"One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."
― J. R. R. Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring."

ooOoo

After gathering their things, the Fellowship began the long trek up the mountain.

Perversely, Merrill was thankful for the arduous climb, as it gave her less time to think about her predicament with Legolas. Not that thoughts of him were kept at bay, entirely. On the contrary, Merrill spent most of her time vacillating between admonishing herself for encouraging him, to berating herself for the idiotic reflex that had pushed him away.

In between bouts of self-chastisement, Merrill also attempted to physically avoid Legolas. So focused was she that she failed to notice the ever-increasing incline, or the shift from hard-packed earth to snow and ice covered rock. She even failed to notice that she was walking atop the snow. Her mind was more agreeably engaged recalling the soft, silver fall of his hair as it skimmed her collarbones, the warm press of his chest as it brushed against her own, and the bright, blue longing she saw in his eyes.

A little dreamily, Merrill tugged the collar of her tunic from beneath her armor and held it to her nose: juniper, mint, and sunshine—him.

Merrill slipped and sunk up to her knees in snow, blinking slowly. When had she categorized those smells in such a… sentimental fashion?

She clambered clumsily to her feet and trudged on, wading through the snow, now, like the rest of the party, her strange ability vanishing without her having noticed it, at all.

I've used Juniper and Mint in plenty of things since I've come here. Mint is popular in balms for arthritis and in brews for the common cold. Some Elves use it in their lotions and hair products. Hell, I've used Mint and Juniper, both, in my bath oils!

Merrill thumped the side of her head, hoping this percussive maintenance would return her brain to working order. We are NOT doing this, Merrill. There are a hundred reasons why this is a no-good, very bad idea, all of which you know. So do NOT romanticize him. Date on Earth! You know, where your REAL life is waiting for you?

The only problem with this suggestion, and one which Merrill acknowledged uncomfortably, was that she had never been interested in anyone romantically back home. She'd dated James, Anne's brother, right before she'd graduated high school, but it didn't last very long, and she had never felt anything with him that could hold a candle to the way Legolas had made her feel a few hours previous.

James had been kind, handsome, and roguishly charming, but Merrill felt for him just as she felt for Anne; she loved him, enjoyed his company, but kissing him left her empty. In fact, until her arrival in Middle Earth, Merrill had truly believed she was asexual.

Warm breaths ghosting over her lips, trembling fingers brushing down her jaw, trailing down her throat, skating along the heated flesh of her collarbone—

Merrill growled, thoroughly disgusted with her lack of will-power, and only just refrained from stomping her feet like a petulant four year old denied a treat. No more thinking about Legolas, you!

With an enormous effort, Merrill turned her attention to the others, hoping to strike up a conversation as a possible means of distraction, but the scene that met her eyes told her that she would be fending for herself for quite some time.

The chill fingers of the wind worked their way beneath cloaks and tunics, whistling past ears and assaulting eyes until tears streamed down faces and the Hobbits' cheeks glowed red with the cold.

Legolas glided atop the snow at the very front of the company, scouting their path and reporting back to Gandalf every so often, whose naturally grumpy tendencies were decidedly NOT improved by the cold, and Aragorn gripped the sides of his cloak tight against the cutting wind, just beginning to struggle through the drifts which had already slowed Gimli and the Hobbits.

The only person that Merrill could see that was not bothered by the cold was, oddly, Boromir.

The stern Gondorian marched single-mindedly behind the Hobbits, his cloak flapping freely behind him, his right hand dropping every so often to fondle the handle of the sword at his hip.

While the others still tried for the occasional burst of conversation, Boromir didn't even make the effort to respond when directly addressed; he just continued to tramp up the hill, one foot after another, those gray eyes narrowed against the wind and focused unflinchingly on the back of Frodo's head.

After a few hours more had passed, and the sun had begun to set, they'd finally reached a path, though Merrill privately thought that this was a wildly generous term. It was so incredibly narrow, the company would need to follow it in single file, and even then it might be a problem.

