A/N: What is up with you guys? First you review, then you don't, then you do…Okay, let's establish a rule. If you like it, review. Simple as that. If you don't like it, review or send me a PM so I can fix it. If you flame, you will be minced to pieces and fed to a rabid llama. Simple as that. :D
No matter how it works out, REVIEW!
Warning: Sad, sad, sad.
She watched Amy as she slept, the redhead's curls hardly stirring as her chest rose and fell hypnotically. Earlier that evening, Amy had been thrashing and whimpering, crying out occasionally as nightmares plagued her fevered dreams. It had taken two potions to get her to calm down, and now she was sleeping peacefully. Mechanically, Sam reached out and dipped the rag into the cool water, wringing it out. The patter of droplets against the water and the sputtering of the candles were the only noises in the silent room, and Sam leaned forward. Amy didn't even twitch when Sam laid the strip of wet cloth carefully on her forehead, allowing the wet bandage to streak her dark red hair and cheeks with damp stripes. Sam put a finger against Amy's cheek and winced; her fever had not broken, and she was burning up. She took the cloth off and dipped it back in the water, fighting the urge to growl at the injustice of it all. Cautiously, she lifted Amy's tunic and examined the bandages; they were still clean and fresh. The wounds were not dangerous, but the healers had stressed cleanliness. Sam had changed them every hour. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes tiredly. The Lothlorien elves had fed them until they threatened to burst, and Sam had already bathed and changed. It had been a sinfully luxurious feeling to bury herself in a wooden tub of hot water, easing away the caked filth, dried blood, and various cuts and bruises. Lizzie had managed to steal a razor from someone - Sam didn't want to know where she got it - and the two of them had shaved their legs. Sam was now dressed in a baggy tunic that was dyed some perfectly hideous shade of purple. The tunic went down nearly to her knees, and the visible leggings were black. A belt had been fastened at her waist, the small belt buckle intricately wrought with twisting silver branches.
Amy shifted in her sleep, lips parting in her red face. Sam reached out and soothed her, murmuring a few hoarse words in the stillness of the night. She heard the door creak open, but didn't turn. No doubt it was one of the healers come to check on her. To her surprise, she heard Legolas's familiar, silken voice whispering in the room. "You should sleep." He approached her and crouched down by Amy's bed. Sam sank her face into her hands, digging her nails into her thick, shaggy brown hair.
"I can't," Sam said, her voice acquiring a dull rasp from lack of rest. "I want to make sure she's okay." Sam took the cloth from the water and wrung it out again, but to her surprise, Legolas took the cloth from her and laid it over Amy's forehead. There was something about the way he tucked a strand of red hair away from her face, something about the manner he smoothed the wet cloth over her forehead that rose danger signals in Sam's mind. "Why did you come?" she asked, feeling slightly more awake now that she had something to be suspicious of. Legolas stood up and slipped out of his bow and arrows, laying the neatly next to Amy's bed. The same followed for his White Knives, and his boot daggers. When he was weaponless, he settled himself against the floor cross legged, and kept his blue eyes on the floor.
"You need your sleep, and the rest of the Fellowship is already asleep. I do not sleep well in strange places, so I decided to wait near Amy, to see if she awakens." he answered. Sam's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. But it was too late - or by now, too early - for her to be suspicious for long, and Legolas sounded perfectly honest and candid when he answered her. So Sam got to her feet, stretching long-developed aches and kinks, popping her back and rolling her shoulders.
"If she wakes up, call me," Sam said, as a redeemer. "I'm going to explore."
"Be careful," Legolas warned, not taking his eyes off of Amy's slumbering form, "This is a large city. I have no desire for you to be lost in a strange place."
"I'll be fine. Take a chill pill," Sam said, and went outside. Legolas pulled the covers closer to Amy's slender figure, tucking them about her carefully. He removed the cloth and dipped it into the water again, patting her forehead with the wet rag.
"Sleep, melamin."
09
Lothlorien was beautiful place at night. She heard the doleful sounds of singing, an etheral, unearthly beauty that hummed low in the ground and reached to the highest heavens. The silver trees were dark stripes against the blinding light of the soft gleam of the moon, which bathed everything in light. Sam glanced upwards, looking at the pockmarked moon that was perfectly round and full beaming down at her. She threaded her way into the shadows, carefully hiding her tall, willowy frame in the dark places that none could see. She skipped lightly from shadow to shadow, stepping over small streams or wading across the larger ones. White flowers in full bloom showed their smiling faces to Sam and the moon, grinning brightly at the full moon. Green grass was turned a delicate silver, laden thickly with dew, each green spike bearing an exquisite dewdrop that sparkled in the moonlight. By the time Sam crossed two meadows, her leggings and boots were completely soaked. She heard the rushing of a river, and, impulsively, scrambled down a low slope to reach it. The river was small, more of a stream really, but beautiful all the same. It twisted and gurgled around mossy boulders, fuzzy moss creeping into the rushes and carpeting the grounds. Across the bank, less than five feet away, was a sight to behold.
