This is a huge chapter, one that I hope you will enjoy nonetheless. I hope it conveys properly how truly despairing the halls of Moria are, and the power of the Balrog just as well. I still wonder how Glorfindel and Echtelion were able to defeat them, by the way, without being burnt to death.

Silence was so present that it had nearly turned into deafening nothingness. Cloaked in darkness, the little company created shadows as it slowly progressed in the belly of the mountain. Most paths had been inserted in preexisting fractures, creating stone passages hanging over bottomless abyss. Fortunately for Frances, they left quite some space over their heads to breathe properly. Her claustrophobic feeling seemed to be shared by the hobbits, as well as the elf who moved as silently as a cat. His attachment to living things and sunrays created an unsettled feeling of emptiness in his heart, and Legolas Greenleaf was but a shadow of his cheerful self as he went through the mines.

Chuckling at her own foolishness, the young woman turned to the elf to check up on his ever-glowing form. This property of the elves never ceased to amaze her, and even if Greenleaf was a little less bright than Arwen, there was no mistake so as to the secondary source of pale light within the ten walkers. How this deed had been made possible was a mystery to her, and Frances could not wrap her head around the concept of glowing people, no matter how hard she tried. From what she had learnt from the mythology, elves and men were not the same race, not even sharing the same roots. However, the similarities between men and elves compared to dwarves clearly showed a common evolution link. Apart from this, Frances felt like she was swimming between a fairy tale.

There was so much she was missing; she craved for a scientific explanation to all of this. How much of the mythology could be considered as reliable information? Clearly, there was no way that evolution could have created immortal beings that glowed in the dark while being so similar to their mortal cousins. It was strictly impossible that this had occurred naturally, and she started to wonder whose beings could have influenced this unusual line of humanity. Throughout her time with the unclassified investigations[1], many weird things had happened, but nothing of this range. There was nothing either that could explain the existence of the blue rock she was using to travel between worlds, except if it had been created by some higher beings owning technologies beyond her imagination. However, the adrenaline of the recent attack by the giant watcher was starting to wear out, and the creepy atmosphere of the mines was getting to her. As her eyes crossed Legolas' blue gaze, she decided to attempt a contact; it would both cheer them up.

The progress of the company was slow but steady, permitting the companions to gather and change configuration as time went by. Most of them tried to keep quiet, but some whispers added to the creepiness of the place when it resonated on the cliff like walls. The elf moved aside to give room for Frances and she smiled at him in the gloom. The elf nodded at her effort, but it wasn't a very hearty expression. The lady also seemed very affected by the ambient downside mood.

Now that they had talked a few times, and fought side by side already twice, the elf was pleased to see that her apparent coldness was slowly melting away. He was by nature very curious, especially since he had seen her fighting and assessed that her skills, if perfectible, were quite acceptable for a lady of her age. The truth was that her technique needed to be perfected, but her bravery and strength of will were more than adequate. Apart from the rangers of the north he was not used to humans, and he had been told that they were much weaker that the Dunedain. Boromir's lust for the ring was proof that the second born could not be trusted completely, yet Frances had made no move towards it. Legolas had debated the question with Estel, carefully polite as usual but nonetheless interested. There were many blinds spots in the lady's origins, and her reason to be here. Unspoken things he wasn't meant to be aware of. Legolas respected it. The first born kept their secrets; privacy was of utmost importance.

Yet he had not missed her unease at the council; her face, that day, had shown a tough struggle to resist the power of the golden jewel. He had not forgotten, either, the moment her eyes had caught his. Free from corruption and evil, her gaze only reflected deep honesty and a great deal of self-assessment. From this look, he had decided to trust Gandalf and Lord Elrond's judgment. And trust the lady.

As she came in step with him, her feet producing the slightest of noises, she spoke softly:

- "It must be very difficult for a wood elf to be trapped underground"

She was beating around the bush, but she dreaded to ask directly how he was coping; it would have sounded insulting.

- "Aye, indeed my lady", he sighed, "but this is for the good of all."

