ledge, trying to forget everything I'd just seen. But that was impossible. I had just seen the face of intruders in the Black Lands, the fate of those caught and tortured by orcs. I wanted to escape. Go to my happy place.

In the tropics.

On a beach.

Where there was sand between my toes, and the salt water would ripple along the shoreline and cover my feet for a second, before sliding back out and leaving me a little sunken into the sand.

Hmmm… Let's put the dwarves on the beach too.

In swimsuits.

Can you imagine that? I think it'd be hilarious.

We'd play a game of beach volleyball. I'd be on a team with Bofur because every time I screwed up, he'd still compliment me and tell me everything was okay. Thorin's team would win (obviously) their majesty would blind all the other teams. You know, since we're in my happy place, we don't have to limit it to the laws of time and space. Let's bring the Fellowship to the beach too. Gimli and Legolas would be one kickass volleyball duo, but Aragorn and Thorin would win every time. And while we're at it, let's bring Éomer, Éowyn, Faramir, Arwen, Dorthin, Taysend, and Gaenry. Oh, and Bonnie and Nick would be there. And Raoul. Raoul would be shirtless. (He may be gay, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate his abs.)

Dorthin, Taysend, and Gaenry would be learning how to make barbeque from Bombur. They'd have brought the beers and soon the drinking games would begin. Gimli and Legolas would have a rematch while Éomer, Boromir, Bonnie, and Nick placed bets. Then, I'd get to watch as Aragorn flirted with Arwen, Éowyn flirted with Aragorn and Faramir flirted with Éowyn. It would be the most entertaining love square. Oh, and I'd finally get to see what Thorin is like when he's drunk.

Yep. It would be a perfect vacation in the tropics. All my friends would be there. There would be no orcs, no war, no pain, no suffering…no death.

It would be perfect.

"Ana?"

The sound of my name in this barren wasteland wrenched me out of my happy place. For a second, the image of the iron tree of corpses flashed before my mind. Then, pushing that image away, I spun around and saw two stout orcs waddling across the flat stones.

Two thoughts ran through my head simultaneously: 1) Oh crap. Orcs. Better Run. 2) Why do they know my name? Is this another Skipping trick?

I acted on the first thought and fled. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction, praying to dear God that the orcs didn't find me interesting enough to give chase. However, I only got a few steps, my feet slapping on the flat, black stone, before the stouter of the two orcs called out my name again.

"Ana, wait! It is us!"

I spun around and stopped dead in my tracks. The two orcs had taken off their helmets and instead of the purple-black, distorted faces of orcs, I saw the thinned faces of two weary hobbits. Frodo and Sam.

My jaw dropped. "What are you doing here?"

"Um." Frodo frowned as if unsure how to answer. "We have been trying to reach Mordor for a long time."

"Right, yeah." I laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of my head. "Yeah, I was there for the Council of Elrond with the whole 'one does not simply walk into Mordor' thing. Though didn't you walk into Mordor? Or at least get chased by a giant spider into Mordor."

"We reached here," said Frodo, who clearly did not want to hash out all the details of how they came to enter the land of the enemy. Not that I blame them.

"Where have you been?" asked Sam. "The last I saw of you, Shelob attacked us. I thought you were lost for good in her lair."

I blinked. "Really? It's been that long?"

"That was about ten days ago," said Sam.

"Really? Well, Shelob's lair was a long time ago for me," I said. "Almost half a year maybe. I've turned twenty-two now."

Frodo and Sam exchanged confused glances.

"I have a weird timeline," I said with a sigh. "Just go with it." I grinned at their bemused expressions. "So what have I missed in the last ten days? Why are you two dressed like orcs?"

Sam took a deep breath. As I regarded them properly now, I realized that they were worn to the bone. Dark shadows had appeared under their eyes, and their faces had taken to an almost skeletal look. They seemed haunted. Not just with hunger and exhaustion, but with a burden that needed no name. Frodo seemed to be only half in this world, his blue eyes looking at me without really seeing.

