PART ONE: ANACHRONISM

Chapter LXXIII: This Is Not A Happy Story

Rough dirt blew against my skin as I lay face-down on the cracked earth. The Skip had unceremoniously dropped me in some brown, dusty plain. I'd taken one step, tripped over a rock, and landed on the hard earth with thud. I opened my eyes, grimacing as I felt a stinging sensation in my right wrist. I prayed that my wrist wasn't sprained or broken. It would be just my luck to break a bone not running away from orcs or goblins but from tripping over a rock.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. I rolled my wrist and was glad that it was only a little tender. Nothing broken, maybe a little bruised. Carefully, I sat up and took in my surroundings.

Dirt and dust and crisp blades of brown grass stretched out around me until, in the distance, they transformed into the sharp rocks of what looked to be a mountain range. The mountains stretched to my left and to my right as far as the eye could see. The only gap in the mountains was where the stone had been cut out to make room for a thick, metal gate. The black metal towered overhead. Its shadow, faint but long, did not quite reach where I sat in the dirt.

My heart sank. I knew exactly where I was. Mordor. The Black Gate. Great, just great. I went from cowering inside the Lonely Mountain with three armies on the doorstep to sitting outside the Black Gates with an army of orcs waiting beyond. The Skips certainly had a sadistic sense of humor.

I waited, expecting the gates to open and an army of orcs to come out to kill me. But then I realized Sauron wouldn't send an entire army out for little old me. He'd probably send a small squad or something. Maybe even just one orc. I wasn't that threatening. They might not even bother leaving their perches on top of the Black Gates; they could just shoot an arrow and be done with me.

No arrow came. Neither did any orcs. I was beginning to wonder if I'd accidentally picked up one of the elvish cloaks from Lórien when a familiar voice called out my name, "Ana?"

I turned and saw an army at my back.

I shrieked. I couldn't help it. I'd been so preoccupied with the Black Gate that I hadn't even noticed the army a behind me. Thankfully, the soldiers were marked with the white tree of Gondor and the golden horse of Rohan. Friends, not foes.

At the front of the army, on horseback, some familiar faces approached me. Aragorn had shed his ragged clothing for armor marked with the white tree. Éomer rode at his side with little Merry clinging to his broad shoulders to get a good look at me. Gandalf was on Aragorn's other side, dressed all in white with little Pippin behind him. Gimli rode behind the elf, the two of them staring down at me curiously. There were other lords present, I noted—some from Rohan (I recognized the grim Éothain) and some from Gondor (I think one or two of the Tarins were present). The amalgamated army behind them looked nervous. The soldiers' eyes kept flitting back and forth, as though they hoped no one was looking and they could run away. It took me a moment to realize that this was the march on the Black Gate.

"You have managed to arrive here before us," said Aragorn when he was close enough to be heard.

Some of the lords whispered among themselves, no doubt wondering what witchcraft brought me here. The Fellowship remained unphased. The thing that did surprise them, however, was my condition.

"Yours wounds have healed swiftly," said Merry. "The last time we saw you, you were in the Houses of Healing."

Pippin nodded along with his friend. "Enduring much pain and screaming very loudly."

"Yes, well, time works differently for you and me. I heal like a normal person, I promise." My left hand touched my opposite wrist as I fidgeted. I hoped I didn't have to explain the wonders of modern medicine to anyone. I glanced over my shoulder at the dark structure ahead of us. "So…a march on the Black Gate, huh."

The Fellowship stared at me.

"Yes," said Gandalf. "Have you not yet attended the council where we decided this?"

"Oh, I was there," I said with a quick glare in the direction of the Tarins.

"I would offer you a horse if we had one to spare," said Éomer. "You could join our last, desperate march."

My eyes narrowed. Éomer knew how much I hated horses.

Éomer smiled at me. "But you did well during the Battle of Pelennor Fields."

"Desperate times called for desperate measures," I said.

"Yes," said Aragorn, "that is why we are here."

Éomer's smile vanished and his gaze moved past me to the dark lands beyond. His haunted expression was reflected in the faces of the Fellowship. The shadows behind their eyes reminded me of the dwarrows back in the Lonely Mountain. It was another time, another place, another battlefield…yet somehow, I always ended up in the middle of it.

I sighed. "That's how it goes. Out of the frying pan—"

Skip.

