PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

LXVII:A Council of Tarins

We found a tavern in a nearby village, and the innkeeper sold me one of her old wool dresses courtesy of Boromir's money. Like a ghost, my gaze vacant, I followed her to one of the upstairs rooms so that I could change. The moment I was inside, I wrenched the door shut and collapsed against the wooden frame.

Everything was spinning, and I couldn't tell up from down. Boromir. That was Boromir outside the room. Boromir, alive and whole and unaware that when he reached Rivendell, he was going to embark on a quest the would claim his life.

A part of me wanted to throw open the door, hold onto him tight, and refuse to let him travel the rest of the way to Rivendell. But another part of me, the part that had also agreed to bring Boromir back to Amon Hen, remained held me in place, leaning against the wall and trying to remember how to breathe.

The last time I'd seen Boromir, three arrows had been buried deep in his chest. The scene haunted me, awake and asleep. Red had stained his armor—the very armor he was wearing now—and his face had been splattered with the dark blood of the orcs he'd killed. Merry and Pippin had been carried away by Uruk-hai, screaming Boromir's name, asking him to save them. Boromir had watched them, desperation in his eyes, but he hadn't had the strength to move.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time to remember. Boromir was here now. Alive. I couldn't stand here forever, paralyzed because I didn't know what to say to him.

Since I'd met him on the road, I'd barely uttered more than two words in his presence. When he asked me where the blood on my clothes had come from, I muttered something about not dying and then feigned nausea so I wouldn't have to answer any more of his questions. What was I supposed to say? Hello, you're going to die in a year's time. I watched it happen. It was a traumatizing experience for me. Unfortunately, I can't tell you not to die because that would throw everything off, and bad things would happen to Middle Earth. Yeah, that'd go down well.

There was, I knew, really only one thing to do, and that was nothing. I would have to put on this wool dress and head back down to the central room of the tavern. I would have to smile and talk to Boromir as if the only time we'd met was in Gondor after the retaking of Osgiliath. I would have to smile. That was the most important thing. As far as Boromir knew, we were on friendly terms. In his mind, this whole tavern visit was to chat with an acquaintance and to help out a pitiful young woman who had broken down in tears on the side of the road.

That was the true reason he'd stayed, I knew. Not because he wanted to spend more time with me. No, it was because he'd seen a young woman covered in blood and crying, and he was too noble to leave someone like that alone. So he'd taken me to this tavern, bought me a new dress, a hot meal, and a bed for the night. This wasn't for me. This was for his sense of right.

I took a deep breath and sent a silent cursed at the Senturiel. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stay in this room forever, so after I'd changed, I returned to the downstairs.

The tavern was nearly empty that night, with only a few men in the far corner, sharing drinks and stories. I spotted Boromir quickly; he had gotten a table near the unlit fireplace and had ordered meals for of us. Tentatively, my heart racing and my head ringing, I sat opposite Boromir and took a small bite of roasted potato.

Boromir watched me, worried I might show signs of bursting into tears again. Not that I could blame him—even though I was beyond tears at this point, I kept glancing at Boromir, making sure that was still in front of me. My stares probably did nothing to reassure him.

"Ana?" Boromir said my name carefully, as if he was afraid that speaking too loudly would cause me to break.

"Yeah?" I tried to smile. I had promised myself before coming downstairs that I would smile. I just had to remember that this was Boromir before all that. This was Boromir on the road to Rivendell, searching for answers about the strange dreams that haunted him and his brother. This was a Boromir who still believed that the salvation of Gondor could be found through the sword and shield. This was a Boromir that hadn't yet taught me how to drink. I needed to get my head on straight. I had to ignore the trembling in my hands and the thickness in my chest. Focus. That was the key. Focus, and I could get through this.

"How have you been?" asked Boromir. He hesitated. "You seem different since last I saw you."

"Do I?" I didn't want to be different. I wanted to go back to that time when I laughed and joked and didn't have to worry about whether or not people were going to die.

"What has happened?" asked Boromir.

He sounded so genuinely concerned for me and so genuinely willing to help that I found it hard to form words. Did the Senturiel do this on purpose? Was it trying to torment me? Did it want me to break down? Was all this Skipping really just a long plan to drive me insane? Because it was working.