To the left of the path was the side of the mountain, rough rock with very few handholds, and to the right was empty space and a long fall to nowhere.

When Aragorn's hand fell in the signal for 'Halt', Merrill could have kissed him. She flung her bag in the snow beside her, tore her bow from her back, and then, groaning, sank back against the side of the mountain, entirely unconcerned when she continued to sink for a little longer than she'd anticipated. She was simply relieved that they'd stopped before courting their death walking the mountain version of a tight rope.

Radhrion patted her on the head as he went to join Gandalf, Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn, but Merrill didn't have it in her to do more than weakly flop her arm in his direction; they'd been marching, now, for at least eight hours, not including the time it had taken them to get to Hollin, and Merrill was ready to call it a day.

Her muscles ached, her eyes stung, and all she wanted to do was lay back against a hunk of ice to ease the pain in her back caused by Legolas's flying tackle. Though she couldn't twist enough to see it, Merrill was certain it had bruised.

Merrill heard snow crunching as someone approached, but kept her eyes tightly shut; maybe they'd make camp if they couldn't wake her!

Two small thumps, some rustling of snow, and then: "Good heavens! That was quite a walk. Was it necessary, do you think, to confound those wretched birds? Surely even they cannot find us in all this snow!"

Ah, Merrill thought, Pippin.

"I would not be so certain, Pip. It feels as though we have escaped goblins only to be caught by wolves, as Bilbo used to say." The voice she now recognized as Merry's was barely loud enough to be heard over the wind, and Merrill empathized with the exhaustion she heard lurking beneath his words.

A pregnant pause, a shift in the snow, and then Pippin said tremulously, "Do you really believe so?"

"I do," Pippin replied, his voice rough from disuse.

The Hobbit to her right had come close enough that she could feel him shivering; that would be Pippin. Young, brave, foolish Pippin.

Something about that Hobbit really tugged on her heart. It probably had something to do with the image she had of him as a well-intentioned screw-up; Merrill often felt a little that way, herself.

Pippin squeaked in surprise as Merrill pulled him into her side, wrapping her cloak around him without opening her eyes. "If something is coming, we'd better be well-rested and well-fed before it does. So hush and take a nap while you can."

Merrill felt Pippin nod against her side before he burrowed even further beneath her cloak.

After several heartbeats, he sighed happily. "It is quite lovely and warm in here, Merry. And she even smells good! Like the soap from home with the little purple bits in it."

Merrill's cheeks heated a little at this; she'd been certain she smelled of over-ripened cheese considering how long it had been since she had last had the opportunity to bathe.

"Oh, Pippin. Do stop sniffing Merrill, won't you?"

"Am not!"

Merrill cleared her throat. "If you're cold, you can take the other side of my cloak, Merry."

"Thank you for the offer, but no. I am doing quite well with my own." Merry shifted a little further away from her side to prove his point, and Merrill heaved an internal sigh; of course he wouldn't want to be coddled. He was an adult by the customs of his people, and he might see her offer as demeaning. Merrill, herself, had often thought that Boromir's behavior towards the Hobbits was occasionally patronizing, and hoped she hadn't made the same mistake as he had done and correlated stature with maturity.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold trickled down her spine and her eyes snapped open.

"Merrill?" Pippin poked his head out from her cloak, his breath frosting the air. "Whatever is the matter?"