She wanted to ask about his kingdom, for she had not heard much about Greenwood the great in Imladris. One look at the elf and her mouth fell shut, this was too invasive for her taste. As she tip toed on the side of a cliff on the degraded pathway, she wondered what subject could lighten the mood. But Legolas surprised her with a question one of his own.

- "Would you allow me to be bold enough to ask you about your meeting with Strider?"

- "Of course", she answered, not understanding why the subject seemed so touchy.

Maybe she was imagining things, but even the elf lord did not usually put such wards before asking her a question, no matter how many detours he would sometimes take. And despite his politeness, the Prince always went to the point. It was an incredible mix between frankness and respect, one that she had trouble imitating. Maybe that you had to be born elvish to be able to do this. As Legolas still did not speak, probably considering how to ask that very sensitive question he wanted to, she tried to encourage him:

- "What would you like to know?"

His nearly shocked look got her to frown. There you go, too direct again. Fidgeting like an elfling, Legolas could not help but wonder if it was rude or not to ask for explanations. Her frown nearly dissuaded him, but somehow the tale of her fight with the spectra interested him greatly. This dreadful place that was home of the dwarves, with shadows closing on him like wargs on an easy prey, and he imagined that her first meeting with Aragorn might have risen similar feelings.

- "My lord?"

There she went again with the title.

- "My lady…"

He didn't miss the slight smirk at the corner of her mouth before she schooled her features.

- "It is quite alright to be curious. If I find this inappropriate then I will let you know and will not bear ill will to you"

- "You are most kind my lady", he said while giving her a timid smile

- "Then… out with it !", she whispered cheekily.

Breathing in a bit of this foul air as they evolved along a smaller tunnel, Legolas eventually asked:

- "I was told that when Strider met you, you had attacked the ringwraiths"

This was such a weird sentence, even for him. Attacking the wraights, who would dare do such a thing?

- "This would be exact", she stated, wondering how many times the whole company had already heard the story from said hobbits.

The elf nodded, and, carefully stepping over a hole in the ground, he tried to make sense of it.

- "Not many have survived it. I heard of great anguish and despair. Most of the stories relate that people got paralyzed in fear"

- "I can relate to that", she nodded, shivering at the memory of the dreadful feelings that had assailed her at first

- "Then… you felt it?", he asked, kicking himself for his boldness

- "Oh yes, I definitely did", she said in this humorous tone of hers, making it sound nearly cheerful

Sarcasm was definitely a foreign concept for the elf. Strider and Gimli were slowly getting used to it, but Legolas really had a hard time to come to terms with this misuse of language. So when Frances realized that she had confused him again, she clarified.

- "I had never felt such overwhelming despair in my whole life, and believe me that's a lot to say. When I approached this hill it seemed like the air grew darker, and colder. All my senses were freezing, like if I was seeing the world through a pool of dark water, and falling inches by inches deeper into it… It was frightening, I had never felt so desperate"

As Frances whispered, word after word, her gaze drifted in the shadows. Loosing contact with the world of the living. Her words, so true and so frightening at the same time, described how the presence of the wraith had nearly turned her back from Weathertop. She told him of this deep despair, this sensation that nothing would ever be right again, that the world was doomed, that no matter what she did she would die right there on the spot and that nothing could be done about it. She pictured him how happiness had fled her thoughts, and not returned for days.

Little by little, she was loosing the battle with the darkness. Legolas frowned; how wrong he had been to believe in her cheerful façade ! Naïve as he was, the young prince had believed that maybe she was from another race, and was impervious to the wraiths. Her stricken face and lost gaze told him it wasn't so, and that she bore the same weaknesses of all her kind.

Soon enough, the elf extended his hand to brush against her arm to call her back to reality, and his faint glow seemed to reach for her. The shy movement shook her out of this trance, and Frances stopped walking. Slowly but surely, she crawled back to the surface until she was in full control again, watching the elf's glowing hand firmly grasped over her tunic.

- "And yet…", he stated lowly, "you overcame those dreadful feelings and triumphed"

Frances blinked in the darkness, her eyes meeting his for a moment.