"Frodo was taken by orcs," said Sam, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I took it for a short while, so they did not find it." (There is no need to elaborate on what "it" was.) "We managed to escape the orcs, but we figured it would be best to proceed in disguise."

"Fair enough," I said. I didn't pry into their story. The bare bones was all I needed to hear, and after seeing the iron tree, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what had happened during Frodo's kidnapping.

"What have you been doing for the past half year?" asked Frodo.

"Oh." Just as Sam and Frodo didn't wish to share with me all the details of their adventures, I didn't wish to share the details mine. I shrugged and said, "You know me. Neither here nor there. Just passing through. I actually did see you. At yours and Bilbo's birthday party. Let's see. I went on an imaginary vacation to the tropics. I rode an eagle, stopped Thorin from being stupid, ran into Smaug again, got shot by a gun, cried a lot, confessed about my Skipping to my parents, and then found out that my Dad's from Bree, but I have no idea the rest of the story because I Skipped right after he said that."

"Your father is from Bree?" asked Sam.

I nodded. "No idea how that happened so don't ask."

"Who would have foresaw such a thing?" Sam shook his head. "It is a shame you do not know the rest of the story. Have you seen him since then?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nope. Been stuck in Middle Earth ever since that reveal. Apparently, the Skipping doesn't want me to know the rest of the damned story."

"That is regretful," said Frodo, choosing his words carefully.

"I know," I said, shaking my head. "That's just so rude of the Skipping. It wouldn't kill the Skips to let me stay in Ohio just long enough to hear my dad—I mean, it's not like the Skips are on a tight schedule, they move through time. But, you know, the real tragedy is how many episodes of The Vampire Diaries I'm missing. And this is the season of Klaroline. Why Skip? Why must you do this to me? Why couldn't you just Skip me back to Ohio in time to see the newest episodes?"

Frodo and Sam stared at me.

"Oh, come on, The Vampire Diaries. " I looked at Frodo and Sam's blank faces and then shrugged. "I guess you have to have seen it."

"Of course," murmured Sam.

"So," I said, clapping my hands together, "what are we doing now?"

Frodo and Sam glanced at one another before turning back to me. Neither one of them seemed thrilled about the next stage of their plan and neither one of them wanted to explain it to me. It was Sam who took up the burden however, and he said, "We have to cross."

I followed his line of sight and turned to see the vast expanse of Mordor—infested with cackling legions orcs, chained mountain trolls, nine nazgûl and their fell beasts, the iron tree covered in corpses, and a Dark Lord who was hell-bent on getting his Ring back—that stretched all the way to the jagged mountain of red fire.

Slowly, I turned back to Frodo and Sam and said, as calmly as possible, "You've got to be joking."

Sam shook his head. "That has been my response to this whole journey."

"That's been my response to my whole life," I muttered.

Frodo sighed. "Are we turning this conversation into a contest of whose life is more miserable?"

"No," said Sam.

"Frodo's just being arrogant because he would win in a heartbeat," I said.

"It is not something to be proud of," said Frodo. "To win in a game of misery."

"Please," I said, waving away his comment. "Everyone wants to have the most miserable story. It's not that you necessarily enjoy being miserable, but that you want to be more miserable than everyone else. It's nice to be more than everyone else, you know. You get to be number one in something. And don't you feel a little bit of triumph? Knowing that your problems are worse than theirs, so you win. I don't know what you win, but you win. And that's what matters."

Frodo and Sam stared at me blankly.

"What?" I asked.

"I do not understand a word of what you just said," said Sam.

"Come on," I said. "Don't make me look like I'm the only one who thinks that way. I know Frodo sitting there thinking that his story as the Ring-bearer is far more tragic than both mine and Sam's."

