PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LXVI: A Not So Fair Farewell

"Why?" That was the only question Éomer had as we knelt beside the bodies of his sister and uncle. Éowyn was still breathing, and Éomer had called for help as soon as he could so that she could get help in the Houses of Healing. Then, there was nothing to do but wait for the wagons to arrive to carry the wounded into the White City.

The dead men of Dunharrow had taken care of the last of the enemy's armies so that only a few captives remained for questioning. Some soldiers of Gondor had come down from the city to see what could be done, and the riders of Rohan moved through the piles of corpses, looking for the injured or dying. At the edge of my vision, I could see the faint green of the ghost king, but right then, I had no time for him. Éowyn was injured, I didn't know where Merry was, and Éomer was grieving the family he was on the verge of losing.

"Why would she come here?" asked Éomer. "Uncle asked her to remain in Edoras. Why did she choose to abandon our home and come to Gondor?"

"She can fight," I said, because I didn't really know what else to say. "She killed the nazgûl. She and Merry…" I broke off, turning to look over my shoulder for the hobbit as if my saying his name might have summoned him. All I could see was the body of the fell beast, and Ráoulidor watching me through empty sockets.

Maybe Merry was fine. Maybe he'd managed to get up after being wounded by the Witch-king, and he'd left the area to fight more orcs. Maybe he was walking through Pelennor Fields right now… Maybe he and Pippin had already found each other near the gates of Minas Tirith. The image of Frodo and Sam lying dead at the feet of orcs flashed through my mind, and I had to take several deep breaths to calm myself.

There was nothing I could do to help the hobbits right now, not when tears that filled Éomer's eyes and he looked as though he would break at any second. I leaned against his right shoulder, ignoring the sharp armor that dug into my arm, and said, "I'm sorry."

"Why do you offer apologies?" asked Éomer.

"I can't save them," I murmured. Before me, Éowyn's face looked so pale, and Théoden's eyes were open and unseeing.

Éomer placed a hand on my head and tilted it up so that he could look into my eyes. "No one expects you to save them. If anyone should hold responsibility, it is me. I should have protected my king, just as I should have protected my cousin in the Fords of Isen. And my sister…" His voice grew thick as he glanced down at Éowyn. "She should not have been here. If I had known that she was here, that she wanted to be here… Why? What drove her to make such a choice?"

I grabbed him by the wrist so tightly that he stared at me in surprise. I willed him to listen to me, to hear what I was saying. "She will live, I promise you. She will live, so you'd better look after her from now on."

Éomer hesitated, most likely a thousand questions running through his mind about how I could know such things, but in the end, he only nodded and said, "There is only the two of us left."

My eyes narrowed. I didn't like his tone. "Forget the House of Eorl for a second."

He glanced at me, and I knew it must be hard for him. After Théodred's death, all he'd been able to think about was this war and whether or not he would be a capable king of Rohan. He hadn't had time to think about his sister, about what she must have been going through, watching Théoden fall under Saruman's spell, listening to the foul words of Gríma, and seeing her own brother punished for rebelling against his king. But as Éomer looked at Éowyn now, and I could see the regret in his eyes.

"I will look after her," he vowed.

The wagon came soon after that, and Éomer went with his sister, unable to leave her side. Théoden was brought into the White City as well, though his path was to the tombs rather than to the Houses of Healing.

Ráoulidor had waited patiently in the background until Éomer, Éowyn, and Théoden had left Pelennor Fields before returning to my side.

"Death is not the sorrow you regard it as," he said.

I glanced over at him and tried to fight back the shudder of revulsion that shot down my spine; I would never get used to the rotten flesh and dislocated jaw. "I know it doesn't mean much to you—"

"It is a release to us," said Ráoulidor. "We have been denied death for an age, and now we look upon the fallen of this battle with envy."

At his words, I turned and looked at the other soldiers of the ghost army. After they had finished their job of destroying the enemy, they had moved to stand together in ranks, pale and translucent underneath the thin afternoon light. When I focused, I could make out the expressions on some of the ghosts' faces. They did seem to be looking at the corpses longingly.