- "Well, I managed to get my wits and attack yes… but as for triumph, I would be real dead if Strider had not shown up"

The fellowship was gaining ground ahead, but Legolas couldn't find the courage to urge her forward. She had plunged back into depths of despair by his fault… the least he could was to give her a few moment to regain her wits.

- "You do not give yourself enough credit," he whispered. "Attacking those spectra was incredibly courageous, and Strider himself had conceded that you probably saved the hobbit's lives"

- "He was the one who did it in the end", said Frances, her posture quite stiff, willing to give the credit back to the man who saved the day

- "And still, had you not been there the wraith could have gotten to Frodo and now everything would be lost."

Frances frowned, and the elf stirred her in the other direction so that they resumed their progress. Both were silent as they caught up with the group.

- "May I… may I ask how you broke the spell?"

Frances nearly laughed at this statement. Had it been as simple as this she would already be on her way home, having saved the world in five minutes and all, and returned safely. No, it was much more complex than this, but was she had been summoned here even if she could not fathom why.

- "How I freed myself from their hold… ? I heard some cries I think, and it seemed like people were being attacked. I realized that if I was afraid myself those people seemed ever more so, and then I decided to push the despair away and do something worthy of myself"

- "You decided to stop despairing?", said the elf in awe, not understanding the concept so clearly.

The young woman, walking ahead of him, seemed deadly serious.

- "Yes. I pushed away the bad thoughts and concentrated on action. There were people in need, and I struggled every instant to shake myself and continue."

As Legolas fell silent, trying to process what he had been revealed, Frances realized that she did not wish him to linger on such thoughts in the darkness. For one, she was rather distressed that the elf would thing about her deeds so much, and secondly she could feel that Khazad-Dum was running on his nerves as much as on her mood, so she tried one of her nice smiles and breathed deeply:

- "Would you enlighten with tales of your kingdom?"

Much to her delight, his features relaxed and his glow seemed to turn a bit brighter. And despite the heavy silence, he managed to count her tales of Greenwood the Great.

A few hours later – it could have been days ! – the fellowship halted to munch on a few dried fruits and various other goods. Legolas was whisked away by Estel and Frances regretted the loss of his light, leaving her face to face with Boromir. She sent the steward's son a shy smile, seeing that Merry and Pippin flanked him. His jaw was tense; he was wary of the surroundings, as if he expected an attack at any moment. She had not forgotten how he had opposed the idea of treading the paths of Khazad Dum. Perhaps … perhaps he had been right.

For the moment however there had been no sign of the enemy, but the caves were endless. Many a time, Frances had spotted the levels lying below them, meaning that there were thousands of yards of galleries and rooms where the orcs could be staying. Their only chance was to be quiet enough.

When the company started again, Frances found herself at the rear in Boromir's company. She didn't mind so much; his contempt had eased up, especially since the warg attack. The warrior had reluctantly admitted that she could stand her ground for a woman, not that he would ever admit it. If Boromir did not deny her skills anymore, he still had some macho attitudes that pissed her off. The guy had been raised old school, and sometimes she had to lecture herself not to rip his throat off. At other times, she wondered what his life looked like, in Gondor, before he appeared in Rivendell chasing a dream. Would she unravel the puzzle that was Boromir ? Understand his motives, his strong drive to protect his people ? The same thirst for power that made him vulnerable to the whispers of that blasted jewel !

Yes. Sometimes, his gaze would turn distant, and this strange gleam would shine in his eyes. The ring was calling.

It called to her too. At first, Frances just felt insulted that this evil thingy would try to break into her head. Then she realized that the ring fed upon her wrath, and she changed tactics. Her rational mind knew how treacherous the One could be. She needed to stay level-headed. Now, when she felt the ring pull on her mind, she focused on recalling the fifty-three numbers of the number PI until it relented. Perhaps a stupid trick, but it kept her focus on something rational. The whispers were receding; apparently, she wasn't such a good choice for the ring.

