Alana watched in horror as Gandalf lost his grip and fell into the abyss, his final words echoing in her ears. "Fly, you fools!" Time seemed to slow as the reality of what had just happened sank in. Gandalf, their leader and mentor, was gone.
Chaos erupted around her as the others cried out in anguish. Frodo's desperate screams tore at her heart, but there was no time to stop and grieve. Arrows whizzed past them from the encroaching orc archers. They had to keep moving.
"Aragorn!" Boromir called out urgently. The ranger stood frozen, staring at the spot where Gandalf had disappeared, disbelief etched on his face. But at Boromir's shout, he snapped back to the present. In one swift motion, Aragorn scooped up Kitra's limp form and threw her over his shoulder. "We must go! Now!" he commanded, leading the way up the stairs towards the exit.
Alana forced her numb legs to move, grabbing Frodo's hand and pulling him along. The little hobbit was nearly catatonic with shock and grief. She kept a tight grip on him as they raced up the steps, the sounds of pursuit not far behind.
They burst out of the mines into blinding daylight. Alana blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting as she stumbled onto the rocky hillside. The hobbits collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. Boromir held a thrashing Gimli back from charging back inside. Legolas stood apart, his fair face marred by confusion and sorrow.
Alana's heart ached as she watched her companions break down, their cries of anguish piercing the air. She felt numb, her mind still reeling from the sudden loss of Gandalf. It didn't seem real that he was gone, that he had sacrificed himself to save them all.
Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back, knowing they couldn't afford to linger here and grieve. The orcs would surely pursue them once they recovered from the Balrog's fall. They had to keep moving.
Her gaze landed on Aragorn, who was gently lowering Kitra's unconscious form to the ground. Worry gripped Alana as she hurried over to them, kneeling beside the pale, still woman. "Is she...?"
"She lives, but barely," Alana watched anxiously as Aragorn felt for Kitra's pulse at her neck. His brow was deeply furrowed with concern. After a few tense moments, he let out a sigh. "She lives, but barely," he said grimly. "The poison spreads quickly. We must get her to Lothlórien with all haste."
Gently, Aragorn peeled back the bandage on Kitra's forearm, revealing the ugly gash in her arm. Alana gasped at the sight - black tendrils snaked out from the edges of the wound, pulsing sickeningly under Kitra's ashen skin. The veins in her arm were darkening, the poison visibly creeping towards her heart with every shallow breath she took.
"By the Valar," Alana felt panic seize her as she stared at the black poison creeping through Kitra's veins. "Will she even survive the journey to Lothlórien?" she asked Aragorn desperately, her voice shaking. "There must be something more we can do!"
Aragorn quickly re-wrapped Kitra's wound, his expression grim but determined. "We have no choice but to press on and pray we reach the elves in time," he said as he gathered Kitra into his arms once more and stood. "Their healing magic may be her only hope now."
He turned to survey the rest of the devastated fellowship. "Legolas, get them up," he commanded the elf. "Boromir, Alana - help the hobbits. We must move swiftly."
"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir protested, gesturing to the distraught hobbits. His own eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears.
Aragorn shook his head, his expression filled with regret but also steely resolve. "By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up!"
Alana moved to help Sam and Pippin to their feet while Boromir gently roused Merry. Legolas coaxed a near-catatonic Frodo up, murmuring soft words of comfort in Elvish.
As Alana supported a shaky Sam, she glanced worriedly at Aragorn. The ranger was already marching ahead, Kitra in his arms. Alana watched Aragorn's retreating back as he carried Kitra towards the distant woods, his strides long and urgent. Her own heart pounded with fear for her stricken friend. Would Kitra even survive long enough to reach the elves' healing magic? And what of the quest now, with Gandalf gone and their party so badly shaken?
She shook herself mentally. Those worries would have to wait. Right now, they needed to move quickly and stay together. She tightened her grip on Sam and Pippin's shoulders.
"Come on, you two," Alana said bracingly, trying to inject some strength into her voice that she didn't quite feel. "Aragorn's right, we can't stay here. We have to be brave and keep going, for Frodo and the quest."