The living soldiers gave the ghost army a wide berth. I could see them whispering among themselves and sending fearful glances in the ghost army's direction. The ghosts, for the most part, ignored the living, but occasionally, one of the ghosts would pull a face at some of the riders, and the riders would suddenly busy themselves with sorting through the dead.

Aragorn was making his way across the battlefield towards us, followed by his constant companions, Gimli and Legolas. There was a hard edge to Aragorn's face when he looked at the ghost king, but then when he noticed me, Aragorn's expression switched to one of surprise.

"Ana," he greeted, "did you arrive recently or were you part of the battle?"

"Part of the battle," I said before adding proudly, "I managed to kill an orc."

Legolas scoffed, while Aragorn said, "You knife-work must be improving."

"Shall I tell you how many orcs I killed in the battle?" Gimli asked me.

"We make a game of it," said Legolas. "Perhaps you can join in now that you are a seasoned warrior."

"If your numbers are more than one, then I don't want to hear it," I said. Despite their teasing, I found myself grinning at the three of them (yes, even Legolas). "I'm glad to see you guys made it. Also…" I glanced over at Aragorn. "You should head up to the Houses of Healing soon. I'll probably need you at some point."

Aragorn frowned, but he must have thought better than to ask me about the future, because he then turned to the ghost king and said, "The oath should be—"

"You cannot hold my oath fulfilled until my people and I are prepared." Ráoulidor gave the king of Gondor a lofty glare.

Gimli glanced over at the ghost army and then muttered, "Your people look rather prepared to depart this world."

"But I am not," said Ráoulidor. "I must speak to Ana first."

"Me?" I squeaked. I looked around at Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, but none of them had any answers for me. Pointing at myself, I asked, "Why me?"

"Come." Ráoulidor drifted away from the rest of the group, the bottom of his worn robes hovering above the ground.

I glanced at Aragorn. Hoping, he'd quickly release the ghost army so I wouldn't have to talk to Ráoulidor, but Aragorn only stared down at me, waiting. With a sigh, I trudged across the blood-stained grass. I tried not to look down, but that was hard to do when I had to make sure I didn't step on any corpses. The eyes of a dead rider stared up at me, and I felt the bile rise in my throat.

Thankfully, I didn't have to walk very far as Ráoulidor stopped once we were out of earshot of the others. Once I'd caught up, he turned to me and said, "I regret that this must be our farewell, Ana Stonbit."

"Yeah." I figured if this was going to be my last time seeing the ghost king, I might as well turn on the waterworks for his sake. "I'll miss you too."

"You will have a long journey ahead of you," said Ráoulidor. "Do not forget me."

"Of course." I managed a sniffle and tried to look sad.

"Do not cry," said Ráoulidor gently. He looked moved—or at least as moved as a ghost could—by the tears in my eyes. "I told you that for the men of Dunharrow death is a blessing. We could ask for no greater reward."

"You did," I said. I was really hoping Ráoulidor would get on with his goodbye. I could only fake-cry for so long.

"Even before we met," continued Ráoulidor, "we were bound. Know that the Dwimorberg will always welcome you."

I nodded impatiently. "Yeah, I'll remember—" I broke off when I heard voices behind me. Someone—Gimli, I think—called out "Pippin!" but rather than respond, a shrill voice kept screaming "Merry!"

"Who dares interrupt the King of the Dead?" growled Ráoulidor.

I barely heard him as I spun around and saw Pippin, still dressed in his black and white attire, crouching on the battlefield behind a pile of orcs. In Pippin's arms was his best friend, Merry. Gimli had placed a hand on Pippin's shoulder, while Legolas crouched beside the hobbit. Aragorn had strode away to find some of the soldiers who were taking the injured into the White City. I left Ráoulidor's side, not even pretending to care what the ghost king had to say anymore, and rushed over to the Fellowship.

Merry was pale, his forehead smeared with blood and his right arm bent at an awkward angle. Pippin clutched his friend to his chest, tearing dripping down his cheeks.

Legolas glanced up at me and said, "He yet lives."

"He must," moaned Pippin. "He cannot leave me."

