Author’s Notes: By way of introduction, this fic is a sequel to the story "While the Ring went south…" Reading that particular tale is not completely necessary to understand this one, but there are certain parts that will refer back to it. However, a working knowledge of Tolkien’s books (specifically, The Fellowship of the Ring) should be sufficient. And on that subject, I must stress that this is a book-based fic. I credit Peter Jackson with bringing the tale to the screen in a spectacular cinematic presentation, but I’ve been a fan of the books for most of my life and I must remain loyal to the original source.

This story begins after the defeat on Caradhras and will conclude at the end of the Moria. This comprises the chapters "A Journey in the Dark," and "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm." I might also include Mirrormere from the chapter "Lothlórien," but that’s not yet set in stone.

And by way of warning, to those familiar with "While the Ring went south…" I should tell you that this story will be significantly darker, both figuratively and literally. However, there are still moments of humor planned, because when working with this group of travelers, it simply cannot be avoided. Put together one stubborn dwarf, one arrogant elf, two proud men, four relatively naïve hobbits, and a badgering old wizard, and you have a recipe for disaster. It’s amazing to me that Middle-earth survived. What was Elrond thinking?

Finally, this chapter has a long stretch of dialogue lifted directly from the books. For reference, it can be found on pages 352-355 in Ballantine’s 50^th anniversary paperback edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. And with that, I’ll stop babbling and leave you to enjoy the tale.

January 12, 3019 (Afternoon)

Gimli grimaced and glanced toward the sky, watching as the wheeling black dots—dots that were now overhead rather than below the level of the Fellowship—worked their way into the north. This was not the same group of crebain that Aragorn had pointed out while they were still upon the mountain slopes but rather the fourth group to have been seen since then. The enemy knows we are here, whoever that enemy may be, the dwarf sighed. They know not our exact position, but they know we are here. And the moment they have us cornered, they shall strike.

Unfortunately, the prospect of being cornered was currently all too real. The Fellowship had moved with as much haste as their tired bodies allowed, but they were only now into the jumbled foothills lining the base of Caradhras. It had taken far too long to get off the mountain, and they were essentially pinned with the Redhorn at their backs. If they were attacked now, they had nowhere to go save back into the snowfields. And the hobbits would be unable to endure that.

An irritating little voice somewhere deep in Gimli’s mind put forth the idea that the elf might be able to escape should such a thing happen. After all, he had fared well enough upon the mountain. But this thought was quickly banished. The dwarf knew well that he himself could not go back up the mountain, and Valar forbid that Legolas should prove himself better than Gimli at anything. Perhaps his eyes could see farthest. Perhaps he didn’t sink into the snow as other members of the Fellowship did. Perhaps the cold wasn’t as bothersome to him. Perhaps he was rather impressive with the bow. And perhaps his songs were rather…haunting. But none of this gave the elf any type of advantage when compared with a sturdy descendent of Durin.

By Mahal, exactly whom are you trying to convince with this argument? Gimli demanded of himself. With a shake of his head, he tried to steer his thoughts onto other paths. There were far more pressing concerns than envy for Legolas’s abilities, namely the spies that circled overhead and the choosing of an alternative route now that the Redhorn Gate was closed to them.

As this last thought crossed his mind, Gimli glanced over to Gandalf and Aragorn. He had not missed their private talks, and he had not missed the growing air of unease between the two. He had sensed reluctance from the wizard when it was revealed that they were to attempt the pass over Caradhras, and he had noted Aragorn’s intense relief over this choice. Putting two and two together, Gimli had done some thinking of his own and come to the conclusion that there had been an argument over where to lead the Fellowship. Aragorn had won the first round, but there was clearly a second option. And it was a second option that did not thrill the Ranger.

But what is the nature of this alternative that it should so dismay Aragorn? Gimli wondered, keeping his eyes fixed upon Gandalf and the Ranger as the Fellowship wearily trudged through the foothills, occasionally stopping beneath thick brush if regiments of crebain ventured too near. Aragorn clearly favored Caradhras, yet he knew exactly what dangers the weather might pose. And he convinced Gandalf that such dangers were worth the risk. What does this say for the other road? What dangers does it hold? Our first day in Hollin…I overheard Aragorn speaking to Legolas about dark ways. But what does this mean? What paths yet remain to us? Gimli grimaced and called to mind the mental map he had been making of the area, comparing it to the maps he had studied of the Misty Mountains while yet in Rivendell. There are three known passes, he remembered. The High Pass, the Redhorn Gate, and the Gap of Rohan. Of these, we are going the wrong direction to attempt the High Pass. Moreover, it is beset with Wargs and Orcs. I know that well as my own company used that road to reach Rivendell in the first place. The Redhorn Gate is no longer an option, which leaves the Gap of Rohan. But Gandalf and Aragorn would not take the Ring so near Saruman. And to avoid the passes entirely would take far too long, as that would involve walking down the line of the coasts. What, then, can they be thinking? Where…Khazad-dûm?

Gimli stopped cold in his tracks, forgetting that Sam and Bill were immediately behind him. With a startled cry, the hobbit crashed into the dwarf, causing them both to stagger, which in turn prompted Bill to snort and sidestep into Boromir, who tumbled forward and slammed into Aragorn. Aragorn had enough presence of mind to leap forward and slightly to the side with the hit, thereby missing Gandalf but clipping Legolas, who had moved up from his previous position as rearguard in order to get a better view of the birds. With a surprising amount of grace, the elf transferred his sudden momentum into a spin that turned him completely around twice but did not cause him to fall. Show off, Gimli thought caustically.

"That was…interesting," Pippin offered from the safety of the back of the company where he stood with a bemused Merry and Frodo.

"I trust there was a reason for that?" Legolas asked, his voice sharp as he turned flashing eyes upon Aragorn.

"I was struck from behind," Aragorn answered, glancing over at Boromir.

"Why must I shoulder the blame for our beast of burden and his strange fits?" Boromir demanded.

"It weren’t Bill’s fault, Mr. Boromir," Sam spoke up, his chest puffing out slightly as he prepared to defend the pony’s honor. "He was only reacting to my running into Mr. Gimli here."

"And why did you run into Gimli?" Gandalf asked, his eyes suggesting that he found the entire situation rather amusing. There was a hint of a smile curving the wizard’s cheeks, and Gimli noted that he was keeping his face carefully hidden from the wrathful eyes of Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir.

"He stopped," Sam said simply, turning to Gimli.

Unfortunately, Gimli now realized that he could not place the fault with another, as his companions had. And with every eye in the Fellowship fastened upon the dwarf, he found himself painfully short of an explanation. He wasn’t about to broach the topic of Khazad-dûm, a name that conjured only ill thoughts among races other than dwarves. Mahal only knew what that would do to the tired, terse, and weary company. "I fear my mind was wandering," Gimli said at length. "My apologies, Samwise."

A quiet elven murmur snapped his attention back to the front of the line, and he glowered at Legolas, wondering what had been said. Judging from Aragorn’s dark expression, it was not something pleasant. Gimli debated calling the elf out on his words, but after a moment’s thought, the dwarf decided against such an action. He was tired, the hobbits were tired, the men were tired, the wizard was tired, and if Legolas insisted on antagonizing everyone within the Fellowship, he could do so alone. Gimli wasn’t about to start this again with tempers as short as they were.

"Now then, if we have settled this to everyone’s satisfaction, let us move on," Gandalf said, glancing at the sky. "I see no enemies overhead at the moment, and we would be well-advised to move quickly while we are able."

There were a few weary grumbles from the back of the line where the hobbits walked, but no one contested Gandalf’s words. Before long, they had set out again with the wizard in the lead, guiding them through areas where the brush was dense so that they might have an opportunity to take cover should the crebain press too close. It made for slow going, however, and the exhausted Fellowship tired quickly as they scrambled around boulders and forced their way through underbrush. Even Gimli was finding it difficult to place one foot in front of the other, but he barely noticed this for he was consumed by other thoughts.