"This and that," I said. That was all I could tell him. The rest was too much. Desperately, I searched for a change of subject. "So, um, where are we exactly? Somewhere on the road to Rivendell, right?"

Boromir frowned. He wasn't happy that I refused to share with him, but thankfully, my change in subject was enough to distract him. Brow furrowed, he asked, "You do not know?"

I silently swore. This pre-Rivendell Boromir didn't know about the Skipping. "I come and go. I don't have any control of it, so I can't really keep track of where I end up. It's rather annoying."

"I imagine it would be." Though Boromir smiled, the laughter didn't reach his eyes. "We are in the Westfold in Rohan."

This was all wrong. This was Boromir, my best friend. Even if he wasn't yet the Boromir who had piggybacked me up a tree and taught me how to drink, he was still Boromir. We shouldn't be like this, grasping for things to talk about and tiptoeing around each other, afraid that we might say something wrong. This was Boromir. We weren't supposed to be like this.

I wasn't certain how to close that gap, how to bring things back to what they once were—or would be, in his case. But keeping things from him probably wasn't the right way. Obviously, I couldn't tell him about his death, but I could tell little bits and pieces, right? I could tell him enough so that maybe we could have just a little bit of what we used to be.

Pushing a potato slice around my plate, I struggled to find the right words. "Since you last saw me, I've been through a lot. People have died. People very important to me." I didn't mention that he was one of those people. "I found out that my dad is from Bree, but he wasn't able to explain any more than that to me. I've been trying to get back home, but I'm stuck. I've been coming and going in different places, but not the places I want to be." I paused. "In the last four days, I've gotten maybe five hours of sleep. And that's really not good for my health."

Boromir blinked. Now it was his turn to struggle for words. He opened and closed his mouth before settling on: "You have endured much since we met in Gondor."

It occurred to me that I had no idea how much time had passed since we met in Gondor. Hesitantly, I asked, "How long ago was that?"

He looked genuinely concerned about my memory as he said, "Fifteen days."

"Right." I tried not to slam my head on the table. Great. In the span of fifteen days, I'd apparently watched people die, discovered my origins, and not slept for five of those fifteen days. I really needed to learn to establish time and location before saying anything.

"Your horse must have wings," said Boromir, "to reach the Westfold before me."

"I don't have a horse."

The look of confusion on Boromir's face was enough to make me laugh. And this time, it was a genuine laugh, the kind that made my cheeks hurt because I was smiling so much.

"How did you reach Westfold in such short a time with no horse to carry you?" asked Boromir who didn't find it nearly as amusing as I did. "I do not see how without the aid of magic."

"I'm not a witch," I said bluntly. Boromir was going to find out about the Skipping after he reached Rivendell. Explaining it to him now would save me a headache, and it might gain me a supporter when I did show up in Rivendell. "I don't need a horse—they honestly terrify me—instead I Skip from place to place."

Boromir opened his mouth and then closed it. Finally, he managed to ask, "Of what do you speak?"

"I Skip," I explained. "I'm the Skipper. I jump back and forth between places. I have no control over it—just one moment I'm here, and the next, I'm somewhere else. Maybe 'Skipper' isn't the best word. I kind of came up with it when I was nine and trying to convince an innkeeper to let me stay the night for free. I don't know a good replacement though—the Leaper, the Bouncer, the Jumper, the Hopper, the Ricocheter. There's a good one. Nice to meet you, I'm Ana Stonbit, the Ricocheter." I grinned and held out my hand for him to shake.

Boromir didn't take the offered hand. Instead he stared at me, probably trying to figure out if I was deceiving him or not. I willed him to believe me, and it must have worked, because he said, "You ought to remain the Skipper. 'Ricocheter' is not a word of the Common Tongue."

"But 'the Ricocheter' sounds more mysterious," I said.

"There is mystery," said Boromir, "and then there is foolery." He smiled at me. "Though I suppose you know much of the latter."

I clutched a hand to my chest. "You wound me! How could you say such cruel words to your closest and dearest friend?"

Boromir laughed and shook his head. "You do love to tell tales."

