In honor of breaking 10k views, I present the alternate title for this chapter: oh shit no wait wHAT HAPPENED WHAT'S GOING ON OH MY GOD NO

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Once the others return, there is a victory feast held in honor of those who fell. Though the food is delicious and the spirits high, you can't help but feel a little homesick: no one parties like Dwarves - though Merry and Pippin are fierce competition. They take to a mostly clear table and begin singing drinking songs, much to the enjoyment of the men.

"A merry bunch, they are," Gimli comments, sitting down beside you with a full tankard.

"They have earned it."

"Aye, they have. Still, with a few more Dwarves, we could give them a run for their money."

"I was just thinking that. I've never been to a better party than a Dwarvish party. There's this one song they sang at Thorin's coronation - what was it?" You hum a few bars of it. Gimli picks up the tune with gusto. You find your chest tightening upon hearing Khuzdul for the first time in a long time. You drain your mug forcefully to drown the rising emotion.

"That's the idea!" Gimli chuckles. "But no Elf has ever out-drunk a Dwarf."

You snort and choke on the ale. "Uh, actually - "

"Master Elf! Come and have a drink or two," Gimli calls cheerfully.

Legolas drifts over and returns, "It looks like you have had more than two."

"We Dwarves can hold much more than two pints! But what of your delicate Elvish sensibilities?"

You stifle your growing laughter in your arm. You are going to let Gimli walk right into this and it will be glorious.

Legolas takes an "experimental" pull from a new mug, then blinks at his fingertips. "I think it's affecting me," he says, sounding surprised.

Your peals of laughter rise above even the din of the hall. "Legolas, I can't believe you would - Gimli, he's not - oh my god, I can't breathe!"

Gimli seems a bit concerned at your outburst. Legolas, on the other hand, is also trying not to crack.

"He's putting you on," you explain when you can finally breathe again. "Of course Legoals can drink - he's from Mirkwood!"

"You can drink?" Gimli stares at Legolas, indignant. "*All* Elves from Mirkwood can drink?"

"You have no idea. Didn't Gloin ever tell you how we got out of Thranduil's dungeons?"

"Aye, plenty of times! Master Bilbo snuck in and freed the company, and you escaped in barrels down the river!"

"Bilbo stole the keys from the guard, who was blackout drunk, and we escaped in empty wine barrels!"

Gimli is roaring with laughter, while Legolas looks vaguely embarrassed. "You needn't go into detail," he tells you pointedly.

"I'm sorry. But that's what you get for teasing Gimli. Acting like you can't drink, ha! You offered me a drink the first time we met, remember that?"

"In my defense, I was attempting to make you feel more at home. I assumed you'd be there longer than you were."

You rub your pink cheeks and continue to giggle. The ale and reminiscing has made you feel warm inside. Yes, the party had been hard earned and well received, and despite the lack of Dwarves, is a very good one.

Of course, matters can not stay light for too long.

You settle down for a nice night's sleep and wake naturally and in a good mood. You stroll into the hall, mind on breakfast, to find a serious gathering already in full swing.

"Understand this," Gandalf is saying, "things are now in motion that cannot be undone."

You blink. You'd completely forgotten that they'd brought the Palantir back with them, and that Pippin had touched it!

"I ride for Minas Tirith. And I won't be going alone..."

You jog to catch up to Gandalf. "You're going to Minas Tirith?"

"Pippin and I both, yes. I take it you know why?"

"Yes, I do. I - I'm sorry, I should have remembered it was last night and stopped him..."

Gandalf, despite his rush, smiles kindly down at you. "You've done nothing wrong, Aniel. Perhaps it is time I go to Gondor anyway. I've heard no news other than that which Boromir brought back, and that is worrisome."

"Denethor won't be very cooperative. He won't appreciate you coming."

"Which is why I'm going as well," Boromir says unexpectedly from behind you. He has already saddled a horse and is loading a sack onto it.

"You're going back?" you ask, surprised.

"I will make my father see reason."

"That may not be as easy as you're hoping."

Boromir turns to you. "You told me once that Gondor will weather the storm of this war and return to glory. Did you mean it?"

"Of course! I wouldn't lie to you."

"Then I will do what I must, whatever I must, to see that come to pass. Perhaps if you come with us, your word will sway my father."

You bite your lip. You hadn't intended on going to Gondor early. "I must stay. I'll come to Gondor later. Anyway, I doubt the word of a stranger would do much good. If anyone has a chance of getting through to Denethor, it's you, Boromir. And I really hope you can."

"I will," he says resolutely. "Thank you for your encouragement. I will see you when you come."

You watch Boromir ride out and Gandalf and Pippin follow. Merry steps up beside you, also watching with an openly worried expression.

You put an arm around his shoulders. "Pippin will be alright," you tell him gently. "You'll see him again soon. We'll all be together again soon."

"All of us? Even Frodo and Sam?"

"You want me to spoil the ending?" You smile wryly down at him.

"Yes," he says softly, eyes still on the horizon.

"Yes. Even Frodo and Sam. I promise."

