[Written with respect for, but no ownership in, the works of J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, Philippa Boyens, and Fran Walsh.]

12 January, 3019. Third Age.

"You can do nothing for her now!" Aragorn jerked Legolas back from the edge.

The elf had called Anarwen's name over and over but only the echo of his own voice replied. He stared at the man in disbelief. His friend could not be saying these words. "You cannot know that!"

Aragorn faced Legolas, his expression grim. "My duty and yours must be to Frodo now. We must get the Hobbits off this mountain or Saruman will destroy us all. We cannot waste another minute!"

"Waste?! Do not speak to me of waste!" Legolas looked around wildly. "I can find her!"

"Possibly, but at what cost? Moments more and the Ringbearer will be dead!" Aragorn gripped Legolas by the shoulders and leaned very close. "And if I leave you alone to search for her, who will help me protect Frodo? Do you not see what is happening to Boromir?" the man hissed. "Our destination is far away. For all the leagues ahead, is Gimli to be the only other warrior I can rely on to protect our quest?"

Legolas threw off Aragorn's hands and stepped backward. Desperation clawed at his insides. All his life he had made these decisions easily, put duty ahead of all else, sent his closest friends to close a battle line's hole, risked his own life to beat back the Enemy's forces. Now the quest was in peril and his duty was clear. He stared down into the chasm, hunting in vain for a spec of dark green clothing among the rocks and snow. There was no sign of her. He could not say the words.

"We cannot stay here!" yelled Boromir from behind them. He had Merry and Pippin tucked under his arms but both were shuddering. "This will be the death of the Hobbits!"

Legolas glanced at Aragorn and nodded his head slightly before looking away. Aragorn turned to Gandalf with expectation, but the wizard said, "The Ringbearer must decide."

Frodo's eyes widened. He looked from Gandalf to Aragorn to Legolas. The wizard and the ranger gazed at him sympathetically, but the elf turned away. Frodo's voice cracked a little as he finally said, "We will go through the mines." He watched the elf's head drop lower as the wizard replied, "So be it."

***

The world had fallen away. Dim sounds floated on the air, like the singing of Elves, light and haunting. Someone far away called her name. Who calls? Am I late? Where am I supposed to be? An image of several men and four small children rose in her mind and then disintegrated into white dust.

Anarwen's head throbbed with pain. There was another time when color and sound swirled together in confusion. Legolas was there. With golden hair. So beautiful. In his arms. I am in his arms…

Images of the eastern waste's burning sun wavered, flickered, and became torchlight in the caverns of Thranduil's palace. In his arms… Turning and turning, she danced to a melody that floated to her from far away. Her long velvet dress, nearly as dark as the cavern's shadows, trailed behind her. It swept the floor, a beat out of time with the music. Strong hands clasped her waist and then released her. The dancers moved faster and faster, and she laughed out loud in joy. His smile was radiant. So beautiful. We are alone here, none can see us. Only us. Only him. One hand glided across the palm of another until her fingers parted his. Sensation shot up her arm and clenched her stomach. His hand gripped hers suddenly, but he carefully pushed himself back, holding her in place by the waist until he had set a distance between them. Shame flooded her. What have I done?

Anarwen gasped and the throbbing returned to her head before spreading down her spine.

What have I done?

***

14 January, 3019. Third Age.

Legolas stood just behind the seated forms of Boromir and Aragorn. He had his bow clasped tightly to his chest. Leaning against the crumbling side of stone stairs, he looked around what was apparently a guardroom. They were deep inside Moria and hopelessly lost.

Gandalf was perched at the top of the stairs, puffing meditatively on his pipe. He faced arches carved into rock wall that led to three passages. The others were waiting for him to decide which passage to take. They had been there for several hours without any sign that the wizard was any closer to a decision. Predictably, the patience of Pippin and Merry was first to deteriorate.

"Merry?"

"What, Pip?"

"I'm hungry."

"Be quiet, Pip."

Legolas had long ago quit listening to the Hobbits' whining. He stood alone with his thoughts, silent and motionless. Only his eyes registered his emotions as they drifted across the members of the Fellowship. Nine companions. He fought the despair that choked his throat. Anarwen.

The Fellowship's journey down Caradhras to Moria's West-door was uneventful, but an attack by a creature guarding the entrance gave Legolas the cover of battle to hide his grief. With bow and arrow, he fought with effortless grace. This was what he did best. A fluid, moving meditation in death.

He had kept a tight rein on himself during the last day's trek through the mines. He had tried once to reach out with his senses and detect danger, but the raw hatred that answered had nearly overwhelmed him. Endless years of war between Dwarves and Orcs had given these caverns a permanent taint. It was so strong he could practically taste it. He had quickly sealed off the sensations, but as the Fellowship picked their way through Moria, he became certain that there was something here far worse than Goblins armed with arrows. Something even worse than the Watcher by the West-door. Great evil wandered this stone tomb.

Its presence had kept him from trying something he had not attempted in a hundred years—to reach out not with his senses but with his soul. One fea calling to another. It was a magic he knew other Elves possessed, but few of the Wood-elves practiced such arts. For Legolas, Elven enchantments found expression only in his combat skills. They gave him the ability to act as one with any weapon and turn any battlefield to his advantage. But other than a gift of perceiving approaching threats, mystical arts eluded him.