Boromir however was another case. As the Steward's son, and a powerful warrior adulated by Gondor's army, he had a much bigger influence. If anybody that could turn the tide of war by being corrupted, this was him. The ring was definitely putting a lot of efforts into this. Whenever the evil entity was trying to get a hold on him, Boromir would become more distant and avert his gaze to someplace only he knew.

Frances held no illusion; Estel, Legolas and Gandalf, at least, were aware of it. But what could they do ? Somehow they had decided that the fellowship had better chances with the Steward's son than without him, even if his plans were to return to Minas Tirith. She, on the other hand, was ashamed of thinking this way, but did not agree. To her, Boromir represented a hazard, and even if she started to like him she was afraid of the moment when he would surrender his will to the ring. However, she had to admit that he seemed quite more resilient than she expected. Was there a chance she had misjudged him?

As the situation was now, she was walking beside him in the gloom, and he did not seem in a very talkative mood so she followed the hobbits in silence.

For hours and hours they walked, tip toeing shadows amongst shadows, following paths that never seemed to end. It was difficult to grasp the immensity of the mines as generations had dug and created more paths, more halls and more dwellings that the previous ones. At night they would establish a camp, eat on a few dried fruits and a piece of salted meat, and try to sleep. Greys and blacks, darkness and so little light. Frances felt like a ghost, treading in silence in this deadened place.

On the fourth day they came upon three tunnels. Gandalf stopped, and the hobbits decided to stop for a while. From an outside onlooker the company would have seemed petrified, their gestures measured in the greyish light. Frances could not breathe anymore in this dusty atmosphere. The absence of light, of life and colours was killing her, and the hobbits were getting less and less cheerful. She could feel it all around her, this terrible tension, like a damn rock on her ribcage.

Eventually, the wizard chose a path. And as usual they followed, down and down again, until the walls enclosing them disappeared. Suddenly Frances could not touch the rocks by her side anymore, the tunnel ending abruptly into empty space. It was so dark, but the air seemed … almost fresh. Away from the company a ray of light descended like a waterfall of silver. Gandalf led them slowly, and turned to them with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Frances smiled; she had not seen such a cheerful look since… she could not even remember.

- "Let us risk a little more light", he said.

His staff rose, and sparkles exploded in the air, rising up until they touched the archs of the great Khazad-Dûm hall. Frances' voice was lost in the magnificent beauty of the room, and around her all heads were up. It was a never-ending hall, expanding to left and right without walls, a thousand arches carved into hard stone supporting the fantastic vault.

She had never seen such an imposing building, and from the looks in the others' eyes, neither did they. It was like a reversed cathedral where instead of mounting the walls, the dwarves had removed the rock to create space. The techniques were probably very different, but the outcome was so impressive. Surely Gimli would look smug, and the young lady turned around to face him. But his eyes were set on something else, and the dwarf took off running.

- "Gimli, no!", someone shouted.

The company followed closely, crossing the hall in haste. The noise they made was so intense after many days of silence, and Frances' ears were ringing from the metallic sounds of the weapons clashing against shields and belts. She cringed as she ran, heart thundering against her ribcage. With the immensity of the hall, the echo would alert any enemies from their presence.

They halted in a side room which contained nothing more than a rectangular rock. But in the center of it fell the ray of pure light, and Frances' eyes could not withstand it, not after all this darkness. When she managed to open them fully, she realized that the massive stone was in fact a tomb. Gimli was weeping, kneeling beside it. Here his cousin had been buried, cadavers scattered across the floor in awkward positions. Everywhere arrowheads were embedded in armors, some had passed through ribcages, instantly killing their owners. A few helmets still stood on bare skulls, other had fallen to the ground. Frances looked around, her eyes wide. The sight of this slaughter made her sick.

The hobbits were regrouping instinctively, Frodo in the center, Samwise looking frantically around. Aragorn had laid a hand on Gimli's shoulder, trying to shake the dwarf away from the tomb, away from his grief. Gandalf had found a book, and started to read.

- "There is no way out…", he said, his eyes deciphering the runes with ease.