She shook her head, then froze; she had found the source of the wrongness. Boromir stood before Frodo a few yards off, further from the company then it was wise to be, and from his fist hung a silvery chain with something gold swinging from the end…

Suddenly, the wrongness intensified until she nearly doubled over, her vision blurring. Images inundated her; her mother, smiling up at her from her computer desk where she spent Sunday mornings grading papers, the smell of wisteria wafting in on the warm, spring breeze, rustling against the ever-present purple Heliotropes on her desk; her husband's flower. Anne, singing off-key in the driver's seat, the sun burning her arm as she hangs it out the window, flashes of the ocean peeking through the trees, the taste of sunflower seeds salty in her mouth. Radhrion, standing at the front of a lecture hall, dark hair cropped short, wearing an old-fashioned tweed suit. In his hands, a moldering tome from which he reads. On the table before him, assorted bits of medieval history; an iron helmet, pieces of a rusted cuirass, broken dagger hilts, and more, and then—Legolas, silver hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, sat, cross-legged, on her shitty, black couch, a laptop balanced on his knees and a steaming mug of coffee at his lips. He grins when she approaches, moving everything to the side before drawing her into his arms, kissing her face, her nose, her cheeks until she cannot stop from laughing with the joy of it—

"Give the ring to Frodo."

Merrill groaned back to awareness, fingers curling against something warm and soft, and raised one, trembling hand to her lips; when she finally opened her eyes, she saw that her palm was smeared with blood.

"It makes no difference to me."

Merrill saw Boromir from the corner of her eye; he held the ring out to Frodo (for the ring it was), his expression almost mocking in its' indifference, but the skin around his eyes was taut, and his smile had too many teeth in it.

Frodo, pale face somehow even paler, tears frozen in glittering trails down his reddened cheeks, snatched the chain from Boromir's hand and took several steps back, clutching his prize close to his heart.

Aragorn stood stalwart at his back, eyes keen on Boromir, hands concealed beneath his cloak.

Boromir chuckled, a forced, strained sound, tousled Frodo's dark curls, then turned and trudged back up towards the others and out of her sight.

Frodo lifted the necklace over his head, and Merrill slumped with relief when it disappeared beneath his clothes, too shaken to worry that the arms that encircled her smelled of Juniper.

"Do not be frightened. Its evil affects even the greatest among us." His thumb swept across her chin. "Are you able to stand?"

She nodded stiffly and pulled back, not daring to make eye contact. Her reaction to the ring left a foul taste in her mouth and a weight in her stomach, and Legolas's concern, his kindness, only made her feel even more rotten.

Legolas kept a hold of her shoulders until she'd steadied, then his hands slid down her arms and fell to his sides, briefly clenching before going limp.

After a moment, he collected himself and pressed a flask into her hand. "Drink sparingly. I have heard tales of your reaction to Miruvor in the past."

The metal flask was cool against her skin. Mechanically, she pulled the cork and brought it to her lips, taking the smallest sip she could manage before nearly spitting it back out. It was espresso, but more bitter, mixed with baking chocolate and blood, and it coated her tongue as though she'd licked a handful of hair gel.

Isn't this supposed to taste good?

Merrill forced herself to swallow, then handed it back. "Thanks."

His gaze fell to her lips. "The Miruvor should aid in your recovery, however I believe it would also be prudent to disinfect the wound."

"The wound?" Merrill felt along her face until she bumped into her lower lip and winced; she'd bitten clean through it. The tissue was inflamed, and dried blood cracked against her fingertips. "Oh. That." Her brain started to hum again, grinding back into something like awareness, and the realization of her frightful appearance, mixed with the acknowledgment of hers and Legolas's recent upset spurred her back into action. She tried for a smile, but, to her horror, her lip began to bleed afresh.

"Please," Legolas said, hastily reaching towards her face and frowning, "allow me to—"

"No!" Merrill slapped his hands away and then cringed; shock and hurt chased each other across his face. "I mean, no, thank you. I'm fine." The idea of him worrying about her after all that had happened (and all that would not happen, no matter his world's plans) hurt worse than the hole in her lip.

Wishing she could simply sink into the ground and vanish, she patted him awkwardly on the arm and fled to her healer's kit, cringing so hard she felt blood trickle down her neck.

"Are you hurt?" Pippin asked as she blew past him.

Merrill waved him off and dug through her kit, hoping to appear too busy to bother while she tried to piece together all that had happened.

