Chapter 16: The Drums of Khazad-dûm

Anariel was surprised at how quickly her energy and strength returned. By the next time they stopped for a brief respite, she was feeling nearly back to her usual self. Well, as usual as she could feel while marching ceaselessly through the oppressive dark of the mines. But beyond the expected aches and pains and sore muscles that they all experienced (no matter how the more doughty among them may try to deny it), she felt better than she had since Rivendell. In both body and spirit.

She knew it was because of him.

Her mind was able to reach beyond the confines of the Mines. She could lift her spirit now, by letting her mind wander to the sunshine that was still out there somewhere, in the broad, green world. She could let it tread the paths of her beloved Imladris or leap ahead to the golden slopes of Cerin Amroth (Oh, that she would be so blessed as to set eyes upon it once more in the waking world!). In her spirit, she was not confined to the deep darkness of Moria, but she could rest by filling her soul with the remembrance of all the good in the world, her favorite things that, though the future was dark and full of doubt and peril, still yet existed. Sunshine glimmering on the surface of water, the green of the first, fresh leaves of spring, the grey of his eyes, the huge breadth of his shoulders, his solid chest to lean on and strong arms to hold her…

Anariel jerked herself back to the present determinedly. Those thoughts, thoughts of him, comprised more and more of her favorite things, her happiest imaginings. Yet they still seemed so impossible, so remote and unachievable. She often recalled Gandalf's words and almost cursed the tiny seed of hope that they had planted deep inside of her heart. That hope really should not be nurtured. She couldn't risk it. So much pain and heartache awaited her if she took that path…

But you knew that. You chose that. Remember? All that pain and heartache…the heights and the depths. Remember!

And then there were those echoes of the past that would mix with her fears of the future, forming a dark kaleidoscope of doubts. Even if all was well—Middle Earth at peace, Sauron defeated, the Ring destroyed, all things as they should be with a king crowned and enthroned once more in the great city of men—Aragorn would still be far beyond her reach. As much as she wished for things to be different, as much as she longed to be worthy, she knew she was not. The very fact that she held so much fear of pain and disappointment in her heart was evidence enough that she was not worthy.

Didn't he deserve someone less cowardly? Less scarred? Less broken? Someone without all of her doubts and weaknesses?

Whenever her mind wandered those particular paths, paths that were as dark as the chasms to their right and left, Anariel knew it was time to turn her attention to their path and her companions. Whispering words of encouragement to the hobbits here and there, making a lighthearted joke at Legolas' expense to get a chortle out of Gimli, trying to tease some sort of emotion if not a smile out of Boromir (that man smiled far too rarely!)—the surest way to pull herself out of her own darkness, her own self-pity, was to turn her mind towards lightening others' burdens.

Which then meant thinking of him once more…and back into the vicious cycle she went. And yet, it was still far more pleasant than where her mind had been before, when they'd first entered Moria. And so, she determinedly placed one foot in front of the other, praying that their dark journey would soon come to an end with little more incident and no more injury. But most of all she prayed that the dark foreboding that grew heavier and heavier with each step she took would be for nought.

That for once, Gandalf's premonitions would prove false.

They had rested briefly once more, but the entire group agreed with Gandalf when he suggested they push on. No one was fond of the idea of spending yet another night in the mines, and even the hardiest among them (including Gimli himself!) were ready to feel fresh air on their faces once more.

They pushed onward. When they caught sight of a glimmer of light, Gandalf decided to follow it to confirm their path in the right direction, eastward and downward. On following the light, they found a high, stone doorway and beyond it a square chamber. All of them, save perhaps Gandalf, squinted slightly in the light—though it was dim, after the impenetrable darkness of the mines it struck their eyes like a blazing sun. But Anariel couldn't help the sudden lightening of her heart at the sight of true sunlight, even though it came dimly through perhaps miles of rock only to fall gently upon a marble slab in the center of this dull room. She felt she could breathe a bit easier, just from seeing its weak rays. She caught Aragorn's eye briefly as they filed into the chamber, and she couldn't help the bright smile she gave him. He returned it, kindness deepening the lines around his eyes. She was sure he understood.