Khazad-dûm! Moria! With a slight shake of his head, Gimli turned his eyes back toward the mountains. It had been almost thirty years since Balin led a group of dwarves to the mithril mines with the intention of reclaiming the ancient halls. It had been twenty-five years since the dwarves of Erebor received any word of this group. When the time between messages stretched too long, Dáin had dispatched parties to Khazad-dûm to learn why no news had been sent. But most of these groups never returned. Those that did return were those that had been waylaid along the way and forced back. None had ever reached Khazad-dûm itself. Or if they had, none had lived to tell of it. And after several years of this, Dáin had given up. He could not afford to lose any more dwarves, for evil had begun to stir on his own borders.

Gimli remembered the day of this decision very well. Glóin had pleaded with Dáin to allow just one more party to return to Khazad-dûm, saying that he would lead it himself. The thought that his brother Óin might have perished was almost too much for Gimli’s father. But Dáin would not permit it. Glóin was needed at the Lonely Mountain, for he was skilled in negotiating with the men of Lake-town and Dale. Gimli had offered to go in his father’s stead, feeling a familial obligation for his uncle, but Glóin had flatly refused, saying that he had already lost a brother to the shadows of Khazad-dûm. He would not lose a son.

Yet now it seemed that Gimli might enter Khazad-dûm after all. In spite of himself, the dwarf could not quite keep back a smile. Glóin had been against Gimli’s decision to join the Fellowship. Had he known that the road might lead through Khazad-dûm, he would have strung Gimli up by his beard for even considering the idea of accompanying the Ring-bearer. Still, Gimli had come expect such things from his father. Glóin had lost too much during his life to leave anything to chance, and when it came to his only son, he was unusually protective. Naturally, this only encouraged a streak of rebellion in Gimli, and against his father’s wishes, he had traveled the northern regions of Middle-earth extensively, often accompanying caravans that traveled between the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains. But as adventurous as Gimli was, Moria struck a dark cord in his heart.

Whispers of Durin’s Bane floated through Gimli’s memories, and he shuddered. As a child, every dwarf learned of Durin’s Bane and the ruin that had come to Khazad-dûm. Somewhere in the telling, the identity of Durin’s Bane had been forgotten—if it had even been known to begin with—but the name never failed to send shivers down the spine of any dwarf. It was said that Durin’s Bane was a creature so terrible that it had single-handedly brought about the downfall of the ancient dwarven stronghold. It seemed impossible that this creature had survived for over a thousand years, but having heard no word from Balin and his group for almost twenty-five years…

And yet, what if the roads were merely bad? What if Orcs in the mountains had blocked the paths to Khazad-dûm? What if Óin was still alive and wondering why no word had come to them from Erebor? It was too optimistic a thought to be seriously entertained, yet Gimli’s usually rational mind was somehow drawn to it. A burning desire rose up in his heart to see the mansions of his fathers and search for his missing kin. So many things had gone wrong in the past few years. So many hardships had come, and the threat of war had fallen over Erebor and Dale. All lands east of the Misty Mountains had become dangerous and shadowed, harboring creatures that haunted the night and darkened the day. Was it too much to ask that something good be left in Arda? Or was that, too, a dream of the past? Was hope naught but a vain fantasy that only fools entertained?

"Crebain!"

Legolas’s sudden warning cry managed to jerk Gimli away from his musings, and he hastily reorganized his thoughts. The Fellowship was currently in the center of a large clearing, and they immediately began moving for the trees lining the sides of the meadow. This would be the fifth group of crows to veer toward them since coming down off of Caradhras, and Gimli grimaced at the implications. They were being tracked and the hunters were drawing uncomfortably close.

"Sam! Get that pony out of the open!"

Aragorn’s harsh order snapped Gimli’s attention back toward the clearing, and he froze at what he saw. Bill, apparently tired of periodically galloping into the undergrowth, was refusing to move, firmly resisting Sam’s tugs on his halter as well as the hobbit’s coaxing words. With a quiet oath, Aragorn hastened back to help while Pippin, Merry, and Frodo waited anxiously beside Gandalf, who was watching the Ring-bearer closely should Frodo also decide to lend a hand. Gimli moved to join them in the event that Gandalf might need aid in restraining the hobbits, and together they watched anxiously as Aragorn reached Sam’s side. Gimli saw the Ranger take the pony’s halter and give it a firm pull, all the while whispering words to the stubborn animal. Sam stroked the pony’s neck, adding his own encouragement, but Bill flattened his ears against his head and snorted, stomping one foot defiantly. His attitude was clear to all: he was not going to move.

"Varda’s stars, I wish I could say this surprises me," Boromir grumbled from somewhere behind Gimli, and then he was also hurrying toward the pony. Legolas dropped out of the trees directly in front of Gandalf and joined the man, watching the sky closely as he ran.

"Legolas, how far away are the crows?" Gandalf hissed.

"I cannot see them, only hear them," came the answer. "But they are flying low and closing fast. They will be upon us in moments!"

"Bill’s just too tired, Mr. Gandalf," Sam called, his face one of desperation. "He’s gone through too much already."

By now, Legolas and Boromir had reached the group, and the elf had taken Aragorn’s place at Bill’s head, speaking quietly but urgently to the horse. To the elf’s credit, Bill did appear to be calming under Legolas’s soothing touch, but it was taking too long. Gimli shook his head darkly and turned his eyes to the sky. They did not have time to wait for an elf to finish comforting a finicky pony. They needed a more immediate solution.

Fortunately, Boromir seemed to be of a similar mind. The ring of steel heralded the appearance of his sword as it left his scabbard, and before anyone could even begin to question what he was doing, he brought the flat of the blade down hard across Bill’s hindquarters.

The results were instantaneous.

Bill reared and neighed shrilly, jerking the halter from Legolas’s grasp as he did so, and then he thundered forward. Completely taken by surprise, Legolas was knocked to the ground and only Aragorn’s quick reflexes saved Sam as he caught the hobbit by his pack and yanked him out of the way. Nonplussed, Boromir stared at his companions for a moment before shaking his head and taking control of the situation.

"To the trees!" he ordered, his voice a harsh whisper that carried across the clearing. And suiting words to deeds, he began to run.

Both Aragorn and Legolas looked as though they had choice words for Boromir, but with time almost up, neither gave voice to their thoughts. Legolas rolled to his feet and began to sprint for the safety of the surrounding woods with Aragorn but a step or two behind, keeping pace with Sam. Then Bill crashed into the trees almost on top of Gimli, and the dwarf barely had enough presence of mind to seize his halter and pull him to a stop lest he keep going and they lose him.

"Haste!" Gandalf hissed, his eyes narrowed as they scanned the skies.

Having overtaken Boromir, Legolas reached the trees first and vaulted into the branches, quickly disappearing from sight. Boromir followed soon after and stopped beside Gimli, looking back anxiously as Aragorn and Sam hurried toward cover. A frenzy of elvish suddenly drifted down from the treetops, and Aragorn stiffened before seizing Sam and then making a leaping dive for safety. And as they dove, the first of the crebain swept into view.

Everyone froze.

Gimli’s breath hitched in his throat, and fear crept into his heart. Beside him, Bill shifted nervously, and the dwarf absently gave the pony a soothing pat, never taking his eyes away from the swarm of black birds that filled the sky. They should have been fairly safe, for the trees were thick and the undergrowth dense. Unless the birds knew exactly where to look, they would never be able to see the Fellowship.

But it seemed as though the crows had already seen Aragorn and Sam.

