Nimoë's fingers grasped her bow, the string drawn taut, and she cast one last fearful but determined look at Legolas.  His face was firm, his jaw tight.  Worry was clear in his sky blue eyes, but when he caught her gaze on him, he managed to give her a reassuring smile.  Taking heart, Nimoë drew a deep breath, steadying her nerves.

Gilmin stood with his legs bent and parted, his axe held gripped in both hands across his chest, and Raven's sword was drawn.  Caldarion and Legolas also had their bows drawn and ready.

Legolas gave a curt nod and all five dashed around the corner.  There were ten Orcs in a line across the gaping hole that the chasm ripped into the fire mountain.  A dim red glowed hotly from the enclosed passageway and it showed the twisted bodies of the enemy in sharp relief.

It was evident that their abrupt appearance was unexpected for three of the Orcs fell, with white fletched arrows in their bodies, before the others even had a chance to reach for their weapons.

Nimoë had never actually fought in a real battle, only in the practice fields.  Her fingers fumbled in her quiver, struggling to pull forth a second arrow.  They felt large and unwieldy, and it took three tries before she successfully managed to draw an arrow out and fit it to the bowstring.

By that time, Legolas and Caldarion had eliminated two more, and Gilmin and Raven had moved forward to intercept the onrushing foes.  For a moment, Nimoë stood dumbfounded.  Yes, Gilmin had said that Raven was an exceptional fighter, but as she watched the Hobbit whirl and thrust with his sword, almost as if it were alive, dancing an intricate pattern of death, she could only marvel.  Never would she have expected such skill from a race that had been so inherently peaceful.

Gilmin dispatched one Orc, while Raven killed one and severely injured two others.  Only two remained standing, having made it past the steel-wielding Dwarf and Hobbit.  Nimoë released her arrow, and was relieved to see it reach its target, while another arrow pieced the creature from a different angle.  The last Orc also fell, with Caldarion's arrow in its skull.

As Raven finished the work of killing the two Orcs he had maimed, Legolas gave Nimoë's hand an encouraging squeeze.  In her first real battle she had not panicked.  Her shots had flown true.  He was relieved that she could now provide some defense for herself.  During the War of the Rings he had been tremendously worried, for she had been unable to wield a weapon.  This was definitely preferable.

The battle had been quick, and there had not been a chance for the Orcs to raise the alarm.  Caldarion beckoned to the others, urging them to follow him into the dusky, dark passageway which had, in other days, been an active lava tube.  Legolas retrieved their arrows before chasing after the others.  There were only so many, and it would be wasteful to leave them behind.

Caldarion ran on fleet feet through the twisting, scarlet tinged darkness.  Now that he was within Orodruin, his body felt whole again.  More than whole.  It was as if an infinite strength pulsed through him, radiating from the scar on his face.

He knew its source and ached to reject the unnatural vigor.  Morgoth was drawing him ever closer to the Chasm, the one place where his vast power could reach into Middle Earth with no impediment.  Caldarion could feel laughter bubbling over in vicious glee within that other presence in his mind.  He tried to shut it away, but he had no control over that power.

At least it did not seem able to read his inner thoughts, only those that reached the surface, like when he had tried to warn Nimoë.  Memory of the wrenching agony that had been wrought on him as punishment for that defiance swept over him, and he felt his body shake at the thought.  If he kept his rebellious thoughts buried deep, he was not tortured.  It was a very small boon.

Caldarion could sense the presence of the Balrog moving down a parallel passage, keeping pace with the company.  Of course the demon would know of their presence.  When it had marked the Elf, a part of its essence had entered his body.  Caldarion knew that the fire demon must feel him as clearly as he could feel the other.

Still, it chose to remain hidden; to allow Nimoë to reach the Chasm, before coming forward to destroy the others.  For Morgoth would not allow any force to keep the maiden and her power from his grasp.