At those words, my heart sank. I couldn't keep the smile on my face no matter how hard I tried. Of course, Boromir didn't remember me in this time, because almost none of our friendship had happened yet. It was only after we spent over a month together in Rivendell that we became close, and Boromir would not reach there for some time yet. Logically, I knew that. But still, for a moment, just a moment, we'd been Boromir and Ana again. We'd been laughing and joking, and it'd been like we were in Rivendell again. I'd forgotten that this wasn't the same Boromir. He didn't know our inside jokes and that we were going to be best friends. I was just some young woman he met once in Gondor.

The Senturiel was cruel. I knew that, of course, but I'd never fully realized it until then.

"Ana?" asked Boromir. His voice was so careful, so concerned. "Has something happened?"

"Sorry." I bit the inside of my cheeks so the tears in the corners of my eyes would disappear. "I'm a bit of a mess. Just give me a second and I'll pull myself together."

"You have been through much," said Boromir. His expression had softened, and I wondered if he hadn't fully believed me at first (and who could blame him?).

The tavern was almost silent except for our conversation. The men had left, and the innkeeper was cleaning the tables. She kept glancing in our direction, perhaps wondering when we were going to retire so she could close up for the night.

"I'm done crying," I said. "I swear, I could fill a bathtub with the amount of tears I've shed over the past four days. Or maybe a swimming pool. You'd think I'd run out of tears at some point, but just when I think they're dried up, I find something new to cry about. I need to pull myself together." I slapped my cheeks, causing the innkeeper to look around in surprise at the sudden sound. I ignored her and asked, in a falsely cheery voice, "So how have you been? What's going on in your life? You left Minas Tirith a few days ago, right? What'd your father think of that?"

Boromir hesitated but then decided that a change in a subject was for the best. With a grimace, he said, "My father was none too pleased."

"Did you tell him about the dreams?" I winced when I saw Boromir's stunned reaction. Of course, he hadn't told me about the dreams yet. I searched for a lie and came up with "Faramir told me about them."

Boromir gave me a long stare, not believing a word, before saying, "Yes, we told our father of the dreams. He did not wish for me to part. He claimed that I was needed in Gondor and that my brother had been visited by the dream more than me, so for those reasons, Faramir should undertake the journey to discover the meaning behind the dreams."

"But you didn't listen," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

"I could not let Faramir take such a perilous journey," said Boromir. "His place is in Minas Tirith."

I said nothing. For once, I agreed with Denethor. If Faramir had seen the dream more often than Boromir, then most likely Faramir was the one meant to go on the journey. How would things have turned out then? Perhaps both brothers would have lived…or perhaps Faramir would have died in Boromir's place, one brother exchanged for the other. Even if I tried to picture Faramir in Rivendell, agreeing to join the Fellowship, I couldn't summon the image. Boromir was right; Faramir belonged in Minas Tirith.

"They are my family," said Boromir. He chose his words carefully. "I thought that if I left, then my father and brother would discover their love for one another." He hesitated. "Though perhaps my decision may have only made their relationship worse..."

"Faramir will understand," I said. The image of Denethor burning as he screamed his son's name flashed through my mind, and I fought back a shudder. Instead, I focused on Boromir and said, with as much conviction as I could muster, "Faramir will understand you and your father, and he will be happy."

A wry smile crossed Boromir's face. "Are you a prophet, Ana Stonbit, or the Skipper?"

"Who says the Skipper can't be a prophet?" I scoffed. Then, I grew more serious. I couldn't warn Boromir of his future, but if he wasn't going to see his family again, I could at least give him this. "I know what I know, and I know that Faramir will be happy, and your father will love the both of you for the rest of his life."

Boromir smiled. "I do wish I could believe your future for I like what you see."

"Believe me."

After a moment, Boromir nodded and said, "I will try."

That night, I was finally able to get a good night's sleep. We didn't stay downstairs much longer—there wasn't much more we could talk about—so we both retired to the rooms Boromir had rented for us (which had sparked the innkeeper's curiosity). I collapsed on the mattress, not even caring that it smelled like damp straw. I just wanted to close my eyes and never wake up.

Of course, I did wake up…thirteen hours later. Sunlight streamed through the window of the little bedroom, and slowly, it dawned on me that I'd slept past noon. I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the water basin. I'd been so tired last night that I'd fallen to sleep without bothering to take off the wool dress that innkeeper had given me. I didn't need a mirror to know that I looked crumpled and disheveled. Thankfully, Boromir had paid her to find some trousers that would fit me, and she'd brought them up to my room this morning. And then, sometime in the early afternoon, when I was dressed and looked halfway-presentable, I headed downstairs.