Sam lifted his tear-stained face and met her eyes. He nodded resolutely, a flicker of determination sparking in his red-rimmed eyes. "You're right, Miss Alana," he said hoarsely, squaring his shoulders. "Mr. Frodo needs us now more than ever. We can't let Gandalf's sacrifice be in vain."
Pippin sniffled and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. "I just can't believe he's really gone," the youngest hobbit said mournfully.
Alana squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "I know, Pip. But we have to be strong and carry on, like he would want us to." She glanced ahead to where Aragorn was swiftly carrying Kitra towards the woods, the others trailing behind. "Come on, we need to catch up to Aragorn."
She urged the hobbits on, staying behind them to make sure they didn't fall behind. Alana kept a watchful eye on Frodo as they hurried after Aragorn, her heart heavy with worry for both him and Kitra. The ring-bearer seemed to be moving in a daze, his face pale and eyes haunted. She could only imagine the depth of his anguish at losing Gandalf.
As they marched on as swiftly as the hobbits could manage, Alana found her gaze repeatedly drawn to Aragorn's retreating figure in the distance. Kitra hung limply in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. Even from afar, Alana could see how ghostly pale her cousin's face was, her lips tinged an alarming shade of blue. Fear churned in Alana's gut. Would Kitra survive long enough to reach help?
Alana's mind raced as she hurried after Aragorn, the hobbits close on her heels. The shock of Gandalf's loss still felt like a raw, gaping wound, but she tried to push her grief aside and focus on the dire situation at hand. Kitra's life hung in the balance, and they were still leagues away from Lothlórien.
The sun had nearly set by the time they caught sight of the legendary forests of Lothlorien. After hours of traversing rocky hills and grassy plains, Alana's eyes were drawn to a distant patch of green nestled between the mountains. As she quickened her pace to catch up with Legolas, she couldn't help but admire his graceful gait and sharp elven features. He strode confidently beside Aragorn, their watchful gazes scanning every inch of the horizon for potential threats. The anticipation and excitement in the air was palpable as they drew closer to the fabled forest, shrouded in mystery and beauty.
"How is she?" Alana asked breathlessly, glancing worriedly at Kitra's limp form cradled in Aragorn's arms.
Legolas's fair face was drawn with concern. "Fading," he said grimly. "The poison spreads with every moment. I fear she may not have long."
Alana's heart clenched painfully at his words. She looked ahead to where Aragorn marched tirelessly onward, Kitra clutched protectively to his chest. The ranger's face was set in lines of grim determination, but Alana could see the fear and desperation in his eyes.
"He will not let her die," she said fiercely, more to convince herself than anything. "Aragorn will get her to Lothlórien in time. He has to."
Legolas glanced at her, a flicker of sympathy in his ancient eyes. "Let us pray it is so," he murmured. "For I dread to imagine the toll it would take on him"
Alana's feet ached and her lungs burned as she hurried after Aragorn's relentless pace, but she pushed the discomfort aside. Every second counted if they were to save Kitra's life. The haunting sight of the blackened poison creeping through her cousin's veins spurred Alana on, even as exhaustion tugged at her bones.
The hobbits trudged along valiantly behind her, their faces etched with sorrow and weariness. Alana's heart went out to them, especially Frodo. The ring-bearer looked utterly lost, his blue eyes glazed with shock and grief. She longed to comfort him, but there was no time. They had to reach the safety of Lothlórien before the orcs caught up to them.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in vivid streaks of orange and red, Alana felt a shiver of unease run down her spine. The shadows lengthened around them, the gathering dusk making the distant trees of Lothlórien look even more imposing and mysterious. She glanced over her shoulder anxiously, half-expecting to see the hulking forms of orcs bearing down on them.
"We must not delay," Aragorn called back to the group, his voice strained but commanding. "The borders of Lothlórien are just ahead. Keep moving!"
Alana gritted her teeth and pushed onward, grasping Pippin's small hand in hers as the hobbit started to lag behind. Merry and Sam flanked Frodo protectively, their expressions filled with determination despite their obvious exhaustion. Gimli huffed and puffed in exhaustion.
