It soon became apparent to Aiedale that the cave troll was the biggest threat in the room.
Orcs were easy enough to deal with. They may come in inexhaustible waves but they weren't Shadowhunters and they certainly weren't fast enough to catch her unawares. Wargs were slightly more challenging but still, if you were used to fighting hell hounds, then they weren't anything out of the ordinary – just smelly and ugly. Cave trolls, however, were a challenge right up the Shadowhunter's alley (perhaps even past it) and she wished that there were a few more Nephilim to give her hand with the monster. Cave trolls, it seemed, were stupid, massive, lumbering giant like creatures and they had incredibly thick skin. By itself none of these less than charming qualities would have proved much of a challenge for her but, all of this combined, made a formidable opponent.
Already the thing had nearly gotten Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippen. It had nearly gotten Gandalf's hat with a swing that the wizard ducked and Boromir had already had an unfortunate encounter with the solid stone wall of the chamber. Arrows didn't make any difference to the lumbering creature and neither did swords. Boromir had already notched his blade in an ill-thought out plan that Aiedale had known was destined for failure before the man even brought down his sword arm. The thing was covered in a dark skin of greenish scales and, while stupid, it was still capable of swinging its giant club at anything that moved.
Dancing out of range of the club (for the thousandth time) she saw Frodo who was engaged in what appeared a rather losing fight with several large orcs. His little sword was practically on fire with blue light and the hobbit, while fighting much better then she thought he could, was not much of a match against two vicious black armored orcs. In a swift motion, Aiedale dived toward him, threw a dagger at one of the orcs, grabbed Frodo's arm and finished off the other in a swift back handed thrust.
Yanking the hobbit out of range of yet another smashing blow from the troll's club that shattered the edge of a column, she pulled him away and towards another piller as shards of stone rained down on them. Out of the corner of her eyes she caught sight of Sam – who had taken up his frying pan in one hand and his Barrow dagger in the other – and the other two young hobbits backed into a corner. They were behind yet another of the columns. Two small throwing daggers and an arrow found themselves embedded in the Orcs who were bearing down on the hobbits. The knives came from Aiedale and the arrow from Legolas who had taken up position above the battle so that he could fire down upon the enemies.
Leaping back into battle, the warrior lost herself once more in the repetitive motion of fighting. Swing. Duck. Slash. Kick. Behead. Punch. The movements came so naturally to her that she didn't even need to think, she saw and she acted. Her mind completely focused on what was before her. Whenever she could, she tried to evade instead of directly combat. It was a special kind of dance that she performed with easy grace. From first glance, one might think she had no fixed destination but she actually did. Her fighting was not aimless; it was not just to kill all the orcs that had the misfortune of standing before her but it had a very purposeful direction that never faltered or wavered no matter the number of enemies that stood in her way.
The Shadowhunter was aiming for the troll.
Like a homing missile zoned in on a target. She was going there and she was going their fast.
She had quickly realized that no weapons possessed by the Fellowship worked on the creature. Frodo had managed to stab it in the foot, but nearly lost his little sword in the process. Gandaf was occupied with orcs and so was Aragorn – their swords might have an effect but they were busy beheading and stabbing orcs. She was loathed to use anything that exploded (like her arrows) lest she bring down the ceiling or enough of the columns that someone ended up squished. Her seraph blades were precious and few, her other knives would, again, be ineffective against the creature. This left her with one last option. It was a weapon that not many knew could be used as a weapon – namely her companions. Any Shadowhunter worth their weight knew quite well just how deadly a weapon it could be and was.
Long ago, back in one of her earliest defense lessons, one of her many teachers had told her about this final resort in a hopeless fight against a monster too large or too difficult to kill by normal means. It was well known that runes burned monsters, Downworlders and mundanes. Too many runes, too early could do the same to a Shadowhunter and that was why training a Nephilim was so exhaustingly thorough. There were times, however, when this burning could be used to a warrior's advantage – such as this one. Of course these situations were desperate and, as her first instructor had told them all very firmly, should be avoided at all costs. However, there was always that one time, that one exception – that one but – and she had just found it. She wondered, as she sent another orc tumbling away, if her old instructor had ever faced a cave troll. Perhaps then he wouldn't have been so adamant against this method of killing.