I couldn't decide if I wanted Boromir to be waiting for me or if I wanted him to have left for Rivendell already. As much as I would've liked to see Boromir again, to know that at some point in time, he was alive, I didn't think I could sit through another awkward meal with him. The knowledge of what I'd lost would be too painful. Boromir and I used to be able to stay up until the small hours of the morning, drinking and swapping stories, but it seemed that we were no longer able to do that. I couldn't meet his eyes without the memory of his death haunting me, and the way he looked at me… I was little more than an acquaintance to him, and an odd one at that.

In the end, whether I wanted to see Boromir or not didn't matter. The moment I sat down at one of the tables and smiled at the innkeeper, I Skipped. In an instant, I was no longer in the tavern, deciding what I wanted to eat, instead I was sitting on a black throne.

I blinked. The hall was familiar—black marble floors, white columns, arched ceiling, walls lined the statues of kings long dead. It took me a moment to realize that I was back in Minas Tirith, inside the White Tower.

I sat upright on the throne and looked around, searching for Denethor who would undoubtedly try to throw me in jail again. However, the steward of Gondor was nowhere to be found. Instead, the White Tower was filled with some of the last people I would expect to see there: Gandalf stood a little to my left, frowning beneath his white beard. Legolas, with his arms crossed, leaned against a white pillar. Gimli sat in a wooden chair and was smoking a pipe. At the far end of the hall, Aragorn and Éomer had paused mid-stride. From what I could tell, they had just come through the entrance and had been making their way to the throne. My sudden appearance had stopped them in their tracks. There were other men there, all of them noble and old, but I don't remember their names or faces. But I do remember that they looked absolutely horrified by the sight of me sitting on the throne of Gondor.

"Aw shit." I leapt up from the seat. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't do it on purpose."

The hall was silent. All eyes were fixed on me. The members of the Fellowship seemed fairly unperturbed by my arrival, while Éomer smiled at me as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. The other men in the hall, the ones who didn't know me, looked as though they might pass out. I could already seem the word "witchcraft" forming in their minds. One man (I think his name might have been Tarin) even had the nerve to point at me.

I raised my hands in the air. "I'm not a witch."

"I forgot," said Éomer, making his way across the hall towards me. "How disconcerting it is to see her Skip for the first time."

"Skip?" asked the supposed Tarin. "Do you mean to say that this girl is the Skipper?"

"You've heard of me?" I asked. I hadn't known I gotten famous enough for the lords of Gondor to have heard of me.

"Ana," said Aragorn gently. "That is my throne."

"Of course it is." I scuttled even further from the throne. " I didn't mean to sit on it, and I definitely won't do so again. If I can help it. It's not very comfy. Kind of blocky."

"It is an heirloom of my house."

In hindsight, I realized that Aragorn was speaking for the lords of Gondor rather than for me. He had entered Minas Tirith for the first time and had only just declared himself to be the king returned—there were probably still some doubts in the lords' minds. Declaring this his throne was probably to reaffirm that he was indeed the king. But, of course, I wasn't always quick on the uptake, and I started rambling. "I always imagined the throne of Gondor to be gold and jeweled, you know? I'm kind of disappointed. If I Skip back to the time of your ancestors, I'll tell them to make a comfier, more ostentatious throne, okay?"

Gandalf coughed. Instantly, all eyes turned to him. Gandalf patted his chest and said, "Pardon me. A little something in my throat. Though, now that I have your attention, may I suggest that we proceed with the matters of upmost importance."

"Of course," said Aragorn. He moved towards his throne. However, rather than sit in it, he leaned against the black armrest and folded his arms over his chest, gazing grimly out at the hall full of his advisors. "We should discuss our next course of action."

Following my newly established rule of always checking time and place, I turned to Éomer and asked in a whisper, "What time am I in?"

Apparently, I didn't ask quietly enough, because one of the lords scoffed.

To be honest, all the names and faces of the lords have blended together for me. I know Aragorn introduced them all at one point, but I've forgotten. There are so many things I can recount to you with perfect detail and only a little exaggeration, but unfortunately, the names of Aragorn's eight advisors are completely lost to me. Except one. Tarin. The problem is I don't exactly know which one was Tarin. So, from now on, "Tarin" will be used to refer at all eight.

