PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LXI: Trying And Failing To Save The World

I was kneeling in a grassy field. I didn't know where and I didn't really care to know right then. A blue sky stretched over me, cloudless and flawless. I barely noticed. My breathing came in quick, ragged breaths, and my head was spinning. I could hardly tell up from down, and only one simple word ran through my head over and over again: No. No. No. No. No. No.

Frodo and Sam weren't dead.

They couldn't be dead. It wasn't allowed. They had to save Middle Earth. They had to throw that stupid Ring into the fires of Mount Doom and destroy Sauron. They couldn't be dead.

I leaned forward and buried my face into the overgrown grass. It prickled against my skin, scratching my arms. The deep scratch that Sam's armor had made in my arm stung, and the wild grass irritated it even more. I swatted at my arm once or twice, warning it to behave, but it did not such thing.

Frodo's smile as he laughed at my stupidity. His pale blue eyes glowing with joy as a smile spread across his face. For a brief moment, the days of exhaustion and the weight of the Ring disappeared, and Frodo was just a hobbit on a journey. Dead.

Sam's smile as he looked as Rosie, as if she was the prettiest hobbit in the world. And her smile as she looked at him. He'd asked her to dance, his tongue tripping over the words, and then he'd stumbled around the dance floor, almost as clumsy as me, but he'd been smiling because he was with Rosie. Dead.

The pain splintered in my skull. A dull, burning headache accompanied by stinging tears and jagged breaths. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even find the strength to scream.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

Finally, I managed one pitiful cry of "Stop…please. I don't want this."

There was no response. The pasture was empty except for a single mooing cow that was chewing on some grass. Her big brown eyes watched me woefully, silently judging.

"Shut up," I said, still kneeling in the grass. "You don't know me."

The cow dipper her head and took another bite of grass.

"They died!" I cried. "Again! Like Boromir, like Dorthin…" The tears had started flowing again. My eyes pricked red, stung by salt and water. "What am I supposed to do? Even if I try to save them, the world just might end anyway." Boromir's face hovered in front of me. My best friend here in Middle Earth and I hadn't been able to save him.

The stupid cow didn't answer. She was obviously knew something but didn't want to tell me.

I wiped my nose with the back of my arm. I took a deep breath through my mouth because my nose was clogged. Then, coughing a little, I said in a small voice, "'If it is your fault, then they are not meant to die.'"

That had been what future-Thorin had told me. I hadn't understood it at the time—I still didn't understand it—but maybe he was referring to Frodo and Sam. If it was my fault… Were Frodo and Sam's deaths my fault? Probably. Perhaps if I hadn't been there, then they would have made it past the orcs. Perhaps if I had just shut up, then the orc wouldn't have been suspicious and he wouldn't have taken off Sam's helmet. Perhaps Frodo and Sam wouldn't have even run into the orcs if they hadn't stopped walking to talk to me.

It was my fault. The horrifying, all-consuming self-loathing washed over me for a second. I couldn't even cry anymore. I only stared at the patch of grass in front of me and tried to keep my breathing steady. It was my fault.

But maybe that was a good thing. "If it is your fault, then they are not meant to die." Which meant that perhaps I could change things, I could save Frodo and Sam. I just had to fix my own stupidity.

It didn't occur to me to ask how future-Thorin might know something like that. I had just assumed that I must have told him in my future and I hadn't reached that point yet. Foolish of me, I know, but you have to understand that I was grieving. I made a lot of stupid assumptions when I was grieving. I mean, come on, I resorted to yelling at an innocent cow.

"I have to save them," I said, getting to my feet and pointing at the cow. "Don't try to stop me."

The cow swallowed another mouthful of grass. She blinked.

"But how?" I asked. "I can't fight orcs. You weren't there, you didn't see them. There were legions of orcs, and they had an iron tree.." I shook my head. Now wasn't the time to think about the tree or to think about Frodo and Sam's bodies hanging from the tree. "No. Sorry. But I can't just Skip there impulsively. But there's an army of orcs sitting between Frodo and Sam and the Mountain. What do you want me to do? Pick them up and move them? 'Hello, excuse me, Mister Orc, but you're in the way of my friends destroying your master. Can I just move you over there?' It's not going to work!"