Waiting until the troll took another swing of his club (this time at Legolas) she jumped, caught the wooden club, and used the momentum of the swing to land lightly on the creature's shoulder. The troll, distracted by her sudden appearance and quite furious about it, tried to snatch at her but she evaded the massive fingers and ducked behind his head. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at having to touch the creature's skin. The smell was rather overpowering – it nearly made her fall off the creature. She had to forcefully turn her attention back to the task at hand and breathe, not through her nose, but through her mouth lest she actually fall off because of the smell. That, she thought, would be so embarrassing and so unprofessional she would never forgive herself.
Aiedale's sudden disappearance from his line of sight made the troll even angrier and it started smashing its club at anything that moved including the screeching orcs. But it also included the terror stricken Frodo, pressed against the pillar as the cave troll circled it. The creature had snatched up a three-pronged spear from the ground, holding it like a toothpick in its massive fingers, and it was trying to stab the little hobbit. Frodo was playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but it could not go on forever. It would end soon and, most likely, no in the hobbit's favor. Aragorn was trying to distract the troll, but he was a fraction too slow and ended up stunned on the opposite side of the chamber after the creature had swept him aside like a dry leaf.
NO!
Aiedale would not let him kill the ring bearer right as she was getting the job done! Her vision went red as adrenalin coursed through her and, yanking out her silver stele, she pressed the end against the back of the troll's scaly neck and slashed the rune for fire across the creature's skin with smooth flicks of her wrist. She could have used any rune, but that one seemed most appropriate. She wanted him to burn.
The effect was immediate.
The beast howled and began to stagger, frantically trying to escape the blazing and burning pain of the rune which glowed with an almost furious light. It could not - of course - escape it and she would have felt sorrier for it if the creature hadn't tried to kill them all. Just as Aiedale went to draw another rune, the toll gave a particularly hard shake. The lurching, sideways motion unbalanced the Shadowhunter and sent her tumbling through empty space until, with a sickening flare of pain, she collided with the floor in a far corner of the room.
She couldn't breathe. All the air had been knocked from her lungs and she could see nothing but stars as her vision went from black to star bursts and then back again. Still firmly gripped in her left hand was her stele and, in her right hand, was her kindjal – in the wild tumble she had managed not to lose either of them. It took every last ounce of discipline and determination she had to draw the single black line across the healing rune and then, feeling utterly spent; she collapsed back against the stone wall as the rune took effect. The agonizing pain that had raced up and down her body at the slight movement robbed her of any will to move and she had to lye still until the pain was gone. The healing rune worked quickly – thankfully. It erased the bruises, knitted broken or cracked bones back together and soothed the pounding ache in her head. She had never felt this bruised and battered…oh wait she had. The last time was when she had fallen two stories from a burning building. Why had that happened? She didn't remember all the details.
As her vision cleared and movement became easier, Aiedale became suddenly aware that the fight had ended. The troll was little more than a charred bit of something close to the door and most of the orcs had been killed or retreated for a second wave of attack. But her rapidly focusing eyes did not linger on these details for long. It focused instead on the gathered group of her companions that all seemed to be kneeling around a limp…
No.
NO. NO. NO! A thousand times! NO!
She was on her feet, moving and there before she quite knew what she was doing. Adrenaline had her heart pumping and blood pounding in her ears. She stared, almost unseeing, at Frodo Baggin's slumped form. Frodo hadn't gotten out of the way of the troll's final jab with the spear. Aragorn had removed it from wall and was now kneeling over the tiny, suddenly terribly fragile body. From the stricken looks on the faces of the gathered companions, she read all she needed to know. All of them stunned, suddenly unable to move or do anything but stare at the limp little ring bearer.
He was dead. There was no way he could be alive after that kind of blow.
Aiedale felt as if she had just been impaled upon the spear herself. Once more she hadn't been fast enough. Another death on her hands, another person she would have to mourn, remember and grieve for another few moments before moving on like she had done so many times before. Onto the next play – remember, honor and go. A deep sense of failure, pain and hopeless anger grew within the young warrior as she thought of how loyal, innocent and brave he was. How could she live with this? She had lived with the death of comrades but they had all been warriors, trained and ready for battle. They had fallen because they were Nephilim or Downworlder – fighting was how they wanted to go.
This was a Hobbit.
A Hobbit of the Shire and she had sworn by the Angel to protect him and his burden. Her oath burned through her, more painful than any physical injury she had ever endured. He was not meant for this kind of death – his should not have been this day and in this place.
She could die here.