"—and into the fire."

"Aunt Ana, look out!"

Someone slammed into my right shoulder, knocking me to the ground. I used my right hand to catch myself. A sharp pain shot through my wrist, and I let out a shriek. If it wasn't broken before, surely it had to be now. With a groan, I rolled onto my back.

Unfortunately, rolling onto my back meant rolling onto the body of a dead elf.

I screamed as I scrambled backwards, my hands landing on the arm of another corpse. There was a flash of light on metal, and I saw that an orc had just narrowly missed lobbing off my head.

My fingers scrambled for my boot where I kept the Sword Breaker. Before I could draw my weapon, the orc, grunting and sweating, lifted up his sword again.

Bard leapt between us and buried his blade in the orc's chest.

For a moment, the orc's body stood there, hands still raised to murder me. Then, the orc crumpled to the ground at Bard's feet.

I screamed again. I couldn't help it.

"Aunt Ana," said Bard. He clapped a hand over my mouth to shut me up. Of course, his hand was covered in grime and blood, which only made me panic more.

A shadow fell over us, and we both turned to see another orc. Bard released me, and raised his sword to block the blow of the orc's hammer. Then, Bard stepped backwards, swung his sword upwards, and sliced into the orc's abdomen. The orc let out high-pitched whine, and Bard cleaved his sword into the orc's left shoulder.

I watched, horrified, my chest heaving up and down, as the orc collapsed onto the rocky ground beside its fellow soldier. It was only then, as they lay side by side, that I realized the orcs wore different armor. One had rough, gray armor that seemed mismatched, while the other wore black metal marked with a red bird.

"Where are these orcs from?" I'd never seen that symbol before. "The Misty Mountains?"

"There are two armies," said Bard. His hand clutched his left forearm, which seemed to have been cut in the fight. "The first arrived from Dol Guldur. They came down from Ravenhill."

I followed his gesture to look up the western slopes. A large flag had been planted there, painted with the image of the same red bird that I now recognized as a raven.

"Their commander is up there," gasped Bard. "The second army arrived not long ago. The elves say they are from Gundabad."

"Two armies?"

Bard didn't hear me. Another orc had charged at him, and he raised his sword in defense. I scurried backwards, clutching the Sword Breaker to my chest. The Lonely Mountain loomed overhead, its snow-capped peaks looking down on its doorstep as five armies fought for the treasure inside.

Then, in the mouth of the mountain, I spotted the barricade, the one I'd spent days building with the Company. Only, the barricade was no longer whole. Rocks had been torn down and a giant hole had formed in the wall. My heart skipped a beat. The Company? Were they okay? Were they somewhere out on the battlefield? Or had someone broken in?

I didn't have long to worry about the Company as a Gundabad orc charged at me. I lifted the Sword Breaker above my head, and to my surprise, I actually managed to catch the orc's blade between the teeth. The orc let out a low growl and then grabbed my wrist. I almost dropped the Sword Breaker as pain shot through me.

Skip.

Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong orc.

I watched the orc's pale gray eyes widen as he realized he was no longer in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain but on a different battlefield entirely.

The ring of swords against swords surrounded us. Beside me, a Gondor soldier cut down an orc. Purple blood splashed over my leg as I wrenched my arm out of the orc's gasp.

The orc's eyes narrowed as I backed away. Even if he was in a different time and place, he recognized that orcs were fighting humans around him. He knew which side he was on. He didn't need to know anything else.

I managed to jerk the Sword Breaker upwards, just in time to protect my face from his blade. I thought my arm might give out from the pain. The orc spat in my face. Well, there was only one thing for it. I swung my leg upwards and kicked him in the stomach. The orc stumbled backwards while I fled in the opposite direction.

"Undur kurv!" The orc shouted after me in the back speech. To this day, I don't know the translation, but I imagine it wasn't anything nice.

I caught sight of a familiar dwarf amongst the chaos of the battlefield.

"Gimli!" I cried. "It's happening again! The Skip—it's malfunctioning—it—"

Skip.

It took me a moment to realize I was no longer outside the Black Gate. The fighting around me was thinner now, and when I looked about, I realized that I wasn't on the doorstep of the Lonely Mountain either. I could still see the mountain, but I was on higher ground now, standing on flat rock that looked out over a frozen river. The crumbling ruins of a guard tower loomed over the spot where the river dropped down into a waterfall, and if I peered down (not that I was going anywhere near the edge), I could see the five armies battling on the dragon-scorched plains below.