Legolas paced restlessly, exchanging a few elvish words with the ranger. His tension was so tangible that Frances shuddered. What could upset an elven prince so? Was it the imprisonment far away from his beloved stars that started to grate on his nerves? No, certainly not. They had been travelling for four days underground already. Surely he would have shown symptoms much before this day. Legolas, had certainly been uneasy, but never before had she seen him so tense.

A terrible noise interrupted her reflections. Boom, Boom. The low sound vibrated through their bones, its location still far away, but coming closer already.

- "We're trapped !", Legolas stated.

Gandalf set the book down, realizing the company's mistake. Boom, Boom, Boom, said the drums, and Frances' heart seized with fear. There was no way out, the dwarf writing the book had himself said so. Boromir was the first to react, and he bolted for the doors. Two neatly placed arrows greeted him, nearly taking his head off. The warrior jerked back and closed them. The men barred it securely, but the voices and cries of the goblins only grew nearer. If the hobbits unsheathed their daggers, huddled like cattle awaiting slaughter. Gimli climbed on the tomb, his axe well in hand, rage boiling in his chest. Aragorn had drawn his bow, and Frances regretted that she had not practiced further. Only a master bowman could use this weapon as such range, and she didn't have the skill yet. She would have felt much better with arrows than with her sword.

- "Stay behind me"

Frances blinked, catching Boromir's worried gaze. She nodded, refusing to show fear, yet knowing he could read it in her eyes. His enormous shield was drawn, a rampart about what was to come. On the other side of the tomb, Aragorn had taken upon himself to protect the hobbits. And up front stood the elf, his light almost… wrathful ? Posture tense, jaw set, the lines of his face carved like a stone statue. Gone was the contemplative being, looking at the stars.

Frances drew her weapon, and its perfect crafting gave her some courage. Glorfindel had done wonders on this blade; its size, its balance, the weight in her hand. It had been created for her, and responded eagerly to her commands. Now was the time to remember her training, now was the day to show that she could handle her own. And despite her shaking limbs, she stood proudly. But her mind… her mind was frantic. What if she died, here, in the depths of Khazad-Dûm ? Would her parents even know what had happened to her ?

The racket interrupted her panicking, noises echoing in those enclosed walls. Loud bangs resonated on the door, and cracks responded. Every time, Frances jumped out of her skin. Any moment, now… Soon enough, the door was so damaged that Strider managed to land an arrow into an assailant's eye. Then it blew open, panels banging against the rocks as it yielded, defeated by such brutality. And Hell broke loose. Orcs swarmed in like a giant wave, the first ones efficiently taken down the moment they set foot in the room. Legolas landed arrows after arrows, seconded by the men's blades. It took only a moment before the orcs were within range of Gimli's axe, but they instantly regretted it. Thanks to the small aperture, the four warriors contained the flow of fouls creatures for a while. But soon enough some of them reached the group of Halfling, and the hobbits stroke back with valor.

Cornered, Frances started to swing her sword. It cut and sang with vigor, removing limbs and slicing through dark flesh. She cringed; this dark soup of black blood reeked, gruesome, splashing the floor and her clothing alike. Sticking to her hair. But there was no choice; she couldn't let them approach. The goblins were small enough, and surprisingly weak. If it hadn't been for their number, the company would have dispatched them easily. Frances used her training, and while battling the orcs one by one she was able to stand her own. She sent a silent prayer to her disdainful swords master. The battle raged on for a while, and the young lady sliced and ducked, too busy to survive to pay attention to her surroundings. She was an easy target and her arm was already tiring.

Panicked cries came from the back, Frodo had fallen. Frances turned around briskly, worried beyond measure. Aragorn was already checking up on their mutual friend, but the lines of his face were worried.

- "Ouch!", she cried as a sharp pain greeted the inside of her forearm.

Frances looked at her left wrist in disbelief, a warm trickle of blood was already dripping along the elvish tunic. The wound was not so serious, but it still bled furiously. Fortunately, the adrenaline rush kept the ache at bay, and she contemplated the beautiful garment with renewed rage.

- "Only one second of distraction and see what you have done !", she exclaimed. "This is elvish craft you fool, show some respect !"

