Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Author's note: I'm offended. I'm crying… Too few reviews… You want me to go and jump out of the window, I know it... I've already cleared my window-sill off the rubber-plant and other flowers so that there was some place for me. :o((( Here are two chapters for you - may be the quantity will change your mind, since the quality seems unable to do it…. :o)

Faerlas: Can't wait for it. I feel the inclination to grate on my nerves. :o))) Thanks for being there.

ZELINIA: (offering you a handkerchief) You'll need it. I hope. :o))) Sorry, I guess I'm too evil, but your review was touching.

Chapter eight.

Between the devil and…

He was lagging along the narrow passage, stumbling at every step and catching at the rough stones of the walls around him. His legs were bare and covered with fresh wounds, and the sickening taste of blood lingered in his mouth. He didn't remember how he had appeared in this endless burrow; he didn't know how to get out of it. The only thing he saw was a spot of pinkish light somewhere far ahead, and he kept dragging his rebellious body towards it, like an injured moth still willing to burn in the flame of a candle.

Suddenly his palm touched something slimy and salient – wincing, he turned his head to see what it had been and his hair immediately stood on end, as he viewed the stone surface ooze with dense oily liquid, the incarnadine colour of which was marred with darker spots, swelling up as though something was forcing its way from within. In a blink of an eye the whole passage was dripping in that stirring matter. With a jerk of disgust he attempted to recoil from the wall, but the amorphous substance swiftly took the shape of a livid hand with long white nails, a hand which seized him in a death grip. The blood-like coverage quavered – a sluggish surge ran along it and broke against the wall ahead. There came an uncanny silence, during which he was less alive than the something, separated from him by the opaque liquid… The only feeling part of his body was his arm, softly squeezed and – he could swear it was true – fondled by the eerie wall-bred hand.

And then as if on command, the passage began to sprout out hundreds of other hands. They were touching and grasping him, stroking and scarring… They smirched him with crimson streaks and stained his face with bruises…

And there was a moment of lull again, till a pair of hands clapped, the sound sweeping over the passage to be taken up by all the others. The claps were intentionally rhythmical and threatening… His heart tuned up to them, shrinking faster and faster. Beat by beat, pant by pant…

Something pushed him in his back, and he suddenly found himself caught up and carried towards the light split in the veil of darkness, bone-thin fingers digging into his flesh. He attempted to hold onto the hands, as the horror before them was suddenly surpassed by the horror before what was expecting him there, where he was dragged to. But the malicious limbs easily repulsed his desperate attacks and continued to throw him over their neighbours into the grasp of the following eager arms. A step away from the radiant break in the wall they slowed down – he helplessly hang between them, almost blacked-out.

"You are awaited," breathed out somebody at his right. With his last bit of strength he managed to look back and see the lurid male image flash and disappear in the twilights above the hands that were wringing him now. His heart seemed to glaciate with shake when his memory attached the name to this image, the name of the one who had fallen long ago. Boromir.

With the brutal shove from behind he flew out into the spacious cave, filled with dancing shreds of the flame. Having landed hard and practically crashed his face against the floor, he writhed into a bundle of broken bones and torn muscles, too weak even to groan.

"Poor thing…"

A slight whisper came together with a soft palm, caressing his shoulder. He had never thought that simple looking up can be so painful. But all his sufferings were rewarded, when he saw who had condescended to pity him…

There was so much love and tenderness in her hazel eyes that he suddenly shuddered and burst out sobbing, miserably and uncontrollably. "Gwirith," whispered he through the tears, "Gwirith, Gwirith, Gwirith…"

He had missed her. Eru, he had missed her so sorely. He was afraid to stop calling her name, lest she should disappear as soon as he ceased.

"Hush," she was still gently stroking him, like he was a scared child, "It's over. I'm with you now."

"I… I love you," he choked out, grasping at her hand, "I'm so sorry."

"I know," smiled she, and he felt his heart melt with happiness and relief.

She bent in, and he moved towards her lips, eager to seal his blame and her forgiveness and never remember them again now, when there was nothing but their reunion.

But all of a sudden she shrank back, uttering a cry of hurt. Something jerked her body in the air, her hair standing above her head as if she was tugged by it. The floor yawned… The part of it collapsed, leaving him on the ledge, with the flaming chasm raging beneath him.

The same unknown power overturned Gwirith – she froze above the red abyss, outstretching her hand for him, and he almost believed that he would manage to catch it, to keep her…

With a shriek she lost her invisible hold and flew down, an instant before his fingers clenched around the empty space.

A greedy splash of lava testified that the precipice had obtained the offering…

And he dropped his face in his hands and cried, cried till his eyes were burnt out with tears and his lungs couldn't make another breath…

"Looking at you one will prefer not to have any dreams at all…"

Legolas jumped up with a start, still feeling the hot stones under his palms and still seeing the fathomless pit of fire, which gaped in front of him. But the vision faded, and there left nothing except the bare grey walls of the small room, and the scalding moisture on his cheeks…

Gwirith was sitting on the bed there, where he kept his vigil several hours ago. The knee of her bandaged leg was pulled up to allow her chin to rest against it in a thoughtful manner. She smiled at him with the corners of her pale lips only.