Boromir… had picked up the ring, and, considering his predisposition towards its' evil, had had a hard time handing it back to Frodo. This scenario repeats itself later… and Boromir dies. She took a deep breath. How did I forget that he died? And it's soon-ish, right? Sometime after Gandalf dies? But… Merrill's hands stilled and she leaned back on her haunches. Was everything I saw, everything I felt, the ring's influence? Is this what it does to Boromir?

A slimy, oozing, slithering sensation bubbled and simmered in her stomach like a perverse sort of magma as she remembered the wanting. Without that ring, she would never make it home. Those she loved would forget her, and those she had found in Middle Earth would forsake her. None of them would bother with her once the quest had ended and the danger had passed. Gandalf would leave Middle Earth, as would Galadriel and Elrond. Aragorn would become King, but he had never liked Merrill, anyway—who would? Gimli, like all his kind, would despise her for her lack of purpose and utility in this world, Radhrion would find his wife and sail away with the rest, and Legolas… Merrill bit at her lip and then cried out from the pain, startled to discover tears mixed in with the blood on her face.

How long have I been kneeling here? She wondered, swiping at her cheeks angrily. How did that ring get hold of me again?

Aragorn's voice boomed across the snowy blasts of wind. "Come! Gather your things. We must go further, yet, before we may rest."

With little thought, Merrill gouged out a hunk of half-frozen salve from one of her tins and held it in her palms until it became malleable enough to smear across her lips. It stung like rubbing alcohol, and she inhaled sharply, tears pricking her eyes until the pain faded.

The Hobbits had already lined up, so she stowed her salve and shouldered her pack, coming to a stop behind them. No conversation floated back to her on the wind, and she was grateful they weren't in the mood for talking; her thoughts were too twisted up with the ring's influence, the memories of home, and the creeping fear that those she loved, in both worlds, would abandon her.

The briefest whisper of warmth ghosted across the top of her hand, and Merrill looked down to see slender fingers tracing patterns along the inside of her wrist.

"Avo dhavo am môr," Legolas murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Stay close." (1)

Merrill nodded mutely, her throat dry, still staring at her wrist, and felt, rather than saw, him leave.

Moments later, and they were on the move again, treading along the narrow path one after the other with Gandalf at the fore.

Shuffling along behind the Hobbits kept Merrill plenty busy, as they frequently stumbled and fell, and she, Radhrion, and Gimli all made it their business to keep them going, encouraging and physically picking them up by turns.

The Hobbits all shivered uncontrollably, their small bodies sunk up to the chest in snow, and Frodo, especially, seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty moving forward.

The memory of the ring's influence made her shudder; she had just seen the ring and it had left her in quite a state. Poor Frodo was wearing the damned thing on a chain next to his heart.

With every step, Frodo sagged further and further until he was almost bent at the waist. It didn't escape Merrill's notice that both of his hands clutched at the neck of his tunic, nor did the empty expression in his eyes. Frodo had checked out, a flashing, red vacancy sign where his spirit should have been, and Merrill averted her eyes; she couldn't bear to watch him struggle, but she knew there was nothing she could do to help short of taking the ring, herself.

That thought startled her, and she stomped her foot down a little harder than necessary and gritted her teeth to shake free of its temptation. Not today, Middle Earth Satan. Not today.

Gandalf had taken the lead, Aragorn by his side, and both moved steadily through the snow, carving out a path that the others followed, all except for Legolas and Radhrion, who walked along what snow was left without sinking. The lucky bastards didn't even leave bootprints.

Other than having to slog through the white mess, the snow hardly bothered her, at all. She was a little cold, to be sure, but not enough to pull her cloak more tightly around her. The wind annoyed her only in that it dried out her eyes, but otherwise, she was perfectly comfortable.

Sam halted suddenly, and Merrill bumped up against his back, grabbing at his shoulders to steady him.

"What is it?"

Sam shook his dirty-blond head. "I don't rightly know. Gandalf stopped."

