It was hard for Nemireth to believe, but it seemed the only ordeal in Middle Earth worse than going over Caradhras was travelling under it.

All about them was silent, no chittering of insects, no singing of birds, no rustling of leaves on the breeze. In such a void, every sound they could hear was magnified; the exhales of her companions, the rub of scabbards and packs, the clatter of leather soles against pebbles. Each echoed back to them so it felt unnervingly like their company was greater in number than it was. The darkness was suffocating, impenetrable beyond the light Gandalf's staff could throw and in those shadows all manner of abominations were surely lurking, watching, waiting.

There was still faint hope that perhaps Balin's company had been able to hold on to the Dwarven Kingdom, driven from the borders perhaps but still standing in the further halls. That hope grew increasingly fleeting the deeper they went and the more dead they found. As they went through the mines, it was hard not to feel like they were trespassing upon a tomb, a broken and faded memory to the endeavour of the dwarves.

Nemireth's hand kept coming to her stomach, rubbing at her armour where the creature at the door had wrapped a tentacle so tightly around her waist. There had been no time to think, eyes entirely on Frodo but there had been something else. She had felt it in the very pit of her stomach, as if the tendril was tearing through flesh and bone, like her limbs were suddenly tied to boulders and her mind replaced with lead. Then it had been cut from her and the feeling went with it. Each time she thought on it, a shiver ran through her, not helped by her clothes remaining stubbornly damp, the stale, dry air beyond the task of drying them out.

"Boromir," Her words were quiet and yet even then they rang out as surely as if she had bellowed them at the top of her lungs, "Thank you."

The man looked back at her, looking as edgy and uncomfortable with his surroundings as she felt and gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. It was not the place to make conversation.

"Be careful," Gandalf whispered from up front and gestured with his staff to their right, where the floor had simply vanished, leaving nothing but a monstrous chasm that must surely have reached to the very depths of the world, "The wealth of Moria was not in gold, or jewels but mithril."

He extended his staff over the gap and the Fellowship peered over the edge, caution soon giving way to amazement as the insignificant light bounced all the way down the abyss, gleaming so sharply that it stung her eyes to look directly upon, as if staring at the sun. It was only when the Wizard pulled his light away and all fell back into darkness that they were free of the enchanting sight.

"Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him." He said quite calmly and Nemireth relaxed a little. If Gandalf was not worried then they had no cause to be.

"Ah," Gimli was astonished, yet it was first he had spoken since they had entered the mine, "That was a kingly gift!"

"Yes. I never told him, but its worth was greater than that of the Shire!" The Wizard chuckled.

Briefly, she wondered what she would do if she had such a metal, fashion it into a undimmed crown perhaps? Or maybe forge a breastplate no weapon could breach. The Mithril Queen. The idea amused her more than it should. Shaking her head to clear it of such idle thoughts, she hurried after Gandalf.

The next two days and nights were a monotonous grind. Sleep was a precious and rare commodity as the unnatural silence clawed at their unconscious minds. Nemireth tossed and turned, asleep and yet aware of her surroundings. She could feel the hard stone beneath her blanket and her linen tunic sticking to soft skin beneath her armour.

"You were so scared," A voice that was her own and yet a stranger to her whispered, as if a ghost had lips to her ears. Though the words were soft, each cut through her, "When you were grabbed. You wanted to scream, drop everything and thrash like a fish on the hook. A frightened little girl who has tricked the world into thinking she's a warrior. Your companions know it too. They know they should not have let you come, a child and foreigner, her head full of fairy tales. You are supposed to be Othion's heir? You are to save the Kingdom of Aeanor and carry on his legacy? You are not even fit to lace his boots. Just like your father, and his father before him. You will sit on your throne as your realm wastes away before your eyes, an heir to failure. Unmourned and unloved."

"No," She murmured to herself, tightening her grip on her blanket, eyes squeezed shut.

"Yet there is strength in you. An ember buried deep just waiting for the right kindling, a key to unlock your true potential. You could strike down Sauron and be the greatest of all your kin, a Queen of the likes unseen in all the ages that have gone before. Aeanor would be as Númenor in the days of old, a power undimmed onto the ending of the world. Your name would become legend and the world would be free. All you need is the right key. All you need…"

"Nemireth?"