An orc of Dol Guldur spotted me. His eyes flashed at the sight of easy prey. However, before he could take on step closer, an arrow buried itself in his chest. The orc crumpled to the ground, and when I looked behind him I saw that two familiar dwarrows were fighting the remaining orcs. Dwalin swung his axe over his head before cutting down the orc before him, while Kíli positioned himself behind Dwalin and fired arrows as swiftly as he could. Before my eyes, the remaining four orcs fell, staining the pale gray rocks with blood.

Kíli didn't even wait for the last orc to close his eyes before racing across the rocks to me. His rough hands closed on my shoulders, and he gave me a violent shake as he asked, "Have you seen Fíli?"

I shook my head, barely registering Kíli's question. "I've been Skipping. Back and forth. Between this battle and another one. It doesn't stop. Why does it keep doing this to me? What did I ever do to the Senturiel?" My voice was thick with unshed tears.

"The four of us separated," said Kíli. "Balin, Dwalin, Fíli, and I followed Uncle here. After the Company brought down the barricade, Thorin said Azog waited for him on Ravenhill. He told Fili and me to remain, but we followed. When we could not find Uncle in this mist, we decided to part ways. But an army…a second army from Gundabad arrived. We did not know. How could we know? And now we cannot find Fíli!"

Dwalin had to pry Kíli's desperate fingers away from my shoulders. The young dwarf had been shaking me as he spoke, and all the while, I was still trying to figure out why the Senturiel was doing this to me.

"Why does the Skip bring me from battle to battle. Last time this happened, I ended up in the hospital, bleeding from broken glass. Not a good idea. Me in the hospital is just asking for trouble—they have cameras. What happens if they catch me Skipping on camera? That's happened before, when I was younger, but they blamed it on a technical glitch. There's only so many times you can blame these things on technical glitches!" Let out a hysteric laugh that quickly transformed into a barely suppressed sob.

"Ana." Dwalin softened his usually gruff voice as he spoke to me. "We are few in number in enemy territory. We cannot fall to sorrow and worry. Azog the Defiler is here, hunting the heirs of Durin." He glanced at Kíli and then swore in Khuzdul. "We should never have come here."

Dwalin's voice helped me calm down. It took me a minute, but I managed to even out my breathing. It was all right. I could survive this. I'd survived this before with the Battle of Helmsdeep. I didn't know what the Skips had against me, but I could take whatever it threw at me.

However, even if I'd managed to calm down, there was still Kíli to deal with. Once he realized I really didn't know where his brother was, Kíli started towards the ruins of the guard tower. Mist swirled across the frozen lake as Kíli charged forward. The tower loomed overhead, shrouded in cloud.

"Fíli!" he screamed. "Fíli!"

"Kíli!" I shouted as I reached the edge of the river. "Stop!"

Ahead of me, Dwalin chased Kíli across the ice. Trying to keep his voice low, Dwalin growled, "You will only endanger your brother if you keep shouting for all to hear!"

Tears in his eyes, Kíli turned to Dwalin. "Fí—"

It was barely a sound. Barely a gasp. Just Kíli's eyes going very wide. His lips moved to complete his brother's name but no sound came out.

At first, I didn't understand what had happened. I stood on the stony bank of the river, staring past Dwalin at the youngest heir of Durin. Then, I noticed that Kíli's teeth were red. A drop of blood bubbled at his lips and dripped down his chin.

Why was Kíli bleeding? What had happened? I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand. I saw the blade protruding from Kíli's chest, like a silver horn that had erupted from his ribcage, and still I couldn't understand. But when I saw the pale blue orc emerge from the mist behind him, I could no longer deny what I already knew.

Skip.

It was a punch to the gut. Not figuratively. Literally. Because I actually got punched in the gut by an orc within two seconds of seeing Kíli killed. I fell onto my back and lay on the cracked earth beneath the Black Gate. I didn't have the strength to lift even a finger in my defense, and the orc probably would have killed me if it hadn't been for Aragorn.

The newly found king of Gondor raised his sword to parry the orc's axe. I watched, barely processing, as Aragorn cut down the orc.

I remember a vague thought floating through my head. Aragorn was defending me. How nice.

