Hey, hey! This story's almost finished. Aren't you so excited? This chapter, then two more, and False Reality is completed. A special moment. Two more weeks, and then it is done. Fair warning: these next three chapters are shorter than the ones I have spoiled you with. Lol. Also, we finally get to the action. *rubs hands together evilly* Anyway. . . .

Grumpy: If I answered that, it would be telling. And you're just about to read the answer anyway. *g*

Nell-Marie: Truly? Wow, I'm speachless. The problem with that, or course, could be that I'm about to get rid of her. Hehe. Sorry.

Bill the Pony2: Yay! Here's the next chapter. Oh, no. I've heard cliffies are the number one cause of death among fanfiction readers. It's horrible. Something like an 85% death rate. *shakes head sorrowfully* Perhaps someone should do something about it. *g*

Please note that I have never taken martial arts of any kind, am bad at physics, and have watched too many action/adventure-James Bond movies and the like. As a result, I cannot vouch for the quality of my action scenes. Fair warning, just so you know.

Oh, and, I think this one is a cliffie, too. Just so you know. I've heard shock and suspense are easier to deal with if you know what's coming. Then again, I could be wrong. *g*

Thanks, you guys (and no, I don't mean to say you are all guys), I really really love hearing form you all. You make me so happy. So, Kudos, and enjoy! . . . Then, as a small token of your esteem, drop a review. Tell a story. I'm pathetic, I know, but I love reading stuff, even if it has nothing to do with the story. *g*

Now, I'm really done this time. Enjoy.

All Thought Lost

"I didn't realize foresight was your gift, O Ancient One," Kelt taunted Shirk.

Shirk moved forward, his expression dark; his steps a hunting cat's prowl, smooth and languid, hiding incredible power. Narrowed eyes took in everything around him. "One does not need to be to foresee the end of this battle, sapling," he replied. "You should give up now."

"And deny you the pleasure of your sport, lord? Never." Her eyes glinted. "In any case, even the wisest cannot see all ends, and you are far from being counted among that number." Blue eyes moved as she tracked the elf's movements, every muscle tensed for action.

A brief flash of anger contorted his features, gone so quickly none could truly mark its presence. A cold smile again pulled at his lips in response to some devious idea he had formed; it sent a chill of fear straight down Kelt's spine--she knew that smile. "I'm actually glad the Ranger yet lives, dear cousin, for now I will get the joy of both of your company. The more the merrier, and I have some new toys to try out--I know how much you just love to watch."

Her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, anger shooting straight through her as the taunt found its mark. The extent of her ire, though, did not reach her eyes; it never did. She growled, "You talk too much." Then leapt forward quickly, making a low slash with her right arm, blade held tightly in her grip, the other held back defensively.

Shirk countered the blow easily, catching her blade with on of his own; the blades locked. Neither moved for a frozen moment, barely a foot between them, each staring into the other's eyes, searching for a sign of weakness, gauging their resolve. Then Shirk slashed high with his other blade, a strike that was also easily parried. He followed it with yet another slash, causing Kelt to dance backwards out of its path before darting back in to stab quickly at her opponent. He sidestepped, extending his knife to sweep her blow aside. Kelt dropped out of her attack, sweeping her leg out in an attempt to take out the elf's legs, but he flipped backwards, landing a good five feet away.

Five feet is nothing for an elf, and Shirk re-closed the distance between them faster than Kelt was prepared for, a series of quick, short strikes pushing her back under their fury as she attempted to escape them. There was no time; Shirk gave no quarter, and she knew that sooner rather than later she would miss a strike she could not afford to miss. She bit her lip slightly in anxious concentration, a habit Shirk hated, and watched him carefully even as she near frantically parried his quick swipes.

She kept moving back, first one foot, then the other as Shirk drove her before him. If something was not done quickly, she knew, there would be nowhere left to go; Shirk had maneuvered her back to the rock wall she had noted without her realizing--she could have kicked herself if Shirk was not very nearly doing an excellent job of it himself.