Usually when the flocks of crebain flew by, they did so in almost complete silence. There would be an occasional caw from the leaders as they directed their squadrons, but aside from that and the sound of wings, the birds made no noise. Yet now they were calling excitedly to one another, and even the pattern of their flight was radically different. They spiraled upward directly over the Fellowship, with smaller groups sweeping low now and again while the main column climbed higher and higher. For almost an entire minute they maintained this strange behavior, and then they formed into a single group high overhead. For a second, they paused, almost stopping altogether. Then as one, they turned and flew north, swiftly vanishing from sight.

The land was left in eerie silence.

For a long moment, none of the Fellowship dared to move, seemingly frozen in place by what had happened. After a time, Legolas dropped out of the trees and slowly walked back into the clearing, searching the skies with elven sight. This seemed to be the signal to come out, and one by one, the Fellowship emerged from the trees, clustering together and exchanging grim looks. Sam came over and took Bill from Gimli, but the dwarf barely noticed the hobbit, for he was consumed by dark thoughts. The search was over. The Enemy now knew exactly where the Fellowship was.

The rest of the group appeared to feel likewise. Frodo’s eyes were wide, and one hand was clenched tightly against his breast. Sam was pressed against Bill’s side as though seeking support from the pony. Merry and Pippin had drawn together and were watching the skies suspiciously as if expecting an attack from some unknown assailant. Aragorn’s right hand had come to rest on Andúril’s hilt while his left was positioned near a small belt knife. Boromir was murmuring something beneath his breath and had moved to the center of the clearing so that he might get a better view of the skies. Legolas had his eyes closed and his head cocked to one side while he clasped his bow loosely in one hand. And Gandalf was clutching his staff tightly, his bristling brows together and his lips pursed in thought.

For a moment, they stood thus, unable to speak or act. Boromir ceased his muttering, and with this came a complete cessation of sound. Even the slight wind that had blown for much of the afternoon died away, and the sun no longer shone as brightly over the empty land. Shadows crept over the mountains, and the towering peak of Caradhras seemed to mock them as it loomed high overhead. Doomed, it whispered, its silent voice filled with gleeful malice. Doomed…

It was Gandalf who finally roused the Fellowship, the rustling of his robes sounding uncomfortably loud in the still air. "Come," he said quietly, his dark eyes narrowed into slits as they swept over the countryside. "We have a few hours of daylight left to us. Let us make use of them."

When the shadows of evening grew long upon the ground, the Fellowship stopped for rest at the base of a hill beside a copse of trees where they could take shelter from spying eyes. They were a silent and solemn group, Gandalf’s words having been the last words spoken since the crebain had left them. The areas through which they journeyed seemed to mimic their mood, for they had neither seen nor heard another living creature after the crows had vanished into the north. It was as though the land itself held its breath, and all of Arda felt as though it was waiting for something, though what that something was, none could say.

Keeping his eyes trained upon the empty skies to the north, Legolas lightly fingered his strung bow and tried to draw strength from the power and tension trapped within the wood. The sense of watchful wariness in the air troubled him greatly. Too much it resembled the feel of the stifling forests in Mirkwood’s southern regions where the shadow of Dol Guldur held dominion over all. The agents of Sauron were closing upon the Fellowship quickly. Legolas knew the signs well, having fought a hopeless war against the Enemy’s creatures for centuries. They had been found, and now the true hunters would be unleashed. It was only a matter of time.

Something moved at his side, and Legolas turned sharply, tensing, but he relaxed when he saw Aragorn’s grim face. A sparkle of amusement flickered briefly in Aragorn’s eyes, but then it died, replaced by fear and concern. Under other circumstances, the Ranger might have offered a jest or comment about approaching the elf unawares, but he said nothing now. His attention was focused on other things.

"We were seen," Legolas said shortly, turning away from Aragorn and once again looking to the north.

The entire company seemed to stiffen and draw away. Legolas’s words were the first words that any of them had spoken in hours, and they were the words that none had seemed able to say. But the truth had to be faced, along with truth’s grim consequences. The Enemy now knew where they were. There was no escaping this fact.

"We do not know that for certain," Aragorn answered quietly. "Perhaps we reached cover in time. The crebain were moving quickly. Perhaps they did not see us."

I stand corrected. It seems that there is a way of escaping reality, Legolas thought, somewhat taken aback by the unfounded optimism. I would not expect this of you, Aragorn. Even for you, this is far too hopeful. What do you fear?

"If you believe we went unseen, then you are a fool," Boromir broke in tersely. Aragorn stiffened at this, but the son of Gondor did not seem to notice and continued. "Did you note the birds’ behavior? They found their quarry and then they left to report it. We have been marked."

Eyes flashing, Aragorn started to respond, but Gandalf chose that moment to enter the conversation, his voice low but commanding. "Peace, all of you. Boromir and Legolas are correct. We were seen. You know this, Aragorn, and you know what it means. We must vanish from sight. We must use darkness to our advantage and disappear for a time."

"Nothing is certain, Gandalf," Aragorn answered coolly. "And who knows but what the darkness will bring greater danger."

"The likelihood of being caught upon the slopes is too great to remain here. Surely your Ranger’s training tells you that much."

"Indeed," Aragorn said, his eyes flashing. "And it also tells me about taking on unnecessary danger."

Gandalf said nothing in response and favored Aragorn with a vicious glare, which was skillfully returned by the Ranger, who had learned the art of glaring from Elrond. Caught between the two, Legolas suddenly felt as though he was standing in front of a row of targets on an archery range. The elf wondered if there was a discreet method of slipping away and taking the rest of the Fellowship with him while Aragorn and Gandalf discussed whatever it was that had come between them.

He was on the verge of taking them all up into the copse of trees—with the exception of the dwarf who could probably fend for himself on the ground—when Gandalf suddenly stepped back, releasing the Ranger from his gaze. "Sam, why don’t you see about making us something to eat," the wizard said quietly. "I do not believe I need to warn you against the use of a fire. In the meantime, I shall pass around the flask of miruvor. I believe we could all use some. The day has been long."

The night was also long, Legolas thought grimly, his eyes flickering briefly over the hobbits. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had stepped up to aid Sam in dinner preparations—or breakfast-supper preparations, depending upon who was asked—but it was clear that they all wished to simply sit down and rest. They were exhausted, and their eyes spoke of great weariness. Whatever vanishing trick Gandalf intends, it will have to wait until morning. They do not look as though they could move another step.

"Legolas?"

Legolas turned toward Aragorn, who was holding out the flask of miruvor. With a grateful smile and a nod, Legolas took the flask and drank sparingly, relishing the feel of the sweet cordial as it trickled down his throat. Energy and strength seemed to return to him, and he felt the peace of Rivendell seep into his heart. Renewed in body and mind, he turned and handed the flask to Boromir, who took a quick sip before passing it to Gimli. The dwarf received it with some reluctance, but he did drink and then moved to see if the hobbits wanted any.

"Surprised that he is still on his feet? Or surprised that he accepts an elvish drink?"

Legolas scowled and sent Aragorn a dark glare. "My thoughts are my own."

"Has he not earned your respect? He has been through much."

"As have the hobbits," Legolas answered. "But they would not be my first choice of defense were we to come across a host of Orcs."

"He is willing to overlook the quarrel between your races in order to partake of a sustaining drink," Aragorn pointed out.

"He would be foolish to refuse such help."

Aragorn sighed. "There is great worth in the race of dwarves. Can you not open your eyes and see it?"

"My eyes are open, and I see much. But worth in the race of dwarves?" Legolas shook his head. "They are good for metal and mining. They are not trustworthy companions. The sight of gold and the tempt of wealth turns them against any who might stand in their way."

"The same could be said of elves and certain jewels," Aragorn murmured.

Legolas stiffened, his eyes filling with rage at the thought that the Ranger had dared to mention the kinslaying. "If I understand you correctly, then you tread very dangerous ground, heir of Isildur."

