Chapter Eight: The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm

A/N: Sorry bout the wait, my stupid computer decided to break… just before I had a project due, at that… so I couldn't do any writing, and then the play opened the next weekend (Captain Also! Y'all know it!), and life was happening, and then I wasn't in a writing-y mood, and yeah… but here I am! Finally! You can resume living now.

Disclaimer: No I don't own the Lord of the Rings…

Another A/N: My thoughts are signified thus: That's it bitches, come and get it So you don't get confused.

We stood silent, as Frodo and Gimli and Gandalf grieved. I bowed my head, feeling awkward. I felt sorry for the faceless dwarf laid in cold sleep beneath stone, adorned, no doubt, with gold and precious gems, axe by his side, perhaps already rusting. He was brave, foolish but brave, and I paid silent homage to him and his noble attempt to reclaim his ancient home.

Finally, with a sniff, Gimli raised his head, darkling eyes bright. We stood about for a moment, before starting to look around for any clue as to Balin's fate. The Book, where was the book? I knew it was here somewhere, but… no, not by the side of the sarcophagus, as it had been in the movie, then where?

"Aha!"

It was Gandalf, and he was holding a huge book, bound in leather and iron, its cover slashed and burnt, crumbling pages streaked with dust and blood. As he opened it, the yellowed leaves crackled and broke. The wizard squinted at the page, trying to make out the words underneath the blood and marks of age.

"It would appear" said Gandalf "That this is a record of the fortunes of Balin's folk… it is difficult to make out, but I would guess that it began nigh on thirty years ago, when they founded the colony… Here, listen: We drove out orcs from the great gate, um, and I cannot read the next couple paragraphs, here: We have taken the twenty-first hall of the North End to dwell in…and then Balin has taken up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul."

"The Chamber of Records." Translated Gimli. "That, I guess, is where we are now."

"And the hall we passed through must be the twenty-first of the North End." Mused Gandalf "Now… gold and Durin's axe… and something helm. And, ah! Balin is now Lord of Moria. We found true silver - something mithril… and there are several pages of the same sort, until here, a new hand starts, large and bold, using the elvish characters… but, alas, he had ill news to record in a fair hand. Balin, Lord of Moria fell in Dimrill Dale… went to look in Mirrormere… shot from behind a stone. We slew the orc, but… many more. Ah! Here is the last page of all… this is grim reading- I fear their end was cruel. Listen! We cannot get out; they have taken the Bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A Shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out...They are coming."

A profound silence fell about the Company. A shiver rippled its way down my spine and I shuddered, taken with a sudden horror of the chamber.

"We cannot get out" muttered Gimli.

"So ended the attempt to retake Moria." Gandalf's voice fell dead in the still air "It was gallant but foolish. But now, I fear, we must say farewell to Balin, son of Fundin. Here he shall lie, in the halls of his fathers, until the ending of days. We will take this book, and perhaps Gimli, you can take it to Dáin if you get the chance. Now let us go!"

"Where?" asked Boromir "Which way are we to take?"

"Back to the Hall! If this is indeed the Chamber of Mazarbul, than the Twenty-first hall, the one we came through, should be on the seventh level, that is six above the Gate, now-"

But, even as Gandalf spoke, a rolling Boom that shook the ground beneath our feet issued from somewhere deep within the disused depths of the mine. The hobbits and I gasped, and Boromir sprang towards the door. Then again doom doom. It was as if the very mines had been turned into a vast drum, the way the sounds reverberated and echoed

"Drums in the deep" I muttered

"They are coming!" cried Legolas

"We cannot get out." Gimli repeated

Boromir, who was closest to the door, was looking out. With a groan he withdrew and setting his mouth in a mirthless smile, announced

"They have a cave troll."

"Ahh… Why did I delay? Now we are caught as they were before. But… I was not there then, we will-"

Doom doom

'Doom doom went the drums in the deep' I recalled the passage that I had read so very many times, loving it and the thrill of horror it sent through me. Now I liked it slightly less.

"Shut the doors!"

Aragorn was shouting frantically as he and Boromir rushed towards the half-open door.

"Nay! Wait a moment!"

It was Gandalf. Hastening forward he drew himself up until he seemed taller than was physically possible and bellowed in a formidable voice

"Who comes hither to disturb the rest of Balin Lord of Moria?"

The orcs outside weren't phased in the slightest. I heard a chorus of rough, grating laughter, and a solitary voice sneer nastily "Woul'n't ye like t'know?"