But Kíli was dead, so what did the rest of it matter?

Kíli… We made fun of him being a beardless dwarf… I hadn't meant it seriously. It was only because Kíli was the youngest, and he was so easy to make fun of… But we'd journeyed so far together, and he and his brother had always taken care of me. I still remembered when I'd first joined the Company. The three of us had made those majestic Thorin jokes together…

Right about then was when the troll came out of nowhere and knocked Aragorn off his feet.

It was like being in a never-ending nightmare. I didn't have time to grieve Kíli, and already I had to watch another of my friends fall. Aragorn reached across the ground for Andúril, his fingers stretching towards the hilt. The troll, holding a giant, spiked mace, crept ever closer.

Not Aragorn. Not Aragorn. Not Aragorn. He was going to be king. He was going to save Middle Earth. He was going to marry Arwen, have little princes and princesses, and return Gondor to its former glory. Not Aragorn.

Skip.

"We should have remained on the battlefield," said a familiar voice.

"I—" A second voice broke off and then I heard my name. "Ana, what are you doing here?"

Fíli grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. Unfortunately, he grabbed my right arm. I yelped as pain spiked through me and yanked my arm out of Fíli's grasp.

The pain, at least, woke me up from my numb state. I realized I was standing in the worn and cracked remains of a ruin. Moss grew over the black stone, and through a gaping hole I could see a battlefield far below. My brain somehow connected the dots, and I realized I was in the ruined guard tower of Ravenhill.

"Are you injured?" asked Fíli. He kept his voice low as if afraid someone might overhear.

Balin, his white beard tucked into his belt and his sword drawn, stood beside the younger dwarf. The two of them watched me with worried eyes.

They didn't know, I realized. They didn't know what fate had befallen Kíli. Or perhaps it hadn't happened yet. My Skips weren't linear. Perhaps there was still a chance. Perhaps the Skips had given me a chance.

"Kíli." I gasped the name. "Save him."

"Kíli?" Fíli's face had begun to pale. "What happened to my brother, Ana?"

"Outside, on the river…"

But Fíli was already gone, running through the ruins in search of his brother.

"You do not know who is out there!" cried Balin.

I shoved the Sword Breaker back into my boot before racing after Fíli. I don't know where he led me. Upstairs, downstairs, left through this hall, crawl through this hole. I don't even think Fíli knew where he was going. We ran until our feet took us out into the cold mountain air and onto a broken ledge. I think it might have once been a bridge across the river, but time and dragon fire had left only a small, crumbling piece of the bridge behind. I could see the frozen river below and the faint outline of its bank, but fog and wind swirled around us, making it difficult to see anything clearly.

I was several paces behind Fili when I saw him collapse to his knees. His shoulders started to tremble, and I knew just what I would see when I reached the edge and looked down. Still, my feet managed to find a way forward.

A broken figure, sprawled out alone on the ice. One of his dark braids had come undone, and red blood spilled from his chest onto the white snow below. The pale orc's sword had busted a hole in his armor, so that the sigil of Durin on his chest had one less star.

"Undag Durin-ob. Biriz torag khobdubol."

That speech, that voice, those words. I will remember them until my dying day.

Fíli remained frozen in his grief, but I twisted around to see the orcs of Dol Guldur emerging from the passageway behind us. At the front was a pale blue orc. His eyes flashed with some vague recognition when he saw me, but his gaze moved swiftly past me. His attention was on a different prey.

One of the orcs grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back. The pain was unbelievable, and I could barely focus on Fíli through the black spots on the edges of my vision.

I had the selfish desire to leave, to Skip away so I would never have to witness this next scene. Fíli was trapped in this nightmare. The timeline would never change for him. But I…I could disappear. I could run away like I coward I was—to a different time and a different place. I could find Fíli and Kíli alive and pretend like this future would never happen.

I watched as two orcs held Fíli down. I watched as Azog raised his great sword. I watched as Fíli's head fell to join his brother on the frozen river. Fíli's body, however, remained on the broken bridge.

Skip.

I didn't even notice the Skip. In my mind, I was already far, far away. On a beach in the tropics. The Company stood around me, laughing as they told stories of their days in the Blue Mountains. Things like death and sorrow couldn't touch us there. Not anymore.

"Ana, watch your head!"