And sure enough, Gandalf had stopped. His eyes were shut, and his lips moved like the wings of a hummingbird.

Then an ominous grumble came from the ground beneath their feet, and the air went still.

"Mithrandir?" Legolas asked as he returned to Gandalf's side, but if the wizard heard, he made no indication.

Gimli put his hands, palm down, on the side of the mountain, eyes wary, and said nervously, "Barazinbar awakes. It is said she has no love for Dwarves or Elves, and any who find themselves traversing her are never seen again."

Merrill fought her way to his side, placing her hands beside his own; a strange thrum pulsed through the rock, and Merrill yanked her hands back, rubbing her palms thoughtfully. "Are you saying the mountain hates us?"

"Aye, lassie. That she does."

Another great rumble nearly knocked Merrill onto her ass, and the others staggered, too. That feeling of foreboding from Hollin had returned.

"Gandalf! We need to get off the mountain! The Hobbits will freeze, otherwise!"

Gandalf turned and examined the Hobbits at Boromir's insistence, but ultimately shook his head. "We forge on."

At his words, the mountain shook again, this time much harder, and the rumble sounded suspiciously like a growl. All of the hair on Merrill's body stood on end just before a river of snow roared down the mountainside, burying them all before they could so much as cry out.

Merrill struggled against its weight, panic slithering up and around her throat; she couldn't breathe. Suddenly, she remembered the weight of the Orc on her back, his sour breath against her cheek, the sharp pricking of his sword against her spine, cruel hands digging into her windpipe, crushing the air from her lungs…

A hand shot through the ice and she snatched at it, allowing herself to be pulled out and into someone's arms. She buried her face into the broad chest before her, teeth chattering so hard that her lip broke open, bleeding sluggishly through the salve.

"We must turn back!" Boromir bellowed over the storm.

"We have no other choice!" Radhrion shouted in reply from somewhere to her left. "All of the roads are being watched; Saruman's reach is extensive—we would be captured at once!"

"If we cannot go over the mountain, let us go under it." Gimli's deep voice cut through the howling blizzard effortlessly, booming unpleasantly against her sensitive ears and conjuring images of deep, dark places in the earth filled with smoke, and ash, and death. "Let us go through the mines of Moria, Gandalf."

Merrill's eyes flew open, her stomach knotting at the suggestion. This was a part of the movie she remembered quite well. This is where they lost Gandalf.

Sensing her unease, Legolas stroked her hair, tucking her head more securely against his neck. His throat was unbelievably warm against her cheek, even his chest radiated heat, and she clung a little more tightly to him, doing her best not to bleed on his tunic.

"Let the Ringbearer decide," Gandalf said grimly, frost obscuring much of his expression.

Merrill pulled out of Legolas' embrace reluctantly, turning to watch Frodo.

The small Hobbit was practically blue from the cold, his ruddy cheeks bright with the beginnings of frostbite, and he shivered uncontrollably from his place amidst his brethren, all of whom were sandwiched together for warmth.

Coming to some sort of decision, Frodo's chin firmed and his small shoulders straightened. "We will take the mines."

Merrill closed her eyes against his pronouncement, not wanting to see its effects on the wizard, but she heard his reply well enough, and it nearly crushed her.

"So be it."

Those words put her in mind of words used to end the 'spells' of her world: So mote it be. Both phrases rang with finality and possessed connotations of sacrifice. But there was something else in his tone that made her heart sink into her stomach; beneath his words was a hollowness, a weighted acceptance, and a bolt of understanding lit her mental landscape like lightning: Gandalf knew that he was going to die.

\-\-|-/-/

By the time they found a small cave in which to rest, half the night had already gone and most of the company were dead on their feet.

They set about their nightly chores automatically, though those that might be done away with, or curtailed, were. Their focus was on the lowest tier of survival: shelter, warmth, and sustenance.

When Sam had knelt, his heavy pack thudding beside him, and reached for his kindling box, Radhrion tugged it gently from his hands and motioned for him to rest, speedily building a small fire around which the Hobbits huddled.