A buck, his horns tipped with at least five majestic points, stood magnificently on his feet, wide hooves planted firmly on the mossy bank. His sides and flanks were milky silver, and a stripe of pure white ran from his chin to his belly, broadening along his chest. Liquid dark eyes regarded Sam regally, disdainfully, as he looked down his long nose. Tiny whiskers were dripping with liquid from his recent drink, and Sam froze. The buck seemed to cast a light, rather than a shade, and he was huge. Sturdy legs, slim yet lithe, melted into powerful hindquarters and a strong back, dissolving into a thick neck. The neck arched, and he turned, exposing his back to Sam, who was still standing rock still. The buck slipped through the shadows, much as Sam had done, and within moments had completely disappeared into the fabric of the night. For a long moment, Sam stayed absolutely still. Then a long, shuddering breath broke from her mouth, and she realized she had been holding her breath. Slowly, she crossed the stream, wondering whether she should follow the deer or run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. In the end, she decided to do neither, and followed the small stream upstream until she reached a little clearing.
Three steps had been carefully inlaid with stone, leading beneath haggard tree roots. She went around the tree, following the small path, and found herself standing near the river, on a little green grassy spot. In the center of the clearing, a large stone basin filled with water. The water reflected the velvet sky above it, the twinkling stars that shone hard and clear in the autumn night. She approached it warily; after her run-in with the buck, things had taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality. Sam had almost reached the basin and was trying to decipher the runes that were inscribed around it when she nearly jumped out of her skin. Galadriel was standing silently against the tree, her hands folded into her long sleeves, flaxen curls tumbling over her shoulders. Sam jumped backwards, slamming a hand to her chest. "Holy shit, lady, don't scare me like that!" she snapped, her wildly racing heart fighting its way back to her chest.
Galadriel didn't apologize, but there was a momentary flicker of sympathy in her striking cobalt eyes. Then she circled the basin slowly, running one delicate finger along the rim. "Many men have journeyed far to look into my mirror," she said softly, her voice nearly a whisper. "And already, our Ring-Bearer had looked and seen many horrors. Men had looked into my mirror and cried out from the terrors that may befall them if they do not change their ways." She looked up, cerulean eyes locking with dark brown. "Do you wish to look into my mirror, warrior?"
Sam took a step backwards. The whole crying-out-in-terror thing didn't appeal to her much. "I'm not a warrior," she said, dragging a hand across her mouth. Galadriel never hesitated in her circling, still running one finger along the uneven grooves in the rim and the intricate symbols.
"You are. You fought bravely in the battle of Moria, you suffered along with the Fellowship. You shed tears, blood, and sweat to reach where you are now. And you still have a long way to go." Galadriel said, and her hand stroked Sam's once, lightly, feather-light, in a pitying gesture. Sam yanked her hand away, her breath coming rapidly and shallowly.
"Wait a second," she said, panic bubbling in her core. "The Fellowship…I mean, I'm not part of the Fellowship. They're just bringing me and my friends here, so we can live here. They're going on without us."
Look into my mirror, and see what is to see.
Sam obeyed, feeling the last tendrils of Galadriel's voice echo in her head before leaning over the glassy surface of the basin. The surface rippled, as though a stone had been thrown into it, and images began swimming up to the surface. Colors warped and twisted, sliding in and out of focus, until they settled into solid shapes.
Amy, dressed in battle armor, two knives on her hips, clinging to Legolas. She was sobbing into his chest, and Legolas was burying his face in her neck. Hate and love swirled around them, Technicolor spirals that floated in the air, as tangible as a scent…
Sam, fighting for her life, back to back with Haldir, his silver hair fanning out. A Uruk brings his axe down, intent on burying it in Haldir's back. Sam deflects the blow with her shoulder, and she cries out, pain driving her to her knees…
Lizzie and Sam, locked in a battle, dressed in full armor, their swords flashing in the dim light. Around them, a battle rages, the Witch-King no more than a stone's throw away. Eowyn's piercing shriek cuts through the air the second Sam levels her blade at Lizzie's unprotected neck…
Lizzie, lounging on a balcony, her golden hair flowing freely down her back and shoulders, a black dress clinging to her curves, her shoulders and back exposed to the chill. She is both terrible and beautiful, dark and light, her blue eyes triumphant and fiery with a hidden light. Behind her, a man with a long white beard and a staff smiles, the two of them examining a mighty horde of Uruks and Orcs…
Amy, screaming in anguish as an arrow buries itself in her chest, toppling over the wall…
Sam, bleeding from a dozen open wounds, helmet dented and forgotten, wielding a broken lance, throws herself upon a howling mob of Uruks, a battle cry tearing from her lips…
Lizzie, smiling, laughing, pointing, an ornate sapphire ring on her finger…
"NO! NO MORE!"
Sam fell away from the basin, scrambling away from the shallow stone dish as if cobras were hissing on the surface of the water. Terror was written all over her face, and her cheeks were sparkling with tears. "No!" She cried, looking up at Galadriel. "That can't be true. Please, it's not true. Don't make me look again, please." She was begging, and she knew it. Her friends, dead? Herself, dying on the battlefield? Lizzie, betraying them? She looked up and saw Galadriel was also crying, a tear streaking down her beautiful porcelain face. Sam got to her feet, scuffing the tears from her eyes. Without another word, she bolted off into the darkness, trying to bear the crushing weight of what she had just seen.
09