"Perhaps, but so do we all," Aragorn said evenly. "There are faults in every race, Legolas, but if we are to face our common foe, it would behoove us to do so together. United. Especially when we tread dangerous ground."

His gray eyes darkening to the color of storm clouds, Legolas began to reply, but a small figure suddenly appeared between the Ranger and the elf, stopping any further discussion. "Here is some of that dried fruit we’ve been saving," Pippin announced, holing up his hands. "And there are some nuts mixed in with it as well as some dried meat. It’s not much, but—"

"It is more than adequate," Aragorn interrupted, sending the elf one last measuring look before seeming to dismiss the matter and turning his focus upon the hobbit instead. "You have my thanks."

"Oh, you’re welcome, of course," Pippin answered. He stopped, his brow furrowing in thought. "This is more than adequate? How much would be adequate, Strider? Because if you weren’t planning on finishing it, I know of somewhere it could go."

"Of that I have no doubt," the Ranger said with a quiet laugh, taking the mixture from Pippin. "Nevertheless, I think that Legolas and I will manage."

"If you’re certain…" Pippin said, pausing in the event that either one might change his mind.

"We are," Legolas sighed, not having the heart for such games and jests. Setting his bow beside him, he took his rations from Aragorn and stepped away, resuming his watch. So far, nothing had threatened them, but then, the crebain had only found them a few hours ago. It would take time for anything to move quickly in this wilderness. But with their location narrowed down and the hobbits dragging their weary feet, once their enemies did arrive, they would find them quickly.

Time dragged by and the Fellowship fell into an uneasy silence as they ate their servings of breakfast-supper. Nothing stirred in the world around them, and it was as though they were alone in the wilderness. Finishing his meal, Legolas brushed his hands off on his tunic and shouldered his bow, eyeing the land. He wanted to scout the area, but they were now in a rocky region with very little in the way of cover. It would be difficult to move and remain unnoticed. He would have to dart from one section of trees to another, and such movements could easily be seen from afar.

"A moment, Legolas," Gandalf called quietly. The elf paused and turned around, his eyes questioning. "A moment," the wizard continued. "There are things we must discuss."

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Aragorn stiffen, and he wondered what this might mean. Were they about to continue the argument that had previously been restricted to Gandalf and the Ranger? It would make sense, as they were now at something of a crossroads and the argument seemed to be about which path the Fellowship would choose.

"Well, let us hear it," Gimli grumbled, his eyes watching the wizard closely as though he knew or guessed something. "Unless I miss my guess, information has been kept from many of us. I think it best if that information was now shared."

"Indeed, Master Dwarf, there are many things that have been kept from you for your own safety and for your own good," Gandalf replied, his tone somewhat sharp. "But as for these matters…" He trailed off and frowned, his face growing solemn. "We cannot, of course, go on again tonight. The attack on the Redhorn Gate has tired us out, and we must rest here for a while."

"And then where are we to go?" Frodo asked, voicing the question that had immediately sprung to Legolas’s mind.

Gandalf seemed to hesitate, as though considering how to word what needed to be said. "We still have our journey and our errand before us," he said at length. "We have no choice but to go on, or to return to Rivendell."

Legolas’s eyes narrowed and he studied the wizard closely. He recognized this tactic, for it was a favorite of his father’s. Gandalf was deliberately setting the choices up so that the Fellowship was forced to agree with whatever it was that the wizard had in mind. Going back was not an option. The hobbits were looking rather hopeful at the prospect, but Legolas knew well that time was running out for all of Middle-earth. If they went back now, they would never get another chance.

"I wish I was back there," Frodo said slowly, his eyes downcast. "But how can I return without shame—unless there is indeed no other way, and we are already defeated?"

"You are right, Frodo," Gandalf agreed, his voice grave. "To go back is to admit defeat, and face worse defeat to come. If we go back now, then the Ring must remain there: we shall not be able to set out again. Then sooner or later Rivendell will be besieged, and after a brief and bitter time it will be destroyed. The Ringwraiths are deadly enemies, but they are only shadows yet of the power and terror they would possess if the Ruling Ring was on their master’s hand again."

Frodo sighed. "Then we must go on, if there is a way."

And since he has committed the Ring-bearer, he has committed all of us, Legolas thought with a slight grimace. My father would be proud. It was skillfully done. But why did Gandalf see the need to maneuver us so? What is it that he and Aragorn both fear?

"There is a way that we may attempt," the wizard said quietly. "I thought from the beginning, when I first considered this journey, that we should try it. But it is not a pleasant way, and I have not spoken of it to the Company before. Aragorn was against it, until the pass over the mountains had at least been tried."

"If it is a worse road than the Redhorn Gate, then it must be evil indeed," Merry said, his brow furrowed and his eyes concerned. "But you had better tell us about it, and let us know the worst at once."

Now we come to it, Legolas realized. Now the time for secrets has passed and we will hear the name of this darker road. Steeling himself, he folded his arms across his chest and waited for the revelation. But he was completely unprepared for what the wizard said.

Looking into the faces of each one of the Fellowship, Gandalf grasped his staff and rose to his full height. "The road that I speak of leads to the Mines of Moria."

Legolas felt as though an Orc had just punched him in the stomach while wearing a metal glove. His heart sank somewhere into the pit of his stomach and his eyes grew wide. Moria? It could not be! Surely they were not so desperate as to walk into such a place. Legolas had not yet been conceived when the realm of the dwarves fell, but he had heard the stories. While growing up, his brothers had taken turns frightening him at night by regaling him with the horrific rumors of what had happened, spinning tales of an unspeakable slaughter and a creature of darkness that had haunted his dreams for years until Thranduil discovered what was happening and put a stop to the stories. But even afterwards, Legolas could never quite shake his fear of dark places, and even the more confining areas of his father’s halls had managed to induce claustrophobic reactions. Now to be faced with his childhood fear…

"The road may lead to Moria," Aragorn said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them, "but how can we hope that it will lead through Moria?"

"It is a name of ill omen," Boromir warned, his voice dark. "Nor do I see the need to go there. If we cannot cross the mountains, let us journey southwards until we come to the Gap of Rohan where men are friendly to my people, taking the road that I followed on my way hither." He now looked around as he spoke, almost as though he was beseeching the rest of the Fellowship for aid. "Or we might pass by and cross the Isen into Langstrand and Lebennin," he continued, "and so come to Gondor from regions nigh to the sea."

"Things have changed since you came north, Boromir," Gandalf answered, his voice cool. "Did you not hear what I told you of Saruman? With him I may have business of my own ere all is over. But the Ring must not come near Isengard, if that can by any means be prevented. The Gap of Rohan is closed to us while we go with the Bearer. As for the longer road: we cannot afford the time. We might spend a year in such a journey, and we should pass through many lands that are empty and harbourless. Yet they would not be safe. The watchful eyes both of Saruman and of the Enemy are on them. When you came north, Boromir, you were in the Enemy’s eyes only one stray wanderer from the South and a matter of small concern to him: his mind was busy with the pursuit of the Ring. But you return now as a member of the Ring’s Company, and you are in peril as long as you remain with us. The danger will increase with every league that we go on south under the naked sky. Since our attempt on the mountain-pass, our plight has become more desperate, I fear." The wizard shook his head, glanced to the north, and then turned piercing eyes upon Aragorn. "I see now little hope if do not soon vanish from sight for a while and cover our trail. Therefore I advise that we should go neither over the mountains nor round them, but under them. That is a road at any rate that the Enemy will least expect us to take."

"We do not know what he expects!" Boromir exclaimed. "He may watch all roads, likely and unlikely. In that case to enter Moria would be to walk into a trap, hardly better than knocking at the gates of the Dark Tower itself! The name of Moria is black."