Merrill, herself, passed most of the night tending to the Fellowship as best she could, advising them to remove their wet socks and boots to dry them by the fire and providing them with the clean rags she kept in her healer's kit to dry their toes, all while fervently praying she would have time to boil them before they were needed for bandages.

Thoughts of Moria loomed darker and darker in her mind. Fuzzy memories of an endless, Dwarven abyss filled with monstrous goblins and a gigantic, flaming, rock demon assaulted her each time she closed her eyes, so she'd taken to counting and re-counting the daggers each member of the Fellowship carried and, when that failed, braided (and re-braided) her long, black hair until her attentions caused it to grow to twice its normal size—some things, at least, never changed.

The Hobbits, a usually boisterous lot, were mostly silent. The long trek up the mountain and the cold, it seemed, had done what the rest of the journey could not. Even Pippin, the Hobbit poster child for ADHD, ate his meal of hard tack and dried apples before curling up in his cloak without a word to anyone, exhaustion robbing him of his spirit.

Merrill dug her spare cloak out from her pack and stretched it across the pile of sleeping Hobbits, worried for Frodo and Pippin, especially. Sam and Merry were made of stronger stuff, and took the frigid climate and fruitless hike in stride, but Frodo was weighed down with his burden, and Pippin was still a child, used to the considerable comforts of his home.

Merrill snuggled up against Radhrion, who sat with his back to the cave wall, and hid her nose in his cloak. Elf-like or not, the cold was starting to get to her; she'd lost most of the feeling in her face some time ago, and her hair was brittle with ice.

Radhrion wrapped her in his own cloak and pulled her snug against his side, lifting her hood over her ears and holding it there with his hands, his warm palms acting as ear muffs.

In the furthest reaches of the icy cave, Boromir sat alone, his cloak pulled tightly against himself in lieu of a blanket, his eyes resolutely shut. But Merrill knew he did not sleep. He, like Frodo, hadn't spoken at all since the incident with the ring, and had removed himself from the company as soon as he was able to do so without burdening the others, performing his nightly chores with a rapidity that Merrill knew well. It said, "I am too busy to be bothered," and it was one of Merrill's standbys for avoiding uncomfortable situations.

It was good, as far as tactics of avoidance went, but it had one serious flaw: eventually, there were no more tasks to complete, and the anticipation of this left you on edge.

Boromir flinched at the slightest noise, his attention so focused on not being noticed or spoken to that his startle response reacted to every creak in the ice or hiss of the wind.

Merrill considered offering him one of the many blankets Radhrion had packed, but ultimately decided against it; he'd just bite her head off for her pains, and she had her own problems to worry about. Still, seeing him so far away from the fire's light and warmth made something in her twinge in sympathy; he was self-isolating, and that never boded well.

At the cave's mouth, Legolas stood guard, as silent and still as a statue, the fluttering of his silver hair the only indication of life.

Merrill couldn't help herself. Even in this situation, with the ring circling her psyche like a wolf at the edge of a fire, and the fear of Moria turning her blood to ice, she couldn't help but admire the beauty of his silhouette as it was outlined by the softly falling snow.

What happens to him after I leave? He stays with the Fellowship, fights a few battles, and then what? The good guys win, Aragorn becomes king, a bunch of the Elves sail West… but what about Legolas? Merrill sat bolt upright. Was there any way that Galadriel could…?

No, Merrill slammed the door on that particular thought and rubbed her eyes, but a fatalistic sort of resignation had begun to insinuate itself within her heart. Why am I like this?

Deciding that tomorrow was just as good a time as any to continue this foolish line of thought, Merrill slumped back down beside Radhrion and waited for sleep to take her.

Radhrion's chest rose… and fell. Rose… and fell; a gentle whoosh of warm breath against the top of her head that made her smile. He had a way of easing her anxiety, even asleep, and she allowed herself to relax against him, head drooping against his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of pine that clung to his clothing.