The Orc responsible for the cut didn't see it coming, but his head was hacked by a mighty blow. In the mess of the battle, Boromir's chuckle went unnoticed. But his attention was soon drawn elsewhere: the orc's tide was getting lighter, and he gestured towards the entrance.

- "Let this be our chance", he yelled.

Soon the whole company was running across the immensity of the hall. Behind them came the hobbits, Frodo slung across Strider's shoulders, still unconscious. Was he even alive?

On and on they went, as fast as their feet could carry them. Boromir set the pace, minding that the little ones could follow him. Legolas seemed to be flying over the paved ground, his feet barely touching it as he effortlessly ran beside them. Orcs were coming in, closing around them, but Gandalf ushered them forward until they were trapped. Around them expanded a never-ending sea of foul creatures. There was no escape. The company of warriors enclosed their fellow companions in an attempt to protect them, knowing fully that it would only gain them a few seconds of life. But still it seemed worth it, to delay the inevitable.

Strider was pointing his sword to the Goblins, Frodo still safely tucked upon on his left shoulder. The creatures seemed to hesitate. With two men, an elf, a wizard and a dwarf, the orcs from the first line perfectly knew that they stood no chance. None of them was willing to die. But it was not the blades of the warrior that saved the company.

A low growl resonated at the end of the hall, a sound like Frances had never heard. She felt like the earth itself was waking, and nearly expected the cave to collapse. The rumble resonated again, echoing on the archs as goblins started to flee. Gimli uttered a nonsensical sentence about them being cowards, but Gandalf's solemn face told her otherwise. Then she heard Legolas' voice, and upon seeing the expression of his usually so controlled features, dread seized her.

- "A Balrog of Morgoth", he whispered.

She had read about it in Imladris, but for the life of her she could not remember what a Balrog looked like. The elf's scared face told her how bad it was, and Gandalf's reaction did not really help.

- "Durin's bane", exclaimed Gimli as he fell with his face in his hands.

- "There you go Gimli", really helpful, she ushered through ground teeth.

Boromir and Strider exchanged a meaningful look. If the first one had no idea what the legend was about, he didn't need it to agree with his fellow ranger. The escape route was clear of Goblins. A reddish glow was advancing on the empty hall, and the company took off running once more. Frances was too eager to follow. They exited through a door, and started descending a flight of narrow stairs with no railings. Gandalf closed the doors behind them, and motioned for the company to go ahead. As they descended, the unconscious hobbit started stirring on the ranger's shoulder.

- "Frodo !", Aragorn cried, calling Frances' attention.

She granted him just a look, marveling that he was alive before flames engulfed the whole cave.

- "Shit", she grumbled through clenched teeth.

The hobbit gave her a wide-eyed look before the ranger ushered him forward. His terror drove him to run as if he had never been unconscious.

The narrow bridge of Khazad-dum was in sight, and it held the key to their escape. Frances kept her gaze fixed on the bridge carved directly into the rock, its small arch granting passage between the east and the west as a huge canyon separated the two parts of Moria. Above them only darkness, below them not much better. But now the fire and smoke was so present that she lost sight of the oblivion extending below them. And to make matters worse, arrows started to fly around them. The Orcs were everywhere, hidden behind pillars and cracks, waiting for them to run across the emptiness of the cliff. As they progressed, the elf prince managed to land a few arrows of his own. Some goblins fell down into the great void, forcing the others to take cover.

Such skill… and so little time to acknowledge it. Frances ran as if the devils was tailing her. Which, in retrospective, wasn't so far from the truth.

They descended the last stairs, and they started to cross the bridge. Arrows whizzed past them, and it was only a miracle that they did not land in their flesh. There was a clang on Boromir's shield, and another arrow went through Gandalf's hat, staying there as a beacon. Frances tried to not look down as she ran, she was so tired that any wrong step would send her stumbling into the darkness. Relief washed through her body as she climbed up the first stairs on the other side, but it was short lived. Another growl made the rocks tremble. They all turned around, eyes wide, to see the Barlog materialize in front of their very eyes. Darkness and flames turned into an enormous beast, its wings expanded at his sides a dozen feet above the ground.