Hot blood splattered on the back of my neck. I was wrenched out of my fantasy and brought plunging back into reality. The hilt of a short blade was mere inches from my throat, and when I looked over my shoulder, I saw the orc behind me struggling for one last breath. It collapsed onto the ground, and my right arm was finally free.

Two small figures stood in front of me, and after a few blinks, I realized I had been saved by Frodo and Sam.

"Ana, we found you," said Frodo. He seemed genuinely relieved.

"You disappeared," said Sam. "When you saw the mass of orcs were moving off towards the Black Gate, you Skipped away and we were not sure if you were safe."

I barely registered what they were saying, that they had a different memory of the last time we met than I did. All I could think was "You're all right. You're alive."

Sam and Frodo exchanged worried glances. "Yes."

I took in my surroundings. When I'd last met the hobbits, they'd still been crossing the scarred, black lands. They'd died again and again, and I'd had to watch. The mountain never growing any closer. But now, Frodo and Sam were on a carved path with large, smoothing steps ascending a steep slope. A stone doorway had been cut into the side of the mountain, and I could see red light glowing from within. They had done it. They had climbed the mountain of fire.

"You're alive and unharmed," I said. Despite everything, a laugh formed in my throat. The hobbits were alive. The march on the Black Gate had been worth it. The hobbits had lived past my Skip. They'd survived, and they were almost to the top of Mount Doom. But Fíli and Kíli…and maybe Aragorn too…

"Ana?" Frodo took a step closer to me and reached out a hand to touch my shoulder. His eyes were red and his face pale as if some part of him wanted to kneel in the dirt next to me and cry as well.

In that moment, I felt as though I understood Frodo. We'd never been particularly close when I'd traveled with the Fellowship, but right then, I realized that we had more in common than I'd ever expected. Different burdens, of course, but both so difficult to carry. I'd wanted to give up so many times. I still did. I wanted to lie down and cry until some orcs found me and put an end to it. But I couldn't. Not only because the Senturiel would never let that happen, but because I thought that if Frodo could carry the Ring, then I could endure whatever the Senturiel threw at me.

"How do you do it?" I asked, my voice breaking a little. "How do you keep going?"

Frodo's gaze softened but there was no answer.

Skip.

I was back on Ravenhill. I couldn't see the ruined tower nor the frozen river, but through the thick fog, I could make out the outline of a flag painted with the image of a red raven. Icy wind whipped around me, and I swayed slightly as the aches in my body warned me that I was reaching my limit. As I stood on the flat, gray rocks, I tried to find my breath and whatever strength I had left.

Frodo and Sam were alive. That was the most important part. They carried the Ring. They carried the fate of Middle Earth. Fíli and Kíli were part of the past. Changing their fates might change Frodo and Sam's fates. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked. One little thing could throw everything off. As much as my heart ached, I needed to let it go. Let them go. And what about Aragorn? But I hadn't actually seen him die. Maybe he survived. Maybe Legolas or Gimli had managed to reach him in time. Maybe it would be all right. Maybe I just needed to step back and let fate take what it had to take.

"Of course, you would be here."

No.

I turned, aware that I was covered in orc blood and dirt, to see Thorin standing behind me. Of course. Kíli had said they'd chased Thorin to Ravenhill. It was Thorin the brothers had been searching for. Because Thorin—for whatever reason—had said Azog was waiting for him on Ravenhill.

"Why are you here?" I asked. My voice was thick. Did he know? Did Thorin know what fate his nephews had met here on Ravenhill? They hadn't stayed on the battlefield like he'd asked but had followed him. Because he was their uncle, and they needed him alive and well.

"You know why I am here," said Thorin. He wasn't looking directly at me. Instead, his gaze scanned the mist. I knew who he was searching for.

"It's not like you're the one who has to kill him," I said.

A thin smile flickered across Thorin's face.

I gritted my teeth. He was so annoying. Acting like he was so much smarter than the rest of us. He'd been moody ever since he reached the Lonely Mountain. I didn't know exactly what was going through his mind, but I had a guess. "What's in this prophecy?"

My question must have thrown him, because Thorin turned to stare at me. Then, he quickly pushed the surprise away and his expression hardened. "Leave this place, Ana."

His face was pale against the mist. He still wore the silver armor and crown of the King Under the Mountain, but covered in blood and grime, it no longer looked splendid. He seemed tired.