Anariel's sudden burst of joy was soon tempered, however, when Gimli let out a deep moan as he read the words inscribed on the marble slab and drew his hood over his face. Gandalf had followed him somberly, and while Gimli was silent in his grief, Gandalf translated the runes inscribed there.

"Thus read the words in the Common Tongue: 'BALIN SON OF FUNDIN; LORD OF MORIA.'"

"He is dead then," said Frodo, his face grave and drawn. "I had hoped it was not so, but my heart feared it."

Anariel wasn't sure who needed her comfort more, Gimli or Frodo, but she sensed that Gimli may receive her aid with less grace, so she drifted to Frodo's side, simply offering silent comfort. He didn't look at her, his attention still fixed on the tomb, but she could see a loosening of his shoulders and his face wasn't quite so grim. She had bonded well with all of the hobbits on this journey so far, but she felt a particular friendship and regard for Frodo. Despite the great burden he carried…perhaps because of it? No—she was sure she would have felt this strength of affection even if hadn't been called to bear such evil. There was something about his spirit that called to hers. A likeness. A familiarity. As of family and kinship. She felt more and more that, despite their different races, he would be like a brother to her. And seeing his pain, pained her. While she'd pledged her loyalty to the Fellowship and the quest from the beginning, her troth was now bound by yet a stronger tie of familial love.

Anariel's attention was drawn from these thoughts by the sight of Gimli kneeling silently by the tomb, and her mind once more drifted to the dwarf Balin whom she'd met so many years ago and who had attempted such a daring, if foolhardy, feat of brazen hope—to retake Moria.

As Gandalf read from the barely legible record he'd found, Anariel shivered with a sudden, overwhelming dread. That last stand had been desperate, hopeless. Dark and despairing. All of the comfort she'd gained from that brief moment of sunlight was completely gone now and her heart felt cold.

A large, warm hand landed on her shoulder, and while Anariel knew it wasn't from her favorite source of comfort, she was grateful nonetheless. Boromir squeezed her shoulder firmly and gave her a small smile.

"Stay close, little sister. This chamber has an evil feel about it," he said quietly as Gandalf continued to piece together the last moments of the fearless band of dwarves that had met their end in that very room. Anariel shook her head slightly at Boromir's words.

"I know what you mean, and I will gladly stay by your side, Boromir. But 'little"? Really? You do know that I've got a couple thousand years over you," she answered lightly, belying the weight continuing to press more firmly on her chest with every second they lingered in this chamber.

Boromir smirked a little.

"Who said I was referring to age? You do realize how tiny you are, right?" he said laughing slightly under his breath. He gave her one more nudge and then took a step back.

"Come!" Gandalf said finally. "Let us be going—the morning is already passing."

"Which way shall we go?" Boromir asked, still staying close by Anariel's side.

She felt a rush of warm affection for the too-serious son of Gondor's steward. Who would have thought she'd gain so many brothers on this journey? Valar help the man who finally got up the courage to try to court her! She couldn't help but let her gaze drift at that thought to find a pair of keen grey eyes already looking at her. His face was unreadable once more, as if a gate had closed shut. She sighed a bit in disappointment. Three steps forward, two steps back, it seemed. She tightened her sword belt a bit and adjusted the strap of her quiver on her shoulder as she tuned back in to the conversation.

"We will return to the hall," said Gandalf. "This chamber has not only offered answers to the riddle of Balin's doings in Moria, it has likewise given clarity on our location. This is the Chamber of Mazarbul and so now I am sure of our course—we must go back out through the eastern arch of the hall, and from thence bear right and south, to get down to the level of the gates. Come now! We have lingered long enough."

Till the day she died, Anariel would never forget the sheer terror that followed those words. He had hardly spoken when they all heard the sound that would surely haunt her dreams for years to come.

Drums.