Never in her life had Frances seen such a monster, and she understood Legolas' fear. Her stomach plummeted down, her limbs shaking. She would never forget it, this tower of fire and shadow. A demon. But Gandalf held his ground. Standing on the edge of the bridge, he lifted his sword, the glowing Glamdring. On his other hand something was shining a bright light, its brilliance so powerful that it seemed to keep the creature at bay.

- "You shall not pass", he said, and his voice was imperious.

Strider and Boromir unsheathed their blades again, and ran back to the wizard with a cry.

- "Gondor ! Elendil !"

Frances was now quaking in fear; what did they think to achieve, two lone men facing such a monster ? But Gandalf did not hear them, his attention fully concentrated on the winged beast. A burning whip hung in its hand, and the creature lashed at them with a mighty blow. But the wizard brandished his glowing sword, and blocked it as he cried:

- "You shall not pass ! I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor."

His voice echoed in the caves, deep below the bridge and high into the nothingness. Tones of hope, and Frances was still frozen upon the roughly carved stairs. The beats' flames engulfed the little silhouette of Gandalf so easily. He was like an ant facing a forest fire, so tiny against a wall of wrathful inferno. Yet, he didn't yield and for the first time, Frances witnessed the wizard's power.

- "You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun. Go back to the shadow! You cannot pass."

The Balrog seemed to consider it for a moment, its flames dancing across its towering frame. But then… its enormous paw landed on the bridge with a crack so mighty it rattled Frances' teeth. A roar of flames escaped its mouth. Tremendous, terrifying, so frightening that her heart skipped a beat. Scorching heat reached them with the shockwave, hell upon feet that left her trembling.

And Gandalf still did not move, but as his enemy advanced on him his staff descended upon the bridge.

- "You shall not pass!", repeated the wizard with force.

For a moment Frances though that the Balrog would engulf Gandalf in its flames, but a sinister cracked resonated in the cave. And then the bridge gave out. The company gasped. Seeing such a thick arch of rock crack under the blow was a sight to behold in itself, but the fall of the Balrog was another one even more impressive. The beast roared and tried to flap its wings, but the darkness engulfed it nonetheless as it disappeared below them. Frances sighed, and so did the hobbits beside her. The devilish creature had been dealt with. But the sound of a cracking whip echoed in the emptiness, and they all witnessed the extremity encasing Gandalf' leg.

He fell down, hard, and was dragged to the edge of the bridge. Frances cried in fear as his body tumbled. But then, his fingers found a crack in the rock and he levelled them with a hard look. Before hope could settled in her chest, he ordered:

- "Flee !"

And then he was gone, falling into darkness where the Balrog had disappeared only a moment ago. Frodo cried out his name, and started running to the bridge. Fortunately, Strider caught him. It was a sorry sight, but they needed to escape or Gandalf's sacrifice would have been for naught. Frances was quite numb, not realizing quite yet that the wizard was gone. She climbed up the stairs, and ran with the company. There was nothing more she wished than fresh air. Now the flames were gone, she smelt the dampness in the air, could feel the darkness of the corridor, the emptiness of her heart. They ran again and again, not quite sure to be safe yet even if the only passage to the East had been cut definitely.

The afternoon light greeted them at the end of an endless hallway. But after five days craving for it, nor Legolas nor Frances had the heart to acknowledge its glory. The hobbits were crying on the ground, their little hearts torn apart by the death of their friend. Frances caught the elf's expression for an instant, he seemed so lost, totally thrown off by the concept of death. The young lady did not cry, she was too numb to feel anything. The wound in her wrist throbbed painfully even if the bleeding had ceased. Gone was the adrenaline that kept her moving. Exhaustion threatened to take over, and her feet ordinarily so assured on the uneven ground were now trembling with the effort.

But Strider hailed them, and led them further away downhill. The company followed without questions. They needed to get to safety before nightfall.

[1] For more background on Frances' stories, please consult my profile.