Then she saw it: an opening. The girl ducked forward, coming up inside his guard and grabbed one of his hands, twisting it as she pulled it down and back. Instead of resisting, he used the movement to change his momentum and continued the spin to come at her from the other side. She could not dodge it and was forced to block it, which allowed Shirk to free his hand; that was the bad thing. The good thing: her back was no longer to the rock wall.

Shirk sliced again and she dodged, jumping back slightly to avoid the blade, even as she swung her own to chase it. A slight gasp, indiscernible to any but herself, marked first blood. She ducked and spun, neatly avoiding the blow Shirk had aimed at her in retaliation. As she spun, coming up on the elf's other side, she shifted her hold on her knives to drive them into his side. The other checked the blow before she was completely set and Kelt felt herself falling backwards, the familiar feeling of losing control--familiar from fighting Shirk when she was younger--shot through her, threatening to tense her muscles and she forced herself to relax even as she twisted slightly to come down flat on her back. She rolled, and was almost immediately back on her feet, easily bringing her blades up to block Shirk's renewed fury.

The fight went on for many minutes, each stretching into the next, with neither gaining a sure advantage. The surrounding Slyntari watched, enraptured, as the two danced--and that was exactly how it looked from the outside: a dance, the two warriors moving smoothly from form to form, silver blades flashing as they caught the sun's light, each trying to dominate the other. They watched as the battle escalated, blades and feet moving faster, impossibly, the maneuvers becoming more intricate, as two of the groups' best locked in conflict, now unstoppable, which could only end with clear domination--which implied submission on the part of the loser, which none could see from either--or death.

Kelt moved forward and slashed, her breath coming fast, and this blow fell short of its mark just as sure as the previous had, blocked by her opponent. She was gratified when his, too, was blocked. Their eyes met, hatred and determination opposed in their gazes, and then the moment was gone, their blades again swinging, hoping to strike flesh. No more blood had been drawn after Kelt's initial strike so long ago; she had a feeling that was about to change.

She was tiring. Against nearly anyone else, that would have meant little, so small was the impact it had on her movements, but against an elf, who showed no sign of fatigue, it could mean everything. Both fighters knew it would only be a matter of time before fatigue drove Kelt to make a mistake--and she was already injured. The adrenaline that had kept the pain at bay was failing as her movements and fatigue combined to aggravate the injuries and shoot pain throughout her body.

The welts on her back from the whipping she had received earlier were now firmly protesting the stress placed on it--both from the blows she was continually forced to block and the roll she had subjected it to earlier. The pain would no longer stay in the back of her mind, and it was hindering her efforts now.

A slash from the right caught her unprepared and Shirk's blade cut deeply into her arm and nearly forced her to drop her knife as she lost a good deal of feeling in her arm. Aware the battle was over now, regardless of whether Shirk decided to play with her more or not unless she did some notable damage, the girl braced herself for more screaming from her injuries, quickly reversed her knives, and threw herself to the floor, stabbing the sharp blade of her knife deep into his leg, and dragged it down with her as she fell. As soon as she hit the floor, ignoring the sparks that flashed before her eyes and the pain that shot up her form yet seemed also somehow numbed, she rolled. She felt the blade from Shirk's strike bite into her flesh, grazing her side, but took the opportunity, while she was on her back, to kick, catching her opponent across the face and throwing him backwards and off-balance. As he stumbled backwards, she scrambled to her feet, the movements far from fluid in her pain.

By the time she straightened once more, Shirk had regained his feet. They stood, regarding one another, for several minutes. Blood covered most of the lower half of Kelt's sleeve, the light shirt she wore dripping slightly with the red fluid. More stained her side from the slight miss, and her back was in tatters, blood showing on the strips of cloth. Across from her, Shirk looked nearly whole--or would, save the long gash down his leg starting at about mid-thigh and continuing down his leg to stop just above his ankle, the wound drenching most of his pant leg in blood.

Slowly, a smile pulled at Shirk's lips, far from reaching his eyes which were still as cold as ice, and he started clapping, slowly, mocking. "Well done, young one, well done, though I expected better from you." His gaze flickered over her bruised and bloody form. "You look terrible."