She might not like it but she could if only because she was a Shadowhunter. Frodo Baggins was not meant to be here – had never been meant to fall in this place. He was meant for a long, happy life away from death and despair.
As she gazed at the small body, her eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening as she studied the little hobbit. Part of her did not want to, but another refused to give up even the last shreds of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance…she was so used to looking for a heartbeat, a faint rise and fall of a person's chest. Was that it? A sudden surge of hope replaced her despair as she moved even closer, falling to her knees beside the small body. It was there, a subtle – barely there – almost impossible to see, rise and fall to the little hobbit's chest. But her eyes, so well trained to look for those little signs, saw it and recognized it.
"Oh Frodo," she murmured as she stared at him with complete amazement. Her original idea of how tough hobbits were had just been sent to pieces by this remarkable bit of surviving. It was escaping death at its finest. Hobbits it would seem were even tougher then Nephilim.
The little hobbit coughed. He took a long, shuddering breath, wheezing as he tried to recover his breath and pushed himself back up from the place he had been pinned.
"Alive?" whispered Sam in complete amazement as he stared at his master who was quickly regaining his breath once more. The little hobbit had fought bravely; a fire had smoldered in his brown eyes that made Aiedale rather proud of him. But now that fire had left him and been replaced by clear joy to see his dear master alive despite all that had said he should not have been.
"I thought you dead," said Aragorn in astonishment.
Gandalf cut in quickly before anyone could find out just how Frodo had managed to live. "There is time for wonder somewhere else. Come! All of us must leave this place. We must go quickly and choose paths leading right and downwards."
Moving quickly both Aiedale and Legolas gathered their various arrows and knives. The Shadowhunter did her best to ignore the stares that she could feel directed her way. Now that Frodo was alright, the orcs retreated for a few brief moments; they had time to think of how she had fought. They had time to think of the blazing rune which had reduced a fully grown troll to a bit of charred flesh and ashes – runes that she bore with seeming ease. Slipping the knives back into their right places and forcing another breath into her still bruised rib cage, the Shadowhunter tilted her head to look them over. She saw awe, respect and fear in their faces. She saw a faint glow of satisfaction in the wizard's eyes as if her actions that day had only done more to cement some plan in his mind.
Could she ever explain it to them?
Could she ever tell them of the fights and the death?
Maybe one day. Maybe when she actually came to the end of it all and could look back and understand it. Perhaps then she would be able to summarize it, explain the emotions and the people that were woven into the tapestry of her life. But that day might never come and she would not search for it. She lived in the here and the now - they would have to understand on their own. She might very well fall long before she ever got a chance to tell her full story.
C'est la vie.
They ran.
Shadowhunters are not known for running unless the situation is so dire that they must. This was one of those times. Never before, in all her years of fighting, had Aiedale been in such a place and never had she run with such desperation. Below them and around them echoed the drums. The sound haunted their steps and reverberated through their feet. It was a merciless sound that Aiedale found herself hating with all her heart.
The Fellowship fled through the great halls, weaving through the ancient pillars. From the shadows they expected an Orc to leap put or a volley of goblin-arrows. But none came. All that anyone knew for certain was they had to get out and that there would probably be more fighting. Aiedale did not mind that, she was prepared for what would come – mentally and physically she would meet it. But there were others, the Hobbits, who were not prepared and their fear was written across their faces.
And then….
Well it became a 'situation.' That was a word used so rarely by a Shadowhunter that Aiedale could count on one hand the number of times she had ever heard it uttered.
Aiedale had been in a few 'situations' in her time but she had never been surrounded by screeching, chattering enemies who had them entirely surrounded and outnumbered. The orcs streamed in from above, scuttling down ever pillar, darting up from the floor and from the walls. They blanketed every inch of stone with their sheer numbers and, while Aiedale had seen many things, she had never seen a 'situation' quite like this one.
The Orcs jeered and clanged their weapons together as they moved in, holding the Fellowship in a tight circle. They clearly enjoyed tormenting them and Aiedale's gloved hand gripped the hilt of her kindjal even tighter. No one moved. There was a clear two meters between the Fellowship and the enemy, but the distance wasn't going to get any larger. The drums kept going on and on. An Orc took a single step forward, but before anyone could act, something else happened.
The ancient darkness that Aiedale had heard vague rumors about had been awoken. It had heard the noise, felt the shifting earth, smelled the spilled blood and sensed the power. In their desperate fight and flight from the resting chamber of Balin son of Fundin, the Fellowship and their enemies had woken something that should not have been disturbed.