"Would you care to wake up?" asked she a bit hoarsely, "We must be going."

"You are … well," stated Legolas with slight hesitation, examining her face in search of any traces of indisposition, yet finding just somewhat deepened blackness of her pupils and light shadows under her eyes, which could have been left unnoticed by a stare less intent. It was hard to believe that she was the same girl, who had begged him to let her die overnight. She seemed quite sound now, with her bearing easy and her smile leisured. Even her hair, he used to see twisted and disheveled, was carefully untangled and pulled into a think bronze braid, offhandedly coming down her collar-bone.

"Am I?" her ability to mock has also returned to her, but he was even pleased to greet it, in spite of becoming the aim of her vague jests. The elf sat up, running his hands along his face to efface the remnants of sleep.

"Looks like," answered he, having accurately measured the amount of carelessness in his tone. Yet her reciprocal chuckle unexpectedly echoed with a pang in his heart, and he added, brusquely and almost irritably, not knowing what caused this frankness, "I thought I would lose you. I'm… I'm glad to have been mistaken."

A retort flashed in her eyes, but there must have been something in his voice that made her change her mind and look down, suddenly saddened. Legolas wavered, tearing apart between the desire to embrace her and fear that he might be unwelcome. Still, his words had made a first step, and it would have been cowardly of him not to make a second. Nobody could call him a coward.

The elf slowly leaned in and placed a hand on her shoulder. It appeared to him that the girl made a slight movement towards him, as if wanting to conceal herself in his arms. Was she waiting for him to go on?

But as soon as he drew in, a tremble passed along her frame, and she took a short startled breath, so he lingered, dismayed and hesitant, until it all looked embarrassingly clumsy. Utterly confused, he settled on giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead, while Gwirith seemed to be reassured by the impersonality of the gesture.

"It's nice that at least one of us finds reasons to be glad," uttered she flatly, standing up. The thrown-back braid lightly tapped against her vest, and he noticed that all the hooks were at their proper places again.

"I was thinking while you were asleep," she was standing with her back towards him, so that it was impossible to read her face, but her voice was even and her phrases smooth, producing the impression of the well-prepared ones, "You must know where we are going. Anything can happen to me, and you must be able to move on. Don't!" she raised a warning finger, as he tried to object to her statement, "Listen. It happened so that long ago I had a chance to visit Mordor. There, down one of its death-reeking passages we… I came across the door behind which there was something that made me think this world to have a kind of a twin. It didn't matter to me then. Besides, I had my reasons to keep it to myself. I wasn't even sure my supposition was correct, but seeing you persuades me. I'll try my best to lead you there and let you through the door."

"How do you know that I came from there?" a sudden suspicion leapt up to life within Legolas. The story was too blank. Too shallow. She didn't seem the one to rely on such small chances. He didn't know why but she sounded deceitful to him.

Gwirith must have felt the strain, that had overcome him, because she shook her head and smiled condescendingly.

"Don't be afraid," said she softly, "If I had wanted your death I would have betrayed you long ago."

But somehow the elf found falsity even in this strange kind of reassurance.

"You don't believe me?" Gwirith pursed her lips thoughtfully, and then unexpectedly blurted out, "It was you who murdered her, wasn't it?"

The lightning, had it struck right in front of Legolas, wouldn't have staggered him so much as the simple question. An impish grin crossed her lips, as he was looking at her, at a loss of what to say.

"Doesn't it prove me right?"

"You knew," whispered he mistrustingly, "You knew it and you had the temerity to ask me who had done it? Why?"

"And why did you kill her?" retorted she with growing irritation, "I wanted to check if I led you to the right place. Anyway I told you she would have forgiven you if she had had such an opportunity. Stop wallowing in self-hatred. I doubt she could have been attracted to you now, seeing you like this."

All of a sudden he remembered that vague feeling of being managed by her, like he was a puppet with his cords in her hands. He had been right – she had played with him, being aware of his guilt and his remorse and using it to keep him in check. A repugnant mastery she had demonstrated… Had she any kind of a soul at all? Had there been at least one spontaneous word, one real emotion? Hardly… She was as cold as ice and as thought-of as the most subtle lie.

Yet even the knowledge of it brought him no victory over her. His murder remained on his person. He couldn't stop comparing her with his love and thus long for her. There wasn't even the smallest use in fighting, because she was absolutely indifferent to it. He was not relevant for her.

He had to get rid of these chains, and he saw only one way out – to harden himself and let her help him. May be there, back home he will manage to live as he had lived before. Without her.

"When shall we set out?" inquired the elf as cool-bloodily as he could afford.

"Right now," responded Gwirith resolutely, "And we shall go our fastest."

"Why did we stop?"

There seemed not to have been an hour since they had left Hollin, and the settlement was still in sight, nevertheless they were standing dead at the top of one of the innumerable hills, with her being silent and pensive.

"I'm thinking," it was hard to say that the answer satisfied Legolas, for he couldn't restrain himself not to drop an acid:

"Are you unable to think and to walk at the same time?"