Kelt blinked. The inane comments took a moment to register. Eventually, they did and she cocked her head to the side, breathing hard and still trying to get it under control. Had she not needed this break herself, she would have attacked, well aware that Shirk's elven healing abilities would render that nasty cut she had just given him more a nuisance than debilitating. Of course, she, too, healed faster due to elven blood, and she was more than willing to take whatever time he was willing to give. Time was what she was attempting to buy with this, after all, even if she was not quite sure why.

She blinked again. "How distressing," she finally replied, tone suggesting she was not.

"Your mother would be terrible disappointed," he continued, false concern lacing his voice.

"I doubt that," Kelt denied. "I think she would be thrilled."

Shirk frowned, then sneered. "Oh, yes. You've realized the value of your heritage. The light that was so long hidden is free."

Kelt started, her mind flashing back to the name her mother had given her, caught off-guard by the other's words. Hidden light . . . free. . . .

*"There is more to you than you think, Kalya," her mother had said, years ago. "One day you'll discover this for yourself, and you will be set free. Hope will reign and Shadow shall never hold you again."*

She drew her breath in, startled. Her mother had been right. A slow smile, genuine, spread across her face. "Yes, Shirk, you are exactly right," she declared.

"Am I?" he asked dangerously, stepping forward, then nearly immediately shifting his weight off his injured leg. "It matters not what you think. You were born a servant of Mordor. You were raised a servant of Mordor. You shall always remain a servant of Mordor. You can never be anything else. No one will ever see you as anything more than an enemy."

Kelt's mind flashed to Aragorn. He had. That one had seen her as more; he had seen her as a friend. Friends made sacrifices for each other. She raised her head. "I may have been born and raised a slave of Sauron, Shirk," she acknowledged. "Both beyond my control. But I will die as I choose. And I choose to be free."

The dark elf's eyes darkened, becoming nearly black. He growled, "You can never be free."

Then he attacked.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The forested pass was calm, quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds that made their way to the ranger's ears were made by his own footsteps and the whispers of the wind as it sighed through the trees. Aragorn looked around, but his sharp gaze caught no movement and nothing out of place. The beings he had glimpsed earlier had disappeared, a good while ago, in fact, for it had been many minutes since he had last seen any movement beneath the trees other than his own.

Aragorn paused. Yes, it was calm, but it was the calm before the storm, and it was quiet, but it was a waiting silence, like nature was holding its breath. It set the DĂșnadan on edge and his hand instinctively moved for his sword, but it was not there. The Slyntari had taken it and now he had no idea where it was. His hand itched for a weapon, anything so long as he could fight with it if threatened, for he was sure danger lurked nearby, even though he could not see it.

His hands clenched at his sides but he continued on his way, ever watchful for the threat he could not find. He was glad his balance was finally back and the fuzziness in his mind cleared. Little bugged a ranger more than to be incapable of taking care of himself, and Aragorn had had enough of that to last him a lifetime in those light-forsaken tunnels.

Six more steps and he was halting once more, the warning of danger now at a fever pitch in the back of his mind, an instinct honed through years of fighting the Enemy's minions alongside elves with the Numenorean blood. He glanced around warily.

Suddenly, he stumbled forward as something heavy landed on his back. An arm wrapped around his neck and he grabbed it, trying to hold it from tightening, but whoever held him was strong, stronger than himself, and possessed better leverage. He stumbled as lack of oxygen pressed on his mind, then set his feet and drove him and his assailant backwards as hard as he could.

A muffled "oomph" sounded behind him and the other's grip loosened. Aragorn took advantage of the release and, holding the other's wrist, leant forward quickly, throwing the assailant over his head. He followed the other forward, twisting his wrist up behind his back even as he fell on the man. His knees drove into the other's back and pushed the man's air out in a whoosh, pining his adversary beneath him.