She jolted up with a gasp, fists balled and ready to lash out but she saw only the cold blue eyes of Legolas kneeling above her, filled with concern and his brows furrowed. The Aeanorean slumped back into her bedroll and looked up at the black ceiling so high above them. "Was I speaking in my sleep again?"

He nodded. She felt the colour just drain from her face, "What did you hear?"

"I am not sure, for I do not know the tongue you spoke but they were said most…aggressively." The Princess scowled at that, "Of course, it is not my place to pry but you were…disquieted."

"When you stand watch, Legolas," Nemireth asked him sharply, the words spilling from her lips, "Do you ever search for our enemies or do you spend the long nights staring at me?" She saw his composure slip for the first time, mouth tightening in conscious effort and regret filled her, "I'm sorry. I have…not been myself since we entered Moria."

"I understand," The Elf nodded, "I too long to look upon the sky again, to see the sun and stars. I cannot understand how dwarves can stand to live in such desolate places."

"Maybe they're not all so desolate? From what Gandalf told me of Erebor, it is a place of great splendour," She sat up now, hands wrapped around her knees and grateful to be discussing something other than her.

"Erebor has some beauty," Legolas allowed, "But it could be as the Undying Lands and I would not wish to live there."

"Forgive me, but don't you live somewhere called 'Mirkwood'? It doesn't sound like a place of great beauty."

Now it was his turn to scowl, "There is a darkness upon my home, this is true. But there is light, and music, and a goodness the world refuses to acknowledge. It was not always so, but in these times, the evil is all the world wishes to see. There are times I wish the world could see the Greenwood as I see it."

"Do you think Gimli ever feels the same?" She asked quietly, to which Legolas could merely squirm and shrug. As the silence fell upon them, amplified by the quiet in the depths. Brown eyes fell on the little pile that was Frodo, feeling that same longing as before, but sharper.

All you need is the right key…

"Frodo seems to have overcome his encounter with the monster in the lake," She managed, though her voice wavered.

"I am not so sure," Legolas seemed as grateful for the distraction, "He murmurs as you do. Sometimes about the creature, sometimes it is as if he speaks to Bilbo, to Sam, to Gandalf. Other times he speaks but I cannot make out who it is he addresses." He shook his head and sighed before turning to her, "What of your home, My Lady? You seem to speak so little of it."

She was surprised at that, "My home? You mean Aeanor? It is…" She shook her head, unable to give words to the images in her head, "It is my home. There is Minas Luin, the Blue City upon the Bay of Vigilance. To the far south there is Ice Anvil, or Jalsandan in our tongue, the great city carved into the ice and stone of the Malahen Mountains, to the west the endless rolling plains of the Emerald Plains and Ellayanar and then the north has the Dunelands and the great Dune Sea. There is no magic there, as there is here. No elves build houses upon our waterfalls, no dwarves dig great cities into our mountains, no hobbits settle in her fields. It is a world of men," She made a face. "I was never much interested beyond what was required of me, I always preferred the stories of Middle Earth that Gandalf would bring."

"And yet you pique my interest by mere names alone," The Elf leant in, interested, "I notice your cloak is blue, as if your shield yet it bears a silver eagle upon it that looks not unlike the Great Eagles of Manwë."

"It's from the story of Aeanor's founding," Nemireth glanced at the wooden oval perched nearby, the bird-of-prey perched atop the central boss with wings outstretched, "It is said when Eru destroyed the Golden King's army, a great storm whipped up amongst the ships of Caldor's fleet, my ancestor. He fell to his knees and begged forgiveness, throwing the ring of Númenor into the sea and offering himself in payment for his family's survival. The Valar were moved to pity by his regret and so calmed the storms, Manwë sending an eagle forth to guide our ships to the land of Meluinor. Ever since, our symbol has been the silver eagle, so that we may never forget the mercy that brought us to our home." She yawned, suddenly tired from so much talking.

"There is magic aplenty in that story but I have kept you awake long enough, Princess. I apologise for disturbing you."

