The rain tapered off to a thin mist throughout the next day.  The five companions trudged onward, bows in the hands of the Elves, and Gilmin and Raven with their axe and sword respectively drawn.  They had crossed through the border of Nurn into Gorgoroth, the vast, barren plain of north Mordor.  Away from the relative protection of the occasional copses of trees, and the palatable drinking water of Nurn, their nerves were on edge.

Nimoë in particular appeared to be affected.  Gilmin and Raven had passed through Gorgoroth on their way south to find the Elves, and Legolas had a greater history of danger to draw courage from.  One might have expected Caldarion to show trepidation at re-entering the country where he had been taken captive and treated so brutally, but he moved onward without hesitation, his eyes marking familiar formations, unerringly leading them along the safest paths towards Orodruin.

With her hand clenched tight around her bow, Nimoë walked just behind Legolas.  His very nearness helped to allay some of her worry, but it was not enough to reassure her fully.  It felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching them as they passed, glancing out from behind boulders, staring from under outcrops, and it seemed as though the hairs on the back of her neck would never again lie flat.  Yet every time she brought her gaze to the spot where she felt a malevolent stare, she found nothing.

It was well past noon when Gilmin broke the silence they had been traveling in, saying, "I was at first concerned about bringing you with us, Caldarion, with your injury, but I now see the value you bring.  Knowing the terrain as well as you do has saved us hours, if not days, of scouting, trying to find our way safely."

"Thank you, Dwarf," Caldarion nodded.  "If I am useful in any way, then I am glad.  I know that I slow you down with my infirmity, but I feel stronger by the hour.  It is as if each passing step strengthens me."

Legolas regarded his young protégé with concerned eye.  It was true.  The nearer they drew to the fiery mountain, the straighter Caldarion stood, the longer his strides.  While it was relieving to see him so improved, it seemed very abrupt.  Very convenient.

Behind him, Legolas heard Nimoë groan, and he turned to see her massaging her hands into her neck.  The extra weight of Caldarion's gear was particularly difficult for her to manage, and it distressed the Elf Prince to see his wife suffering so.

"Caldarion," he said, "If you are truly feeling stronger, then perhaps you could carry a greater portion of your gear."

The young Elf swung his gaze over to Nimoë and saw that she was bent far forward, shouldering not only her own equipment, but also his water and his bedroll.  A wave of worry washed over his face, and he moved quickly to her side, where he pulled the heavy pack off of her back.  "I am sorry that you have needed to carry my burden, Nimoë.  I am much recovered, and I would gladly bear this load for a way."

The sudden lifting of the weight made Nimoë feel like she was floating, but she shook her head.  "Nay.  I will carry my own equipment.  If you could fit your water into your small sack, it would help me, however," she admitted.

"Of course, my Princess," he responded, unstrapping the extra water sacks from the pack frame.

She opened her mouth to protest the title, but snapped it shut again at Legolas' curt head shake.  Taking a moment to think, she realized that, technically, she was now a princess.

Turning her back on the group, she wandered a few steps away, needing to think.  There had been little chance to speak with Legolas since they had joined together and she felt a bit lost.  She knew that he loved her, but without the chance to speak, to share affection, it was almost as if they had moved back into their previous relationship, one of guardian and ward.  She ached to be again within his embrace, but the exigencies of their travel made such a thing nearly impossible.

Her mind full of these disturbing thoughts, Nimoë was unaware of how far she had strayed.  She stood alone on the top of a low ridge, and she stared north towards the fiercely burning mountain.  A deep shudder ran through her as she began to realize the full implications of their quest.  To enter the very bowels of the fire mountain…

A blur of black caught the corner of her eye, and she snapped her gaze towards it.  A wolf?  She had seen only its retreating hindquarters, but she did not see how she could be mistaken.  What was a wolf doing in such a dead place?

Uncomfortably aware of her solitude, Nimoë turned and walked briskly back to her companions.  Legolas caught the look of taut worry in her face and moved quickly to her side, catching her hand in his.  "What is it, love?"

Her brows furrowed as she replied, "I thought that I saw a wolf just over that rise," indicating the direction from which she had come.  "It was dark as night, and it ran when it saw me."  With fearful eyes she looked up at her husband.  "What could such a creature want in a place like this?"

Legolas looked over her head at Gilmin, who stood behind her, his eyes hard.  "I think that what you saw could not have been a simple wolf, Nimoë.  Wolves could not live in this land.  All I can think is that it must have been a Warg, although I had hoped never to see such creatures again.  I had thought them gone from this world."

"Are you certain that your eyes did not deceive you, Nimoë?" asked Caldarion, who had finished rearranging the contents of the packs.

"I do not think so.  My eyesight is keen and has never told me wrong before."

Raven, who had been standing nearby, but aloof, spoke, "They have been watching us since we entered this land.  Have you not felt their eyes?"