Merry doesn't seem much more comforted, but that can't be helped. In truth, you're not very comforted either, even knowing the ending. A thousand things could change between now and what's supposed to happen, especially with how much you've altered the timeline. You wish vaguely that you had some books on time travel theory to peruse in what little spare time you'll have.

You spend the next string of days lazing around Edoras. There's nothing to do until the beacon signal reaches Rohan. After so much action, it feels strange to be idle. Something akin to impatience mounts until one afternoon you can't take being inside the walls of Edoras any longer. You leave word with Gimli that you're going for a walk, then pack a knapsack and exit through the front gates.

The cool, fresh winds of the open plains are a welcome change from the closeness of the capital. The breeze whispers its secrets through the long grass. You stop occasionally to grab a long-stemmed wildflower for a crown. This afternoon you are a princess with the entirety of nature as your kingdom.

You stop for a snack and to relax on a particularly flat rock. The sun is dipping in the slightly coloring sky. Clouds roll across it every time it gets too hot on your skin. You munch an apple blissfully. What a way to spend an evening! With nothing but peace for miles, it's easy to forget that there's a war going on.

The wind lifts again, this time lifting the sound of chimes with the rustling grass. The chimes are rather off-key; they sound more like rough clanking than delicate tinkling.

You sit up quickly, heart pounding, and in the distance spy your suspicion: an orc pack of no more than twenty tromping through the plains. Your keen eyesight catches the insignia of a white hand on some of the orcs' helms and shields. They must be survivors of Helm's Deep - were there any survivors? - or a patrol that happened to be absent when the Ents wrecked Isengard. Regardless of their origins, they are presently much too close to you for comfort.

Their projected path seems to be your way back to Edoras. You won't be able to pass them unseen, and taking an alternate route may prove unwise - you were sure to walk in a straight line from the front gates so as not to get lost on the return. You decide to follow them at a distance in case they veer off. You'd stay put until they're out of sight, but the sun is setting faster than you'd like, and you don't fancy finding your way home in the dark. Anyway, you're awfully curious to know where they came from and where they're going.

You flit from boulder to boulder behind them, only daring to come close enough to catch snippets of conversation. From what you can glean, the orcs had already been deployed when the Ents attacked Orthanc. They'd been on the road ever since. You really don't feel bad for them, especially when they decide to rest right in the way. You scowl and park in a clump of particularly thick grass next to a sparse tree.

The orcs talk mostly in Black Speak interspersed with Common. They seem to be both complaining about the lack of food and something they'd been assigned to do. The bickering stops being interesting after a while. Eventually you're just waiting for them to get out of the way.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That shiny thing over there in the grass!"

"I don't see no shiny thing!"

"It's right there! Might be a bit of silver. I'm grabbing it."

You're paralyzed as one of the larger orcs stomps towards you. What could possibly have drawn his eye? You're wearing no armor, and your sword is sheathed, and your ring could never throw so much light - Your hand flies to your hair. The hair clip. What had once been the way for ravens to find you from the sky has now given you away to the enemy.

Do you fight or run? If you kill the orc coming towards you, you may be able to run and hide before the others found you. If you ran, how far could you go before exhaustion? More importantly, how far could *they* go? And you'd get lost for certain even if you did outrun them.

With the investigating orc only feet away, fight wins over flight for just a moment. You jump up noiselessly and stab both your daggers in his neck. The orc screeches once before dropping dead, but it's enough - the noise alerts the rest of the group, and your position is blown.

"Catch it!" one bellows.

Heart pounding, you take off in a random direction. The orcs snarl and growl as they chase you down. You have a momentary flashback to the similar situation the company had been in. If only there was a secret gorge leading back to Edoras!

The orcs aren't giving up or even running out of steam. You wonder if it was wise to try to flee. You nock an arrow and fire while still running. You take out a few of them this way, missing more than you hit, until your quiver is empty.

The orcs decide to follow your example.

A piercing pain in your calf makes you trip and fall foward with a cry. You roll over to assess the damage; a black shaft snaps off at the motion, pushing the head deeper. You rip it out and throw it away in fury.

The pounding feet of your pursuers grow closer. You don't have time to move or even hide. You draw your axe and glare up at them as they close in around you.

"Is that it? The She-Elf?"

The largest and ugliest of the pack kicks you over. "It is," he rumbles. "There's the jewel in her head!"

You groan into the dirt.

"Take her weapons and tie her hands."

"What do you want with me?" you demand with more courage than you have.

"Not what we want," the big orc says, "what the Eye wants."

"What? Why does Sauron want me?!"

"And gag her, or this might be a noisy trip."

The orcs are none too gentle as they bind your wrists with coarse rope. One stuffs a nasty strip of cloth in your mouth, making you gag. They carelessly wrap your calf and tie it too tight, making the wound throb.

You're slung unceremoniously over a back and the running continues. You try to angle your head so it doesn't hit armor with each step. As the sun slips below the horizon, the full gravity of your situation sinks into your chilled skin. You close your eyes and exhale heavily. You want to be mad or scared, and eventually you will be, but at the present you're simply defeated by the irony of the one person's fate you never could have known.