"You speak of what you do not know when you liken Moria to the stronghold of Sauron," Gandalf warned, and his eyes were hard. "I alone of you have ever been in the dungeons of the Dark Lord, and only in his lesser and older dwelling in Dol Guldur. Those who pass the gates of Barad-dûr do not return." He was silent for a moment, a shadow passing across his face, but then he seemed to shake himself and continued. "I would not lead you into Moria if there were no hope of coming out again. If there are Orcs there, it may prove ill for us, that is true. But most of the Orcs of the Misty Mountains were scattered or destroyed in the Battle of Five Armies. The Eagles report that Orcs are gathering again from afar, but there is a hope that Moria is still free." Gandalf now turned his eyes upon Gimli, and Legolas frowned to see that the dwarf’s face had a touch of excitement in it. "There is even a chance that dwarves are there, and that in some deep hall of his fathers, Balin, son of Fundin, may be found," Gandalf said quietly before turning back to the group. "However it may prove, one must tread the path that need chooses."

Legolas was now feeling slightly ill, a feeling that he did not appreciate in the least. It all made a kind of horrible sense, yet that did not meant it was any easier to accept. What Gandalf said was true. The Orcs were primarily confined to the High Pass and other northern regions. There were no reports of the creatures roaming so far south. It was also possible that dwarves might be found within Moria—though this was not much of an improvement over Orcs in Legolas’s mind. And yet…Moria! The Black Pit. Dread seized the elf and he shivered slightly. He’d been present and attentive at the Council of Elrond. He’d listened to Glóin’s report. There had been no word of dwarves in Moria for nearly twenty-five years. What hope was there that they still survived? And if they had indeed perished, was it not likely that the thing responsible for their demise still walked their hallowed halls?

"I will tread the path with you, Gandalf," Gimli announced, shattering Legolas’s thoughts. "I will go and look on the halls of Durin, whatever may wait there—if you can find the doors that are shut."

"Good, Gimli. You encourage me," Gandalf said, something of a smile stealing over his face. "We will seek the hidden doors together. And we will come through. In the ruins of the dwarves, a dwarf’s head will be less easy to bewilder than elves or men or hobbits. Yet it will not be the first time that I have been to Moria. I sought there long for Thrain, son of Thror, after he was lost. I passed through, and I came out again alive."

"I, too, one passed the Dimrill Gate," Aragorn said darkly, his eyes shadowed as though trapped by some foul memory. "But though I came out again, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time."

"And I don’t wish to enter it even once," Pippin piped up.

"Nor me," Sam added.

"Of course not!" Gandalf said, his voice now tinged with a touch of exasperation. "Who would? But the question is, who will follow me if I lead you there?"

"I will!" Gimli promised, and Legolas wondered if now might not be a good time to loose an arrow in the general direction of a certain dwarf.

"I will," Aragorn said slowly, his voice heavy. "You followed my lead to disaster in the snow and have said no word of blame. I will follow your lead now—if this last warning does not move you." He drew himself up and faced the wizard directly, his eyes flashing. "It is not the Ring, nor of us others that I am thinking now, but of you, Gandalf. And I say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware!"

A shiver seemed to go through the Fellowship, and Legolas’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. The sound of conviction in Aragorn’s voice frightened him as very few things could, and a shadow of foreboding came upon him. Legolas was not an elf gifted with foresight, but from time to time, he would occasionally feel a hint or a glimmer of things to come. The impressions from these rare instances were never explicit or detailed, but they sometimes aided him in staying alert when otherwise he might have been more careless. Legolas was receiving one of these feelings now, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Aragorn was right. Whatever the Ranger had seen with his foresight, it was deadly. And Gandalf bore the brunt of the danger.

"I will not go," Boromir declared, his eyes flashing. "Not unless the vote of the whole company is against me. What do Legolas and the little folk say?" The man glanced at the elf and then looked to the hobbits, his gaze focusing upon Merry and Frodo, who had yet to speak. "The Ringbearer’s voice surely should be heard!"

Legolas sighed as the eyes of the Fellowship drifted between himself and the hobbits. "I do not wish to go to Moria," he murmured, sending Gandalf an apologetic look. It was perhaps the first time in his life that he had denied the wizard’s counsel.

"I do not wish to go," Frodo spoke up, "but neither do I wish to refuse the advice of Gandalf." Legolas cringed slightly at this but said nothing as the hobbit continued. "I beg that there should be no vote until we have slept on it. Gandalf will get votes easier in the light of the morning than in this cold gloom. How the wind howls!"

Silence fell at Frodo’s words, and Legolas sighed quietly. He did not wish to go to Moria, yet what choice did they have? It had already been decided that the Ring could not return to Rivendell. All other options had been eliminated. The only choice left to them was to attempt the road through Moria. Yet Boromir was right when he compared Moria with a trap. Once they entered, there would be no turning back. And if they could not reach the other side, they would be caught. That prospect by itself frightened Legolas almost as much as the stories of Moria had. He did not like to be caged, and the very thought of becoming trapped beneath the mountains was sending his mind into a panic.

In an attempt to calm himself, he focused his senses on the surrounding world, looking for the soothing whisper of the wind in the treetops. He did indeed hear the wind, for it was beginning to pick up as evening drew nigh, but it was not whispering. Rather, it was moaning, and Frodo’s description of a howling wind was becoming quite accurate as it started to wind its way through rocks and canyons. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like…

Legolas froze, his eyes going wide. It could not be possible, and yet there was no other explanation. Whirling about, he turned to Aragorn and saw the growing look of fear upon the man’s face. "How the wind howls!" the Ranger swore. "It is howling with wolf-voices. The Wargs have come west of the mountains!"

And everything fell into place. The two Wargs they had first encountered had been scouts. Forerunners for the main pack. When they had failed to report back, other spies were sent. There was that area of darkness they had journeyed into in order to avoid the swamp. They had been watched. Legolas had felt it. But the main body of Wargs had been too far away to respond to evil’s cries, and so the crebain had been sent. And now that the Wargs were almost upon them, they could pursue the Fellowship on their own, following the trail by scent.

"Need we wait until morning then?" Gandalf demanded as the Fellowship grouped together, watching the shadows closely as the sun sank below the horizon. "It is as I said. The hunt is up! Even if we live to see the dawn, who now will wish to journey south by night with the wild wolves on his trail?"

"How far away is Moria?" Boromir asked, his voice filled with reluctance.

"There was a door southwest of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies and maybe twenty as the wolf runs."

"Then let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow, if we can," Boromir said. "The wolf that one hears is worse than the Orc that one fears."

"True, but where the Warg howls, there also the Orc prowls," Aragorn answered grimly as he loosened Andúril in its sheath.

Legolas blinked and shot a bemused glance at Aragorn and Boromir. He had thought that Mirkwood was the only realm desperate enough to create children’s rhymes that offered advice for confronting the enemy. Apparently, the situation in Gondor was just as dire, and it seemed that Rivendell had also been affected by the growing darkness of the Misty Mountains.

"How far away are they?" Gandalf asked, his eyes falling upon both Legolas and Aragorn.

"Even had we the strength to move, we could not hope to outrun them," Legolas answered, closing his eyes and listening to the howls. "They have caught our scent, and already they sing of our destruction. They will be here ere midnight."

"It is not a large pack," Aragorn added, his brow furrowed in concentration. "But neither is it a small one. We will be hard-pressed to hold them at bay." He listened a moment more and then grimaced before turning toward Gandalf, his face grim. "They are also hungry."

"And so their attack shall be all the more terrible," the wizard murmured with a sigh. He looked around and then glanced up at the hill beside them. "We shall take shelter there," he decided, nodding toward a clump of trees at the top of the hill. "I see a ring of stones that might provide us with defense. And we shall light a fire, as well. Secrecy seems a moot point at the moment."