"The Battle of Pelennor Fields ended yesterday," said Éomer, who understood my need to know time and place. "You disappeared after the men of Dunharrow were released from their vows."

"Right." This also meant that I was going to show up on Pelennor Fields any time now, screaming in pain after being shot by a bullet. I glanced at Aragorn and wondered if I should tell him to save his strength—he was going to need to heal a very strange wound soon.

"Should we discuss such matters in front of the witch?" asked Tarin.

Once again, I found myself being stared at by all eight lords. One Tarin said, "She might be a servant of Sauron," and another Tarin nodded in agreement.

To my surprise, before I could speak on my behalf, Gandalf beat me to it. "She is no witch. She is the Senturiel, and she holds knowledge of the future. It would be folly to cast her out of our council."

"She is our friend," added Aragorn. He didn't raise his voice but spoke in low, even tones. "She has established her trust with the Fellowship long before now, and our word on her behalf should suffice."

That shut the Tarins up. It helped my case to have their new king and the white wizard speaking in my defense.

Now that the matter of my presence had been settled, Gandalf had turned to address the council, "We have achieved a needed victory in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. We have pushed Sauron's forces back to Osgiliath. It is a retreat he never suspected. He sees now that men are not so easily defeated." Gandalf surveyed the hall of advisors. "However, we cannot win through strength of arms, that should be clear to you now. Remaining in Minas Tirith, we can only delay the inevitable. We may win one battle, but Sauron's army stretches across the land of Mordor, and he will meet our victory with another battle. Even if we manage a second victory, Sauron will send another. The war will continue until there are none left to fight."

"Well, that's a depressing thought," I muttered.

Tarin glanced at me, and I expected a scathing remark or disgusted look, but he only said, "I agree with the Skipper. If there is no end to Sauron's army, how then do we hope to achieve victory?"

Gandalf nodded in acknowledgement of Tarin's words. "Sauron cannot be stopped through means of battle. Our victory lies, instead, in the element of surprise." Gandalf looked up at Aragorn, who was still leaning on the throne, before saying, "Two hobbits now wander through the lands of Mordor, ever aiming for the Mountain of Fire. They carry with them a great burden. It is paramount that they reach Orodruin."

"Hobbits?" asked Tarin.

"Halflings," said Éomer helpfully.

Normally, I probably would have thrown in some comment about hobbits being adorable and trustworthy, but the moment Gandalf mentioned Frodo and Sam, the memory of my last visit to Mordor rose to the surface. I had forgotten, or forced myself to, in the chaos of Pelennor Fields and my sudden meeting with Boromir. Now, the images flashed before my eyes—the orc's fingers knotted in Sam's hair, Frodo's blood staining the rocks of Mordor.

"Ana." A gentle hand rested on my forearm, and I looked up to see Éomer watching me, his gray eyes filled with concern.

"What happened?" I asked.

Éomer didn't release his hold on my arm as he said, "You cried out as if in pain."

I winced. The rest of the hall was looking at me as well. The Fellowship seemed concerned; Legolas had unfolded his arms, and Aragorn had taken a step in my direction. The eight Tarins was staring at me. Some with distrust, some with annoyance, and some with pity.

"Sorry," I said, carefully removing Éomer's hand. I smiled at the lords. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Please, carry on." I added a second, silent "please". I hated myself for being lost in the memory, and all these people seeing it. I didn't need to be lost in what happened in Mordor. I'd told Gandalf what had happened during the Battle of Pelennor Fields. He would know how to fix it. Gandalf always knew.

Gandalf's gaze rested on me a moment longer before he turned back to the lords and said, "Ana has shared with me what she has seen in Mordor."

Rather than take the attention away from me like I'd hoped, Gandalf had just brought everyone's focus back to me, this time with renewed interest. Some of the Tarins were looking at me with a respect that hadn't been there before, while others seemed skeptical—they didn't trust the information of a witch.

"She has walked on the barren rocks of Mordor," said Gandalf. "And there, she has seen the host of orcs that lies between the hobbits and Mount Doom." Gandalf glanced at me. "Thousands upon thousands of orcs cover the lands of Mordor. With their presence, the hobbits' path to the mountain has all but disappeared. We must help create that path."