From far below at first, as if leagues under the stone beneath their feet. Distant, a rolling Boom that seemed to cause the rock to tremble. At once, Legolas and Aragorn sprang towards the door back to the hall, Gandalf and Boromir herding the rest of them to follow. But hardly had they taken but a few steps when the drums rolled louder and more rapidly. Doom, doom, rolled towards them from the hall outside, and suddenly there was the sound of horns and cackling and harsh cries and the slapping of feet and the crashing of cruel iron.

Legolas had reached the door first, and he recoiled with a shout.

"They are coming!" he cried. "We cannot go this way."

"We cannot get out, just as Balin and the others," Gimli said grimly, already hefting his ax in his hands.

The drums grew louder as the feet neared. Aragorn joined Legolas at the door.

"We must wedge the doors!" Aragorn shouted. "But keep your packs on and be ready to flee. It may be we can cut our way through."

"But keep the east door ajar!" Gandalf replied. "We must not get shut in, as those who went before."

Boromir gently herded Anariel closer to the hobbits behind Gandalf.

"Anariel," he said firmly. "Ready your blade."

It had been mere seconds since the first rolling drumbeat had reached their ears. But Anariel realized as Boromir spoke to her, that it had seemed like years. Everything seemed dim and distant. Muted. And the world was moving in slow motion—Sam slowly, ever so slowly, hefting his short sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other, standing staunchly in front of Frodo; Merry and Pippin shuffling closer to Gandalf; Legolas and Aragorn wedging beams in front of the door as if they were moving through molasses; Gimli sliding yet another ax from his belt…she knew she was in shock. The terror was paralyzing her, suffocating. She remembered the orcs they'd encountered on her way to Imladris. Galdor and his wide, unseeing eyes, shot through the heart with a cruel, black arrow. That had been a rogue band. Not the raging hoard she could hear getting closer.

Her first true battle.

And she was acting like a fool.

A scared, little rabbit of a fool.

Things were still in slow motion. She glanced at Frodo, and he looked back. She could see her own terror reflected in his wide blue eyes. But his jaw hardened even as she looked at him. He raised Sting, glowing a chill blue at the presence of goblins. And he nodded. Her heart lifted slightly.

And then she looked at Aragorn.

Estel.

It was as if she'd called his name out loud. He turned suddenly, the only thing moving normally. And his eyes were burning with a cold, silver flame. He grimly nodded at her. And she knew that nod. She knew how to read it.

Don't die, it said. Not today. Not like this. You fight and you live and you make it through. That's an order.

It was the nod of a captain to a young, untested soldier. The nod of a man who expected to be obeyed. The nod of a king.

And it gave her hope.

Immediately, everything was moving double speed, as if to catch up from her moment of fear and fumbling. She felt strength and energy flowing through her fingers as she gripped her blade and drew it smoothly from its sheath. She planted her feet firmly shoulder-width apart, sword held in both hands, eyes fixed on the door.

This was not how it would end.

And it wasn't.

The fight was much shorter than she'd expected, in the end. The worst part was the crashing against the door, the waiting with bated breath for the foe to break through. Gandalf had directed most of them across the chamber, closer to the eastern door, through which thankfully no noise of approaching enemies sounded. They still had an escape route available. When the opening of the door grew suddenly wide, the arrows came whistling in thick, but harmlessly. Suddenly, with a blast of a horn, the orcs rushed into the chamber, howling and cackling, their dark, crude swords swinging ruthlessly.

But they did not expect the fierce defense that met them. Legolas' bow was singing. In the hands of Aragorn, Anduril sliced through the orcs' armor with a deadly sort of grace. Boromir, no less deadly though perhaps less graceful, cleaved through orcs right and left, while Gimli plied his ax with skill and determination. All of this Anariel took in on the periphery, as her blade was very quickly called into the fray.