Moving quickly, they gathered their baggage together and hastened up the hill. The song of the wolves was now clear to every member of the Fellowship, and Legolas soon had to take Bill from Sam, for the pony was becoming skittish.

"I wish I had taken Elrond’s advice," Pippin murmured as he marched next to the elf. "I am no good after all. There is not enough of the breed of Bandobras the Bullroarer in me. These howls freeze my blood. I don’t ever remember feeling so wretched."

"My heart’s right down in my toes, Mr. Pippin," Sam answered. "But we aren’t eaten yet, and there are some stout folk here with us. Whatever may be in store for old Gandalf, I’ll wager it isn’t a wolf’s belly."

I pray you are correct, Samwise, Legolas thought, gazing out across the darkening land. It may well take the powers of a wizard to see us through this night. One bow, one axe, three swords, and four hobbit knives cannot hope to deter the wrath of a Warg pack. And as he concluded this grim thought, the sun plunged completely below the horizon, and the eerie call of the wolves sounded loud from the north as the wind began to fly in earnest.

January 12, 3019 (Night)

Eerie howls rose and fell upon the wind as it blew down from northern lands. A sharp chill in the air had caused everyone—with the rather exasperating exception of a certain elf—to wrap themselves securely in thick cloaks and blankets. Since secrecy had become something of a moot point now that wolves had their scent, Gimli and Boromir had started a fire, giving it a broad base so that all might easily gather around it and use it as a defense against the coming Wargs. The company’s other natural defense was a ring of stones set around the hilltop. These rocks would prevent the wolves from forming a tight circle when they advanced, and the circle would be further broken by the scattered trees. These things were meager wards that would neither intimidate nor slow the fell beasts for long, but considering the Fellowship’s dearth of both numbers and experience, additional protection of any kind was helpful. And judging from the way that most of the Fellowship bunched closely around the dancing flames, everyone was keenly aware of this.

In a twisted sense, it was almost funny. Should another traveler pass by and gaze upon the unlikely collection of beings that made up Middle-earth’s last hope, he might have made the mistake of assuming them all to be friends. There was no sign of the contention that had possessed the group only a short time ago when they sat at the base of the hill and argued the merits of traveling through Moria. The threat of danger had broken down the barriers between individuals, and they almost moved as a cohesive unit. A team. A fellowship. For once, there was nothing in the way of bickering between elf and dwarf. There were no subtle displays of power on the part of Aragorn and Boromir. Even the hobbits said naught about the food or the misuse of the word shelter. There was no further dissent from anyone about the decision to take the darker road should they survive the night. In the midst of turmoil and fear, a singular moment of unity had come to the Fellowship. Thus, the impending arrival of the wolves could almost be seen as a rather perverse blessing.

And if I seriously believe that, then I have been spending far too much time among the Rohirrim, Gandalf told himself with a shake of his head. For only they have the ability to take such a fell situation and find some skewed form of fatalistic pleasure. Still, it was unlikely that the circumstances were going to change within the next few hours, and Gandalf felt that he might as well be somewhat optimistic about their chances. After all, the wizard mused, fortune sometimes surprises us. Things have been known to work themselves out for the best. Perhaps I should be more trusting of fate.

Unfortunately, the idea to trust fate was identical to the counsel that Radagast had once given to a frustrated Thranduil, and Mirkwood’s present condition revealed just how well that tidbit of advice had worked. Baring intervention from the Valar, the elves of Mirkwood would not last another century. The Fellowship’s current situation—while certainly diminished in scale from the problems of Thranduil’s kingdom—was similar. They would not live to see the light of morning unless extraordinary means were taken.

It would seem, then, that trusting fate is not a possibility, Gandalf sighed, rubbing his temples. Well, if I cannot trust fate, I shall have to trust something else. However, the remaining options as I see them are my own powers and the Fellowship. The former is a given, but the latter…I believe the latter to be cause for concern.

Two days before the Fellowship left Rivendell, Erestor had succumbed to a moment of exasperation and pointed out that only half of the company had seen an actual battle. Aragorn had reminded the counselor that the hobbits had survived an encounter with the Nazgûl on Weathertop, to which Erestor had retorted that this brief meeting hardly qualified the hobbits as war veterans. One quip led to another, and eventually a heated debate erupted about the merits of military prowess within the Fellowship. In the end, Elladan and Elrohir had been forced to restrain their enraged foster brother when Erestor questioned Aragorn’s wisdom in taking Andúril along because the blade had not been tested in battle since its reforging. At that point, Elrond had evicted all of the debate’s participants from the Hall of Fire and warned them that if they continued their discussion they would find themselves translating the library’s massive scroll collection into Entish. The threat had worked and the argument dropped, but Erestor’s point had been a valid one. The Fellowship severely lacked military experience. This would be an interesting night, to say the least.

It was made all the more interesting given the fact that nearly the entire company was exhausted from their ordeal on Caradhras. They had gone without sleep now for one night and one day while enduring cold, snow, mountain trails, and fear of discovery. The hobbits were clearly ready to drop, and they were all yawning widely as they sat beside the fire. Bill the pony trembled and shook with every howl born to them on the northern wind, but his head was low and his ears drooped as the look of fear in his eyes competed with the desire for sleep. The other members of the Fellowship tried to mask their weariness, but even a casual observer could see that all was not well. Gimli was so close to the fire that he risked igniting his beard, and he would periodically wave one hand over the outer coals as though trying to keep his mind alert through the use of discomfort. Boromir had taken to pacing around the flames, which was not entirely unusual for him except that he ordinarily didn’t compulsively draw and sheathe his sword while doing it. Aragorn had removed himself from the rest of the Fellowship and stood near some of the large stones that ringed the top of this hill. Andúril was in his hands and he twirled it about from time to time, assuming battle stances that required both concentration and balance. The only member of the Fellowship who did not seem tired at first glance was Legolas, but even he was not immune. He would stand silent and still for several minutes, watching the dark sky and listening to the howls of the wolves. Then he would blink, shake his head slightly, change locations, and start all over again.

This will never do, Gandalf thought grimly. By the time the Wargs reach us, we will have worn ourselves so thin that there will be nothing left for them. Sighing, he raised one hand, caught Aragorn’s attention, and beckoned the Ranger toward the fire.

Sensing that an announcement of some kind was forthcoming, Boromir and Legolas both stopped their wanderings and moved toward the wizard. Gimli and the hobbits joined them with the exception of Sam, who was refusing to stray far from where Bill was staked next to the fire. But as he was well within hearing distance, Gandalf did not insist that he leave the pony. "How far away are the wolves, Legolas?" the wizard asked.

"Three hours, maybe," the elf said, his brow furrowing in concentration as he listened to the howls that echoed off the mountains. "Perhaps four. It is difficult to be certain, for the wind seems to be playing tricks. But judging from what I can hear, I am reasonably confident that we will not see the main pack for several hours at least."

"But they may have sent silent runners ahead of them," Aragorn said darkly. "We will be unable to hide, if that is what you intend."

"Nay, hiding will do us no good," Gandalf agreed. "Rather, I had survival in mind. And not only for tonight but for tomorrow, also. If we yet live when the sun rises in the morning, we will need to move with great haste. We cannot do that if we stumble and fall along the way."

Silence met his words, and though the hobbits seemed confused, the other members of the Fellowship quickly grasped the wizard’s meaning. "You cannot possibly expect us to sleep this night," Gimli said with a shake of his head.

"It would be a wise course of action," Boromir murmured, surprising Gandalf with his support. "Even during the darkest nights on the eastern shores of the Anduin, the men in the patrols were required to sleep. If the wolves are still hours away, we must take what rest we are afforded. We will then be better prepared to meet them. But I would advocate no less than a double watch."

"We can afford no more than a double watch," Aragorn said quietly. "We have not the numbers for it."