Once Nimoë was within the thrall of the Dark Lord, he would control the Elfsong.  Through her, he would use the magic to open a passage for him to enter the world, and eternal night would consume Middle Earth.  It was for this purpose that the trap had been set.  To lure her to him.  She was the key to his plans for dominion.  And Caldarion was bringing her to her doom.  To the doom of all.

Raven watched Caldarion as he ran, looking for any evidence of treachery.  When he had followed the Elf to his meeting with the Warg, he had thought of revealing the knowledge of his perfidy to the others, but had hesitated.  Although Caldarion's treachery seemed blatantly clear, Raven could not figure how it might manifest itself.

Caldarion continued to lead them to the very place where the girl would forever seal Morgoth into his prison in the Void.  That did not make any sense.  Why would one who wished to deceive them lead them to the very place of vulnerability to his master?

Until he understood the riddle, Raven did not wish to upset the balance.  So he watched, something he was very good at.  If one did not speak, one tended to go unnoticed.  It was a tactical advantage.  And Raven chose never to be without an advantage.  It was one of the reasons he was still alive.

At the first hint of treachery he would strike, but not before.  His hand lay restlessly on his sword hilt.  The deep places filled him with trepidation and he angrily pushed it aside.  Soon enough it would be time for action.  Wait, Raven.  Wait…

Nimoë felt a strange compulsion growing in her the farther they delved into the heart of Orodruin.  Heat like nothing she had ever felt radiated from the ground, the walls, the ceilings.  Yet even that discomfort, which sent beads of perspiration rolling down her brow, her back, even her legs, was nothing compared to the siren call that beckoned her forward.  Come to me, Child of Song.  I have seen your heart.  I speak to your soul.  You will join with me and we will bring forth a new dawn.  Power like none you have ever imagined will be yours.  You will come to me…

Even though a part of her mind recognized the wrongness of the pervasive call, she could not force her will away from it.  It was as if she were a salmon, driven to its birthplace to spawn; a creature without conscious volition, following a power stronger than gravity.  Stronger than the movements of the earth.  She could not resist the call, although she knew it was evil.  Desperately, she tried to slow her headlong run, but all she succeeded in doing was stumbling to the ground.

A hand on her arm lifted her to a standing position, and she turned her head to look at the one who aided her.  The long blonde hair, pulled back in tight braids behind the ears, and the sky blue eyes seemed somehow familiar to her, and she ached to speak, but instead she turned and ran on.

Caldarion watched when Nimoë fell and saw the glazed blankness in her eyes.  Saw it, and recognized it for what it was.  They were close enough to the Chasm that Morgoth's power was already weaving its insidious tendrils into Nimoë innocent and unsuspecting soul.

NO!!!

The cry of his soul almost reached his throat, but it was torn from him before it could be given voice.  Tears fell freely from his eyes as he ran, ahead of the others, so they could not see his torment.

The pull of the Chasm reached a fever pitch and they came abruptly around a blind corner into a vast cavern, ringed with bubbling streams of liquid rock, glowing a fiery orange-red.  Scalding vapors swirled through the vaulted chamber and in the center of the cavern was the Chasm.  It was as long as a felled tree and as wide as two Elves laid head to toe.  The edges were jagged, showing the violent history of its creation, and within its depths was a swirling blackness, darker than the darkest night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caldarion saw Nimoë moving past him, her steps reluctant, clearly showing she was drawn by a power not her own.  Of a sudden, his own suffering meant nothing to him, nothing compared to his love for the maiden best beloved in his heart, and he lunged forward, pinning her to the smoldering ground.

Agony pierced through his body, like every nerve was being held into the deep boiling pits of molten magma, as the will of Morgoth warred to regain control.  Nimoë struggled underneath him, made strong by the call of the Dark Lord.

"Legolas!" Caldarion screamed, ignoring the sensation that he was being ripped into a thousand bloody pieces, "It's a trap!  Run!  Take Nimoë and run!!!"