"He helped Éowyn kill the nazgûl," I said. "Stabbed it in the back."

The three of the stared at me in horror before turning to regard Merry with new respect. I was just relieved to see that the hobbit was still breathing. He would be taken to the Houses of Healing, and Aragorn would use his kingly skills to restore Merry to health. He would be okay. Everything would be okay.

Aragorn returned with the soldiers, and Merry was soon laid in a cart and brought into the White City. Pippin rode with him, trembling and nervous for his friend. Aragorn promised that he would visit the Houses of Healing as soon as he was able. Pippin didn't seem to find those words reassuring, but then, he didn't know what skills the kings of Gondor has passed down.

As I watched Merry and Pippin disappear into the city, the ghost king appeared at my side and said, "Farewell, Ana. We will meet again in another time and another place."

If I hadn't been so eager to get rid of the ghost king, I probably would've stopped and considered his words more. However, I just chalked it up to Ráoulidor wanting to wait for me in the afterlife. And even if I'd had questions, Ráoulidor didn't give me a chance to ask as he turned away from me and drifted over to Aragorn.

Aragorn seemed startled by the sudden appearance of the ghost king. An expression of revulsion flashed across Aragorn's face as he took in the rotting, translucent flesh, but then he quickly shifted it to a solemn stare, very king-like.

Ráoulidor either didn't notice Aragorn disgust or chose to ignore it. "It is time."

And then, the ghost army materialized behind Ráoulidor. I almost jumped out of my skin. They stood in ranks, their skin falling away from their bones, their heads held at awkward ankles, and the eye sockets empty. I could see the blood drain from Gimli's face, and Legolas looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Only Aragorn managed to keep his face calm as he asked, "Are you prepared?"

"We have been prepared for thousands of years," said Ráoulidor.

In that moment, surrounded by the remains of a battle and an army of ghosts, Aragorn seemed more like a king than he ever had before. His held his head high, unafraid of the decaying ghosts that stood before him, and in a deep, even voice, he said, "I, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, hold your oaths fulfilled. I release you. Go now and rest."

A gentle wind, almost like a sigh, rustled through the fields. Like the ripple effect, beginning with the ghosts on the edges, the army vanished, blowing away with the wind. Ráoulidor had time enough to wink at me before his body disintegrated. Where a terrifying army of the dead once stood, there was only a field of corpses.

"Bad idea," said Gimli, shaking his head and staring at the spot where the ghost army had been. "Very handy in a tight spot, they were."

"Aragorn is…what is the word?" I feigned thinking hard for a second. "Oh, yes. Aragorn is what you call 'honest' and 'true to his word'."

Legolas frowned at me. "Do not say that you would have kept the men of Dunharrow even though their oaths had been fulfilled."

"Me?" I snorted. "Are you kidding? I wanted that obsessive ghost king gone as soon as possible. He threatens to kill all my friends because he thinks I love them."

Legolas and Gimli, who were both unfortunate victims of Ráoulidor's obsession, exchanged glances. Then, Gimli asked, "Why did Ráoulidor wish to speak to you in secret?"

"Oh that?" I shrugged. "He just wanted a tearful farewell. I put on my best acting skills and tried to cry for him. I thought I did rather well. I—"

Skip.

"—think I deserve an Oscar nomination for that…" I trailed off.

Aragorn, Gimli, and the elf were gone, and I was standing in the middle of a forest. It was a heavy, green forest with thick branches arching overhead and moss covering every inch of the earthy floor. Trees were bent and out of shape, some of their trunks opened at the center forming gaping holes that I was convinced I'd fall into if I got too close.

I hadn't been to this forest before. It couldn't be Mirkwood (it lacked the foul air) or Lórien (it wasn't eerie enough), and it wasn't Fangorn (it was younger and more awake). No, this forest was something else. A shiver ran down my spine, and I had the feeling that I was being watched.

I glanced left and right before my gazed settled on a particularly gnarly willow tree. I raised my hands in the air and said, "I mean you no harm. I'm just passing through."

I swear one of the tree branches twitched. Hopefully, the tree was trying to say that it would allow me to pass rather than that it wanted to murder me. One could never tell with trees.

