A/N: Do you guys realize that there are twenty three people that have this story on alert? So that means twenty three people will receive a little note in their email inbox telling them that this story has been updated. And that means twenty three people can leave a review. Right?
Warning: Sad chapter. Character death.
A bolting, jarring sensation awoke Amy from her semi-unconscious coma. She was aware of a dim pain near her stomach, and her head felt as though someone had mistaken it for a bell and struck it hard. But all in all, it was not a very unpleasant way to wake up, considering her nostrils were filled with a spicy, woody smell of smoke and freshly overturned earth. A dull edge was digging into her cheek and a rounded surface was bumping harshly against her hip. Amy cracked one eye open and everything swam fuzzily in her vision, images sliding in and out of each other. The rough jarring feeling was Aragorn running, she slowly realized, and she was being carried by him. Both of her pale green eyes opened now, and she blinked hard, trying to rip her eyelashes out of the blood which had caked by her temple. A deeper, more rancid, festering odor reached her nose, and she knew something was approaching. She felt the deep humming in her core, and she began to struggle slightly. If she was going to die, she would die like her hero, General Maximus Aurelius, with strength and courage. Aragorn felt her shift and he set her down, snatching her plump cheeks with both of his calloused hands. "Amy, keep running!" he barked at her, his dark brown eyes locking onto hers. Apparently he thought she was still asleep, for he repeated this several more times before Amy managed to give a bleary nod. As soon as she nodded her confirmation, Aragorn took off at a dead run, surging his way through the Fellowship like a cresting wave. Amy stumbled after them, her feet skidding and tripping over the uneven floors.
She tried to keep her chin up, so she could die like General Maximus Aurelius, but when she turned around, all thoughts of courage evaporated like rainwater on a hot sidewalk.
Hundreds of goblins were chasing them. They looked different from Orcs, for they were slightly slimmer and their skin was more sallow, but they had the same ugly grimaces, baring black fangs dripping with saliva, and oily hair that grew in patches on their skulls. Thin, olive-green skin flecked their cheeks and from this distance it looked as though they were lightly scaled. Noses were either canine snouts or snakelike slits; their eyes were a fetid yellow that reminded Amy of sickness, death, disease, gangrene. Ears were pulled sharply backwards and nearly touched each other behind their small heads, but Amy had had enough of looking at them. Terror once more leapt to her throat and she began to shuffle forward. It was both a blessing and a curse to be so hazy with pain; blessed, because each step felt like a marathon and trying to lift one leg at a time was taking all of her energy; cursed, because the goblins were rapidly approaching and Amy was still far behind the Fellowship.
Sam whirled around, axe still clenched in her hand, and she charged towards the approaching goblins. Amy was limping along, her freckled visage deathly white, and Sam was not going to lose her again. Passing by, Sam sank an axe into a nearby goblin's chest, wrenching it out as green blood spurted from the fatal wound. The goblin died with a hideous shriek that echoed several times around the cavern through which they were passing. Amy stopped when she saw Sam, and nearly collapsed with sobs as Sam hauled her forward by the forearm. Sam had never been one for trimming her nails, and her fingers dug red welts into Amy's tender arms. But that was then and chasing goblins was now; Sam ran slap bang into Boromir, who was shielding Lizzie with his body. A look of savage, inhuman pleasure was on his face as he faced the goblins who were now encircling them. He had resigned himself to his death, but he would go down fighting and protecting his friends and the one he loved.
Amy and the Hobbits were in the center as Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir, Gimli, and Sam grouped around them tightly. She felt small hands - childlike hands - supporting her, and glanced down briefly at Pippin and Merry, two small faces twisted with concern and worry. The screams of the goblins were higher pitched and more growls than yells now, and Amy closed her eyes. This was it. She was going to die in a fictional world, surrounded by fictional characters, being slaughtered by fictional monsters. But if it was all fictional, why did it feel so real? She felt a flurry of hot tears slide down her cheeks, and a dry sob wrenched from her chest. A hand, larger than the Hobbits small ones, found hers, and she found herself looking into Lizzie's pale blue eyes. They were both crying. Amy and Lizzie embraced once, briefly, their shoulders barely touching as they found an instant of comfort in each other. Then they separated, Lizzie clinging to Boromir's shield and Amy allowing the Hobbits to support her once more.
And then, miraculously the goblins retreated. They looked up, and their squeals of war cries became guttural roars of fear. They melted into the blackness, scrambling up pillars and into minuscule cracks in the masonry, disappearing as silently as mice and as quickly as cockroaches. Amy felt her fear be replaced by confusion; why were they running?
Then they found out why.