A fly buzzed too close to the cow and her tail swatted it away. The cow regarded me reproachfully.

I opened my mouth and closed it. There was only one person I knew of

"Oh frig." I blinked. "Someone find me Gandalf!"

The cow stared, apparently convinced I'd gone mad.

"Gandalf!" I cried, racing across the pasture towards the cow. "Wizard? Tall, white beard, big pointy hat? Gandalf. I need to find him! It's important!"

The cow blinked. I could see my face reflected in her eyes.

"I'm going crazy," I said, taking a step away from the cow. "I'm begging a frigging cow for help."

She stopped chewing on grass.

That was it. I couldn't take it anymore. I was going insane with grief. Obviously that cow couldn't give me any information. I highly doubt cows even knew who Gandalf was, or what a wizard was.

The cow lifted her head. I stared at her. I had a bad feeling about this. Slowly, hands raised so she could see I was armed, I started backing away from the cow. "Easy now. I didn't mean to intrude on your dinner…or lunch. I don't really know what time it is. I'll just leave your pasture and let you eat, okay?"

I turned around and started running. Behind me came the sound of thundering hooves. The cow was chasing me. Oh my God. The cow was chasing me. I'd never been chased by a cow before. Spiders, yes. Trolls, yes. Elves, yes. But never a cow. And let me tell you, it was terrifying. I could hear the sound of hooves drawing ever closer, and I could just picture myself—after everything I'd been through and everything I still needed to fix—getting trampled under the cow's hooves.

Thankfully, I Skipped

"Gandalf!" was the first thing I cried when I Skipped to the new place. Of course, I wasn't anywhere near Gandalf. I was standing in the middle of a village, surrounded by crooked wooden houses and stables. Animals eyed me warily, and I made sure to keep a safe distance from any cows. Children dressed in simple brown clothes ran through the dirt streets, giggling as they played a game of tag. None of the adults, who were busy with their own lives, had noticed my arrival.

However, a little girl with curling brown hair came to a halt in front of me. She stared at me, her big blue eyes wide as she took in my appearance. Curiously, she asked, "Who is Gandalf?"

"Do you know him?" I asked, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Do you know him?"

The girl, her eyes widening, shook her head. "No."

I groaned. "I need him. Where am I?"

"In the Riddermark," said the girl. "Are you lost? How can you forget where you are? Does Gandalf know where you are? Can he tell you? Or are you just stupid?"

"I didn't forget," I snapped. "And you ask too many questions."

"My mother always says a good little girl should not ask questions," she said. "I do not understand why. Do you?"

"Because it's annoying," I said. "Do you know Éomer? Or Théoden? Or Gaenry? Or Taysend? Or Dorthin? Are any of these names ringing a bell? Éowyn?"

"Dorthin?" repeated the girl, recognition flashing in her blue eyes.

"You know him?" I asked eagerly. "Where is he?"

"You ask too many questions as well," said the girl. She looked over her shoulder at the group of children playing some sort of ball game. "Dorthin, this strange woman says she knows you!"

One tall, skinny boy with a mess of brown hair pulled away from the rest of the children. As he made his way across the street, he frowned at the sight of me. Then, he turned to the little girl, saying, "I do not know her."

"She asked for you," said the girl, shrugging.

"I do not know her," said Dorthin.

"Wait a second," I said, raising my right hand like a student waiting to be called on in class. "Dorthin, why are you so small?"

Dorthin paused mid-argument with the little girl and turned to stare at me. "I am taller than all the other children in the village."

"But you're supposed to tower over me," I said, gloomily measuring the top of his head with my right hand.

"I am taller than you!" cried Dorthin indignantly. He glanced at me and added, in an undertone, "Not that it is difficult to be taller than you."

"You should not be rude," said the girl. "She seems a little disoriented."

"You are one to talk," said Dorthin.

"Are you sure your Dorthin?" I asked. I refused to believe that this child was my Dorthin. Though they had the same dark hair and made the same strange facial expressions. But if this was Dorthin, it meant that I had been Skipped to the wrong time period. It meant that I was now staring down at a child who I knew would grow up to be killed in the Battle of Helm's Deep. No, I didn't want this. This wasn't my Dorthin.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Where's Gandalf?" I looked around the village. The other children had stopped their game and were watching me curiously. I ignored them. I couldn't see a tall gray figure in a blue hat. "Great, I Skipped to the wrong time place. First a demon cow and now this."