As they reached the edge of the forest, an eerie stillness settled over the fellowship. The ancient trees loomed before them, their gnarled branches reaching out like ghostly fingers in the fading light. Alana shuddered, feeling a prickle of unease as they stepped into the shadows of the woods. She had heard tales of the strange magic that dwelled in Lothlórien, the home of the mysterious Lady Galadriel.
Aragorn halted suddenly, his keen eyes scanning the trees. "Stay close, all of you," he warned in a low voice. "There is a watchful presence here."
No sooner had he spoken than a group of elves materialized from the foliage, bows drawn and aimed at the fellowship. Their leader, a tall, regal-looking elf with piercing blue eyes, stepped forward.
"The dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark." The elf's piercing blue eyes swept over the bedraggled fellowship, lingering on Aragorn and the unconscious woman in his arms. "You bring great evil and sorrow with you," he said, his melodic voice edged with suspicion. "State your purpose in the Golden Wood."
Aragorn inclined his head respectfully, even as his arms tightened around Kitra's limp form. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. We are friends of Gandalf the Grey and seek sanctuary in Lothlórien. One of our companions has been gravely poisoned and needs the healing skills of your people."
The elf scrutinized them for a long moment, his ageless eyes seeming to pierce through to their very souls. Alana held her breath, praying he would grant them passage. Finally, the elf lowered his bow.
"I am Haldir, marchwarden of Lórien," the elf said, signaling for his archers to stand down. "We have received word from the Lord and Lady of your coming. You may enter - but the dwarf must go blindfolded, as is our custom."
Gimli bristled, his hand going to his axe. "I will not walk blindly into an elvish realm!" he growled. "I am no spy or enemy to be treated thus!"
Aragorn turned to the dwarf, his expression strained. "Please, Gimli. We have no time to argue. Kitra's life hangs by a thread."
Gimli glowered but relented at the mention of Kitra. "Very well," he grumbled. "I shall endure it - for the lass's sake."
As an elf bound a cloth over Gimli's eyes, Aragorn turned back to Haldir, desperation etched on his face. "Please, we must make haste. Kitra grows weaker with every moment," he pleaded, cradling her fading form protectively to his chest.
Haldir's piercing gaze lingered on Kitra's ashen face before he nodded curtly. "Follow me. The Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn await your arrival."
The elf turned and melted back into the dense foliage, leading the way into the heart of the forest. The fellowship hurried after him, Aragorn in the lead with Kitra while the others trailed behind. Alana kept close to the hobbits, her hand resting reassuringly on her sword hilt.
They eventually came to a platform in the woods where they waited patiently for Galadriel and Celeborn. Aragorn had stepped off to the side arguing with Haldir to take Kitra ahead for healing. As Aragorn argued with Haldir in hushed, urgent tones, Alana hovered anxiously nearby, her eyes fixed on Kitra's ghostly pale face. Her cousin's shallow, labored breathing filled her with a sickening dread. They were so close to help, but would it be too late?
Alana glanced around at the others huddled on the platform, taking in their ragged appearances and haunted expressions. The hobbits clung together, their faces streaked with grime and dried tears. Boromir stood apart, his proud shoulders bowed under the weight of grief and weariness. Even Legolas and Gimli looked uncharacteristically somber and subdued.
A wave of panic washed over Alana as she watched a few unfamiliar elves stepped forward, taking Kitra away on a stretcher. Alana surged forward, reaching out desperately as the elves carried Kitra away on the stretcher. "Wait!" she cried, her voice edged with panic. "Where are you taking her?"
One of the elves paused and turned to face her, his expression serene but implacable. "Fear not, young one," he said in a soothing, melodic voice. "We are taking your companion to our healers. They will do all in their power to draw out the poison and restore her."
Alana hesitated, torn between the overwhelming need to stay with Kitra and the knowledge that she would only be in the way. She glanced back at Aragorn, who was watching the elves bear Kitra away with an expression of intense worry and longing.
"Go with them, Alana," the ranger said quietly, meeting her gaze. "Stay with her, I'll watch over the others. And have one of the elves take a look at that cut on your forehead."