"Return to the mountain," I found myself pleading. "Go back to the Company."

"The Company is finished," said Thorin. "I am telling you to go. Leave this place. You do not want to know the next part of this tale."

"Just because a prophecy tells you something, doesn't mean you have to listen to it!" I screamed.

And that's when Azog the Defiler tried to kill me.

He emerged from the fog like a ghost, his jagged sword aimed for my head. Thorin grabbed my arm and dragged me backwards. I stumbled over a rock and went crashing to the ground.

Sprawled on the cold stone, my body throbbing in protest, I tipped my head back and stared up at the pale orc.

His eyes flickered from Thorin to me and back. Then, his lips pulled back into a sneer as he said, "We meet again, shatraug agh Torin undag Train-ob."

Azog stood like a giant over Thorin, yet Thorin did not seem intimidated in the slightest. His only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. I wondered if he understood a little of the black speech.

Thorin gripped the hilt of his sword. "Come. Îsh kakhfê ai'd durugnul. This is a battle that has long waited its conclusion."

Azog made the first move. The sound of their swords meeting echoed through Ravenhill. They moved with speed and strength, hacking, slashing, parrying, dodging—I could barely keep up with my eyes.

There was a slight, two-foot drop in the rocks, and the weight of Azog's blow sent Thorin tumbling backwards. The impact of the fall sent Thorin to his knees and he rolled backwards to avoid Azog's blade. Thorin managed to kick Azog's leg from under him, and suddenly, the two situations were reversed. Azog raised his sword to shield himself from Thorin's slashes. Then, in a flash of movement, they were both standing and back on even ground.

I drew the Sword Breaker from my boot, but quickly switched it to my left hand; my right wrist would not be able to withstand the pain. It didn't matter, really. I would be next to useless in this fight.

As they traded blows, Azog continued to taunt Thorin in the black speech. By the gritting of Thorin's teeth, he understood enough words to know what the taunts meant.

They were evenly matched, and as the fight continued, each began gathered a collection of nicks and cuts. Thorin's sword arm was bleeding, and he seemed to be favoring his right leg. Azog had a long scratch along his cheek, and gaping wound in his abdomen. Still, they fought on. Azog wore an almost maniacal grin as if he enjoyed walking on the sword edge.

Personally, I felt like throwing up.

Any time Azog's blade came anywhere near Thorin, my chest tightened and I felt like screaming. I managed to keep silent only because I knew it'd distract Thorin. What if something happened? No, nothing could happen. This was Thorin. He'd been with me since the beginning, since my first Skip to Middle Earth… This was Thorin.

But I remembered when Bilbo had tried to tell me Thorin's fate. I'd cut him off. I hadn't wanted to know.

I saw Azog's sword raise high above Thorin's head. Thorin was distracted by Azog's metal hand…

Screw fate.

"Ana, stop!"

I don't know how I managed to survive what happened next. Luck, probably.

My body moved on its own. All I could see was Azog's sword inches from biting into Thorin's neck. I sprinted, holding the Sword Breaker as tightly as I could in my left hand, and leapt off the ledge onto Azog's back. I buried the combed blade of the Sword Breaker deep into the broad muscle and hoped to God I'd found Azog's heart.

I didn't, of course. At this point, I doubt Azog actually has a heart.

I did, however, manage to cause the orc a lot of pain. He let out a deep howl and his clawed, left hand reached behind him, searching for me.

Panic swelled within me as I realized I had no escape plan. I could see Azog raising his sword above his head, preparing to bring the blade down on me.

I shrieked right as Thorin drove his sword through the orc's open jaw.

Azog stiffened. I could feel the muscles of his back tightened as I clung to the Sword Breaker and his metal armor. The hilt of his sword slipped through his fingers, and I heard the clang of metal on stone. Then, the hard muscles quivered and gave out beneath me as Azog and I collapsed onto the cold stone ground. Azog's massive body lay on top of me, pushing down on my chest. I thought I was going to suffocate—Azog's last revenge—but then Thorin shoved the orc away from me.

I had never been so happy to see though blue eyes.

"I told you to leave."

Uh…that was not the thanks I had been expecting. It wasn't as if I thought he'd kiss my feet and swear eternal gratitude to me, but I'd at least expected a simple thanks. Instead, he was going to scold me.