Doom boom

The two men, at a nod from Gandalf, shut the doors with a resounding bang, wedging it tight with broken swordblades and rusted axes. But even as they did so, there was a sinking sensation in my stomach. The warped and rotting wood couldn't possibly hold against the teeming horde of orcs out there. But with that thought, my resolve suddenly stiffened and I laid my hand on my sword hilt.

Calm B, calm. You fought those wolves and were fine. Think of the ride of the Rohirrim to the Pelennor Fields. Think bloodlust and battle-glory and all that. Play the part, you said you're from Rohan, now act like it

I took a deep breath as a grin twisted my face. I had always enjoyed a good fight. With a metallic whisper I drew my sword. For a moment I studied the leaf-shaped blade, the way the cold light from the window high above made it look alive with liquid fire, the runes etched into the glinting fuller. Then I squared myself, taking on the fighting stance Boromir had drilled into me so very many times when we were still in Rivendell, and waited.

That's right bitches, come and get it.

The door was bulging inwards, the wood straining, creaking and snapping. My eyes narrowed and I sheathed my sword, and slung the previously forgotten bow from my back. Nocking an arrow to the string I waited.

Yeah, y'all know it. Fear me.

Then, with a crunching noise and a shower of splinters, a crude mattock-head chopped its way through the rotting wood of the door. There was a hiss as Aragorn, Legolas and I loosed our arrows. There was a ragged squeal. My arrow, somewhat to my surprise, had not struck the door, but gone through the hole, though it was hardly a wide target. I shrugged and strung another arrow, firing it and as it hit another orc, I hissed, grinning feral pleasure.

"They're breaking through!"

At a shout from Aragorn, I replaced my bow and once again drew my sword.

"Come on… come an get it"

Crash

The door had been ripped clean off its hinges. As I looked, a huge form forced its way through, breaking off a sizable chunk of the wall above the door on its way. The troll. It was huge, absolutely immense. From the elephantine feet to the knobbly bald pate it stood fifty feet, maybe more. From its hands hung a huge war hammer, which it flailed about in its rage. Dully malevolent eyes squinted in the light from the small window high in the chamber wall. From a spiked collar around its neck, a chain hung, though, I was vaguely pleased to note, it looked like the orc who had held it was no longer among the living. The hobbits and I gaped.

"Bloody- bloody 'ell…"

But, then there was no more time for wonder, the horde behind the door, satisfied with our reaction, had decided to come in. Snarling hoarsely, screeching battle cries in their foul language, they leapt through the great hole where once the door had stood. Now it had come to it, and, hardly even thinking, I went into one of the patterns Boromir and Aragorn had shown me.

Slash, parry, thrust, circle once, ripost and… I'd just killed my first orc.

I grinned savagely, and unceremoniously dumped the corpse on the ground. I lunged at another orc, hewing off his head. Black blood gushed from the wound.

Suddenly, there in front of me, was the troll. With a yell ("Bloody wanker!"), I stepped forward and drawing back my blade, stabbed at the massive leg. I had no fear for the sword, it was elven-made, and, yes, the bloody steel bit deep into the trolls flesh.

With an unearthly howl, it jerked back, catching me a blow with its club. I flew through the air, to land on my back, feeling as though I'd broken all my bones.

"Fucking-A… sodding, bloody…"

I grated out from between clenched teeth a string of curses any sailor would've been proud of. Oh, I was in agony. Such pain I could never remember. A dull, throbbing ache throughout my entire body, no part of me was not in pain, even down to my toes.

remind me to never, ever, ever do that again

Hacking at the legs of another orc, I got up and with a yell, joined battle again.

"Take that! Tosser!"

Time seemed to have no meaning in the heat of battle; it was simply a seething mass of orcs, who I was trying to kill before they killed me. Black form after black form fell back from my blade, now stained and dripping with their foul blood. At times, from the corner of my eye, I would see Boromir, fighting like nothing I had ever seen, the orcs breaking upon him as if he was a pillar of rock, or Gandalf, a whirling, grey-clad form, his sword, Glamdring, glowing palely.

Now, as I cut down yet another monstrous, sneering face, and turned 'round, a searing heat scored down my side. I gasped with pain and shock, and then, growling, turned to see an orc, huge though- thickset and man-high, smirking evilly.

"M'lady…"

"Bastard!"

I ran him through. He looked, with some surprise, at the blade which seemed suddenly to be growing out of his belly, then eyed me with contempt, before collapsing with a dull thud.