"Forsooth, if I'm thinking of where we must walk to," reacted Gwirith quite amicably, "Though you might help me now that you know our destination. Caradhras or Moria?"

He held back the question, hanging on the tip of the tongue. There were no other ways to interpret her enquiry, except as the want of his making a choice of the road, they would follow. Caradhras… Snow under his feet and on his face, good-natured jokes at his mortal companions and the search of the sun… Moria? Avid tentacles, transfixed with his arrows, the heavy air of the underground, and the cry of Gandalf, disappearing in the blazing depth… Suddenly Legolas understood that he knew nothing of both places. He couldn't remember anything except those flashes of anger or fierce concentration, he had experiences there. Mere vague emotions.

"Which is safer?"

Gwirith shrugged her shoulders, now covered with a fur-listed cloak, she somehow managed to get from the hostess of the inn. Considering the strange attachment, the latter demonstrated for his companion, Legolas cherished a hazy idea that he was not the only one on whose feelings the little witch had skillfully played.

"None is safer," said she matter-of-factly, "I'm not sure that I can lead us out of Moria, because I'm barely acquainted with it. The last time I was there it was me who was led. But it's easier to hide there. Caradhras is much more open for an alien eye, yet it takes not so long to cross it. Choose."

"What makes you think I can choose wisely?" Legolas saw the girl grin at his question, though it wasn't supposed to sound funny.

"You are so solemn," murmured she with slight mockery, though her eyes had none of the derisive glitter that had usually accompanied such gibes, "It's just that your intuition is supposed to be better than mine. You are an elf, aren't you?"

What was there in her voice that forced him to smile against his will, feeling unexpectedly flattered? Eru, she could be soft when she wanted. It took her just several words, devoid of chill, to endear him. She hadn't had to allow him to get closer – all she had needed was to show that she could have let it to him. And behold - he was ready to jump into another abyss of delusion, notwithstanding his awareness, that she was more of an enemy than of a friend.

And still he could not forbid his heart to miss a bit when her grin ended up in a snowy-teethed smile, when she leaned to pick up two random dry blades – one shorter than the other.

"Let's draw lots," Gwirith hid the blades in her palm, holding them with her tanned thumb, so that their tips were timidly peeping out at him. Legolas stared at them, as a strange sensation came over him – the sensation of walking along a thin hair above the precipice. That was all his life cost – two blades in a girlish arm, each probably being the key to the infamous death. Strange that he hadn't realized it before.

"This one," said the elf, pulling out the one that seemed slightly closer to him. The shorter one.

"Moria," stated Gwirith darkly, "Well, at least it's you who chose it."

"The lot is the lot," objected Legolas calmly, throwing away the blade, "Lead, and I shall follow you."

She sighed and moved down the hill, the long lap of the cloak sweeping along the dusty ground. This time he didn't fail to notice that her gait kept a limp, which made her straight bearing somewhat unnatural, as if she was stepping on thorns and trying not to let too many of them stay in her soles. He couldn't say why, but her sight had reminded him of the scene he had seen once and had forgotten. Long ago, during one of their raids against the black hordes of orcs, gagging at the frontiers of the Mirkwood, they happened upon a young elfling, so young that his age was probably not nearing even his first hundred. His shoulder was impaled through with the sharpest of the daggers, and someone's merciless hand had broken the haft, while the blade remained in the wound, which must have been causing a boy dreadful sufferings. But even as they were pulling the dagger out and the sweat of tormenting was rolling down his pale forehead, he didn't move a brow. And only his eyes were as stony and estranged, as the air with which Gwirith was covering the yards in front of him.

Lost in recollections the elf didn't catch the moment when she stopped, and stopped so abruptly that he bumped into her, nearly knocking her down.

"Did I say something while I was unconscious?" she spoke rapidly, an edge of nervous perseverance not corresponding to the outward composure of her face.

The sobs in the dark room rang in his ears again, and her hands, twisted in anguish emerged in his mind's eye. Legolas, don't do it…Don't go there…

But he would tell her nothing of that, he decided. As well as he would tell her nothing of the kisses he received on behalf of the one they were meant for.

"You didn't," lied Legolas quietly, thankful for the hood, protecting his eyes from her sharp gaze. Her lips made a short twitch… It wasn't clear whether it was a movement of anger or annoyance. But he felt that he didn't manage to deceive her. She knew that he had lied to her. She knew the answer not having asked the question.

"Let's move," was it his imagination, or did he really hear the catch in her steely voice?

However, he had no time to contemplate over it any further, because Gwirith turned away and practically ran forward.

For a second it seemed to him that her shoulders were trembling…

A large dim eye blinked, capturing the image which was reflecting in it, like in a slimy mirror – the image of two small figures, moving one after the other somewhere far down. A lingering shriek hewed the air, as the watcher was mercilessly spurred by its rider… Yet the figures were so distant that the sound had faded before it reached their ears. As well as the swish of a pair of webbed wings, carrying the sleek piece of darkness to the mountain peaks, half-lost behind the greyish twilight veil…

Turn over the page – and proceed… The next chapter holds a thing that I hope you won't kill me for. It's a surprise. A big surprise. Have some pity towards the nutty author. :o)