"A demon cow?" asked not-my-Dorthin.

"Don't ask," I said, shuddering slightly at the memory of the cow chasing me. "It wasn't the most heroic moment of my life." I did one last sweep of the village before deciding that Gandalf wasn't here and he probably wasn't going to show up any time soon. Which meant, of course, that the Skip had brought me to the wrong place. "Stupid Skip. I want out of here. I have things to do. Important things. Skip me away! Skip me away!" I waved my arms in the air, trying to urge the Skipping to work.

Nothing happened.

"I think her mother must have dropped her on her head when she was small," said the little girl.

Not-my-Dorthin nodded in agreement.

"Skip," I cried, jumping a little. "Skip me to where Gandalf is."

"She is insane," said not-my-Dorthin. "Let us leave quickly before she infects us."

The little girl nodded. They scurried back to their friends and left me trying to Skip away.

"You're awfully rude kids!" I shouted after them. And then Skipped. It was nice to know that at least sometimes the Skip listened to me.

Or not. I was standing in the Blue Mountains again. I knew it was the Blue Mountains, because Dis was there, holding a blond toddler Kíli in one arm and trying to stop a young Fíli from tugging her skirt with the other. She looked up, surprised, when she saw me. "Ana?"

"Hello, Dis," I said, smiling and waving. "I would love to stay and chat, but unfortunately, I have a wizard to find and a world to save." I looked up at the stone ceiling. "Skip me away! Skip me to Gandalf!"

Dis stood there, her mouth hanging open.

"Who is that, mother?" asked young Fíli.

Dis shook her head soundlessly. It seemed she couldn't find words for my strange behavior.

"Maybe we can have dinner next time I Skip here and catch up," I said.

Skip.

My eyes were wrenched shut. I refused to open them. However, I could hear a lot. Tom y right was the sound of joyous laughter, and to my left someone slammed a mug down on a wooden table. Easy chatter filled the room, drifting around ,e

"All right," I said. "I'm not opening my eyes. You hear me, Skip? I'm not opening my eyes until you bring me to Gandalf. You got that? No tricks this time, Skip. Just bring me to Gandalf."

I opened my eyes.

No Gandalf. Just an inn of slightly intoxicated, chattering people.

"God damn it!"

Skip.

I crossed my arms and stared at the circular blue door of a hobbithole. "Now you're just being stupid. I just want to see Gandalf so I can save the world. It's not a big deal! You can usually help me with these things! Remember the time you Skipped me to the Houses of Healing after I got shot? Then again, you could've Skipped me away before I go shot in the first place… I don't understand you, Skip! What do you want from me?"

A wrinkled old hobbit, dressed in gardening gear and a floppy brimmed hat, stopped his work on his tomato plants. He released the watering can, spilling water over the dark soil, and turned around to stare at me.

"And," I cried, in fully rant-mode now, "you haven't brought me back home yet. I would like to know why my dad is from Bree, and I want to find out why my parents thought it was a good idea to keep this secret from me. But, apparently, you don't want me to know this, and you just want me to keep Skipping and Skipping and Skipping around Middle Earth for all eternity. Well, fine! I've accepted the fact that I might never find out why my dad is from Bree. Fine. I get it. But when I want to frigging save Middle Earth—let me see Gandalf!"

"Can I help you?" asked the hobbit.

"Why can't I frigging Skip?" I asked.

The hobbit leapt backwards in shock. His brown eyes were wide and he kept looking left and right as if he hoped one of his neighbors would come out and save him from the crazy woman who'd appeared in his yard.

"Where is Gandalf?" I asked. "Where is he? Has he passed by Hobbiton recently? He usually comes here, right?"

"I-I-I-I-I-I…" The poor hobbit was incapable of speaking. He picked up one of his shovels and brandished it in front of his like a weapon.

It was around then that I realized yelling at the poor hobbit probably wasn't going to get my anywhere. Trying to speak as gently as possible, I said. "Help me, please. I'm trying to save the world."

"You are insane," gasped the hobbit.