Suddenly, there was a great cry from Sam

"Mr. Frodo!! No!"

I looked around, wondering what it was. Ah- the troll had stabbed Frodo, or at least tried to. I knew his mithril coat had prevented it, but, as I realized everyone else thought the Ringbearer was dead, I composed my face into what I hoped was and expression of shock and horror.

After a moment of thick silence, the entire fellowship moved as one, to attack the troll. Pippin shrieked and threw himself at the troll, slashing and hacking wildly. Legolas' hands were a blur, firing arrow after arrow at the great beast. Merry was panicked, throwing rocks at the troll, though to little avail. Sam was hysterically slicing and slashing at one of the troll's feet, regardless of how it flailed. After several moments of the frenzied attack, there was a pause, and then a twang and a hiss as Legolas loosed his last arrow, which buried itself deep in the troll's throat. It swayed for a moment, looking bewildered, then, with an indescribably mournful sound, a mixture between a bellow, a moan, and a groan; it collapsed with a ground-shaking thud that raised dust from the floor. Then all was still.

There was silence. As I came out of my battle fury, I realized that I felt sorry for the troll. After all it had been driven, probably out of sleep, into a fury of sharp swords and stinging arrows, probably tormented by the orcs as well. Granted, it had had to be dealt with; trolls were not peaceful creatures, but still… I shook my head- no use mourning over fallen enemies.

Sam and Aragorn were hunched over Frodo's limp form, huddled on the floor. I rushed over. Tear streaks cut through the dirt on Sam's face. He squinched up his nose, obviously trying not to cry, murmuring "Master, Master, Master. Come on Mr. Frodo, it's yer Sam callin'. Wake up, Frodo me dear, wake up." Aragorn's face seemed stoic, but I could see the worry evident in his eyes.

Frodo suddenly stirred, groaning softly. Sam started, and then started sobbing outright, as Frodo sat up, wincing.

"My dear Sam! Do calm down, I am quite alright."

Aragorn was gaping

"But- but that spear would've skewered a wild boar."

"Well, it didn't skewer me, I'm glad to say!" Frodo laughed, then clutched at his ribs, grimacing.

Taking in the curious looks of the rest of the Fellowship, Frodo unbuttoned the top of his shirt to reveal a hauberk of silver, shining in some unseen light.

"Mithril" breathed Gimli.

"Well, well, it seems that there is more to our Mister Baggins than meets the eye."

Gandalf sounded wryly amused, now that the battle was over. However, his light mood was not to last long. Startling us out of our relief, a drumbeat came from the depths of the mine.

Doom doom

We had worse to deal with yet. I shut my eyes, as if that could block out the reality of what was going to happen. I couldn't interfere, I mustn't. Gandalf's eyes had widened and he dashed towards the door, shouting

"Come! To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm!"

The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew.

Well… let's go

I sprinted after Gandalf, as he made his surprisingly fast way down the 21st hall, followed by the rest of the Company.

My feet pounded along, seemingly in time with the drumbeats, when they sounded. I could hear, behind us, the snarls of the orcs, as they closed in, their armor skittering against the stone like the feet of so many cockroaches. Vaguely, I became aware that we were slowing as the orcs closed in on either side, in front, behind, even pouring out from cracks in the ceiling and floor.

I cannot remember much more of what happened after that. Only the dreadful boom of the drums, and my breath, coming harsh and ragged in my throat, and the Balrog, in all it's terrible fiery glory. I remember stone cracking in the heat of the hellfire that surrounded us, and a gaping abyss, deeper than thought could comprehend, and I remember, with painful clarity, Gandalf's last words, as he clung desperately to a broken bridge. I can see, in my minds eye, his clutching fingers, scrabbling frantically for a hold on the dusty stone, the fear in those eyes, their twinkle now gone, his bearded lips, moving to say those fateful words: "Fly, you fools!" I remember a gray figure falling into the yawning chasm, his robes flapping feebly about him, plummeting out of sight, into the black deep.

As I stood outside the East-Gate of Moria, silent tears made their way down my face, drops of sorrow wept for the man I knew was not really dead. The stones offered no comfort. The hobbits clung together, sobbing desperately, and I felt utterly helpless- I could not help them.

Wiping my sword clean on my cloak, I rubbed my face dry with the edge of my sleeve and limped over to Aragorn.

"Come."

His voice was even, devoid of emotion.

"We make for the woods of Lothlorien."