Sam slapped a hand over my mouth, and Frodo made a frantic shushing gesture. They both looked around wildly, and following their line of sight, I saw what they were afraid of. In the distance, Barad-dûr rose from the black stone below. The tower in itself was frightening, a sharp entity that rose into the ash-coated sky. But the tower was not what terrified Frodo and Sam. No, it was the flaming, red eye on top of the tower. The Eye of Sauron. Thankfully, the Eye was turned away from us, its attention on what looked like the front gate of Mordor.

"Sorry," I said when Sam removed his hand from my mouth. "I forgot."

"Words have power," said Frodo softly.

I glanced up at the Eye one more time. A shiver ran down my spine, and I wrapped my arms around my shoulders. If I had a choice, I would never return to Mordor again.

"You know," I said. "If the three of us were competing with any normal folk, we would be undefeated in the most miserable story competition, but the three of us are some pretty tough competition."

"I think I am last," said Sam, gracefully bowing out. "The victory goes to either Ana or Mister Frodo."

Frodo and I glanced at each other. Honestly, I might have been able to lay out my entire story for him and won, but I didn't want to do that. "I'll concede defeat to you, Frodo of the Shire."

"I am honored." Frodo glanced at me before cautiously asking, "How often do you 'win'?"

I glanced at him and a slow smile crossed my face. "Ninety-nine times out of a hundred."

I laughed. At first, I tried to hold it in, but the giggles sneaked out of my mouth. And suddenly, I was doubled over, clutching my stomach. I was practically rolling around on the ground, while Frodo and Sam stood over me, gawking, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

And then, Frodo was laughing too.

I doubt he even knew what he was laughing at. A huge smile spread across his travel-worn face. The shadows of earlier had seemed to lighten a little as he laughed.

When Frodo laughed, Sam laughed as well.

There the three of us were, in the middle of Mordor, surrounded by legions of orcs, laughing our heads off like there was no tomorrow.

Never underestimate the power of laughter.

Never underestimate the power of legions of orcs either.

Our laughter eventually died away, and we regained our breath, gasping and still letting out the occasional mad giggle.

"I do not know what was so funny," said Sam.

"Who knows, who cares?" I shrugged. "The point is, I feel loads better and I didn't even have to take a trip to the tropics."

"Why do you keep mentioning a trip to the tropics?" asked Sam.

I never got a chance to answer his question.

A whip cracked.

At first, I thought a gun had gone off. I don't know why. The two don't sound all that similar. But, for a second, I envisioned a gun firing and a bullet slamming into my chest again. My breathing quickened, and for a second, my hands rose to my chest, reaching as if expecting to find blood blooming over my clothes. Then, a second later, I realized that it hadn't been a gun at all.

Thankfully, neither hobbit seemed to notice my extreme reaction. They turned to stare along the flat stone ledge at the group of orcs approaching. The massive, shirtless blue orc in the front was holding a black whip. His squinty eyes kept surveying the group of riled orcs. Our one stroke of good fortune was that we were half-hidden behind a boulder and none of the orcs had noticed us yet.

"Quick!" hissed Frodo.

The two hobbits hurried to put on their orc helmets, completing their disguises. I stood behind them, eyes wide with worry. I didn't have a disguise; I would be recognized right away. And killed. Maybe I would manage to Skip away first, but there was no guarantee of that happening.

The whip cracked again, and the orc shouted something I could not understand, but the language sent shivers of disgust and dread down my spine.

"What should I do?" I asked in a frantic whisper. I cowered behind Frodo and Sam as the orcs drew closer.

"Here," said Frodo, grabbing hold of my right arm. "We shall pretend you are our prisoner, and we are taking you to be interrogated."

Sam grabbed my other arm, the metal of his orc arms grating against my already bruised skin. "Excellent idea, Mister Frodo."

"You're hurting me," I whispered, trying to pry Sam's armor away from my skin.

"I am terribly sorry," said Sam, releasing my arm.