A heavy silence had filled the hall, a silence that seemed to echo in the marble itself. The stone faces of the ancient kings glowered down at us, almost daring us to do the unthinkable—what that was, however, I didn't know.

I looked around at the Fellowship and the Tarins, willing them to believe Gandalf's words. Aragorn was staring down at the throne, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought, while Legolas and Gimli waited in silence for him to reach a decision. Most of the Tarins were weighing Gandalf's words and the truth of them, but one Tarin was staring at me, his eyes narrowed with distaste.

It was Éomer who broke the silence. "While I have not met these hobbits who walk through Sauron's lands, I have met their kin. It was one of them who stabbed the Witch-king of Angmar in the leg. You were wise, I think, Gandalf, to trust hobbits with this burden, and Rohan will do what we can to aid them in this perilous journey."

It threw me to hear Éomer speak for all of Rohan. Then, slowly, it dawned on me that this meeting was taking place after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Théoden was dead, which meant that Éomer was king. It was one thing to know that Éomer was king, and another to see him. in action. This was the man who I'd spent so many night drinking with; it was hard to see him as a king. Aragorn, on the other hand, had always been a king to me. From the way he moved to the decisions he made, every inch of Aragorn screamed "king". But not Éomer. Éomer was just…Éomer. Still, here he stood among the lords of Gondor, speaking for his people. No doubt he would made a fine king.

"Rohan perhaps is willing," said Tarin, his voice low, "but we will not throw away soldiers of Gondor on the words of a witch."

"The Skipper," I corrected automatically.

"Ana has proved herself trustworthy," said Gimli, his dark eyes narrowed as he stared up at Tarin. "Many times more than you, my lord."

"How has she proved herself?" asked Tarin. "I hear words, but I see no deeds."

"It is she who told us of Mordor," said Legolas.

"She was on Pelennor Fields," added Gimli. "She was at Helm's Deep. She has done far more than many, while you have sat behind your city walls."

Tarin's eyes narrowed. "You speak in the throne room of Gondor, the hall of kings. If I were you, I would choose my next words very carefully, dwarf."

Gimli started to rise from his seat. But before things could get any worse, Legolas placed a hand on Gimli's shoulder and, slowly, Gimli lowered himself back into his seat, shooting a threaten glare in Tarin's direction. I looked over at Aragorn, expecting the king returned to do something, but Aragorn's gaze was still fixed on his throne.

It was another one of the Tarins, actually, who intervened. "Cease. You do Gondor no merit by accusing our informant of being a witch and insulting our king's companion."

"Lord Tarin speaks truly," said Gandalf. "Now is not the hour to be squabbling amongst ourselves. We must focus our efforts. Our only hope is to protect the two hobbits—"

"Then we must march on the Black Gates." Aragorn spoke so suddenly that one of the Tarins jumped in surprise.

Whatever answer Gandalf and the Tarins had been expecting, it had not been an attack on the Black Gates. Some of the Tarins paled a little, and one of them looked as though he was about to faint. Gandalf frowned deeply at the proposal. Éomer grimaced. Only Legolas and Gimli seemed unsurprised by Aragorn's plan; resignation settled on their faces as they exchanged glances.

I was not resigned. I was horrified. "That—" My voice came out squeaky, and I tried again, "That's insane!"

The Tarins seemed to share my shock.

"A march on the Black Gate…" said Tarin. "What madness is this?

And another Tarin said, "We will surely perish."

"We will surely succeed," said Aragorn. He turned away from the throne and faced the lords of Gondor. "Our lives are meaningless if Frodo and Sam perish before they reach Orodruin. We would be waiting behind the walls of Minas Tirith for our doom to come. We would be with no hope of a world free of Sauron's shadow, the darkness ever growing. But if we march on the Black Gate, we will draw out Sauron's armies, empty his lands, giving Frodo and Sam safe passage through Mordor. I, and Gondor, will not wait and watch from a distance as the world falls into ruin."

Tarin swallowed. He glanced around at his fellow lords, and then, in a small voice, said, "There must be another way."

The other Tarins, however, seemed to agree with Aragorn.

It was only me who stood there, desperately trying to think of another way. "You can't. You can't march on the Black Gates. It's crazy. You're crazy. There's got to be another way. There's got to…"

"Were you not in support of creating a path for Frodo and Sam?" asked Gandalf, frowning.