"Excuse me," Pippin said, raising his voice so as to be heard. "But if I understand you correctly, you’re saying we should go to sleep with those howls in our ears and the knowledge that at some point during the night we’ll have to wake up and fight for our lives. Am I wrong or is that what’s really being suggested?"

"That is indeed my counsel," Gandalf answered, frowning at the hobbit even as he pushed back a twinge of irritation. "The last time any of us slept was yesterday afternoon. Since then, we have climbed steep switchbacks, endured a fierce winter storm, forged our own path through the snow, retreated down those same switchbacks, and then hastened our steps in an effort to find some semblance of cover. We are wearied and we need rest. All of us," he added with a glance toward the elf and the dwarf, both of whom looked as though they strongly objected to the idea of sleeping this night. Would that they could come to an agreement on other things.

"I don’t think I can sleep through this," Merry said as the wind gusted strongly in from the north, bringing with it a loud chorus of howls

"I know I can’t," Sam added from his place next to Bill. Frodo did not speak, but he also looked dubious about the possibility of sleeping.

"You will have to," Boromir said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Sleep must be sought whenever possible, and if we are granted a few hours respite, we must take advantage of such a gift."

"Gift?" Sam echoed.

"I will agree that sleep is needful, but surely we cannot let all here rest," Legolas said, breaking in before Sam could start a denotation debate. "There are some of us who are intimately acquainted with the hounds of the Enemy. We know their feel and we know their hunting patterns."

"Which is why you will be taking the second watch," Gandalf answered. "For by your own reckoning, that is when the wolves will be upon us."

"Mithrandir, as an elf—"

"You were not unduly troubled by the snow, and you are able to go longer without sleep," Gandalf finished for Legolas. "But we will have need of your eyes and ears later in the journey. For now, you are afforded a chance to rest and I would see you take it. I do not know when another opportunity will present itself."

"But Legolas raises a good point," Aragorn said, pulling his cloak around him as the northern wind suddenly increased in strength. "Only three of us have extensive experience with Wargs, either as hunters or as prey. If you insist that we sleep, then we should divide the night into three watches rather than four."

"If we do that, we shall have numbers enough for a triple guard rather than a double," Boromir added with a rather unreadable glance at the Ranger.

"Your counsel is prudent," Gandalf said slowly, "but I believe rest to be of greater importance. Shorter watches mean more hours spent sleeping, and that is of priority given the fact that sometime during one of these watches, the Wargs shall arrive."

"I believe we’re all forgetting something," Frodo spoke up. "These arguments are well and good, but they’re pointless because of what Merry said. It will be difficult for us to sleep when we know danger is only hours away. And it’s fine enough for you, Boromir, to tell us that we must seek rest, but we haven’t fought the enemy like you have. We haven’t learned to sleep under conditions like this."

"You have had two weeks to practice, and that is without considering your journey to Imladris," Boromir answered. "Sleeping near danger is not unlike sleeping during a storm. And you have done that."

A particularly loud howl suddenly tore through the camp, and Bill whinnied sharply as Sam tried to comfort him. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Boromir," the gardener said, gripping the pony’s halter tightly, "but I see a world of difference between a few drops of rain and those wolves. I know Bill feels the same way."

"You may surprise yourselves," Gandalf said. "You may find that you fall asleep easily, for you are all greatly wearied."

"And I know of a trick or two that might help," Aragorn added. "But before we discuss this, I wish to return to the issue of how many watches we will have this night. I still believe that reducing it to three will result in greater safety."

"But also less sleep," Gandalf answered, feeling a hint of frustration. "There is still the morrow to think of. A long road lies before us, and if we are successful in entering Moria, we shall face an even longer road."

"But with insufficient guard tonight, we will not even live to see the morning," Aragorn argued.

"Four watches," Gandalf said firmly, fixing his eyes upon Aragorn as he tried to make the other understand. It seemed as though he and the Ranger had been at odds ever since he’d broached the topic of Moria. Since then, they had agreed on very little, and this was yet another example of the rift that seemed to be growing between them. "Frodo and I shall take the first watch, and Legolas and Sam will take the second," the wizard continued. "Aragorn and Pippin will then take the third followed by Boromir, Gimli, and Merry for the final watch. At no point will be there be insufficient guard, and for the last watch in which there is less experience, three shall be awake. It will be well."

For a long moment, the only sounds in the camp were Bill’s fearful shuffling, the whine of the wind, and the howl of the Wargs. Given all of this, the night was by no means silent, but even so, it felt as though a hush had fallen.

It was Gimli who eventually spoke, breaking the stillness that was anything but still. "Since it seems we are to sleep, let us do so and waste no more time in discussions. It is obvious that some minds will not be altered."

This last statement was made with a slight glance toward Aragorn, as though the dwarf wished to say that he shared the Ranger’s views but saw no other alternative. Watching the exchange of looks intently, Gandalf noted that this seemed to be the consensus within the Fellowship. They are weary indeed, the wizard decided. Two days ago, this might have resulted in a debate that endured for hours.

"I still don’t understand how you expect us to sleep in all this," Pippin said when the others began to move to their beds.

"Lie down and close your eyes," Aragorn commanded gently. "And remember that we probably have three hours before there is any immediate cause for concern."

Another gust of northern wind bore down upon the Fellowship, bringing with it a chorus of howls that lingered over the camp and echoed off the sides of the mountains. "I would call that an immediate cause for concern," Sam muttered grimly.

Aragorn sighed as he rolled out his blankets and directed his attention to the other side of the fire. "Legolas? Would you consider gracing us with a song? Something that might help the hobbits sleep?"

At this suggestion, the hobbits visibly relaxed, and from his position opposite the Ranger, the elf immediately nodded. "Of course. Did you have a particular song in mind?"

"Anything but that ridiculous song my brothers invented to wake everyone up in the middle of the night and then lull them back to sleep," Aragorn answered.

"And not the fall of Gil-galad," Gandalf added. Though he was in complete agreement with the idea of singing the hobbits to sleep, there were some songs that should be avoided. "Along with that, I would advise against any lays that speak of darkness and the devices of the Enemy."

"You have just eliminated the majority of songs that I heard in Imladris," Boromir muttered, drawing up his blankets and turning his eyes to the sky.

"Fear not," Legolas said with a slight smile as he lay back and folded his hands together upon his chest. "In Imladris, they sing many songs of sorrow, for that is all the Noldor seem to know. But my people, though we live in constant shadow, have learned to find mirth whenever possible. We have songs that may lighten your heart. I know of some that have been translated into Westron, so you may enjoy not only the music but also the words." Legolas was then silent for a moment, and then he began to sing, his fair voice quiet and soothing.

Down the swift dark stream you go
Back to lands you once did know!
Leave the halls and caverns deep,
Leave the northern mountains steep,
Where the forest wide and dim
Stoops in shadow gray and grim!
Float beyond the world of trees
Out into the whispering breeze.

It took all of Gandalf’s considerable restraint to keep from laughing aloud. This simple song was one commonly sung by the elves who disposed of empty wine barrels, sending them out through the river that ran beneath Thranduil’s halls. It was certainly not what the wizard had been expecting, but he heartily approved of the choice. The tune was haunting, as seemed to be the case with all elven songs, but it was also quick and brisk while the words were light, providing a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded the Fellowship. Additionally, this was a song about escape and freedom, things the elves of Mirkwood pined after and things that the hobbits needed to remember.

Follow, follow stars that leap
Up the heavens cold and steep;
Turn when dawn comes over land,
Over rapid, over sand,
South away! and South away!
Seek the sunlight and the day,
Back to pasture, back to mead,
Where the kine and oxen feed!

A sudden memory took Gandalf, and he hastily turned toward Gimli. This particular song could also stir unpleasant memories of Glóin’s imprisonment at the hands of Legolas’s father. In fact, the wizard was mildly surprised that Gimli had failed to protest when Aragorn first broached the idea of an elven song. But mild surprise swiftly transformed into astonished confusion when Gandalf’s eyes fell upon the dwarf, for it seemed as though Gimli was…enjoying the song.