"Well, it was nice meeting you." I plastered a smile on my face and tried to look friendly.

And that's when one of the trees tripped me.

I'm not kidding! I was standing in the middle of the forest on completely flat ground and then—wham—something hit my ankle and I fell onto one of the roots of the willow tree. I lay there groaning in pain as the knotted wood digging into my stomach.

Yeah, I was definitely never going to be a forest person. Lothlórien might be pretty at times, but the trees just weren't worth it, and don't even get me started on Mirkwood with its giant spiders. The sooner I could out of this place, the better.

Gripping the roots on either side of me, I pushed myself into a standing position. But before I could even take a step, something tugged on my foot and I went crashing down again. This time, I landed on my butt, and my tailbone cried out in protest when it hit a root. I glared at my right foot, which had somehow ended up caught in some tree root. I swear, this tree was out to kill me.

"This isn't funny anymore," I said, scowling up at the tree. "It's not like I'm trying to turn you into paper. I come in peace and all that."

The tree didn't seem to agree with me, and the root that had my foot tightened its grip.

I screamed. Up until that moment, I hadn't actually thought the tree was trying to kill me. I'd assumed it was just me being my usual clumsy self. But no, this tree wanted me dead.

Cringing in pain, I tried to wriggle my foot out of the root's grasp. With each wriggle, the root got tighter. And then, while I was occupied with my right foot, the tree seized the opportunity to grab hold of my left foot. And then, I realized that I was almost up to my waist in bark. How it'd happened, I didn't exactly know, but it seemed as though the tree was pulling me into its trunk.

"Senturiel!" I screamed, scratching at the bark as if I might be able to dig my way out. "Skip me out of here!" And then, all of a sudden, the situation got to me. "Seriously, what is wrong with you? What do you have against me? I just want to find out why my dad's from Bree, and I want to save Frodo and Sam! But no! You have to Skip me to Minas Tirith under siege and then to the Battle of Pelennor Fields and then to this stupid forest!" The wood of the trunk was squeezing down on my chest. I gasped, trying to get enough air to breathe. "Do you have something against me? Did I do something to you? If I did, I'm sorry. I don't know what it is, but I'm sorry. So please, let me go. Leave me alone." The branches were starting to cloud my vision as the tree pulled me deeper into its trunk. "I'm not going to die in a frigging tree! I've survived orcs, nazgûl, and a dragon—this is not going to end in a tree!"

Well, I was right. I didn't die in a tree. Not that you're surprised. But what will surprise you is what saved me from that tree. It was a song.

The trunk of the willow was filled with a clear voice that reminded me of running water. A woman—the voice sounded distinctly feminine—was singing from somewhere outside the tree. From what I could tell, most of the words were nonsense, but I did make out phrases like "Old Man Willow", "Goldberry", and "take your roots away", so I figured I liked whatever song she was singing.

And soon, the song began to take effect. The bark that had been suffocating me started loosen, and before I knew it, the tree had spat me out onto the rough forest floor. I sat up, gasping for breath, and searched for the owner of the voice.

Standing over me was a stunning woman with yellow hair, a white dress, and a basket filled with water-lilies. She had stopped singing and now just smiled down at me, her blue eyes crescents. "Merry dol, Atanalcar. You should know better than to fight with Old Man Willow."

"Uh, I'm not Atanalcar." Being mistaken for the first possessor of the Senturiel was unnerving, and I glanced down to make certain I was still me. I wore the blood-stained wool tunic that I'd had on during the Battle of Pelennor Fields, and the Sword Breaker was still strapped to my side. I looked back up at the golden woman and said, "I'm Ana Stonbit."

"By the river water, my eyes are not what they once were." The woman held out one of the water-lilies to me as some form of an apology, and I took is, staring at the white petals curiously. She smiled and said, "When I heard mention of the Senturiel, I assumed you must be him, for Atanalcar spoke of the Senturiel often."

"Have you met Atanalcar?" I asked eagerly. "What's he like?" I glanced down at my hands and then added, "Do I really look like him?"