Alana's trembling hand reached up to touch her forehead, and she recoiled at the sticky warmth of blood. In her frantic rush to escape the dark mines, she had been too consumed with fear and grief to notice her own injury. But now, as she turned to face Aragorn with wide, teary eyes, overwhelming gratitude and relief flooded through her. She knew he longed to be the one by Kitra's side, but as their leader, he had a duty to stay with the fellowship. With a wordless squeeze of his arm, Alana conveyed her thanks before hurrying after the graceful elves carrying her wounded cousin, their silken robes whispering against the stone walls as they moved.
Alana followed the elves carrying Kitra through the ethereal beauty of Caras Galadhon, her heart pounding with fear and desperation. She barely noticed the graceful spiraling staircases winding around the massive mallorn trees or the delicate silver lanterns that cast a soft glow over the elven city. Her entire being was focused on Kitra's pale, still face and the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
The elves bore Kitra swiftly up one of the winding stairways and into an elegant open-aired chamber high in the treetops. With gentle hands, they transferred Kitra from the stretcher onto a plush bed draped in silken sheets the color of moonlight. Alana hovered anxiously nearby as the healers gathered around, their fair faces etched with concentration.
One of the healers, an ethereally beautiful elf-maiden with long, silvery hair, turned to Alana with a gentle smile. "Do not fear, young one," she said in a voice like tinkling bells. "Your friend is in good hands. We will do all we can to heal her."
Alana nodded mutely, tears stinging her eyes as she watched the elves cluster around Kitra's bed. They moved with fluid grace, their hands glowing with a soft white light as they chanted in low, musical tones. The air seemed to shimmer around them, filled with ancient magic.
Sinking down onto a cushioned bench nearby, Alana buried her face in her hands, finally allowing the tears she'd been holding back to flow freely. The events of the day crashed over her like a tidal wave - the horror of the Balrog, Gandalf's sacrifice, and Kitra's fragile state.
Alana watched anxiously as the elven healers worked over Kitra's still form, their hands glowing with a soft, pulsing light. They chanted in low, melodic tones, the ancient words seeming to shimmer in the air. The chamber was filled with the scent of fresh athelas, the healing herb that Lord Elrond had used to treat Frodo's morgul blade wound.
As the minutes crawled by, Alana paced restlessly, her stomach tied in knots. She couldn't lose Kitra, not now, not after everything they'd been through. Her cousin was the only family she had left in Middle Earth. The thought of facing the rest of this quest without her was unbearable.
Alana's mind drifted back to their first days of traveling together in the quaint and idyllic Shire. The gentle rolling hills and lush greenery had surrounded them as they made their way through the winding paths, Kitra always at her side with a bright smile and a joyful energy that never seemed to dim. Alana could still remember the pure happiness that radiated from Kitra as she danced at her wedding, graceful and carefree. And when it was time for Alana to give birth to her son, Kitra had been there every step of the way, providing comfort and support with her unwavering presence. Through all these moments, Kitra had been a constant companion, a steadfast friend, and Alana couldn't imagine her life without her.
"My Lady you are bleeding." The elf, a young healer with kind eyes, smiled gently at her. "Please, allow me to tend to your wound," he said, producing a soft cloth and a bowl of fragrant water seemingly out of nowhere.
Alana hesitated, glancing over to where the other healers were still clustered around Kitra. "I don't want to leave her," she said hoarsely, fresh tears threatening to spill over.
The healer followed her gaze, his expression sympathetic. "I understand your concern, but you will be of no help to your friend if you do not take care of yourself as well," he chided.
Alana reluctantly allowed the young healer to guide her to a nearby chair. She sat stiffly as he began to clean the gash on her forehead with gentle, expert hands. The water was cool and soothing against her skin, carrying the refreshing scent of athelas.
As the healer worked, Alana's eyes remained fixed on Kitra's bedside, watching the soft glow that emanated from the hands of the healers tending to her. Their ancient chants washed over her, both haunting and beautiful. She couldn't understand the words, but she could feel the power in them, the magic that flowed from the elves as they fought to purge the poison from Kitra's body.