A glow had begun to shine at the distant end of the Hall. Footsteps thudded loudly in the dark of those shadows. A sound began to echo through the room that was more chilling and terrifying than any drumbeat. Flames began to blaze up in the shadows and Aiedale felt dread begin to build within her. She was almost certain that, beside her, Ganadalf stopped breathing for a moment.
"A Balrog," muttered the wizard. "Now I understand." He faltered and leaned heavily on his staff. "What an evil fortune!"
"Durin's Bane," cried Gimli woefully and he would have dropped his axe had not Aiedale steadied his hand with one of her own hands.
The Orcs fled. Their ranks broke and scattered as they ran from this new terror that even they feared. They screeched their fear as they ran and dropped their weapons.
Doom! Doom!
Aiedale stared at the red glow and heard Legolas beside her give a fearful cry. As the others began to hurriedly back away she found herself staring at the fire. There was something mesmerizing about that slowly building red fire glow. And then she saw the angry red eyes in the burning skull of a creature that, while it had the shape of a man, was so inhuman it was grotesque. It burned with a power and terror that the Shadowhunter had seen once before and hoped never to see again. In its left it held a whip of burning flame. Though her face was hot, the rest of her body felt ice cold. Her heart beat swiftly and unsteadily.
"RUN!"
The shout broke the trance and she felt Aragorn grab her arm as he pulled her along. Soon she ran on her own, pushing the hobbits along before her and steadying them whenever they stumbled. Tunnels passed in a blur, staircases practically flew underneath their feet and the air grew hotter and hotter. One arrow, loosed by a retreating orc, bounced off Frodo (how did the hobbit manage it?) and another stuck in Gandalf's wizard hat like a black feather. No one dared look back. They had no moment to spare.
Aiedale fell back and paused for the briefest moments to carve a rune into the wall before she kept running. The tunnel crumbled behind them, and Aiedale hoped that it would buy them some time. Then, suddenly, the tunnel opened up suddenly into another cavern but they had no time to admire the majesty of the room. The second they were out in the open, arrows rained down on them. Apparently the goblins and orcs and whatever the hell else was in this miserable place were back. Aiedale cursed and slipped one of her exploding arrows out and kept running.
Raising her bow she launched the arrow towards one of the ledges on which goblins clustered. The arrow exploded upon impact and made the cavern rock, bodies dropping like stones. She smirked ever so slightly and kept running. At the end of the hall the floor vanished and fell to an unknown depth. The outer door could only be reached by a slender bridge of stone, without rail, that spanned the chasm with one curving spring of fifty feet. It could only be crossed single file. Aiedale noted columns that could be brought down and she paused at the end to carve a few choice runes to try and ward off the Balrog long enough for them to cross. But she doubted the faintly glowing lines would have any effect but to temporarily slow it down. This creature was too powerful. It was too strong for her.
They fled across the bridge. Gimli first and then the hobbits, Legolas, Aragorn and Boromir as arrows rained down on them. Aiedale and Gandalf were last and she was on the bridge, running, but then she heard his footfalls stop behind her. Red light erupted behind and the Balrog roared.
She turned.
And realized something.
This was why Gandalf had wanted her.
The realization hit hard as she stared up at the flaming creature. He knew – somehow – that she had faced a Greater Demon that had been remarkably similar to this 'Balrog of Morgoth.' Had he gambled that, because she had lived, that she could do it again? Why would he lead the Fellowship and the Ring into this danger when there was another route – dangerous – but not as dangerous as this one? Because, what Gandalf probably didn't know, were the specific details surrounding that situation when it had been her, the demon and, most importantly, a couple of highly trained, very experienced Nephilim warriors and, even with all that, they had not really destroyed the demon. You could not destroy a demon like this – beat them back to their dimension but never destroy.
But none of that mattered right then. Because, what it all boiled down to, was she had none of the back-up she had before.
It was her. It was Gandalf. It was them against a creature that could not be harmed by a kindjal or an arrow even if it was exploding. Seraph blades would do little good either. To fight a creature like this you needed daylight and ice. You needed the things that it could not bear, but gave you strength and heart to continue fighting. But daylight was far away and there was no water or ice anywhere to be seen. Her strength seemed to have deserted her as she looked into the flaming creature of shadow.
