Oh my god. This thing was a monster. Lolz…you see what I did there? I said monster…and I hinted at fire…and they're in Moria. I need to sleep….like three hours ago. But I stayed up and wrote this. For you. I hope you enjoy it. I probably could have saved myself some effort if I had focused solely on Moria, but honestly there's a bit with Draca and Gríma, and I just enjoyed writing it. This thing was eleven pages in MS Word. Enjoy.

Please enjoy.

For the love of all that is holy and good in the world, enjoy.


Chapter 11 – New Devilry

Dinner was a silent affair. All involved parties seemed to be glaring at each other save the King, who sat and dutifully spooned thin soup into his mouth. His pale, careworn eyes stared longingly at a piece of bread before he resignedly went back to his soup. The action was not lost to Éowyn.

"Uncle," She said softly. Théoden's eyes moved towards her, as did Gríma's dark gaze. "Perhaps you would be able to get back your strength if you ate a bit of meat?" she suggested. Théodred watched the whole thing carefully. He did not like Gríma, but his father held the man's counsel with an almost illogical reverence, and to cross Gríma was to cross the King.

"Gracious me," Gríma said in concern, laying his hand on the King's arm. "My Lord, were you able to take it I would personally have you served the finest roasted meat. But the poor lass, in her youthful over exuberance, fails to see that your constitution isn't what it should be. The elixirs you take for strength are powerful and weaken the stomach," the man said.

"My niece means well, friend Gríma," Théoden said. Gríma's eyes softened as he gazed upon the niece of the king.

"Of course she does. We all just want you to get well," the man purred. Éowyn bit her lip and glared frostily at him. Éomer would have already exploded and have been sent away, but Éowyn's fuse was longer. It was just as well that her brother was out with his éored at the moment, because he didn't need another confrontation with Gríma.

"I believe I will retire for the night," Théoden said. He stood from his place at the head of the table. "Peaceful dreams to you all," he murmured in goodbye, before shuffling weakly out of their private dining quarters.

As he walked through the hallway, his mind was troubled. Éowyn seemed to be getting more and more unobservant as of late. She forgot that his medicines were hard on his body and tried to press him beyond his limits. She did not seem to respect Gríma's authority. At least Théodred was a good man, and knew that his father's counselor had only their best interests at heart. What was he to do with his poor, wayward niece?

He stumbled suddenly, but gentle fingers wrapped around his arm, steadying him. He looked around to see who had saved him, and his rheumy eyes met with a pair of clear grey eyes, shining like starlight upon the Isen River. Her skin was pale and smooth as moonlight and hair, like strands of corn silk, fell in a waterfall around her face and shoulders, the pale strands streaked white in some places. A scarf was wrapped around her face, hiding her visage from just below her nostrils down.

She wore a plain dress of green and a patched cloak to match. One of her hands was clutching a tall staff of cherry wood, entwined in several places with silver metalwork.

"Thank you, Fair one," he said softly. A smile touched her eyes, crinkling the skin around the edges slightly. He returned the smile with a watery one. "I don't suppose I could call upon your services to help an old man back to his room? I feel I am more tired than I thought," he said softly. She nodded but said nothing, keeping her gentle hold on his arm as they walked. Her leather slippers made little noise on the walkway, but his soft shoes shuffled and rasped against the stone.

Draca thought desperately of something to do for the old king. He did not deserve to be stuck under Gríma's machinations, and neither did the people of Edoras deserve to have their king manipulated so. She had studied with some of the Elven Mystics of Mirkwood, and the only thing she could think of was a song of power. It did not require magic, as such, but merely a strong will.

She hummed as they walked, trying to weave the magic. The words were chanted through her mind several times, and by the time they reached the King's quarters, she was sure that he was walking a little straighter. He stood at the doorway to his room, and when he turned his eyes on her she rejoiced to see the blue of his eyes was a little deeper than it had been.

"Thank you, fair maiden," he said in thanks. She nodded in return. "What is your name?" he asked. She looked troubled, before tapping at her throat and shaking her head. "You cannot speak?" he clarified.

