Diary:
Today the heavens weep for the loss of one so great as Gandalf. He fell yesterday into the great depths of Moria. The shall haunt me for the rest of my life, never to be lost like a scar upon the soul. I was right, Pippin had brought upon us the horrors of Moria. Fighting ensued almost with the loss of the ringbearer. Then there came upon us, as we ran from the pursuing hordes, a tall flaming creature that followed, breathing heat at the back of our necks as we raced through Moria, searching for our way.
Flying leaps were taken at the peril of burning in the fires below us. Aragorn and the ringbearer were last, we feared that they would not make it and all would be lost. Orcs shot from around us, and I, being angry and rash at one moment, turned to shoot but trembled so frightfully that the arrow fell to the molten mass below.
Oh! I finally understood moments later that our new fearfless foe was none other than a balrog. What hope did we have left? Time and luck was against out flight. A Bridge! And across it we flew with sure-footed speed, waiting across the other side for our leader. Gandalf, dear Gandalf, stopped to face our opponent and banished him to the depths below, but he was dragged down with it.
The fiery pain that Gandalf's untimely removal from our party has caused me to weep more tears than I care to count. The anger at his demise sizzles warmly in my heart, but my head agrees with Aragorn that we must move on. Why does unsympathetic fate lead us onward when no hope is left in our pulsing bodies. Without hope, why do we face the chance of more pain? Cruel, cruel world, is there anything left?