"He used to visit old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter," said the woman. "The Senturiel brought him to our home, and he would sing with us of things old, of things present, and of things to come." She tilted her head to the side and surveyed me. "You do not look like him, but you feel like him."

It was hard to decipher what the woman was talking about through her sing-song voice, but once I did, I realized that she'd mentioned Tom Bombadil. I'd heard that name before when I'd visited the Council of Elrond. He'd been described as the first among all things and the last among all things. I didn't know what that mean, exactly, but it sounded important.

"How do you know Tom Bombadil?" I asked.

"He is my husband," said the woman proudly. "For I am Goldberry, the River-daughter, for whom he gathers water lilies. But Tom Bombadil and Fatty Lumpkin had to guide four hobbits through these unsafe lands, and so today, Goldberry must bring herself the river-flowers."

I didn't know if I was more shocked that she was married to Bombadil, who had supposedly been unaffected by the One Ring, or that she frequently referred to herself in the third-person. There was an inhuman quality about her that grew all the more aparant the longer I talked to her. She walked barefoot through the forest, and yet her feet were untouched by the dirt, and her yellow hair seemed to glow in the light of day.

"When was the last time you saw Atanalcar?" I asked, staring up at her. I had so many questions. Galadriel and Gandalf spoke to me about the first Skipper, but neither of them had known Atanalcar personally.

Goldberry frowned. "He talked much of worlds beyond this one, of one with buildings that reached the sky, of one with two eyes in the sky, and of one with land blackened and dead. Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter did not understand much of his stories, but he had a beautiful voice."

There was more than just two worlds? I had only ever seen Earth and Middle Earth, but it sounded as though Atanalcar had seen much more. I didn't know my relationship to the Senturiel or how I'd gotten these abilities, but I was beginning to wonder if my powers came from a Senturiel different from the one Atanalcar had used. Or perhaps the Senturiel's powers had waned over time, and it no longer had the ability to travel to these other worlds. Though unlike Atanalcar, I didn't have a magic rock with me. I was just me.

"He last visited the home of Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter years ago," continued Goldberry, the corners of her mouth tightening as she tried to remember, "when he was no longer a boy. He spoke of Bree, though I do not know if his journey ever took him to the crossroads."

"Bree?" The questions about multiple worlds disappeared and were replaced with images of the village. All roads seemed to lead to Bree. The quest for the Lonely Mountain began in Bree, Aragorn and the hobbits met in Bree, Thorin had lived for a time in Bree, and now Atanalcar wanted to travel to Bree.

I had so many questions for Goldberry. "What's Atanalcar like? How does he Skip? Can he control it? What—"

Skip.

"God damn it, Senturiel!" I screamed. "Is it so hard to let me ask questions? What are you afraid I'll find out?"

I was sitting on the side of a dirt road still holding the water lily that Goldberry had given me. A cart with straw in it had trundled by, sending up a cloud of dirt that coated me from head to toe.

"Frig." I couldn't even bring myself to be properly mad at the cart driver. My clothes were already splattered in blood and dirt from my travels, and if anything, a little dust would do them good.

The sound of hooves on dirt sounded behind me, and then a deep voice asked, "Do you need a hand, milady?"

My heart froze. That voice. I knew that voice. Why would the Senturiel do this to me? Why would the Senturiel be so cruel? Was this the price for my curiosity? Was it trying to punish me for wanting to tell Gandalf the future and wanting to know more about the first Skipper? Even then, I didn't think I deserved this.

Slowly, my body growing cold with dread, I turned to look up at the rider on the horse.

That face. I knew that face. He recognized me as well, though something was lacking as he looked at me with warm eyes. It was as if he was looking at an acquaintance. In this time, he didn't know me as well as I knew him.

There was huge lump in my throat, and I could barely force the name out. "Boromir."

"Ana Stonbit." Boromir smiled and dismounted from his horse. He was just as I remembered him, broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard and dressed dark red armor, his cloak stained from travel. "I am afraid that since we last saw one another, my father has placed a warrant on your head, and I am obligated to arrest you if I see you in the realm. As it stands, we are outside the boundaries of Gondor, and I am glad to see you again."

And with just that, I started crying.