A hundred years ago, Arwen Undomiel had tried to tutor him in this magic. His feeble attempts to call to a Mirkwood maiden had yielded little more than aggravation. With eyes shut tight and determination written in a frown, Legolas had tried to empty his mind and speak with his soul. "I feel nothing," he gritted out after long minutes.

"Relax and try…ai!" Arwen gasped as a stag leapt across the stone bench where they sat. She turned to stare wide-eyed at Legolas and then collapsed in laughter. "Perhaps your fea calls only for the hunt, not the quarry," she said between giggles, not really speaking of deer.

Legolas had given her an embarrassed grin and abandoned the lesson there. He was not accustomed to failing so spectacularly. Now the face of a different elleth overtook his thoughts. What if I call to her and rouse something else? He put the worry out of his mind. He had to know what had happened to her. When he was certain the others were not looking, he closed his eyes slowly. Emptying his mind of all else, he imagined layer upon layer a black enveloping him. When only black remained, he spoke one word inside his mind. Anarwen…

Across the chamber, Gimli shifted his pipe and fixed his gaze on the Company's remaining elf. The dwarf had kept to himself since they had opened the West-door and found his kinsmen littering the floor. Promises of roaring fires and merrymaking had died on his lips. No doubt the elf had thought him boasting, but he had only meant to bolster the boy's spirits. The Dwarves celebrated their fallen brothers with drink, song, and remembrance of better times. He did not know how the Elves honored their dead, but surely his people's way was good enough for Lady Anarwen. A warrior she may have been, but she was also a Lady to his way of thinking and deserving of the finest homage they could muster.

But the arrow-riddled bodies had proven him a fool. The Fellowship should not have taken this road. Moria might well claim all their lives before it was finished with them.

Gimli's bitter thoughts faded as he mulled over the elf's strange appearance. The boy had his eyes closed and seemed to be in deep concentration. The dwarf watched him for a few more minutes. A bit of legend came to him. Some said that the Eldar of old could speak in each other's thoughts, converse with one another no matter the distance between them.

Unbidden, he recalled his last day in Rivendell. Anarwen had listened with rapt attention as he spun some tale of his skill with an axe and the foes he had vanquished. Gimli was not sure he believed the girl remained alive, but if this boy thought it so, he would not break faith either. A plan shaped itself in his mind. Only a fool's hope, but a fine one even so, he thought.

"You call to her?" The elf's eyes flew open and bore into the dwarf before him. Legolas nodded stiffly and looked toward the floor to hide what else might be visible in his eyes. Despite his best efforts, there had been no reply.

"She is in my thoughts too, lad." Gimli's whisper was a low rumble. "You do not believe she is dead?"

Legolas flinched at the word. With every fiber of his being he wanted to strike the dwarf just for using it. Instead, he gripped his bow a little more tightly until he could force out civil words. "No. I would know it."

Gimli eyed the Elven-prince before him. Most of the Elves wore an air of detachment like a second skin. Legolas looked more like a bow string that had been wound far past its breaking point. That he was still here, bound to the Fellowship, but trying to reach out to the girl impressed the dwarf greatly. "Good, lad. I do not believe it either."

Legolas stared at the dwarf but did not reply. He did not know what to say, but the knowledge that at least one other person believed Anarwen to be alive filled him with a fierce hope. For her to simply disappear from existence…one minute within his grasp and the next minute gone…He could not accept the possibility that those moments were her last. That Gimli shared his thoughts bolstered his spirits more than he would have thought possible.

"Listen to me, lad," the dwarf continued. "All we need is two days. When we reach the other side, we will find the Mirrormere just beyond the East-gate. There, we can let Gandalf and Aragorn lead the others on while you and I backtrack across the east side of the pass. Saruman will have long ago silenced his storms. With only two of us we can make quick work of the route. We will find her and return to the others in no time at all." Gimli slapped the elf on the shoulder. "We can find her, lad. Do not worry."

A small voice inside Legolas wanted to scream in defiance, tell this dwarf that no Elf needed a stumpy oaf slowing him down, that he could find Anarwen on his own, that she could take care of herself and needed no one, that… On and on the vile voice raged at the circumstances that had taken her from his side and then sent him a Dwarf as her loyal friend and would-be rescuer.

The logical part of his mind told him that all this was Moria's demons, not his own. He had opened himself to Anarwen and that had allowed the evil of this place past his defenses. He fought off the dark impulses, latching onto the dwarf's plan without a single thought to Aragorn's warnings. "Yes. We shall find her. We will go together and bring her back."

"Then we are agreed, lad." Gimli gave the elf's shoulder a final grip and trudged back to the other side of the stairs.

I will find you. Anarwen, I will find you.

***

Author's notes:

This one was a real struggle. And yes, I did make you wait weeks only to keep the action minimal and the angst extreme. I promise to learn to write action by the next chapter. (Tolkein et al. are going to force it on me anyway.) This one isn't any longer than the others, so my apologies there. I tend to fuss over every stupid word, so longer chapters mean greater delays posting.

Everyone, thank you for your kind reviews. A few individual mentions:

Tinstar: I wasn't really aware of the contrast between Anarwen's and Legolas's views of their conversation. I like that way of looking at it. You inspired a part in this chapter.

Snitch: Where are you? I miss my dependably quick reviews. See, I'm pathetically needy that way.