"Well, yeah," I said, my voice unnaturally high pitched. "From a safe distance. A march on the Black Gate is like knocking on Sauron's front door and asking him to kill you." I looked around at the Fellowship and then finally at Éomer. I'd lost so many people already—I couldn't bear to lose any of them as well. If I had to stumble on a younger Éomer and talk to him, knowing that his fate ended in a brutal death outside the Black Gate, I'd break. I'd break into so many pieces that not even you would be able to put me back together again. "There has to be another way…"

"We will succeed," said Aragorn.

I stared at him. He met my gaze with even, unwavering eyes. There was no possible way he was as confident as he appeared. No way that he truly believed they could march on the Black Gates and walked away unscathed.

"Can't you knock on the door and then flee?" I asked.

"There is too much to risk with such a strategy," said Éomer. "That gives Sauron time to look inward."

Aragorn nodded. "We must keep the Great Eye fixed on us. Keep him blind to all else that moves."

I opened and closed my mouth, wanting to protest, but there was nothing more for me to say. In the end, my opinion meant nothing. I didn't bring with me a host to command. I was probably going to Skip away before the battle began (though knowing the Senturiel, I would end up making an appearance). I wasn't even from this world. Or was I? My father was from Bree, which meant that I was at least half from this world. Still, I was nothing but a sometimes-useful intrusion, and my opinion meant less than the Tarins' in this debate.

"What if Sauron does not take the bait?" asked Legolas. Gimli, from his seat, nodded in agreement.

"He will take the bait," said Aragorn. His gaze briefly fell on the marble throne before looking away again. "He cannot ignore the king of Gondor returned."

Every inch of me was screaming out in protest. Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it. Aragorn declaring himself the king of Gondor at the Black Gate would put a target on his head. A very large target. Could it be considered a victory if Frodo and Sam destroyed the Ring but Aragorn died in the final battle?

Éomer placed a hand on my shoulder. "We must be strong, Ana."

"I'm not good at being strong," I said in a small voice.

"You have survived this long," said Éomer. "I think you are stronger than you know."

"That's because of the Senturiel. If I couldn't Skip, I would've died a hundred times over." I paused. "Though if I didn't Skip, I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. Though I may have died anyway if I didn't Skip—I did almost get hit by a truck when I was twelve."

"A truck?" repeated Éomer.

"It's a giant metal thing on wheels—never mind." I took a deep breath. "I'll try."

Éomer smiled. "That is all any of us can do."

Even though I'd told Éomer I would be strong, right then it felt like an impossible feat. There was a sinking in my stomach, the feeling of sand running through an hourglass. No matter how much I tried to push it away, the image of my friends standing outside the Black Gates kept returning to me. I saw then in armor—Aragorn, Éomer, Gimli, Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Gaenry, and even Legolas—staring up at the towering, metal structure, not knowing what waited them on the other side.

Aragorn's next words broke through my thoughts. "We must march."

"It is a doomed march," said Tarin. "We have no more than eight thousand men able enough to fight."

"But it is a march that we must make, nonetheless," said Aragorn.

I closed my eyes. Something had to change. I'd managed to screw things up for Frodo and Sam. My presence in Mordor had been enough to get them killed, and now something had to change so that they could live. And it seemed that an attack on the Black Gate was going to be that change. Would one death have to be exchanged for another? God, I hoped not.

"You know something," said Éomer suddenly.

My eyes shot open, and I frowned at him. "Know what?"

"You are not telling us all that you know." He hesitated. "Has something happened to the two hobbits?"

I winced. Yes, something happened. They died. Their blood stained the ground of Mordor. And it was my fault. All my fault. I wasn't supposed to be there. "I don't think I can tell you that."

"But you told us about the host in Mordor," said Éomer.

That was a good point. When I'd been running around looking for Gandalf, all I'd been able to think about was saving Frodo and Sam. I hadn't stopped to think that maybe revealing something like that could be dangerous. Still, that Sauron had an army in Mordor seemed like common sense, and Gandalf probably would have reached the same conclusion without my interference.

"Being the Skipper must be difficult," said Éomer.

I opened my mouth, trying find the words to explain, but I needn't have bothered.

Skip.

If the eight Tarins didn't believe I was a witch before then, they most certainly did after that.