\-\-|-/-/

She was looking down on an empty plain, behind which a vast forest stretched, and before which a great stone bridge traversed a river leading to a cave mouth so wide, at least forty cars could enter side by side, and so tall that a four story building could very easily pass through it, with room to spare.

The bridge put her in mind of those she'd seen in Rivendell, the one from which Elrond enjoyed watching the sun set, particularly. Its construction was clearly Elven in nature; it was too fair to be the work of any other hand, but Merrill didn't recognize the area. It was shadier than Rivendell, and the forests seemed to consist entirely of beeches, their silvery bark, and distinctive pale green leaves a dead give-away.

Just as Merrill was beginning to get bored, something exited the woods, dashing about wildly and seizing, white froth pooling from its jaws…

No. Merrill shook her head. There's no way that's what I think it is.

The creature chose that moment to stop, its spine snapping straight before throwing its massive, shaggy head back and howling a howl that hurt Merrill's teeth and shook the nearby trees with its strength.

From snout to tail, the creature was at least seven feet long, and somewhere around nine feet tall when standing on its back legs… which it continued to do. It did not run on all fours, choosing, instead, to run as though it were… human.

It's a werewolf. A freaking werewolf. What in the actual hell?!Merrill tried to move from her position in the sky to get a better look, but found she could not.

A dark-haired man and a large, grey hound issued forth from the cave, running across the bridge towards the werewolf, who fell to all fours and exploded towards them, its back claws throwing up clumps of earth.

The man let loose a battle cry, the steel of his sword flashing in the sunlight as it came down upon the beast while the hound at his side snapped and harried the werewolf's flanks and ankles.

Merrill watched in awe as the two worked together; whenever the werewolf focused over long on either, the other would distract. The hound, in particular, did his best to keep his master from being mauled, drawing blood on more than one occasion even as he was injured, himself, but it could only work for so long. Even as they fought, the hound and man began to lose speed and began to make mistakes the werewolf was only too happy to exploit.

And, sure enough, with one misstep, the beast clamped down on the hounds' side, blood gushing from its jaws as the hound shrieked and whimpered.

The man lunged forward, hacking desperately at the beast's jaws, but left his flank unguarded. The werewolf flung the hound away and struck, fangs sinking deep into the man's chest, blood spurting and welling around it's fangs before spilling across the ground.

Merrill watched, horrified, as the knowledge of his death crossed his face, but then something changed. With a wet sounding yell, blood dribbling from his lips, the man lifted his sword and slashed with what strength remained to him, finally striking true.

The beast howled, the man falling from his jaws to the field below, and stumbled back, reddish-black intestines spilling from its gut before it, too, succumbed, crumpling to the earth, very much dead.

"NO!"

Merrill cringed; the voice was loud enough to burst eardrums, and its tone so sorrowful that she felt tears spring to her eyes.

A tall, Elven woman, her raven hair streaming behind her as she ran, crossed the bridge in seconds, falling to her knees beside the dying man, sobs already cropping up in her throat.

"Beren, please—Please, no. Do not leave me. You cannot leave me!" The Elf applied pressure, pale hands covered in dark, red blood, her blue gown turning black from where she knelt in the grass.

Merrill watched as he took the hand she held against his wound and brought it to his lips, but the Elf's hair obscured much of his face, so she had to infer the kiss he placed against her palm. "I know, my love." He tucked her hair behind her ear and said, with some effort, "I am sorry."

The Elf shook her head hard from side to side and didn't stop, her hands clutching him to her. "You fool," she admonished, her voice thick with tears as she rocked him against her. "You absolute fool."

Beren pushed a bloody, glowing stone into her hand, hacking wetly, before releasing a rattling breath that froze Merrill's blood. "Gi melin," he sighed against her hair, and was still.

The Elf who could only be Luthien collapsed across his chest, shoulders shaking as she finally cried in earnest, sobs tearing their way from her throat in an entirely unnatural way.