"Who are you?" he hissed in his attacker's ear. Unsurprisingly, the man did not answer and he wrenched the wrist in his grasp further up. "Who are you? Where is my friend?" he demanded.

To his surprise, the other laughed quietly, a strained coughing sound that was no less identifiable for its lack of air. "The girl is probably already dead," he wheezed. "Fighting Shirk. There is no hope for her. Or you." He struggled a moment for the breath Aragorn was denying him. "You'll both be dead before nightfall. You're just lucky you caught me by surprise, DĂșnadan."

Aragorn hissed slightly, caught by indecision on what to do with his captive and the need to aid his friend before it was too late. He caught sight of a dagger strapped to the other's thigh and pulled it. That distraction proved enough for the one beneath him, for the man twisted, ignoring the arm he was practically breaking in the process, and knocked Aragorn off him and onto his back. The man was on him at once, grabbing the dagger and trying to wrench it away from the ranger. Rolling, they struggled with it until they came to a halt, his enemy on top with the dagger in his hand and pressed to Aragorn's throat. The ranger's left one was trapped, his right apparently forgotten by his assailant.

Strider looked up into gray eyes darker than his own and lit with a fiendish glee that he could only ever remember seeing in the eyes of orcs when the foul creatures were presented with the opportunity of torturing their fair cousins, the elves. The knife pressed closer against his throat, digging into his skin and the ranger sought desperately with his right hand for something to use as a weapon before his life flashed before his eyes. It closed, finally, on a fist sized stone. He glanced down, risking briefly turning his attention away from the other.

A surprised gasp riveted it right back, and Aragorn saw recognition in that terrible gaze, recognition of his lineage. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather passed through him with that realization--that he was known to the enemy--and that this is what he would have become if he let the darkness claim his soul.

A timeless moment spread between them, frozen, both an instant and an eternity as opposite sides of the same coin stared each other in the face. Then Aragorn once again felt the rock in his hand, and before the other could recover, before he could even think about it, he brought the rock up and slammed it against the other's head, just below the ear. The other fell backward, dropping the knife, senseless, and without hesitating, picked up the dagger and drove it through the Black Numenorean's heart.

Aragorn watched as the other collapsed, limp, to the ground, his expression forever to be dazed surprise, and unsteadily climbed to his feet, his hand unconsciously going to his throat.

Then, for the first time, he heard the sounds of battle, metal clashing against metal, in the distance, brought to him on the wind which had just shifted yet again.

Without thought nor care for stealth, Aragorn turned and pelted through the trees towards the sounds, adrenaline pumping through his veins and the dead man's words echoing through his mind, mingling with his own fears. Leaves flashed before his eyes as he wove a path through the undergrowth, drawing ever closer to the sounds of battle he was certain would cease ere he could reach the girl's side. He had known her so short a time, but after the darkness, the last thing he could stand was to lose a friend, whether she returned his friendship or not.

Finally, the sounds rang clear, and he could see the break in the trees up ahead and two figures moving quickly back and forth along with the flash of their blades. Some distant part of his brain that was still thinking noted the presence of other people standing nearby, watching the fight with eager expressions as he ran up to stand within their midst--it was a measure of their own absorption that they never noticed the ranger's arrival.

He paused on the edge of the clearing, just under the eaves of the trees, horror stealing his ability to move or speak. Even as he watched, he saw Kalya stumble backwards, knocked off-balance by a strong and well-placed blow. Shirk pulled back to deliver another and Aragorn saw in a flash that she would never be able to bring her weapons up in time to block it nor move quick enough to dodge it. Then, as time seemed to slow down, the scene before him seemed to morph, sliding to another time, another place, one not wholly different from this, and instead of Kalya about to be stabbed by the maliciously shining blade in Shirk's hand, it was Legolas.

The blade descended, easily followed by his eyes and dug deeply into living flesh. Distantly, he heard a soft gasp of pain, and the figure's eyes widened in shock, the image of Legolas still superimposed over the ranger's vision. He watched as the fair being sank to the ground. In his mind, he was watching his best friend die. Unable to move, he did the only thing he could.

He screamed.