Anariel quickly realized that this fight was very different from the skirmish on the outskirts of Imladris. Here, there was no room for thinking of her technique or any of the maneuvers that Glorfindel had drilled into her time and time again. Here, she was running on pure survival instinct, sometimes slashing wildly just to keep the goblins at bay. Everything was a blur of black blood and snarling and red eyes and death always a hair's breadth away. But now there was no time for the paralyzing fear that had come over her earlier. Now everything was moving at double-speed, with awful clarity, and there was only room in her mind for the next swing of her sword, the next block, the next side-step closer to the hobbits, who were doing their own part valiantly while having sense enough to stay further back and let the "big folk" do most of the fighting.

She saw Sam falter back after he took a glancing blow to the head, and, for the first time, she felt a rush of anger blaze through her. The thought of the gentle gardener being here, in this dark, evil place, fighting for his life far from the peaceful fields and meadows of the Shire, galled her. He shouldn't have to be here. None of them should really. And so she let her frustration at their impossible quest, their impossible situation, fuel her fighting.

A great black orc, towering above the shorter goblins, suddenly leapt in front of her. She quickly moved to raise her sword into a blocking position. She was too slow. She knew it as soon as she twisted her arms. And it might have been a very gruesome end if Legolas' arrow hadn't pierced the orc's skull at that moment. Even so, the dark blade trailed fire across her face even as the evil creature fell. A blow that would have killed her.

She blinked back the blood leaking into her right eye. No time to even register the pain or to wonder how bad the blow was. It was on to the next enemy. She sensed Boromir move closer to her back and felt her stance grow more confident.

There was no end to the slashing and dodging, it seemed. Yet, it really didn't last so very long. Before she knew it, her sword met with empty air, and she was tuned back into her surroundings. There were still some orcs remaining, but they were quickly dispatched by Legolas and Gimli.

Anariel had barely a moment to take a breath and drink in the sudden silence of the chamber before she gasped in surprise as large, warm, callused hands were cupping her face and tilting it upward to look into frantic gray eyes. His thumbs brushed the delicate skin under her eyes, and she shuddered with a sudden burning that swept from the crown of her head to her toes. She didn't even flinch when his fingers moved to the gash on her forehead.

"You are hurt?" he said, breathlessly, as his hands quickly trailed down to her arms and his eyes dropped down to trail over her whole body clinically. At least, it looked mostly clinical. Anariel still felt that fire roaring through her blood wherever his eyes had lingered. She shook her head to clear it.

"I will be fine. Truly… I think," she said, and his hands were gone as quickly as he had appeared in front of her. His eyes shifted away from her face and he looked almost ashamed or guilty. She felt suddenly cold, as if doused in a bucket of water from a cold mountain spring, other than the fire roaring through the side of her face. She didn't want to think of how bad the wound might be. But she could tell it had missed her eye and was not so deep that she was in danger of bleeding out. She would live. For now.

"Now is the time! We must leave before more orcs arrive!" cried Gandalf. It seemed everyone had missed the moment between Aragorn and Anariel, though Anariel caught a brief glimpse of a raised eyebrow from Legolas before she turned towards the east door.

But before they could take more than a few steps towards the door, an enormous orc chieftain wielding a great spear leaped into the chamber. Aragorn whirled around, Anduril a bright flame in his hand. But though the orc was huge, it moved with a speed that belied his size. He blazed past Boromir, shoving him aside with his dark, hide shield and then ducked under Aragorn's strike, and struck with his spear straight at Frodo.

"NO!" Anariel screamed as Frodo was hurled and pinned against the wall. But the orc had no time to revel in his victory. Anduril smote him down, cleaving his head in two with a flash of silver flame, before the orc could even turn away from the fallen hobbit.

"Now!" shouted Gandalf. "We must run for it! Now!"

Aragorn quickly grabbed Frodo, hoisting him over his shoulder as Gandalf ushered them all towards the east door, through which (thankfully) no sound of the enemy could be heard.