Knowing when she was dismissed, Nemireth nodded and settled back under her blanket, though she stayed awake as long as she could, hearing the Elf walk his lonely patrol path around the camp and wishing for anything other than to fall asleep.

Their journey was no more pleasant the next day and not helped by the heaviness of her eyes. They were climbing at least, the deepest part of the Misty Mountains behind them. Each chamber they shuffled through contained yet more death, the grim story of Moria's defence being read to them loud and clear. Their progress on that third day was good right up until they arrived at a passageway with three doorways, each identical to her. The company came to an abrupt halt as Gandalf regarded each in turn, "I have no memory of this place." He announced.

They settled down while Gandalf lit his pipe and sat atop a boulder, surveying the three possible routes as he searched for some clue as on how to proceed. A restlessness spread amongst the group, a nervous energy as Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli also began to puff on their pipes. Boromir had become noticeably quieter and brooded shoulder to shoulder with his fellow man, occasionally sharing looks but no words. Indeed, the only conversation came from Pippin, whose train of thought manifested in a series of statements to Merry.

"Do you think Gandalf knows the way?"

Merry was looking to the ceiling and did not answer him.

"I think we're lost."

No response.

"Merry?"

Silence.

"Merry."

"What?" His companion at last snapped.

"I'm hungry."

Nemireth had to chuckle at that, barely managing to contain the laugh but even that sound echoed around them until it sounded like some great boar was amongst them. Not exactly flattered by the sound as it reached her ears and with impatience quickly overcoming her, the Aeanorean strode to where Gandalf had perched himself.

"Will we be long?" She asked in what she thought was an authoritative voice but a glance from the Wizard quickly made her realise how foolish it had sounded, "Do you really not remember the way?" Not much better.

"Many roads have I walked over a great period of time, young Lady," Gandalf exhaled a great ball of smoke, "Not all live long in the mind and the gift of foresight does not yet extend to knowing precisely which I shall need to recall and when and you," He gave her a chastising look, "Could do with showing a little more patience."

"You're right," She sighed, sitting beside him, "Just like you always are."

"Hmm, not always," he shook his head, "But with pleasing enough frequency." They sat in companionable silence while he puffed on his pipe, "So, has Middle Earth been all as I described it?"

"Not quite," She snorted, "You missed out the big monsters that live in lakes."

"Well, I could not give away all details, or else would you find this a terribly dull place." Another puff, "You were frightened, when you faced it."

"I was not!" Too quickly she responded.

The Wizard rolled his eyes and sighed, "After all these years, the finest tutors in your lands and yet you still have pudding between those ears. There are many types of bravery in the world, Nemireth of Aeanor. Facing a powerful foe on the field of battle? Yes, that takes valour. Looking deep within and allowing ourselves to admit that part we feel is weakness? That is a different kind of courage and it is no lesser than the first. Do not chase one type and shun the other, or you will find yourself wanting for both."

She bit her lip, "Have you ever been frightened?"

He chuckled, "Oh my dear, it is a constant and welcome companion of mine."

It was not the answer she had been expecting and the Aeanoran wished to pursue the matter further but already the others were watching them and she was keeping Gandalf from his task. Instead, she removed herself and walked to the edge, where Frodo stood looking keenly down the steps they had just ascended.

"I saw something," He whispered up at her, eyes wide in the dark. She searched herself where he was pointing but saw nothing other than shadows.

"What?" She was somewhat sceptical but he was so earnest, so certain that she could help but look time and again.

"I don't know, I think we're being followed." Her skin crawled at those words.

"Go and tell Gandalf, I will keep watch in case it returns."

He dashed up to the wizard, his conversation low and serious with the baritone voice answering in kind. That left her, Boromir and Aragorn. Catching the Gondorian's eye, she hesitated, "Thank you, again."

He looked up at her with a surly expression and grunted, "It was nothing."

"But it was," She insisted, "I owe you my life."

"Nonsense. You would have done the same, were our roles reversed. I hold you to no oath"

Aragorn removed his pipe, searching her with wise eyes that made her feel very insignificant beside him, "It was your first true fight?" He asked softly.