"Her name is Ithilrhas, My King,"

Théoden turned to see Gríma standing behind the woman in the hallway.

"She does not talk. Her face was damaged in a fire and so were her vocal chords. She hides the scars beneath her scarf," Gríma said. "I made a promise to her guardian to take good care of her."

"You are a good man, Gríma," The king said, turning aside and retiring to his room. Gríma stared at Draca's back for several moments before she finally turned and faced him.

"Follow me, Lady Wizard. I believe it's time I showed you what happens when you cross me," he purred, his voice deceptively soft. Trembling slightly, Draca followed him.


She held the clips carefully, inserting the blade under the metal of her shackle. It was about time to find out if Saruman had reinforced these bonds with magic. She inhaled sharply as her dress scraped against her back. Gríma had done a number on her last night. To put it bluntly: he had beaten her like a rug. Luckily he had used a belt and not anything that bit into the skin. Her back was incredibly tight and swollen today and it hurt to move, but she had played her part well for him last night. She had sobbed and pleaded with him as best she could without words, catering to his cruel streak and his need for power. Then she had obediently attended his baser instincts before he had allowed her to leave his room.

She took a deep breath and put her weight into the shears. She could have sang aloud when she heard the tell-tale clink of metal snapping. She looked down at her wrist and grinned at the thin, broken metal. She carefully discarded the ring before turning her attention on the other ring. She inserted the blades of the shears at another place, having dinged the blades badly from her first attempt. Then with another satisfying sound, she broke the other bracelet.

She knew she didn't have the power to break the curses over her own stitches or remove Saruman's power from the King's mind, but she could surely fuck up Gríma's power trip a bit.


He walked down the hallway, cursing angrily under his breath with every step. That goddamn cricket had found its way into his room again, and he had not slept well. He had not experienced another muddy water incident in the hallway, but he had discovered one of the cats of the Meduseld had left a surprise in his slipper.

He was certain he could get the King to outlaw having cats inside. They were filthy creatures anyway, covered in their own spit at all times. And the hair.

The King was already holding court when he arrived. Court was always so damned boring. A bunch of peasants whining on about how little food they had…their children were starving. They had best go ahead and starve, to reduce the surplus population that had been mounting for years in Rohan. He took his place at the king's side, offering advice and counsel for each problem that was brought before him. He was quite glad when he managed to convince the king that a break would be of use.

Whatever the Lady Wizard had done, it had put him back greatly on his progress, and it would take weeks to push the King's mind back under as deeply as it had been.

"Gríma, would you please fetch Háma for me? I wish to discuss some of the schedules of the guards," Théoden said in a voice that brooked no room for argument. Gríma nodded at the King and excused himself, grinding his teeth in silent rage. He should beat the girl again for her interference!

He would have to walk to the guard's quarters that flanked the other side of the Meduseld. There were plenty of people milling about in the main hall, but he didn't get suspicious until he passed through the main doorway. A scraping sound was the only warning he got before a wave of thick, sticky syrup fell on him from above. He gasped aloud and looked up to see who had doused him, but a wave of white obscured his vision as a large wave of chicken feathers fell next.

There was deadly silence around him, but a few snickers escaped. He reached up and wiped the feathers away from his eyes before looking up again. There were several support beams over the porch of the Meduseld that could be accessed by someone who was not afraid of heights, but never had anyone launched any sort of attack from them. He could see nothing that would have given away an intruder. A young squire struggling to keep in his laughter caught his attention.

"You! Boy!" Gríma snapped. The boy's eyes widened and he stood at attention. "Fetch Háma the Doorwarden for the King! And be quick about it!" he barked. The boy nodded and was off like a firework. Gríma gathered the remains of his tattered pride about him and turned to go back to his room. A good punishment for the Lady Wizard would be to attend him in his bath. His boots skidded across the sticky, syrupy mess on the floor, and he had to grip the doorframe to keep from falling. A maid was laughing uproariously. He grabbed her arm. "Clean this mess up! Do you wish for the King to slip and fall?"

