Well, I do believe it's been about six years since this story was last updated! And I'm sure, if you are a reader that was around in the beginning, that you long ago gave up on this ever being updated. Honestly, I did too! That said, here we are. Inspiration struck, and here's another chapter!

I tried to keep consistency with what has come before in this story, but I do believe that my writing has improved in the years I've been gone. And I desperately want to make Anariel a more realistic character - so at the risk of her character changing too drastically, I am yet trying to apply my own criticisms to my work.

If you are an old-time reader, welcome back! I hope it is worth the wait. If you are new, welcome! I do hope you enjoy my attempts at stretching my creative muscles.

As always, Tolkien owns everything. I'm just playing in his sandbox.

Chapter 14: Footsteps in the Dark

The endless dark was gnawing at her. Every step took them deeper in the heart of Moria, and Anariel felt as if an iron band tightened around her heart with every second they lingered in the long dark. The air felt close and she longed for a fresh breeze or the touch of the sun on her face almost more than a bed. Or a hot meal.

Aragorn's steps, steady and sure behind her, were her one comfort. She could feel him at her back, feel the solid presence of him as he followed. More than once, he had reached out a hand to steady her on uneven ground or when her limping feet grew weary, and she wasn't sure she could keep up the pace much longer. She cursed her weakness, but then felt guilty for her discontent. She had chosen this – this mortal life with all of its pains and struggles. And so she grit her teeth, tightened her belt, and determined to be as cheery as she could in the ever-deepening dark of the mines.

Stories helped at first. Though her memory was fading as the years passed, she yet had many stories from centuries past and plenty that would lighten the spirit of even the dourest dwarf. The hobbits were not so picky an audience. They would have been pleased with far less. But soon, Anariel felt too keenly the oppressive weight of the mountain over her head and the malevolent presence that festered deep within Moria's heart. And she fell silent once more.

"Lad," Anariel whispered. The word fell into the silence like a pebble into a still pool and more than one head twitched back to look at her. "Tell us about something good."

Legolas shot her a wry smile and shook his head slightly before launching into a foolishly ornate story about an elvish poet who spent an entire century writing about a single blade of grass. More than once Anariel couldn't help a soft snort of laughter escaping. Even though she felt she had nothing left to add, at the very least she could help others give what they could. And she knew Legolas had a hidden talent for storytelling. She winced suddenly as her leg twisted, pulling on the bandage stuck to the dried blood. Perhaps in a day or two it would be healed enough for her to risk using the energy to heal it the rest of the way. But with the multitude of dangers lurking in the dark, she had a feeling that she'd need to be more sparing with how she used her powers.

Anariel couldn't help but let her gaze drift back (more frequently than it ought, if she was honest) to Aragorn, grim and silent in the dark at the rear. He'd been quieter since they'd entered the mines, almost morose. And she suddenly wished that she could know what he was thinking, that she was close enough to him to ask, to offer comfort, support… As soon as she had this thought, she shook herself and banished it far from her mind. Who was she, really, to offer such a thing? Maybe once…once when she'd been more than she was now and those sorts of dreams seemed fitting for a daughter of Elros. But now it was difficult to let herself even fathom considering herself to be at the same level as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the heir to the throne of Gondor, one of the greatest of the Dunedain, descendant of Elendil. He would rise above the height of his forefathers, ushering in the age of men with dignity and strength and justice. And she…once she may have been worthy. But now?

What did she have to offer besides her love, paltry as it was?

No. He needed more than she was, more than she had to give. And yet, she would offer what friendship and comfort she could. And bask in his friendship as long as she could. That must be enough. It would be enough.

The company halted shortly after. Anariel was barely cognizant of a hand at her elbow, and the low murmur of voices. The drowsiness has crept up on her slowly, until it was all she could do to keep one foot moving in front of the other. And the athelas seemed to be wearing off—her leg felt like it was on fire. She was aware of being led to sit on a large, flat rock and of a bottle being pressed to her lips. The miruvor quickly cleared the fog from her mind. Merry and Pippin were sitting on either side of her, clearly trying to not look too concerned. And Legolas was just stepping back and capping the bottle of precious liquor.