I gawked at him. "Um…did you miss the part where I just saved your life?"

Thorin eyes flashed before he yanked the Sword Breaker out of Azog's back and handed it back to me still covered in the orc's dark blood. I held the blade in my left hand, unsure if I should clean it before returning it to its sheath.

"I told you not to," said Thorin. "I told you I had to be the one to kill him."

"And I told you not to listen to a stupid prophecy!" I screamed. My voice was hoarse and my muscles trembled from exhaustion as I spoke. "You always call me an idiot, but only an idiot would needlessly sacrifice himself because some prophecy tells him to! I saved you! You're alive! The least you could do is thank me!"

Skip.

I didn't understand. Why? Why? Why? What had I done wrong? I just wanted him to live. I'd already had so many people taken from me. I couldn't lose Thorin. Not Thorin. Fate needed so many people, but surely it could leave me him. But…why? Why did he treat me like that? Why was he so hung up on this stupid prophecy?

My face was whipped by blistering heat. A black sky rolled over head, and when I looked to my right, I could see the long path to the top of Mount Doom. The flames of the mountain coloring the clouds above red.

So I was back in Mordor. Somewhere further down the mountain. What did the Skip want from me this time? More torment? What more could it do to me?

My legs gave out beneath me, and I lay on my back, sprawled out on the scorched mountain slope.

"Think of home, Mister Frodo. Think of the Shire."

I opened my eyes. I'd spoken too soon.

Through the thick smoke of the mountain, I could see the figures of two hobbits, holding each other up. Speaking words of encouragement. They were almost there. Almost to their goal. Even if they had to carry each other up the last stretch of the mountain.

But they'd already made it. The last I saw of Frodo and Sam, they'd been mere feet away from the gaping doorway at the top of the mountain. Why had the Skip brought me back down the slope? Had something changed?

"No further, Sam…"

"I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."

"No…"

I watched as Frodo's legs gave out, as he collapsed into the side of the mountain. Sam tried to lift his friend up, but Frodo shook him off. No further. His legs had reached their end.

A rock was sticking into my back. Multiple rocks. There was a jagged pain in my right shoulder blade. One in my lower back. One in the left side of my head. One in my left thigh. I rolled over, my hands digging into the shale. Pain laced my right arm, but I gritted my teeth. I needed to stand up, to get to Frodo and Sam.

"Clever hobbitses, to climb so high."

My legs didn't have the strength to carry me, and I ended up crawling along the side of the mountain.

From his perch, Gollum leapt down on the hobbits. His teeth flashed as he buried them in Frodo's shoulder. Frodo screamed, but he didn't have the energy to push Gollum away.

My fingers curled into the dirt as I tried to get to my feet again. This time, I managed to find some semblance of balance and staggered through the shale.

Gollum slammed a rock into Sam's head. I saw blood trickling down his temple as he collapsed onto the ground. Gollum grabbed Sam by the hair and smashed his head into a jagged rock. Once. Twice. Three times. Sam's body twitched and then lay still.

"No!" I found my voice, dry and raspy. But it was too quiet, and I was too far away.

Frodo got to his feet. His right hand clutched the Ring. With a bruised fist, Gollum knocked Frodo to the ground. And then, it was only Gollum on the slope, fighting with some unseen figure. The Ring. Frodo had put on the Ring.

"Don't!" I gasped. "Frodo!"

The slope was illuminated by orange light. At first, I didn't understand. Then, I felt it. A searing presence that filled the slope. We were being watched. The Eye. The Eye of Sauron had found the Ring.

Gollum smashed a rock into an invisible figure, and suddenly, I could see Frodo again. His head hung at an odd angle as he lay limp in Gollum's bony arms.

They were dead. Fíli and Kíli dead. Frodo and Sam dead. Perhaps Aragorn too. Thorin was alive and he hated me for it. The Ring was discovered.

My legs collapsed beneath me and I fell onto the rocky slope. This time, I didn't get up again.

Skip.

The cutting rocks transformed into soft cushions. Mordor was gone, and I was lying on a pleather couch, a pillow beneath my stomach.

Slowly, my muscles protesting every movement, I shifted myself into a sitting position. A familiar couch. A familiar television. Some familiar dead cacti. A strangely empty laundry basket… I was in my living room. My living room. No one else's. Mine. In my apartment. In Ohio. In Earth.

I was back.