Her face sobered quickly. "Nay, Lord Gríma," she said. He let her go and stalked back towards his rooms.

This was fast turning into a nightmare!


"'Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.' He is dead then. It's as I feared." Gandalf said softly, removing his hat in respect. Gimli pulled the hood of his cloak up and lowered his head to hide his face.

"Kilmin malur ni zaram kalil ra narag. Kheled-zâram ... Balin tazlifi," He chanted, making a sign from his chest to his forehead and extending the palm outwards. It seemed to be a Dwarven sign of farewell to the dead.

James lowered his head in respect, sighing at the sharp scent of loss in the room. Gandalf had picked up a book from the long dead fingers of one of the dwarves guarding the tomb and was reading aloud from it. The words were the last any living dwarf had written in this place. They were desperate and frightened as they told the final account of their desperate fight.

"We cannot get out…a shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming!" he read. The others were silent and James could hear the slightly hitched breathing of the quietly grieving dwarf. There was a sudden noise and they all whipped around to see Pippin standing near an abandoned well. A skeleton had been perched upon it when they entered, but now the body was missing its head. And as they watched the rest of the body slid as though in slow motion, falling into the well and taking a rotten bucket with it. The cacophony was terrifying, a ricocheting clatter that seemed to bounce off of every available surface. Pippin winced at each new wave of noise, his face drawn with pained mortification. Then, at last, there was silence. Gandalf was the first to recover.

"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" he snapped. The look on Pippin's face was miserable.

"Hey, now!" James said in Pippin's defence. "It was a bad…idea, sure….but Pippin didn't know…it would cause noise," He said brokenly, moving towards the Hobbit. He placed a claw on the lad's shoulder and received a grateful look in return. Gandalf turned away from them, muttering angrily.

Boom…Boom

James moved a few steps forward and looked over the edge of the well. Gandalf moved beside him, his face grave.

Boom.

"That is a signal or I've never heard one," Aragorn said softly, his hand straying to Andúril.

Boom-Boom.

"Aye, but are they signaling because of us, or in spite of us?" Gandalf asked, moving his cloak aside to make it easier to fetch his own sword.

Boom. Ba-ba-Boom. Boom Ba-ba-Boom.

"Frodo!" Sam gasped, looking down at the hilt that he carried Sting in. Frodo lifted the blade, showing that it was glowing blue in the dimness of the room. He drew it immediately.

"Orcs!" Frodo said. Gandalf also drew Glamdring with a hiss. Aragorn rushed towards the door that they had entered in, glancing out. He drew his head back in immediately as two arrows struck just where he had looked.

"They…they have a cave troll," Aragorn said softly, his eyes wide from surprise. James slid the pack from his back easily, stepping forward to put himself in front of the hobbits. Gimli leapt forward, his axe drawn and shining in the light.

"Let them come! There is still one Dwarf in Moria that draws breath!" he yelled.

They could hear the Orcs pounding against the door. It was splintered by many axes and blades, and they could see the other weapons poking through the opening and the sudden calls and hisses of the hideous creatures.

"Maush! Maush!" They heard a voice cry. Gandalf's staff light made Glamdring glow violently.

"You will not make meat of us, foul beasts! Come to your deaths at the hand of Gandalf the Grey!" he yelled.

"Laga shara!" Screeched one of the Orcs as they broke through the door. James drew in a breath and roared his challenge to the Orcs. There was actually a pause in the creatures as they took in the dragon, but the cave troll with them roared a return challenge to the dragon, and the fight began. Aragorn immediately beheaded one of the foul creatures with practiced ease, using the momentum of his swing to propel himself forward and stab another in the throat. Black blood bathed his sword and fell in waves over the floor.

Gimli's axe caught an orc in the stomach and he pushed it backwards to collide with several of its friends, knocking them to the ground to be trampled by the orcs advancing behind them. The cave troll suddenly lumbered into the room, indiscriminately stomping Orcs as it moved.