Gritting her teeth and with only an embarrassed side glance to Boromir, she nodded.

"You did well," Was all the Ranger said, resuming the smoking of his pipe before there was a cry of triumph.

"Ah!" the Wizard had risen from his seat, "It's that way," He nodded to the left.

"He's remembered!" Merry was on his feet with the sort of speed she had seldom seen outside of mealtimes.

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul down here. When in doubt, Master Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

Certainly, she could see his point as the air did indeed smell a little fresher though she could have imagined it just as she entertained the idea that they were now both climbing and coming into wider tunnels, enough to walk two or three abreast if they wished. Through a doorway, Gandalf halted them theatrically, "Let me risk a little more light," He blew upon the crystal which began to glow more fiercely than ever, "Behold, the great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf."

The Fellowship watched in wonder at the sight it revealed to them. Stretching out far beyond what the pale light could reach were vast stone pillars as wide as the turret of a castle, flawless and smooth as glass yet black as night. The cavern they held up was gargantuan, higher than they could see. Even Nemireth felt a pang of loss, only able to wonder how splendid Moria must have been in its glory days. She spared a glance for Gimli, who was transfixed, mouth hanging open as he absorbed as much of his ancestral home that he could. It was Sam who summed it best,

"There's an eye-opener, make no mistake."

They were enthralled still as they made their way between those great columns of stone, the Aeanorean finding it impossible not to feel fleeting and small in the company of such wonders. They had been standing long before her kingdom had been born, perhaps even before men had walked the earth itself. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined seeing such a sight.

So eager were their eyes that did not take long to fall upon an opening in the near wall, a doorway that looked to have been forced open with yet more dwarven dead scattered loosely about it. Nemireth jumped at a great gasp that escaped Gimli's lips before he was running for the door, ignoring the calls from Gandalf for him to return and leaving the others no choice but to follow.

They found him on one knee, low cries escaping his lips as he knelt before a broad but simple sarcophagus of plain, grey stone. The chamber in which it sat was the grisliest yet for here the concentration of defenders was thickest yet. Beyond a well in one corner, the door and a single window high above them, there looked to be no way out. Nemireth found herself looking at the one beam of garish sunlight that fell upon the centre of the room, anywhere so she did not have to look upon another fallen dwarf and wonder how he had met his end.

Gandalf stepped up to the tomb and swept away the dust that sat atop it, reading aloud the runes carved there, "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria. He is dead then." Gimli lowered his head and howled as the last flicker of hope was extinguished, "It is as I feared." He seemed distracted by one particular corpse lying against the tomb, moving aside a spindly arm to take from him a thick book that he had held onto dearly in his final moments.

"We must move on," Legolas hissed to Aragorn, "We cannot linger."

Any thoughts of leaving were broken when Gandalf read, long and slow, "They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have bared the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep."

Nemireth found her skin growing cold and prickly, a shiver running through her at the desperation in those words. She stood beside Gimli, placing a hand on his shoulder as he heard how the final days of his cousin's reign had ended, deep beneath the mountain beyond the reach of friend or kin, yet still Gandalf read;

"We cannot get out. The shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out," He looked up, "They are coming."

A great crash rang out behind them.

All spun to its source, hands on weapons, Legolas with an arrow drawn while Frodo was roughly pulled behind them. Its origin was the well, where Pippin, unseen by the others engrossed in the final words of Balin's party, had moved to the skeleton that had slumped atop it. Said skeleton was now missing its head, which sounded like it was on its way to the bottom of the world. It was soon joined by the rest of the body which lazily tipped backwards and vanished from view, bringing with it a long, rusted chain and a bucket. The noise seemed to rumble on for eternity, Pippin wincing at every new clatter from far beneath them.

Everyone held their breath as the last of the racket faded. They looked to one another. They looked to the door. They looked at the well. Nothing happened.

Gandalf slammed the book shut and put his back to the Hobbit, "Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"

Pippin opened his mouth to answer.

Boom.

His face turned white.

Boom.

Gandalf turned back to the well.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

From all around came scuttling and scrapping, the sound of feet rushing against stone, screeches and cackles from far away.