"Lady…um…Anariel, are you quite alright?" Pippin asked hesitantly. "You don't…I mean didn't…well, you seem like you don't feel well." Anariel huffed a quiet laugh and tried not to groan as she adjusted the placement of her injured leg. She was dimly aware of Gandalf and Aragorn speaking urgently in hushed tones a little ways away in front of three dark, yawning doorways. She shook her head and turned back to Pippin.

"Thank you, Pippin. I'll be right as rain shortly, I'm sure," she said. He didn't look convinced, so she continued. "My leg feels very much like it was sliced open by a large rock, and I'm ready for a rest, but other than that…I'm fine as anything!" She sent him a grin that was half grimace, and he laughed, though he quickly covered it with a cough. Merry sent him a glare before turning back to Anariel as if he wanted to argue a bit more.

"Merry," Anariel said quickly, "do you think you would mind unrolling my pack for me?" She saw both Boromir and Gimli preparing their bedrolls, so it was safe to assume that they were camping here for the night…or was it day? There was no night. And no day. Just endless darkness…she shivered again. Merry shot her a look that wasn't unlike one her uncle might have given. She pasted on another smile. "Please?"

Merry huffed and rolled his eyes. But he did crack a smile.

"Alright, alright. Will do, my lady," he gave an exaggerated bow. "But don't think I won't be checking back in. And expecting a truthful answer!"

"Yes, sir," she laughed.

But inside, she suddenly felt hollow. The air was completely still where they were. And the dark seemed to press ever closer. She shuddered, even as she thanked Merry for spreading out her bedroll and attempted to settle down for some sleep. Her earlier languor was gone and in its place all she felt was a jittery sort of panic. As the company settled down, the voices fell silent. And the silence itself seemed heavy and laced with dread. She suddenly felt the sheer weight of the mountain pressing down on her, squeezing out all light and life and warmth. Her eyes were wide open as she lay on the hard rock, the bedroll doing little to soften the granite under her body. Her breath came short and quick. She would die down here. She knew it…no sunlight. No light. No air…never again. No. Air…

Before the panic could completely overwhelm her, Anariel felt strong hands grip hers. She hadn't even realized that she'd been clenching her hands so tightly that her nails had pierced her palms. Those strong hands, warm hands with roughly callused palms, gripped her gently and tugged her upright. A soft glow from the wizard's staff and pipe was just enough to see a face near hers, a face she knew almost as well as her own at this point. Aragorn held her clenched fists in each of his and had pulled her to a sitting position. His eyes were blazing silver in the dim light, and she suddenly felt shame—shame for her panic and fear, shame for her weakness, shame for feeling like a foolish child in the face of his courage and kingliness. But all she read in his eyes was kindness. He pulled her a bit closer.

"Breathe, Anariel," he spoke so softly, she wouldn't have heard if he hadn't been so near. And if she hadn't been still clawing her way up out of her own darkness, she may have blushed from their closeness—how she could pick out the specks of pewter and steel in his silvery eyes, how she could see the laugh lines and worry lines around his eyes, how even covered in dirt and grime (as they all were) he still looked fit for a throne of men. As it was, all of this registered dimly and she concentrated instead on doing what he said. She struggled to pull in a shallow breath. "That's it," he said, and he loosened his hold on her hands just slightly. She let out almost a gasp and subconsciously gripped his hands tighter herself.

"Please," she whispered. It had slipped out, and she didn't know what she was asking for. Help, air, starshine, sunlight, breath, the calm she'd felt earlier in the journey, certainty, a future, his heart…

His eyes sharpened and warmed all at once.

"Come with me," he said gently as he eased his hands under her elbows and helped her to stand.

They walked slowly past where the wizard was keeping watch. He shot them a brief keen glance from under his eyebrows, but then quickly turned back to his murmuring and smoking. Aragorn sat her down by the very small campfire they had dared to build. He handed her a skin of water and waited until she had taken several small sips.