"Kjani?" The Troll asked stupidly, its jaws working hungrily.

James left everyone else to their battle with the Orcs and jumped straight for the cave troll. The Troll was deceptively fast for its size and flung up an arm, swatting him away heavily. James landed on his hind legs and stood tall for several moments, wobbling precariously, before he was able to throw himself forward onto all fours and try again. This time he ducked the Troll's reaching hands and delivered a painful slash to the creature's inner thigh as he dove by.

The troll howled and stomped in agony, catching James' tail. The dragon's scream echoed about the chamber and he whirled like a black tornado, sinking his fangs into the Troll's leg. It kicked out, freeing his tail and he released, dodging the meaty, grasping hands as he tried to dance behind it.

"For the Shire!" Pippin cried, stabbing the leg of an orc that was trying to sneak up on Aragorn. The Man whirled and finished off the creature.

"One for the Shire!" Aragorn cried to Pippin. Pippin turned to see who else he could help, and noticed that Sam had retrieved his large iron skillet in the place of his sword and was swinging wildly. The pan connected with one Orc, knocking it aside, senseless.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this!" Sam said, before clobbering another progressing orc.

An Orc advanced on Merry, but was unfortunate enough to trip on a fellow's severed arm. Merry thrust his blade upwards and closed his eyes as the orc fell towards him. He heard the sound of metal piercing flesh and felt the hot blood suddenly pour over his hands. He opened his eyes and felt the color drain from his face. The Orc had fallen in such a way that its throat was pierced by the sword. He jerked the blade back and the creature gave a death gurgle before going still.

The troll grabbed James by the tail as he made a deep gash on its stomach. It whirled him around its head like a slingshot before tossing him bodily across the room. He landed on a group of orcs and they immediately swarmed him, stabbing at his diamond-hard hide with spears and swords. He screamed when a sword stabbed painfully into the place where his skin was barely healed beneath his wing. It did not reopen the wound, but it certainly did not feel good, either. James felt his rage burn.

He took a deep breath and let loose a torrent of fire. The smell of singed flesh was in his nostril as he turned his head, breathing out another cloud of deadly breath. Several Orcs were incinerated immediately, and others were lit up like grotesque torches. They fled in agony, only to drop dead within a few moments from the extensive wounds. He thrust out his claw and gutted an orc that tried to come at him with a battle-axe.

"Aragorn? Aragorn!"

Aragorn's chest was heaving from the effort of swinging his sword and dodging attacks. But when he heard Frodo's terrified cry he turned his head. The troll had him by the ankle, swinging at him with its fist.

"Frodo!" Aragorn cried, running to where the Troll had the Hobbit. Frodo stabbed the troll with Sting and the beast released him, staring at its injured hand as if it could not figure out what had happened. Then it snarled and lifted grabbed up a large piece of the splintered door to use as a bludgeon. It was about to strike Frodo when Aragorn reached them, picking up an abandoned spear and stabbing the Troll. It did not pierce the skin, but it was enough to draw the attention to him.

Merry and Pippin, standing nearby, began to throw stones at the troll's head to keep it distracted from Frodo and Aragorn while the Man swung at it. The troll gave a roar of anger and swung its free arm wildly, catching Aragorn and launching him across the room. He slammed into the wall and fell down, his sword falling from his grasp. Frodo started towards the man, but the Troll grabbed his foot again and tossed him back into the corner. It picked up the spear that Aragorn had used against it and jabbed forward, pinning the Hobbit to the wall.

"No!" Merry cried, stabbing the troll with his sword in the back of the leg. The troll withdrew its spear, the momentum flipping Frodo's small body face down. Merry buried his own blade in its hip, before withdrawing the blade and scaling the beast like a mountain and stabbing it again in the shoulder.