"Mister Frodo," Sam was staring at Frodo's blade, glowing a soft blue.

"Orcs!" Legolas ran for the door but Boromir beat him to it, throwing them shut with a great heave of his shoulder even as arrows embedded themselves in ancient wood close to his head. He held the door shut, looking around the room with the sort of weariness that might have been funny were things not so perilous, "They have a cave troll," he announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They braced the door as best they could, Legolas and Nemireth throwing them some of the fallen dwarven weapons to bar across it but they would not hold for long. Retreating, they drew their weapons and prepared themselves, Aragorn and Legolas with arrows drawn, Nemireth and Boromir with swords and shields braced for the charge.

Bang!

She flinched at the first shake of the door, the weathered slabs creaking and groaning in protest. Her blade rested atop the rim of her shield and she saw it was trembling.

Bang!

"Argh!" Gimli leapt atop the burial place of his cousin with a guttural roar, axe in each hand, "Let them come! There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

Bang!

The first planks fell away, grey axes breaking through. Legolas fired a shot through the gap with a pained squeal in reply. Aragorn rewarded the next to make an opening with the same gift.

Bang!

The doors flew open and in swarmed the orcs, skin lumpen and rotten, eyes black and cat-like, their stench stomach turning, teeth broken and sharp as their blades. She saw no more before they were fighting for their lives.

They had never fought before but the skill of the Fellowship was clear. Legolas stepped back from the front, allowing the humans to take his place in the line, and picking off any orc who tried to move around them. Even the hobbits joined in, cutting down any who made it past the swirling blades of Aragorn, Boromir and Nemireth.

For Nemireth, the moves were natural, Karos' voice coming back to her after years of training, "Always keep on your toes, conceal yourself behind your shield as much as you can. Strike when you see a chance. Do not overreach and leave yourself open."

So she could feel the orcs beat against her protection, heavy thuds and clatters as they bounced off, timing her moments to lash out with her long sword. She almost froze as it first bit into flesh and bone, only remembering at the last second to twist and pull it free. They were holding the line well, orcs falling before them until the cave troll arrived.

It was tall, so tall that it collapsed the doorway as it entered, hauled on the end of a long chain leash and wielding a vast iron hammer which it brought down with a mighty clang. Aragorn dived one way, Boromir and Nemireth the other. After that, all was chaos.

Finding herself alone, Nemireth cut through the two orcs who tried to take her on the ground, slicing at their knees as she struggled to her feet, an axe bouncing off her shield before an elven arrow took down its holder. The troll was looking right at her, bringing its weapon over its head and down in a great arc. Mind painfully slow to process this, Nemireth could only bring up her shield. A hand grabbed at the collar of her tunic and pulled back hard, throwing her from her feet just as the mallet landed where she had been standing, leaving a divot in the flagstones.

Regaining her balance, she saw the hand belonged to Boromir and he did not even acknowledge her as he fought off the charge of a half-dozen orcs. She leapt to his assistance as the troll turned to Gimli, who had embedded a throwing axe in its chest. In return, it smashed Balin's casket in an attempt to reach him, the Dwarf falling to the ground and, under Legolas' cover, dismembering those orcs closest to him.

Troll fixated on Frodo, attempting to stand on him only to be stopped as Boromir and Aragorn tried to hold it off with mixed success. Nemireth tried to fight her way to him but she could get no closer than one step before another fiend was upon her and to deal with it. She saw glimpses of the creature's pursuit of Frodo, how it drove him into the corner of the room, how Aragorn intervened only to be swept aside moments later with a great forearm, how it took his spear and without hesitation, drove it into the Hobbit's chest.

The battle paused as all saw their friend fall. Even the orcs halted briefly before the Fellowship fell upon them with a wrath against which they could not stand, Nemireth finishing off the final orc with a blade driven as deep into his foul, twisted gut as she could manage. That left just the troll. Merry and Pippin had leapt upon its back with daggers in hand while Gimli and Gandalf struck at its limbs before, in a bellow of pain, it gave Legolas the window he needed. The Prince of the Greenwood needed no second chance, his arrows finding the roof of the beast's mouth mid-howl. It stopped, stumbling as if drunk before finally falling to the ground with a mighty clatter, sending Merry and Pippin tumbling across the floor.