Legolas nodded.  "I have felt eyes, but been unable to find them.  If they are near, they are choosing not to be seen.  Almost as if they are simply keeping themselves abreast of our progress."  His hand gripped more tightly on his bow.  "I do not like it."

Gilmin hefted his axe and harrumphed.  "Well, like it or no, I do not see where we have much choice.  We must keep moving."

Caldarion nodded.  "Yes.  We must."

Nimoë looked around at her companions apprehensively, "But if the Wargs know of our presence, are we not walking into a trap?"

Legolas gave her a reassuring squeeze.  "Most likely.  But a trap is never as effective once its presence is known.   We will double our vigilance."

With that less than encouraging thought in their minds, the company moved onward, weapons drawn.

That night they slept under a broad overhang, the parched rock blocking their view of the stars.  At least it was dry.  There was no wood for a fire, so they huddled close, Nimoë wrapped tight in Legolas' arms.

The warmth of his body seeped into her, giving her much needed comfort and reassurance.  With his strong arms about her, and his firm body supporting her slight weight, Nimoë was almost able to forget the danger which they faced.  None of them had sighted any other creature, although they could all feel the overwhelming sense of presence, of being watched.

Watched!  Nimoë's eyes flew up and she found Caldarion staring intently at her.  His dark eyes were shadowed, and she almost could not see whether he was looking at her or past her into his own thoughts.  But when her eyes caught his, he turned abruptly away and she knew it had been her that was focus of his attention.

A wave of guilt washed over her as she remembered his salve.  Regretfully, she detached herself from Legolas' embrace and delved into her pouch, coming up with the small container.

On soft feet she moved to Caldarion's side, and she saw that he flinched away from her.  Why?  Why is he afraid of me? "Caldarion," she said, "Tinunél gave me a salve for your burn.  May I put it on?"

Not willing to meet her eyes, he nodded, staring down at his muddy boots.

With trembling fingers, Nimoë dipped into the container, coming out with a dollop of cold, whitish cream.  She reached out and touched the stuff to his tender burn.  Without warning, a terrible sensation of vertigo raced through her and she gave a groan, struggling to remain balanced where she sat back on her heels.

In the back of her mind, she heard Legolas' concerned voice saying, "Nimoë?  What is amiss?" but she could not bring herself to respond.  Her hand moved of its own accord, smoothing the salve over the handprint of the Balrog, but her mind was far away, tossing about in a black void, spinning without direction, endlessly, endlessly.  I am coming to you, Lord.  I am coming.

So much despair, and so much malice, sweeping over her like water through a broken dam.  She was drowning in it, choking on the bile that rose in her throat.  Help me!  Legolas!  A vast black hand, shot through with fiery red, tipped with vicious talons, reached out of the darkness, relentlessly moving towards her paralyzed face.  She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came forth, only a raking gasp of fear.

NO!  I will not serve you!  LEGOLAS!  SAVE ME!!!

She could feel the heat of the mighty hand coming nearer, so close that sweat beaded on her brow, and her body tensed in preparation for the searing pain that would come, knowing that if the hand reached her, she was lost.

Abruptly, she came back to her senses with a crash, as she hit the ground hard.  Gasping for breath, she lay there, shaking in the dirt.  Then Legolas was there, holding her close, whispering words of comfort as the screams which would not come earlier poured from her body.  He pressed her face against his chest, to muffle the sound.  "Nimoë, I am here.  You are safe.  Nothing can harm you.  You must stop screaming.  Please, Nimoë.  They will find us."

With a superhuman effort, she managed to stifle her screaming, but she clung desperately to Legolas, afraid to lift her eyes and look about her.  Afraid that she was still in that terrible, breath-stealing place.  That the evil presence was still waiting just beyond her eyelids.

Legolas glared over her head at Caldarion, who was cowering against the rock wall, his arms wrapped tight about himself, rocking back and forth mindlessly, as he had been from the moment he had bodily shoved Nimoë away from him, breaking her contact with his face.  "What did you do to her?" he asked accusingly.

"It was not me…  It was not me… It was not me…" Caldarion repeated, like a mantra, in rhythm with his rocking.

To Legolas' great surprise, Raven walked up to the young Elf and slapped him hard across the face.  "Snap out of it!  Your only value to us is your ability as a guide.  If you cannot formulate a straight sentence, how can we trust you?  What did you do to the lady?"

Caldarion raised his hand bemusedly to his crimson cheek.  His rocking ceased, and he stared at them as if seeing them for the first time.  "The Balrog must have come to her.  Perhaps his essence is still within the burn.  I swear that I did not mean to hurt her!"

Legolas nodded, believing the younger Elf.  "Nimoë, can you tell me what you saw?"

Still with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she whispered, "I have seen the Void.  And I have seen the Enemy."