The troll flailed at its head and finally managed to grab Merry, swinging him around and throwing him to the ground. Pippin seized his place, dodging the arms and climbing up the towering troll. Gandalf and Gimli took turns stabbing at the troll and dodging out of range of its makeshift club and meaty hand. James shot forward, dipping and shifting his head to take aim at the Troll. He took a deep breath and drew in his magic, causing an arc of energy to circle his muzzle. Pippin stabbed at the troll once more in the head, causing the troll to bellow in pain. James released the concentrated beam of fire and magic. It exploded outwards like a fiery bullet, going in through the roof of the troll's mouth and blowing its brains out through the back of its head. Pippin howled as he was sprayed with troll gore.

The troll's eyes stared ahead for a few moments, before rolling back as it collapsed forward. Pippin was tossed to the side by the momentum. There was a moment of silence broken only by their gasping breaths. All of the orcs that had rushed the chamber had either fled or been killed.

"Frodo…" Sam said brokenly, walking towards his Master where he lay. Aragorn had come to his senses and grabbed his sword.

"Oh no…" Aragorn said softly, kneeling beside the Hobbit and placing Andúril aside. He rolled him over gently and actually jumped when Frodo gasped desperately.

"He's all right!" Sam said, and Gandalf released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I'm all right…I'm not hurt," Frodo breathed.

"You should be dead!" Aragorn said in shock. "That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"

Frodo reached up and pushed aside his shirt, revealing the tunic of mithril beneath the fabric. Gimli whistled appreciatively.

"I believe there's more to this Hobbit than meets the eye…" Gandalf said.

"Transformers?" James asked groggily. They turned to him and he shook himself like a dog. "Sorry…I'm high on adrenaline," he explained. Then his ears twitched. "Can uh…can we leave?" he asked, digging his pack out from under the body of an orc.

"To the bridge of Khazad-dûm!" Gandalf cried.


Boromir shifted slightly as Sceadu gave a slight snore. The boy was incredibly warm, as he had discovered when the lad had decided to lean against him while they were trying to catch a bit of rest. They had walked for as long as they could before exhaustion started making both the half-Uruk and the Man droop weakly. Legolas had called them to a stop. They did not set up their bedrolls, but instead rested against a stone wall.

"He's rather affectionate, even in sleep," Legolas commented lightly, his voice soft. Boromir merely grunted. He had caught a few hours of sleep on and off, but the dark and silence were getting to him.

"Pl-please," Sceadu breathed. He shuddered violently against Boromir. The Man felt rather sorry for the poor boy, and shifted his arm slightly so that Sceadu was resting against his chest and under his arm.

"It's all right, Shadow," Boromir said softly. Sceadu went boneless against Boromir and gave another soft snore.

"You are good with the younglings," Legolas commented, his grey eyes twinkling in the soft bluish light of their starlights.

"The hobbits are a joy to be around. And Merry is quite fond of the boy. He reminds me a bit of my younger brother…you know…except for the whole 'half-orc' thing…I didn't even know that people like this existed," Boromir said. Legolas nodded.

"It is a shock…but it makes sense. I cannot say what I feel about that. All life is by Eru's design…but such creations seem….unholy," Legolas said. "You have a brother?"

"Yes. My brother Faramir is five years younger than I. He would have nightmares when we were younger. Sometimes he would seek me in my bed in an attempt to comfort himself from the terrors," Boromir said, a fondly nostalgic look on his face. "Have you any siblings, Legolas?" he asked.

"Nay, not by blood. But there was a rather special half-elven maiden that came to Mirkwood about seventy years ago. She was lost and alone and I suppose I adopted her as my sister, for lack of a better phrase for it," Legolas said. "I know not what has happened to her of late. She traveled to take training from a master of her craft," he said. He didn't want to think about what might have befallen the Lady Wizard when she returned to Saruman.

"She sounds very special," Boromir said in a friendly manner. Legolas laughed lightly.

"She was very magical," he replied. Boromir was about to ask Legolas to expound on that, when they heard a deep, rumbling sound.