"We are orcs, Sam," said Frodo. His eyes flickered to the side where the orcs were drawing closer. They had finally caught sight of us. "I apologize, Ana, but we must be rough."

"Man," I said as Sam caught hold of my arm again. My heart was racing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the head orc approaching us. "Why do I always get the crappy end of the deal?"

I could see the traces of Frodo's smile beneath his metal helmet. His voice was slightly uneven. "You are the one who 'wins' the most tragic story ninety-nine times out of one-hundred."

"And now you see why," I grumbled.

The orcs came to a halt right in front of us. My heart stopped. Orcs were even uglier up close. They had deformed and mutilated faces, blackened and blued—as if their meaty bodies were coated in thick bruises. Their muscles were bulging, beyond what should have been possible with their bodies, and were made hideous by the jagged armor they wore.

I shuddered. Frodo had managed to hold himself steady, but the hand that Sam used to grip my arm was trembling slightly. His metal armor scraped against my exposed skin. I didn't say anything though. My eyes were fixed on the fat orc with the whip.

He snapped something in the foul language.

Frodo took a deep breath. "We are taking her to the Black Tower."

The orc narrowed his eyes and regarded Frodo suspiciously. He said something in the language of Mordor again.

"Mind your own business," said Frodo. (Dear God, I hoped what he was saying made some sort of sense with what the orc was saying.)

The orc seemed confused for a second. "What makes this one so special?"

"Are you deaf? Mind your own business," snapped Sam. The hobbit did an excellent job of acting tough despite his shaking hands.

The orc glowered at Sam and then at Frodo and finally at me.

"Hi," I said. I would have waved, but Frodo and Sam had my arms pinned down.

"Hello," said another of the orcs. He waved at me.

The orc with the whip spun around to glare at his comrade. The other orc shrugged. "You should be nice to people who are going to die."

I squeaked. "Die? That's not really necessary. I'm terrified of pain. Ask me a few questions and I'll answer. The whole death thing isn't really necessary. Honestly. Please don' kill me."

The group of a dozen or so orcs stared at me. For a moment, they just seemed puzzled. Then, wide grins spread across their deformed faces, and they laughed. Orcs laughing is a terrifying thing. They looked even more demented than before and their laughter sounds like sandpaper on stone. A sound I could spend my life without hearing and be perfectly happy.

"Is that a we-like-this-woman-because-she-makes-us-laugh-so-we're-not-going-to-kill-her laugh?" I asked, hopefully.

The orc with the whip smiled. "No, we are laughing because we're going to kill you slowly now."

I gulped.

"More painful," added another orc. He was promptly rewarded with the crack of the whip.

"I think we need to negotiate this," I said, my voice high-pitched.

"Ana," said Frodo, tugging on my arm a little. "Quiet." He turned to the orcs. "Let us pass."

The orc with the whip, surveyed Frodo suspiciously. Then, he stepped to the side to allow us passage. Frodo stepped forward first, dragging me along beside him and Sam bringing up the rear. The group of orcs were watching us, wild amusement in their faces. My heart was racing again. They leered at me, enjoying the thought of my agony and suffering. I could only picture the iron tree, and my body hanging upon one of its branches. But that wouldn't be me. We were leaving the orcs. We had made it through. We were safe.

Just as Sam stepped passed the orc with the whip, the orc reached out and caught hold of Sam's helmet. Sam let out a cry as the orc yanked the helmet off Sam's head, revealing Sam's brown curls.

I screamed.

"I knew it," hissed the orc.

And then he cut off Sam's head.

Just like that.

He swung his sword. And Sam was dead.

Just like that.

My scream broke through my throat, blistering and painful. But I couldn't stop screaming.

The other orcs leapt forward, their weapons raised. One of them drove his sword through Frodo's chest. Blood. Everywhere. Like a blooming flower on the slopes of the blackened volcano. Frodo's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed on the rocky ground, his head inches from my foot.

Skip.