For hours, we have been sitting outside what Gandalf maintains to be the entrance to the Mines of Moria; I remain dubious, naturally, of both the door and our whereabouts, for I cannot imagine Dwarves to be remotely fond of riddles, let alone to have such a penchant for composing them. It would seem at this point that Gandalf has spoken every potential password available to his own mind, with the occasional remark from Gimli and Legolas — I say remark, rather than suggestion, because the word 'suggestion' would imply some degree of helpfulness. Evidently, the Dwarf and the Elf are about as helpful as an inflatable battle-axe. Of course, I have absolutely no intention of verbalising this opinion, for the Dwarf himself happens to be wielding a battle-axe of his own. And, though it may be incapable of destroying a band of gold forged in the fires of a volcano, I've no doubt that it is perfectly capable of crushing the skull of a young English woman like a mortar and pestle.

Much as little Samwise is crushing my heart at this very moment, as he says his goodbyes to that pony of his, affectionately named Bill. Aragorn says that he would know the way back to the Shire, but unless Bill happens to have a homing pigeon complex, I find that rather difficult to believe. Still, I would hope that he does, for as cruel and heartless as some of my company deem me to be, the thought of anything happening to that little pony is too audacious for me to bear; and poor Sam, should anything happen — his heart would shatter, and that is something that no one, particularly a good-natured Hobbit such as himself, should ever have to endure. Now, I find myself fearful, more truly than any other instance in our journey thus far, for the fate of our party. One of us is likely — near certain — to die, at the very least. I can only wonder who it will be.

Otherwise, Merry and Pippin seem to have sought amusement in flinging pebbles into the vast pool of water from the shore. Quite clearly, Aragorn is having none of this. I can barely hear what he has to say on the matter, but there is little scorn in his voice, only caution.

There is a commotion by the door, now. Frodo appears to have deduced that this is, in fact, a riddle. I could have told him that hours ago; this is Middle-earth, after all. This land shudders at the thought of something being straight-forward.

"What is the Elvish word for 'friend'?"

Riddle, Master Baggins. There is no way that—

"Mellon."

Well, fuck me. "I said that hours ago!"

"You spoke the word 'friend' in your own tongue, Miss Vincent," says Dumbledore. "And, forgive me if I am mistaken, you had little intention of actually opening the door."

"Oh, trust me, I had every intention of opening that damned door."

"Quit your grumblin', Lucy. The last thing they need is another reason to leave you outside."

"They wouldn't," I challenge, earning a chuckle from Aragorn, which sounds more sinister than good-humoured to my ears.

Once we are inside, I half expect the door to close behind us, yet it remains entirely open for retreat. This, I find to be more suspicious than if it had indeed enclosed us in the mines. I have to admit that this feels strange, even perplexing, and in no way that I have felt since we departed from Rivendell. Should the mines be so empty as this? I mean, I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee, but this is ... inauspicious to the core. Not even amongst a party of presumably competent fighters do I find any comfort.

"Soon, Master Elf," Gimli begins, chipper as ever, "you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves. Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin, and they call it a mine. A mine!"

Blowing on the rough-hewn crystal atop his staff, Gandalf illuminates the chamber, and I instinctively take hold of Sookie's upper arm. She tenses at the touch, before reaching her own hand to clutch the front of my shirt. It is warmth in an ominous setting, this mutual preparation to remove the other from any presence of danger.

And then the warmth is evanescent. I do not care that I have a friend in my vice-like grip, or vice versa; I do not care that I am surrounded by armed men, many with experience beyond my comprehension. I care that I am standing in a dimly lit chamber, littered with the corpses of hundreds, skeletons which lay like ash between rusted armour and weapons of war.

"This is no mine. It's a tomb."

I am no sooner stricken by the cry of Gimli, whose grief is unrivalled by that which I have ever encountered in life. He knew them, these Dwarves. These corpses.

"Goblins," comes the assessment of Legolas, as he casts aside an arrow with great distaste.

The tumult began.

"We need to get out of here, Gandalf!" insists Qui-Gon, and the chorusing buzz of both his and Obi-Wan's weapons fill the air.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan! We should never have come here ... now, get out of here! Get out!"

No one hesitates against Boromir's command, and we retreat, some of us stumbling, toward the door. I turn on my heel, unsatisfied by the pace of our mindless backward steps, and rush forward with Sookie in tow. She gives a yelp at my strength and speed, most of which is surely adrenaline, before settling into a pace alongside me.

"Wait a second!" I arrive at a halt, panicked. "Where are the Hobbits?"

"Frodo!"

Sookie stops, too, wide eyes set on the Hobbit ensnared by three large tentacles belonging to what I can only describe as a giant squid, having remained impartial to this particular area of lore in Middle-earth; aquatic creatures were not on my agenda until this particular moment in time.

"Ah, shit, shit ..."

Sookie calls for Aragorn as Sam does, whilst I search for something — anything at all — with which I could plausibly aid Frodo, and destroy that foul-looking kraken of the deep.

Sword? Unlikely. Dagger? Even less so. Bow? Bow. Right ... how did those archery lessons go again? Arrow in like this — nope, no, not like this ... fuck, this bow is useless. Exactly how big are these goblins, anyway? Arrow in like — yes, stay — and aim, aim, aim — draw back to mouth, and ... and ...

Tentacle? Close enough.

"Into the mines!" cries Gandalf.

Two arms snake around my waist and pull me back inside the chamber, precisely as a storm of rocks collapse from the roof, entombing us all with the ghosts of a goblin victory.

Well, this is certainly long overdue. I hope that there are still people who perhaps have an interest in this story.

I plan to continue writing the next few chapters tonight, and so you may get a sudden double burst of updates over the next couple of days, save for Christmas.

Speaking of which, happy holidays to you all!