"What is that?" Boromir asked urgently. Legolas' eyes were wide as he sprang to his feet, searching the darkness for anything that could have made the noise. He carefully approached the edge of the banister that was across the way from them, looking down into the depths of darkness. He could see an orange glow like torchlight below, and watched for a moment as it gleamed closer. It walked out of the hallway it had been traveling, and the sight froze Legolas' blood. He threw himself away from the edge.

"Run, Boromir. We must run!" he cried desperately. Boromir didn't hesitate. He shook Sceadu awake.

"Come, my lad, we must run!" he said. Sceadu shot to his feet, grabbing up his pack as they ran. Legolas made sure they were behind him and took off. Sceadu was behind him, quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Boromir fought the urge to look over the edge and ran behind them. Anything that was bad enough to spook an elf was not worth the curiosity of mortal eyes.

Their feet pounded through the hallway, no longer caring for silence or watching their steps. They finally reached the end of their hallway and passed into a great hallway of pillars. The roof was high and he could not see the ceiling with their feeble lights, but he could hear the chatter and sputtering of orcs. Had they run from one death into the cold embrace of another?

Suddenly a light appeared at the other end of the hallway.

"Look! It is Gandalf!" Legolas cried. The rest of the Fellowship was being pursued by an army of orcs. Every so often the Dragon would turn and release a tongue of flame into the mass of orcs, but others merely took their place. The two groups came together as the other orcs surrounded them, not allowing them to rejoice in the completion of their group. They quickly formed a circle, their weapons drawn outward as the orcs hissed and laughed at them.

"Shemator krumab!" spat one of the Orcs towards Sceadu. The boy pricked in return.

"Lat skraefa!" he snarled, causing the other members of the Fellowship to shudder in surprise, though they kept their gazes outward. A sudden light shined in the direction that Legolas, Boromir and Sceadu had come. A deep, resonating snarl sounded through the hallway.

"What new devilry is this?" Aragorn asked.

"A Balrog comes!" Legolas exclaimed. He had known instinctively what the demon was when he saw it.

"Bal pauzul!" An orc screamed, and they disappeared like roaches in the light. They heard the growl again, and Gandalf seemed to prickle with energy.

"The foe is beyond any of you. Run!" he said. They ran to the opposite end of the hallway, adjacent to where the light was entering and the way the Fellowship had come. "Quickly!" Gandalf barked, ushering them through the door.

They fled through the hallway, coming to a stairway at the end of the hall. There was fire in the hall below, and they had to take the stairway into the depths. At one point they had to leap a gap in the stairs, and nearly lost Gimli when he wouldn't allow one of the large folks to toss him. James came across last, nudging Sceadu who had lingered to make sure Merry was safe.

The bridge was less a bridge and more a thick stone beam connecting the two sides of the chasms. It was only wide enough for one person to walk across at a time.

"Over the bridge! Fly!" Gandalf cried, ushering them over the bridge. He came last, turning as the beast stepped into sight.

It was light and shadow in one, burning and swirling with ash. Its claws were made of onyx, and James thought its feet looked like a velociraptor's, with wicked, curved claws. Its face was like a mix between an ape and a bird, with a rounded head and sharp beaked mouth, all made of fire. Its eyes were black against the flame of its face, smoldering and angry. It had shiny black horns like a ram's, curving up and back over its head. Wings of shadow and ash spread wide when it entered the cavernous area.

"You dare disturb my slumber, enemies of the Dark Master?"

James' ears perked up as he understood the creature, taking a few steps forward.

"Anyone else understand it?" he asked. No one spoke, staring in fear at the creature.

"I will feast on your flesh and burn you with the Twisted Ones," it said. There was something about the voice, though, that sounded odd to James. And the shape of it reminded him of something…something that he couldn't quite put his claw on. But then it hit him like a ton of ironic, Eru-must-be-laughing-again bricks. The creature…the Balrog…was female. And he could understand it.

He rushed forward suddenly, stepping in front of Gandalf and spreading his wings out in what he hoped was an impressive formation.