As they ran through the door, Anariel felt numb, the reality of what happened to Frodo not quite sinking in. Her emotions were closed off, shut down. And only her mind raced ahead through possibilities. If Frodo was dead, was everything lost? It couldn't be over…the quest couldn't have failed. But who would dare take the ring from Frodo's…corpse? Assuming they could even make it out of the Mines at all. Which of the Fellowship would have the gall, the nerve…she had a sudden image of Aragorn, face stern and hard and unyielding in its commitment to duty, reaching out a hand towards the golden source of all their woes. Isildur's heir. Would he share Isildur's fate? Or would Boromir, fearless son of Gondor that he was, insist on bearing this burden? Could he withstand the temptation if he did? What about Legolas? Which of her brothers in all but blood would be the one to take on such a burden?

All of this flashed through her mind in mere seconds as she followed Merry as they ran through the east doorway. Her eyes fell on Frodo, lying awkwardly across Aragorn's shoulder.

But what if he isn't dead yet?

Anariel almost stumbled at this thought. That spear thrust was surely fatal to the poor, dear hobbit, but what if he wasn't gone yet? If there was any life in Frodo still, then perhaps…just maybe…she could save him.

And she knew it would kill her to do so.

That serious of a wound, the amount of power needed to heal it, her own currently weakened state…it would be her final act in her now-mortal life. But wouldn't it be worth it? Isn't that why she was sent with the Company in the first place? For her gifts and abilities? If it was her fate to spend her life in order to save the Ringbearer and thus save the quest, perhaps even saving Middle Earth…wouldn't it be worth it?

Just as the determination had cemented itself in her mind, the group stumbled to a stop on the stairs below the door to the chamber, waiting as Boromir hauled the eastern doors shut, though he couldn't fasten them from this side. Anariel quickly moved closer to Aragorn, her eyes fixed on Frodo, her mind fixed on what she was about to do.

Then Frodo gasped, his eyes shooting open. Anariel froze in wonder.

"I'm all right," Frodo croaked out. "I can walk. Put me down!"

Aragorn nearly dropped Frodo in surprise.

"But how…I thought surely you must be dead!" Aragorn cried, putting Frodo down gently. Anariel shook herself out of her shock and moved quickly towards Frodo's side. He yet may be gravely injured. But Gandalf interrupted.

"Not dead yet!" Gandalf said. "But now is no time for questions, nor answers either. All of you, hurry down the stairs. Wait for me but a few minutes when you reach the bottom, but if I do not arrive soon, keep on! Aragorn, choose paths leading right and downwards."

Anariel made a sound of protest, even as Aragorn himself voiced her thoughts.

"But we cannot leave you to hold the door on your own!" he said fiercely, as he stepped forward, Anduril a living flame in his hands reflecting the fire in his eyes.

"Do as I say!" Gandalf said fiercely, an even brighter fire in his eye. "Swords are no use here."

The stand-off lasted but a second, the ranger and the wizard, equal in ferocity and determination, the dim light flickering on their faces. And Anariel had a strange, momentary desire to be an artist, that she had the skill to capture that moment in paint or stone. And then she was shocked at the frivolous thought…her head felt…odd. She stepped forward quickly and laid a tentative hand on Aragorn's upper arm, another burst of heat rushing through her at her boldness and the very real, firm feel of him under her hand.

"Aragorn…" she whispered. She didn't know what else she was going to say, but that one word from her lips seemed to break the spell. Aragorn turned from the wizard, his shoulders slightly slumped as if in defeat.

"Come! Let us go quickly now," he said firmly to the others.

And they fled. Groping their way down the long flight of steps in the utter darkness. Frodo was leaning heavily on Sam, and Anariel knew that Boromir was at her elbow, making sure her steps were sure as her head became increasingly fuzzy, her vision starting to swim with odd bright flecks in the blackness of the stairwell.

Suddenly, there was a flash of blinding white light from the top of the stairs, from the direction they had come. The light pierced through Anariel's head with the force of a thousand shards of glass and she cried out, even as there was a rumble and a heavy thud from above, wild drum-beats following immediately and drowning out her cry of pain. At least, drowning it out for some of the group. Legolas appeared at her side even as Gandalf came flying down the steps, gasping as he fell to the ground in the midst of their group.