Nemireth was aching and panting hard but she cared not, eyes only for Frodo as she stumbled to where Aragorn held him in his arms. Her lips moved in silent prayer, hoping the Valar could hear her even when so far from them, Please, Nienna, Lady of Mercy, let him live. Please, let him be okay…

She stopped at Aragorn's shoulder, not wanting to see the still form of their charge, grief close to overwhelming her until she heard a small cough.

"Frodo!" She could not help but cry aloud in joy while Sam looked close to tears and Aragorn stared dumbly.

"I'm alright, I'm not hurt," The dark-haired Hobbit sat up, a little embarrassed by the attention.

"You should be dead!" Aragorn spluttered, "That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"

"I think there's more to this young hobbit than meets the eye." Gandalf chuckled.

Frodo looked to him, eyes wide before glancing down and parting his shirt ever so slightly. It was enough for them to see the shining silver gleaming up at them, finely interwoven fish-scales that looked no worse for their punishment.

"Mithril. You are full of surprises, Master Baggins," Gimli grunted in approval.

They were able to say no more, as the booming of the drums began again.

"To the bridge of Khazad-dum!" Gandalf raced from the chamber with the others, still trying to understand how they had cheated death in such impossible circumstances, followed as fast as they could manage.

Orcs poured in from every direction, screeching and calling to one another as they closed in, as if they were on the hunt. There was nowhere to look that was not swarming with the servants of the enemy. Quickly, they were surrounded.

The Fellowship bunched together as best they could, back to back as they faced the hordes. Nemireth stood close to Frodo, shield in one hand and blood-darkened sword in the other, meeting eyes with her enemy, trying to find which would be the first to advance to her. Fear twisted at her guts, clenching and squeezing until she felt like bending over double, the final words of the dwarves coming back to her; We cannot get out…

'Please don't let me die down here. please let me see the stars once more…' She whispered them under her breath in the Ellayan tongue, trying to keep herself from shaking.

A roar rushed up the hall and washed over them like a wave.

The orcs were crying again, not in victory now but in panic, squealing as they fled, scrambling for the pillars and holes from whence they had crawled. The group stood in position still, ready for what surely to be a trick but the goblins showed no sign of slowing even as Gimli laughed at their backs.

In moments, a hall which had been seething with orcs was theirs alone again.

But not alone.

The Princess' fear did not abate as she looked down the chamber at the source of the call which had put their enemies to flight. All was still other than what sounded like a heavy and deep breathing, like that a boar. A glow was moving between the pillars, like a smokeless pyre was approaching.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir asked of Gandalf in a whisper.

The Wizard's head was bowed, eyes clenched tight as he gripped his staff so tightly his fingers had turned white, "A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world."

Balrog. The word was not one she knew but one look at Legolas was all she needed, all colour having fled from his fair features. That frightened her most of all.

"This foe is beyond any of you, run!" Gandalf broke into a sprint, finding strength from some unknown place. There was no order now, each ran as fast as they could to escape the oncoming flame. They came to a long and winding staircase, fractured and broken in places, entire flights claimed by time as they were able to look down into the darkness.

Stones fell as hail from the roof as they jumped down the steps, the Balrog beating upon the wall they had just passed through, cracking the thick stone as easily as one punched through parchment. An arrow landed at Frodo's feet and careened off into the darkness. Nemireth's gaze snapped around as she found its source, Orcs clustered far from sword range, arrows raining down upon them.

"Frodo," She stepped in front of the arrows, shield raised, "Stay with me."

He nodded up at her, wide-eyed as she ran half-bent, covering them both. He flinched as loud thumps met their ears, arrowheads embedding themselves in the blue-painted wood and bounced about their feet. Under the cover of Legolas and Aragorn's bows, they were able to make it beyond their range with no casualties. They were so close now! When she looked up she could see the bridge and the exit beyond!

"Over the bridge!" Gandalf beckoned, "Fly!"