"Hey there, hot stuff! What's a girl like you doing in a pit like this?" he asked. Clearly he was not speaking English. His tongue did not trip and stumble. He wasn't sure what he was speaking, but clearly the Balrog understood him.

"Ancalagon? Is that you? My, you have gotten tiny." It replied.

"I am not Ancalagon, my fireheart. I am called Naurlam, the Firetongue," he said, bowing low to the fire demon. The Balrog's head twitched back and forth.

"You are small for a dragon," she rumbled. James winked at her.

"Not where it counts, baby," he said conspiratorially. The Balrog actually laughed. It was a terrible sound. It kind of sounded like his Uncle Percy's singing…if his Uncle Percy had also drank acid and gargled with volcanic rocks.

"Move aside, foolish dragon!" Gandalf said, pushing James with his staff. James growled at him.

"It understands me! Let me talk!" He snarled.

"Do you want me to eat the stick man?" The Balrog asked, stepping forward. A great sword of fire appeared in her hand.

"Nay, nay! As annoying as he is he is a friend of mine! Come on, baby, if you'll let us walk out of here, I promise to come back and take you out on a date you'll never forget!" James said.

"A dragon courting a Balrog? I believe Morgoth would have been amused." The Balrog said, her eyes blinking rapidly. Then James realized with a mixture of revulsion and humor, that it was fluttering its eyes at him.

"Our babies would be fierce indeed. With my armor and your eyes? We would have to pry the demon-boys off of our daughters. Our sons would be devastating," James said, his tongue flicking from his mouth. The Balrog responded in turn, a long tongue flitting from its beaked mouth. It approached the bridge. Gandalf struck James with his staff and stepped forward, the light glowing.

"I am a servant of the Sacred Fire, a wielder of the flame of Anor! The dark fire will not avail you!" he said, his staff glowing brilliantly.

"How rude," The Balrog scoffed, swinging her sword forward. Gandalf's own sword snapped up, shattering the blade of the demon in a shower of fire and embers. The Balrog bellowed angrily at the wizard.

"Go back to the shadow!" Gandalf yelled. "I say you will not pass this way."

"Please, my love, do not engage him. He only fights for his friends. We will leave here, and I will return for you. Our love will be sung in ballads through the ages! We will make passionate love amongst the seared corpses of our enemies!" James called.

"We will do these things when I take care of this wizardling!" the Balrog snarled, brandishing a whip of fire.

"You…shall not pass!" Gandalf cried, driving his staff into the bridge and causing a bright flash of blue energy to appear. Flaring its nostrils, the Balrog stepped forward onto the bridge. It moved forward all of two paces before the bridge collapsed from under it as it moved towards Gandalf. The demon plunged backward into the chasm, still wielding its glowing whip.

Gandalf, exhausted, leaned on his staff and watched the Balrog fall. He turned to the others, a look of relief on his face. But even as it fell it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard's knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss.

"Fly, you fools!" He cried. James leapt forward and grasped for the wizard, but his claws grasped the air just as Gandalf was beyond him.

And then he was gone.


I…I am not sure what I smoked to get this…but it must have been fantastic. I'm just kidding I don't do drugs. 0_0

Translations:

Maush - Meat

Laga shara - Magic man

Kjani - food

Shemator krumab - ugly worm

Lat skraefa - you coward

Bal pauzul - fire demon

And as to why Sceadu started speaking Orc…I'll deal with it next chapter. It was probably the same reason people could speak Parseltongue without learning it. Like…inherited or something. Fuck if I know. Also whatever the hell Gimli said was from the movie transcript. Probably the Dwarf version of "Ashes to Ashes" or something. If that's the case it was ironic. Because fuck you, that's why.

Now I had some great responses from last chapter. I had Gríma pranks in this one! I gave Draca back her magic! I had a female Balrog with which my dragon flirted. Where the fuck else are you going to read that? If you find it somewhere else those bitches stole it and I will cut- I mean…this is unique as far as I know.

Review? Pwease?