She gripped her stele and put her bow and kindjal away. A seraph blade found its way into her hand and she looked down at the faint inscription of its name – took comfort from it. Then she looked back up to meet Gandalf's eyes she asked a silent question: How do you want to deal with this?
He just looked at her and she could see no answer in his eyes before he turned away and raised his staff and his sword. Glamdring shone cold and bright and menacing in his hand. She knew, instinctively, that she would most likely die and so would he. It did not scare her but it made her sad for she would die far from those she loved and they would, most likely, never know what had really happened to her. But she steeled her heart and pushed it aside, drawing every last shred of courage and fire from herself. The runes that traced her skin seemed to burn slightly and she found herself, not for the first time, thanking the Angel that at least she had that protection.
The Balrog took a confident step forward, flames leaping as it did so, and brought itself nearly to the edge of the Bridge. Gandalf stood in the middle of the Bridge and Aiedale came to the very edge of it. The rest of the Fellowship was behind her and she could hear Frodo calling the wizard's name desperately.
"You cannot pass," Gandalf said sternly, enunciating each word with a deep rumble. Embers flew from the Balrog and alighted in small fires below. Unearthly wings spread forth from the shadows where there weren't any before. Boned with shadow, they spread to fill the chamber and flames danced along them almost like feathers. A blade created from flames shot out from the Balrog but Gandalf met it with the white flame of Glamdring. The Balrog's blade of fire was shattered, molten fire flying in all directions.
Aiedale began to count, steadying herself so, when the time came, she could act swiftly and decisively. One. Two. Three.
The Barlog took a step forward and Aiedale took one last steadying breath. Gandalf spoke again, louder now and more terrible, but Aiedale was not listening. She was focused on the Balrog and she felt the heat grow even fiercer upon her face. But she did not care anymore. The Balrog cracked its whip and stepped onto the bridge. The stone groaned, and as it took a second step cracks rippled through the rock.
Gandalf slammed his staff against the bridge. "The dark fire with not avail you, flame of Udun. Go back to the Shadow! You shall not pass!" His voice rose and the rumble was heard and felt throughout the cavern. The orcs and goblins were silent. The drumbeats were stilled. The world was suddenly still.
Aiedale cried the name of her seraph blade and felt the white hot power flare through her body as she threw the blade straight towards the center of the creature's face. The blade turned over in the air as the bridge beneath the Balrog began to crumble. The blade hit the creature and it roared at the touch of the icy, flaming dagger of another world. The whip cracked through the air and Aiedale had to duck as it cracked above her head, raining down sparks that burned her. She wondered, right then, if it knew what she was. The creature tumbled into the darkness of the chasm.
"Try again," she whispered into the air. Did the Balrog hear her? She would wonder it later.
Gandalf turned.
Aiedale began to pull back from the very edge of the chasm but she did not take her eyes off the wizard who appeared even older and more drained then before. She too felt drained. Her strength utterly spent and her hands were burned from holding onto the seraph blade. It was strange, but she had never felt a seraph blade burn like that or with such white hot power. Maybe it was something to do with Gandalf or this world, but she had never been so badly burned by one of her own blades. A puzzle for another time and place, she supposed.
Gandalf stepped forward.
Then came the distant sound of a whip cracking, the hiss of flames, and Gandalf was no longer moving forward. He was being dragged backwards. Adrenalin suddenly coursed through Aiedale, weakness and pain forgotten, and she leapt forward to grab at his arms, at his old and frail looking hands. The wizard was being pulled backwards no matter what she tried to do. He was hanging onto her hands but still he was slipping, she was slipping. Pain lanced through her hands and arms, but she did not cry out at the pain or the intensity of it. She just looked into his eyes and heard, from behind her, Frodo scream out:
"No!"
"Fly, you fools!" Hissed the wizard and she kept staring into his eyes. She saw a great deal in those ancient eyes and she suddenly wished that she knew him better so that, if nothing more, she could honor him. In that single moment she saw more then she had thought one could see in a single second. Aiedale knew that the Fellowship was behind her, knew that they were watching in stunned horror as their leader fell.
Keep them safe. He seemed to say. Watch over them. They will need you. You need them. This world needs you. And you need this world. Do you understand?
Oui. Je comprends.
But she understood. She was a Shadowhunter. It came down to that in the end and the wizard knew that she would understand despite the horror, the pain and the fear. She could not stop the tears that sprang to her eyes and traced their way down her blood stained, dirt coated face. Aiedale had not cried for a long time like this, but now had never seemed more appropriate. Her hands burned and she could no longer keep holding on and neither could he. So, as he let go of her hand, she cried out: Hail and Farewell!