Merrill cried with her, Luthien's sorrow too much to bear. And as she cried, the sky darkened, the wind kicked up, shrieking with its speed, lightning ripped across the sky, gouging at the ground until whole rocks and bits of dirt flew into the air, the animals of the forest keened, and even the trees groaned and creaked mournfully, shaking until their leaves filled the air.

Luthien's hair, blacker than night, faded, as did the rest of her body, until she was merely a shimmering reflection of what she'd been.

"Gi melin, gi melin, gi melin," she whispered hoarsely against his throat, and then she closed her eyes and Merrill knew that she was dead.

"Little bird? Come now, no tears."

Merrill woke to Radhrion smoothing the tears from her cheeks, his brow wrinkled, and a deep frown etched around his lips.

She launched herself at him, hands scrabbling until she gripped him tight enough to bruise, her sobs deadened by the soft wool of his tunic.

Radhrion drew his arms tight around her, his body rocking as he shushed her rhythmically.

Merrill hardly remembered her dream, but the sorrow that she was left with consumed every other emotion except her deeply ingrained fear of loss, which had been recently triggered by the ring, and so stung even more sharply, now.

"There, there, my dear. There, there." He stroked her back soothingly, his voice warm with the remnants of sleep. "You are safe, little bird. I promise you, you are safe."

After she'd managed to calm down a bit, Radhrion asked quietly, "Night terrors?"

Merrill nodded, his tunic wet beneath her cheek, and croaked, "I dreamt of Beren's death."

Radhrion pulled away until he could see her face properly. "I beg your pardon?"

Merrill wiped her nose on her sleeve, and replied dully, "I watched Beren die. A werewolf killed him. And I saw Luthien…" Merrill trailed off, rubbing idly at the embroidery she'd ruined with her tears and snot.

Radhrion's hand stilled against her hair. "You saw Luthien… and?"

"She almost tore the world apart with her sorrow… and then she just…" Merrill shook her head, still trying to wrap her mind around what she'd seen. "She just… faded away. All the color, all the life, just… left her." Merrill hugged him a little closer, and he returned to stroking her hair.

Merrill listened to the steady beat of his heart, allowing herself to relax even further against him, until he murmured, "… It was just a dream, little bird. Nothing to worry about." He pulled his blanket over them both, tucking it snug against her body. "The tumult of the day was bound to upset you, as was the relentless cold coming off this blasted pile of rock. Do not pay it any mind and rest. I will watch over your sleep, and wake you if the terrors return."

Merrill shook her head, her eyelids already drooping. "I don't think sleep is in the cards for me, Ronners." She yawned hugely, missing Radhrion's soft, indulgent smile, and the faintest crinkling around his eyes.

"Just as you say, little bird," he whispered, resting his chin atop her head even as her eyes fell shut. "Just as you say."

A/N:

(1) Do not yield to darkness.

Gi melin = I love you (Informal/familiar)

Heliotrope is a small, four petaled purple flower that follows the sun. It means longing. Wisteria means devotion. Both were planted by Merrill's father.

THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the comments:

Laurel1990, Guest, D'elfe, Aralinn, ColdOnePaul, Danire, SarahELupin, xcislyfe22, peygoodwin, Brea2020, MariaJane716, MariaJulietBituin, JcRxo, masoxrista, & RozenMaiden14!

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Things are starting to happen, bros. Lots and lots of things. I'm working on the next few chapters, but you'll be glad to know I have up to Boromir's death outlined, and a vague idea of what's going to happen up to the feast after Helm's deep, and I'm feeling really good about the details.

Oh, and it seems like most of you prefer chapters more frequently, at any size, so that's what we're sticking to, though, from here on out, there is so much happening in each chapter it's likely they'll be a little longer than my previous ones, anyway. :)

We're finally in Moria next chapter (well, outside of it, anyway; haven't finished writing that bit up, yet. So much to touch on!)!

Best wishes to you all ~