"I know that you have oft, by chance or by choice, been the one to offer comfort and solace on this journey thus far. But, Anariel," he paused and made sure she met his gaze, so strong and sure, "you need not feel that it is your duty to never ask for aid yourself. There is no shame in fear. Not in these times. And it is no weakness to depend on others."

Anariel felt her heart squeeze tightly in her chest. But it was not the oppressive weight of the mountain this time. No, it was a sharp painful tug, as if her heart wanted to leap right out and spill itself in front of him, expose every sorrow, weakness, pain, longing, hope, and dream right there on the stone ground. She dropped her gaze and shivered slightly.

"What is it you fear, Anariel?" Aragorn leaned forward, clasping his hands together in almost a pleading gesture. "What burdens your heart so? I would help if I could."

One more shuddering breath, and Anariel felt her mind clear slightly. She could not tell him all. But she desired to be his friend (nothing more, poor heart. Nothing more!), and if she so desired to help him bear his burdens, she could hardly be hypocrite enough to not show the same courtesy. While she could never have his heart, she would be content with what he was offering—companionship, a listening ear, an encouraging word.

"It is the darkness…" she started, quietly. And winced. It sounded so childish, said like that. She rushed on to explain. "Not that, I mean, it's not that I am afraid of the dark, exactly. But the dark of these mines…it's a dark unlike any…I'm not sure how to say what I…Why are words so difficult?!" She slumped slightly in frustration. Now he truly would think her a child. She'd try again.

Anariel looked at his face. His kind, patient face. He was waiting for her to find the words.

"I know you have heard my family's nickname for me—the daughter of the sun. It is a foolish name really. I'm sure the Ainur laughed the first time Elrohir jokingly called me that a thousand years ago. And I always felt that it was pretentious and over the top. Too much, really. But the truth that it points to is that I have always felt far more affinity with sunlight and flame than starshine and moonlight. Most of my…most elves favor the night, the cool silver of moonlit pools and the jeweled night sky pricked with stars. But I have always been in love with the dawn…And I thought I would be fine. Here. In the mines. But this darkness…it's not just the absence of light. It feels like a living thing. A physical thing pressing in on me and—"

She cut off as she felt it once more, as if it were reaching out to choke her. And then she felt his hands once more, this time on her cheeks, cradling her face as gently as if she were made of glass.

"Anariel, I know. I feel it myself," he said softly.

Suddenly, the weight lessened. It was the best thing he could have said. If he felt it too…

"Why do you think I protested the mines so much? It is not only the myriad dangers that may waylay us before we reach the other side. I too have seen too much of the darkness. I too love the morning too much to go so long without it. And I too have felt the oppressive weight of this place since we first set foot inside." He slid his right hand softly down her neck and then dropped it to grasp her hand. He brought it up to his chest. She could feel the steady beat of his heart and the regular rise and fall of his breathing. And suddenly, she found that she could breathe too.

"There is no shame in fear," Aragorn said again firmly.

"But there are so many other things more important than my fear," Anariel said, perhaps a bit stubbornly. After all, it was true: the ring, the quest, Frodo…

"Not to me."

Anariel's eyes widened at the same time Aragorn's did. And was that a slight flush to his cheeks? She wasn't sure he'd meant to say it quite like that. But those three words seemed to nestle deep inside her heart in that moment, warm and right. Completely right.

Aragorn cleared his throat.

"I know that you want to prove your place, to not be a burden," he continued. She opened her mouth but then shut it at his stern glance. "It's not hard to tell, Anariel. And I truly understand. But it does the quest, and Frodo, little good if you kill yourself trying not to be a burden. It's far more difficult to carry a corpse after all."

He quirked a smile that made Anariel's heart do strange things.

"Oh, very funny. That's assuming the company votes against just leaving my corpse in some pit somewhere," she huffed a laugh and was gratified to see Aragorn break into a grin. It took years off of his face and once again her heart twisted, and she became keenly aware that he still held one of her hands to his heart while the other had slid down to rest where her neck met her shoulder. She was pretty sure it was tangled up in her mess of curls, and she was flooded with the mad feeling that that's exactly where his hands were always meant to be—holding her, not letting her go.