"Well, no duh." I sighed.

The hobbit's eyes were suddenly focused on something behind me. At first, he was not able to put what he saw in words. He opened and closed his mouth several times. He face went from white to even paler. I heard the clip-clop of a horse's hooves on a cobblestone road.

"Gandalf!" cried the hobbit.

I spun around to see the wizard, in his gray robes and pointed hat, riding on the back of a pure white horse. He saw the hobbit in the garden and smiled. "Hello, Mister Hamfast. How are you this morning?" But before the hobbit could respond, Gandalf's gaze came to rest on me, and the smile vanished.

"Gandalf!" I cried. "You have to—"

Skip.

I screamed. I mean, at that point, what else was I supposed to do. I sat on the edge of a mountain path, my knees curled to my chest and my chin resting my tops of my knees. My arms and legs were battered and bruised, and I really needed to spend a week sleeping, but I couldn't. An icy wind whipped through the mountain path. I ignored it. I would endure the pain. All I could think about was Frodo and Sam.

"What are you doing?" I asked the Skip. My voice was hoarse from all the yelling and crying I had done that day. "Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve this? I just want to save my friends, but you won't even let me try. Why? What have I ever done to you?"

Closing my eyes, I tried to picture Gandalf. His wavy gray beard, his keen blue eyes, his round nose, his wrinkled face, his pale blue hat, his knotted staff. He would, of course, have a disapproving expression on his face because he didn't like my inability to take things seriously. But still, I needed him. Skip me there, I willed. Skip me to him.

"Ana?" a smooth, almost musical voice called out my name. "Is that Ana?"

"It certainly is," said a second voice, slightly deeper than the first. "Ana Stonbit is sitting alone on a rock in the Misty Mountains. This can only mean bad things."

I lifted my head and saw two elves standing on the path in front of me. They had the same long, dark hair, the same brown eyes, the same lean faces—the only difference was that Elrohir was slightly taller than Elladan.

"Have you seen Gandalf?" I asked.

"We have not seen him since the Fellowship departed Rivendell," said Elrohir. "Has he been this way? My brother and I have been far from home, traveling in the north and helping the Dúnedain track the servants of Sauron."

I did the mental math in my head. I was in the time of the Fellowship, sometime after the Fellowship departed Rivendell and sometime before the Battle of Helm's Deep. For all I knew, Gandalf could have been slayed by the balrog just seconds ago.

"Urg." I buried my face in my hands again. "I hate this Skipping."

"Having a rough time of it?" asked Elladan.

"You have no idea," I muttered. I lifted my head from my hands to see Elrohir and Elladan exchanging silent glances. They had some kind of silent language that only they could understand. I watched, but all I could decipher was that they were confused about something to do with me.

"Give it a few years," said Elladan finally. "I am certain the truth will reveal itself to you."

"What?" I frowned. "What are you talking about? Does this have anything to with—"

Skip.

I was keeling on the floor of an inn. Shouts filled the air around, and when I looked up, I saw several men of Bree backing away from me, spilling the ale from their mugs. I smiled as kindly as I could at them given the circumstances and then scuttled away from the scene of the crime as fast as I could.

Only when I was safe out of sight in the corner of the room, did I take a breather and realized that I was at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. Well, I had seen Gandalf in the inn a couple of times (maybe only once) during my Skips, so maybe he would be here. But as I scanned the tables and faces, I realized that the wizard was nowhere to be found.

"God damn it, Skip," I snapped at the air. "How hard is it to take me to see Gandalf? Is there some problem with me seeing him?"

"Gandalf? Are you searching for Gandalf?"

A fat, greasy man, who I recognized at Butterbur, had stopped in his tracks. Empty mugs of ale in his hands, he frowned at me, perhaps trying to remember where he'd seen me before.

"Do you know him?" I asked with sudden growing excitement. "Is he here? Can I talk to him? It's important."

"Gandalf…" said Butterbur, sounding out the name.

"Yeah," I said. "Tall guy—gray beard, pointy hat."

"Oh yes," said Butterbur. "Gandalf."

My heart lifted with excitement. "Where is he?"

"I do not know. I have not seen him for six months."

Skip.

All I can say at this point is that the Skip is an asshat.