It was the only way she could honor him right then. The words springing from her lips and echoing through the air. And then he was gone, tumbling down into empty space after the Balrog. She sat there, numb and alone.
The ground suddenly shifted. The explosions and the power that had been released made everything unstable and, in that single second, Aiedale felt her weary body suddenly over balance. She was too sore, too weak to catch herself. A scream suddenly escaped her and she felt herself tip forward. Sudden fear clouded her mind and the loss was replaced by true fear.
She tried to turn, to catch at anything to break her fall on the wall – her eyes caught sight of her companions above on the ledge by the stairs that led to the door and she saw identical looks of horror on their faces as they realized that they were going to lose both her and Gandalf. And then she felt a hand on her arm. It was Aragorn who had come down without her knowing of it. She looked up into his face and she felt his fingers brush her wrist and then, to her utter horror, the man's hand, made slick with blood, did not catch her fingers. It slid off and his frantic try to snatch at her again was just a fraction of a second too late.
Aiedale was falling. She was out of reach of even the Ranger's long arm and desperate fingers.
"No!" cried the man, but Aiedale had no time to scream or cry out again. She was tumbling into the blackness of the chasm after Gandalf and the Balrog. Aragorn vanished in the shadows in a few brief seconds, his eyes wide and focused on her with an expression of shock and horror. Aiedale hoped he would get the others out safely and that this sacrifice would not be for waste. She did not want her death to be a waste…she hoped it would somehow reach her family and friends back home. Home…she would never see it again now.
Aiedale Darklighter felt nothing but resignation as she tumbled weightlessly through empty air. She had been prepared for this, had been for a long time and she would not falter now. The warrior had always wanted to die bravely and not go to death lying. It was almost funny to her that, out of all the things she could think or say in those moments, she thought of the last words of a mundane by the name of Captain Nelson of the British Navy. It wasn't 'Hail and Farewell' for that was not meant for last words, it was meant for those who honored the fallen. But Nelson's words were simple and they had always appealed to her. Short and sweet. She did want to die lying to herself or to anyone by saying things that weren't true about herself. Nelson had been right and he had said words any fighter could understand: Kiss me quick Hardy.
"Kiss me quick Hardy," she whispered into the whooshing air and darkness of the chasm as she streaked down it and towards whatever death awaited her below. "Kiss me quick…"
Suddenly, with a crack, she hit something with her head and she knew nothing more.
Darkness claimed her.
I cannot promise such regular updates but I had so much fun writing this and I just had to post it. Hope you all enjoy it! Oh and remember: all reviews are appreciated! If you review every chapter or only one or only the exciting ones...it doesn't matter! I love them all!
Also if you are wondering where 'Kiss me quick Hardy' comes from (I know it is random) it is because I visited the museum exhibition for Nelson in London a few years ago and my uncle, who was with us, is mad keen about these sorts of facts as well as boats, sailing and the history of the British empire. It seemed like something a Shadowhunter might say so I included it. Hope no one minds.
Before people go saying I've killed my character: I haven't. But I'm not telling you what is going to happen next ;)
Review Replies:
Regin: I am glad! Hope you like this :)
Ray: haha well I hope one day you watch the movies :) they are very fun! This doesn't really follow the book very much but oh well! Thank you for the review and I hope you like this chapter!
silverhawk88: I hope you see my PM :) and thank you for reviewing! Hope you like this chapter!
Hanane El Mokkadem: Legolas is pretty awesome and I am sure there will be lots of him in later chapters! You are so lucky to have seen the new movie! I haven't been able to yet and its killing me! lol :) yes Aiedale and Gandalf are a bit at odds with each other but that softened a bit at the end of this chapter I think. But I did want to capture that aspect of his personality, he does manipulate situations and Aiedale is not very tolerant of it. And I also wanted to kill Pippen - I am so glad you love this story and thank you for all your support! It is very fun to write it and very encouraging to get feed back! :) SO THANK YOUUUU! I really can't say it enough!
King Roanapur: BALROG! here is your Balrog! Hope you enjoy!
Water vs. Fire: I am glad you like her! Hope you enjoy this chapter and, really, it is such a relief to hear someone say she isn't another 'Mary-Sue.'
Motoko The Red Queen: Thank you ;) hope you like this one.