A gigantic beast, larger than two elephants stacked atop one another, crouched bearlike in the hall. Leathery black wings of colossal proportions unfurled, each membrane rimmed with smoke and flames. Its triangular head has two soulless black eyes that see straight into nothing, gigantic ram horns curled three times around each ear. Fire is wrapped around its huge body, and a tail thrashes somewhere behind it. A whip, made of molten fire, lashes the air viciously and a sword caked with thousands of layers of blood is brandished in the air. A deep, harsh roar is shouted from its throat, and its clawed feet take a menacing step forward. Amy felt fear constrict her soul and body and mind, and she wasn't even aware of Legolas pulling her sharply behind him, of voices yelling at her to run. She followed Aragorn slowly, trying with all her might to pick up one foot and put it in front of the other.
And then it appeared in front of them, a single might arch of stone spanning a bottomless pit which gaped below them. The bridge had gaps and cracks running through it, and in one section it had crumbled away entirely. Aragorn bolted across it, leading the others across, and shoving them forward. Legolas lept gracefully across, landing on his fingers and the balls of his feet, and then he swiveled to catch the next person. Boromir lunged across, passing Legolas, and was closely followed by Sam. Sam threw herself across and nearly succeeded in knocking Legolas into the pit below them, then followed Boromir. The Hobbit came, one at a time, and then Gimli. Ridiculously, the bushy-bearded dwarf raised a fuss about being tossed. "I'm a dwarf!" he grunted, "An' no man tosses a dwarf!"
The Balrog hissed and smashed the nearest wall with its tail, sending refrigerator sized-chunks of rock flying. Aragorn seized Gimli bodily and threw him forcefully across the chasm, but Gimli's fingers nearly slipped and missed purchase on the rock. Legolas, his hand outstretched faster than blinking, gripped Gimli's beard firmly and dragged the dwarf to safety. The Hobbits made it across without trouble, and Aragorn jumped off. He turned, and dim comprehension flowed over his face when he saw Gandalf facing the Balrog.
"Demon! You will not pass!" he shouted, his sword glowing brightly and his staff electric. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Sword of Anon! The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun!"
The Balrog roared piercingly, and lunged at Gandalf. Sword and staff were brought sharply together, metal fusing with wood, magic twisting with magic. "YOU - SHALL - NOT - PASS!" Gandalf barked, and stabbed his staff and sword into the bridge. A sheet of white hot flame sprang up and the bridge dissolved like sand beneath the Balrog's curved claws. The monster fell into the bottomless chasm, fiery roars splitting the skies. Gandalf drew a hand across his wet forehead and turned to go, his gray eyes heavy.
A tongue of purest flame whipped out of the abyss and flicked around Gandalf's ankle. The gray wizard gave a indistinct cry of surprise and was jerked to the very edge where the Balrog had fallen. He clung precariously by the tips of his fingers, gravity tugging his towards his doom. His gray eyes locked with Frodo's, then Aragorn's.
"Fly, you fools."
And let go.
Things moved in slow motion, a damp, underwater quality. Amy felt herself lunging forward, pain forgotten, nothing but a blinding glare of horror and grief slashing her chest. She felt blood ooze from the fresh wounds she was tearing in her soft belly, but she didn't care. It was only when she saw Frodo being caught around the waist by Boromir did she nearly make it. She was almost at the edge, could almost see herself reaching out to catch Gandalf, who by now was already dueling the Balrog to the death; but strong arms wrapped around her hips and dragged her backwards. "No!" she shrieked. "No! No! No! Let me go!" she screamed and thrashed, jamming her elbows into the flat stomach of whoever was holding her captive. She was pulled hard against a firm chest and she unwillingly breathed in a lungful of mossy pines and crisp leaves. She punched Legolas weakly in the stomach but there was no effort behind the punch. She allowed herself to be picked up and dragged away, the tips of her toes skimming the ground, her mane of red hair falling in a curtain around her face. The flame of anger had left her, and she was now
frozen with grief.
How long they hurried through twisting passageways, Amy didn't know. But it must have been some time later for the sun was affixed midway in the sky when Legolas set her down gently on the ground. She made no move to catch herself as she fell, but instead allowed her body to collapse on the ground. The rocks scraped her cheek and arms badly, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered. Faintly, she heard the Hobbits crying, but she felt too raw and painful to cry. This went beyond tears. She lay there for what could have been moments, instants, seconds, minutes, hours, years, centuries, eternities, lifetimes. Then Aragorn's crisp voice broke through the cool midday.
"Legolas, get them up." Aragorn commanded. Boromir turned to him, his face haggard. Tears were also falling from his eyes as he looked at his leader with shock and horror.
"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir insisted, his large hand patting Merry gently on the back. Aragorn shook his head firmly.
"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs and goblins of all creeds. Legolas, get them up." He repeated.
Slowly, they got to their feet. Sam and Lizzie were sobbing against each other, burying faces in each others' wet necks as they cried themselves out. But Amy felt washed out, numb, horrified. She shuffled forward silently, and then felt herself being hugged fiercely by Sam and Lizzie. For a long moment, the three girls cried against each other, cried because Gandalf was dead, cried because they had nearly died, cried out of pain and suffering, hardships and toils.
They cried for a long time, and by the end they all still felt the heavy baggage of grief weighing heavily on their souls.