"Are you well?" Legolas asked softly, as Gandalf struggled to his feet. Legolas reached a hand toward her head, but she flinched back.

"I have to be," was all her reply.

"Go on!" Gandalf said. "We must continue to do without light for a while. Go on! Keep close behind me!"

And they stumbled after him, the doom, doom of the drumbeats hounding their steps, though they now sounded muffled and distant. There was no sound of pursuit. But onward they went, straight on, descending occasionally down sudden flights of fifty or more stairs. And all Anariel could think of, through the red haze that had fallen over her mind, was keeping one foot before the other and ignoring the growing heat pricking her skin, causing beads of sweat to drip down her neck.

Anariel was dimly aware of the cavernous hall they had finally entered—fierce red light shone up through fissures in the floor and flames licked the at the bases of the columns. Dark smoke hung in the air, and through Anariel's own haze she thought that they had surely died and been sent to some infernal underworld. Despair draped over her like a cloak, and even though she forced her feet to continue, one in front of the other, the weariness dragged at her limbs, imploring her to stop.

The drums started again.

Doom, doom, doom. Beyond the shadows at the western edge of the hall, sounds of pursuit finally reached their ears. The harsh cries and chattering sent a wave of icy fear through Anariel's veins. Surviving one skirmish had not granted her new courage. No, it had only made her more aware of how fragile it all was. Death stalked their steps and grew ever closer to its prey.

"Now for the last race!" shouted Gandalf. "If it is day outside, we have a chance. Follow me!"

And away he sped, the rest of the Company hurrying after him. Anariel truly didn't know how much she had left to give towards their escape. And if it hadn't been for Legolas grabbing her arm and guiding her, she may have sat down and given up then.

Rushing feet and cackles filled the air behind them. A sudden yell went up and arrows began whistling overhead. Anariel stumbled and would have fallen as one black shaft struck the stone at her feet if Legolas hadn't steadied her. Boromir let out a triumphant laugh, nearly shocking her with the sound of it in such a place as this.

"They have been cut off by the fire! And thus the quarry is cut off from the prey!" Boromir shouted.

"The Bridge is near," Gandalf cried. "Be wary! It is narrow and dangerous." As they neared the black chasm, Anariel could see the bridge - a slender arc of stone with no railings, narrow enough to only allow one across at a time. To her eyes, it looked like it was swaying back and forth in the darkness. A wave of nausea crashed over her and she shut her eyes.

"Gimli, you lead the way," Gandalf said quickly. "Merry and Pippin next. Hurry now!"

Another flurry of arrows fell among them as they moved forward. Anariel thought she saw one strike Frodo and spring back, but she must have been mistaken. Everything was starting to look distorted and wavery anyway. As they ran, Legolas stopped for a moment to fit an arrow to his bow and send a gift back to the orcs in repayment, but as soon as he turned his bow dropped and the arrow fell to the ground.

"Ai! Ai!" he cried, and Anariel had never heard his voice filled with such terror. She turned as well. And then wished she hadn't.

Anariel knew such creatures existed. She'd talked to Glorfindel, after all. Had heard the legend from the legend himself. But never had she imagined the terror, the horror that descended as the twisted demon of Morgoth, flame and shadow incarnate, leaped across the fissure with flames wreathed about its head, a flaming sword in one hand and a whip of fire in the other.

Anariel managed to tear her gaze from the creature, only to see the same fear and terror on the faces of her companions. Her heart fell like stone.

"A Balrog…" Gandalf muttered. "Now I understand. And I am already weary."

Anariel didn't know what he meant by those words. But she sensed his despair. And she knew in that moment that all hope was lost.

And the Mines, just as they were for Balin, would become their tomb.

Please review and let me know what you think! No Aragorn POV in this chapter - let me know if you miss it or not. I'm thinking I'll start the next chapter with some insight into his thoughts during this episode. Also a bit of a cliffy...sorry/not sorry!