But he did let her go. With a sigh, he untangled his hand from her hair and then used his other to pull her to her feet. He steadied her and when she nodded he began walking her back to her bedroll.

"Will you be well? Do you think you can sleep now?" he whispered as they slowly picked their way past the snoring hobbits. Anariel smiled softly at the sight of Sam, curled up tight at Frodo's feet.

"I think so," she answered as he helped her settle down. She winced slightly at the renewed ache in her leg, though it was somewhat improved from the fire that had raged there earlier. "Aragorn…" she grasped his sleeve as he began to pull away. His eyes caught hers and her breath snagged in her chest a moment at the tempest of emotion that raged there—a tempest that had been hidden during their conversation, hidden behind a smooth sea of calm. She almost said something foolish (oh so foolish!) before she caught herself.

"Thank you…Estel," she whispered. And she let go. She laid down and closed her eyes, letting the comfort of the darkness behind her eyelids shut out the darkness of the mines.

And just before drifting off, she thought she heard a whisper…

"You're welcome…Arien."

She was altogether lovely.

Aragorn drew in a deep breath as he tore his eyes once more from her tumble of riotous curls falling across the rocks, like some molten waterfall. His hand twitched slightly as he remembered the softness of those curls wrapped around his fingers. Immediate guilt swept through him. Such a superficial thing to be dwelling on—her hair. It enchanted him, yes. He could admit it. He'd admitted it from the beginning, being attracted to her beauty. But now there was more going on. Was he thinking of her hair to distract himself?

His ears caught a soft sigh, and he was looking at her once more. Still asleep. She had just shifted slightly, her forehead now marred by a slight frown. It was a look of discomfort, of pain. He knew her leg would be giving her some trouble for a few more days yet. There was only so much he could do with dried athelas and no hot water or other amenities. He'd definitely need to keep an eye out for infection though…in addition to infection of the soul.

He let out another sigh. She'd opened up more to him tonight. It was as if there was some soul-deep connection that had been slowly forged between them ever since they set out from Rivendell. He had just finished speaking to Gandalf when he was overcome with the desire—no, the need—to check on her. And it hadn't been too soon either. He'd found her nearly shaking with the efforts to simply breathe. He couldn't turn aside. He couldn't not help her…not if there was any help he could give.

And then, she had been vulnerable. She had trusted him enough to expose her fear, to admit weakness and need. He had never felt more honored in his life. If he were to indeed be given the throne of Gondor itself, he could hardly feel more honor and responsibility simultaneously. She trusted him enough to reveal something of her thoughts and feelings to him. And she trusted him to not scorn her for it, to not use it against her or hold it against her…as if he ever could. He may not have as many years to his credit as she, but in his eight decades of life he had lived enough to know that the bravest were not those who knew no fear, but rather those who knew what to do with that fear. Who let their fear drive them to conquer it, to fight anyway. Virtue that is never tested is the weakest sort. And she had proven herself virtuous indeed.

Aragorn shook himself. He'd already capitulated—it was done! He was almost more frustrated with himself now than when he'd been in denial. He'd given in when it came to his heart, but he was yet determined that nothing could come of it. At least yet…so much could go wrong. So much was at stake. Yet he'd just had to go and give her a nickname…how sentimental. And telling. He'd give the game up at this rate. But she'd looked so sweet and young and lovely, as she'd grabbed his sleeve and thanked him, using his elven name, a name few used but that encapsulated everything he longed to offer to others, to his people. Estel—the hope of men. If he had managed to share even a small bit of that hope with Anariel, then perhaps that name was not in vain after all. And after her confession of her feelings about her old nickname—how it was too pretentious and yet not so far off the mark—he hadn't been able to resist giving her something of what she'd given him when she used that name at that moment.

And it fit her well, he thought.

Arien. His sun-maiden.