Nemireth followed Frodo over, the bridge perilously narrow, scarce two footsteps wide and she did everything in her power to keep from looking down. The sudden heat at her back as if she were lying against a kiln did not help matters but she dared not turn around. It was only when she reached the safety of the other side that she saw what was happening.

There stood Gandalf upon the bridge of Khazad-Dûm, alone against a creature which could only have crawled from the very depths of hell. It had no shape, its form wreathed in flames with shadow at their core, many times Gandalf's size with intense, burning eyes, wicked wings folded into its back and long, curved horns. Beside it, the Wizard was a pathetically small presence.

"You cannot pass!" He called with a power many times greater than he appeared.

"Gandalf!" Frodo had noticed and stood in amazement as the elderly grey man confronted the demon. Some part of Nemireth's mind called for her to run to his aid, to help him fight such impossible odds but her feet as were iron and she was rooted in place.

"I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!"

Bringing forth a sword many times Gandalf's height, the Balrog made to strike him only to be repelled by some invisible force, the weapon falling in useless pieces to the chasm below. Enraged by this slight, it advanced onto the bridge, making to crush him.

"You shall not pass!" Gandalf roared and brought his staff down upon the bridge at his feet. The Balrog paused, wary of some unseen sorcery but it was a brief hesitation. Leaning forward to take him in its burning palm the bridge suddenly way beneath it and sent the mighty beast tumbling into the abyss, with Gandalf alone remaining.

For the first time in what felt like hours, she exhaled, the tension beginning to leave her. He had done it!

The sense of euphoria was shattered abruptly as a whip rose from the pit with a great crack and wrapped itself about the Wizard's ankle, pulling him over the lip.

"Gandalf!" Frodo tried to run for him but was stopped by Boromir, struggling and kicking against the bigger man.

Nemireth could only stare, unable to grasp how quickly things had gone wrong, the image burned into her brain. There was Gandalf, scrambling for grip on broken stone, orcs gathering on the far bank. They had to help him! She had to help him!

He took one look at the party, "Fly, you fools." He said it so calmly, as if his advice were the most obvious thing in the world. Then he let go.

"No!" Frodo's anguished howl stung at her very soul while she stared dumbly, trapped in place, as if she were a statue placed there by the dwarves of Moria themselves. Brown eyes watched the spot where he had held on, sure she was missing some trick of the Wizard. There had to be something more going on. There just had to be.

A hand grabbed her shoulder firmly and tugged firmly, dragging her away. She fought, but it was weak and unable to keep the unseen limb from pulling her out into the open air.

It felt like an insult, to be hit with such a cool, fresh wind after what had happened, the world celebrating their return when there was nothing to celebrate. The Hobbits fell about her in grief, tears staining their cheeks while Boromir had to keep Gimli from returning to Moria, axe in hand, shouting words she could not hear. Legolas walked amongst them, lost surrounded by so much heartache. She herself just stood as she had in Gandalf's final moments, frozen in that moment. Unable to move. Unable to think.

"Legolas, get them up," Aragorn cleaned off his blade while the Elf hesitated.

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir pleaded, still holding back their dwarven friend.

The Ranger was unmoved, "By nightfall, these hills will be swarming with orcs. We much reach the woods of Lothlorien."

So the hobbits were pulled to their feet, Frodo having strayed some distance from the group. At last, Aragorn came to the Princess, who had yet to move so much as a muscle, "Nemireth? Come, we must move."

She looked at him and only when she saw how blurry and misshapen he was in her vision that she realised she was crying, "Aragorn, we have to go back." Her voice was calm, surreally so.

He shook his head, "We cannot."

"But," Her voice cracked, "He might need us. He might have fallen on a ledge and be w-waiting for us," Her voice began to waver, "He might need our help, he might be wondering where we are…"

"Nemireth," He placed his hand on her shoulder, voice soft, "We cannot help him now. He is beyond us."

"He can't be," She sobbed, shaking her head, "Aragorn, he can't be."

He squeezed her shoulder softly, "I'm sorry." And then he was gone. She watched him go before unsteadily following, wondering how it was possible in that moment to feel so alone.