Gandalf blinked. That was unusual. To the casual eye, the dwarf appeared to be on the verge of sleep, but the wizard could see a slight movement to Gimli’s hand that appeared to be keeping time with the song. And there was also the fact that the dwarf seemed far too relaxed given the circumstances. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. The more he watched, the more Gandalf was convinced. Gimli took great pleasure from the song.

So it would seem that the dwarf has learned to appreciate something of the elves, Gandalf mused with an incredulous shake of his head. Now we must simply convince Legolas to lower his own haughty pride and appreciate something of the dwarves.

Movement off to the side caught Gandalf’s attention, and he turned to watch as Frodo stood and began walking around as though to stave off sleep. Aragorn’s idea was working wonders. Glancing back at those gathered around the fire, Gandalf could tell that Pippin and Merry were already asleep while Sam was not far behind. Gimli was on the verge of dropping off, and the even breathing of both Boromir and Aragorn suggested they had found solace in dreams, though it appeared to be a very light rest. And as for Legolas, the elf had concluded his song and begun another, but his voice faded from time to time and his eyes were glazing over

A ship with golden beak and oar
    and timbers white came gliding;
swans went sailing on before,
    her tall prow guiding.
Fair folk out of Elvenland
    in silver-gray were rowing,
and three with crowns she saw there stand
    with bright hair flowing.

The wizard frowned. At this point, the elf was no longer truly aware of what he was singing, and Gandalf wondered what had prompted this particular song. It was not a song of Mirkwood but rather a song occasionally sung in Lothlórien and in Rivendell that spoke of the sea and of the West. It was not something that Legolas was accustomed to sing about as almost his entire life had been spent defending Mirkwood. He had no thoughts for leaving the shores of Middle-earth, yet that was one of the themes to this song. Should I survive the road through Moria, I will speak of this with Celeborn and Galadriel, Gandalf decided. It may be best if Legolas goes no further than Lothlórien, for his journey to Rivendell seems to have awakened something within him. If he ventures further south, he will be in danger. But then again, further south we will all be in danger. Elbereth, we will meet danger this night. We have no need to venture south to find it.

Frodo walked across Gandalf’s view, still pacing, while Legolas’s song faded entirely as the elf drifted into sleep. And in the wake of the fair elven voice, the wind increased in strength, making certain that the sounds of wolves were ever in the ears of the Fellowship. Thick clouds rolled swiftly overhead, hiding the light of the stars, while darkness closed around the ring of rocks in which the Fellowship huddled. Sighing deeply, Gandalf curled his fingers tightly around the comforting wood of his staff. It was going to be a long night.

Aragorn stood in darkness.

He could not see. There was no light to guide him. His world had been plunged into a shadow that could not be pierced. He could clearly hear the crackle of a large fire, but there was no light to accompany this sound. He had always taken for granted that one would accompany the other, yet it was not so now. The fire was also lacking warmth, for the air around him was cold. It was a strange chill that seemed to strike more at the heart than at the body, and Aragorn shivered, unsure of what to make of this.

He was alone, and yet he was not. Others were with him, but he could not contact them. Should he speak, they would not hear him. Should he touch them, they would not feel his hand. Through means he did not fully comprehend, Aragorn knew that he was only here as an observer. An observer without sight, but an observer, nonetheless. And that was all. He could not act. He could not make his presence known. Whatever happened in this strange realm of darkness, he would be powerless to prevent it. He was only meant to watch. To listen. To feel.

To know…

The roar of the fire intensified as though it drew near, yet still it could not be seen and still it possessed no warmth. But there was a new sound that also grew. The sound of drums. Large drums. Loud drums. Deep drums that pounded out a steady rhythm that grew and grew until Aragorn nearly cried aloud, begging them to stop.

And then voices joined with the drums. Fell voices. Orc voices. Troll voices. They sang with the drums, and together they created a chant that promised death to all who heard it. Louder and louder they sang until the cacophony echoed in a continuous round off wide cavern walls that Aragorn still could not see. Clutching his ears, he dropped to his knees, trying to silence the voices that pounded against his soul and reverberated through his mind.

And it stopped.

The drums fell still.

The voices disappeared.

Fear pricking at his heart, Aragorn lowered his hands and stood. In some ways, this silence was worse than the bedlam. Much worse. Something waited in the dark. Waited and did not give itself away through noise. But it could not hide entirely. Aragorn felt it. He could not help but feel it. It was like an inky blackness stealing over his senses, darker than the shadows and deeper than the cavern’s depths.

And then a light appeared.

The shadows receded, but they did not flee. They remained, clouding the edges of vision. But Aragorn took no thought for them, focusing instead on the light. He knew that light. He knew its source. And he knew it stood against a darkness that would extinguish it. With this thought, he turned away from the light, seeking to penetrate the shadows that surrounded him. Perhaps he could find something that would aid the bearer of the light. And as though answering his demands for sight, the veil over his eyes lifted.

He saw.

He knew.

He screamed…

"Mr. Strider?"

Aragorn jerked upright, one hand flying to Andúril where it rested beside him even as he scrambled to his feet. Blankets flew wildly, and a startled hobbit leaped back, his eyes wide.

"Strider?!"

His breath coming in gasps, Aragorn shook his head and looked around, glancing over Sam’s frightened face and then moving on to the sleeping forms of the Fellowship crowded around the dancing fire. A dream! he told himself firmly as he began to get his bearings. Naught more than a dream!

But the slight ache in the back of his head warned him that it had been no ordinary dream…

"Mr. Strider, are you—"

"My apologies, Master Samwise" Aragorn interrupted, rubbing his brow and trying to calm his racing heart. "I…was not sleeping peacefully."

The hobbit nodded, his eyes worried. "I know. I could tell. I didn’t mean to wake you, but I didn’t want you to carry on so, begging your pardon, when it was obvious that—"

A sudden howl interrupted Sam, and Aragorn stiffened. The Warg that had made that howl was close. Too close. In fact, now that he had begun to shake off the vestiges of sleep, he realized that he could feel the presence of the Wargs. There were many of them, and they were no more than an arrow’s flight away. Drawing Andúril, the Ranger let his scabbard fall to the side and scanned the darkness, searching for movement. And at that point, he realized that one of the Fellowship was missing.

"Where is Legolas?" he demanded, looking around for the elf but finding nothing.

"He went off that way," Sam answered, nodding toward the west. "He said he’d only be gone for a moment."

Aragorn frowned. "How long ago was that?"

Sam’s gaze turned inward as he calculated how much time had passed since the elf had left. "I think…there he is!"

The Ranger turned and loosed a silent sigh of relief as Legolas suddenly appeared between two of the stones that ringed their camp and hurried toward the fire, his head turned so as to watch his back. But relief vanished quickly when Aragorn saw that the elf had his bow in hand and an arrow already nocked. "Legolas?"

Turning his gaze away from the darkness, Legolas caught sight of Aragorn and blinked, confusion flitting over his face. He moved as though to speak, but a sudden chorus of howls behind him stopped whatever words he had thought to say. An unreadable expression flashed across his face and he turned to Sam. "Wake the others," the elf said quietly, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of urgency. "Be quick about it."

Sam nodded, his eyes growing wide with fear, and hurried to do as he was told. Watching the hobbit for a moment, Aragorn winced as yet another set of howls erupted into the night, this time on the opposite side of the camp. "How soon?" he asked, his hand tightening around Andúril’s hilt.

"Soon," Legolas whispered, turning his eyes back to the darkness. "We are surrounded."

More howls were heard, coming from several different directions now, and Aragorn felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. Movement behind him drew his attention and he turned as Boromir joined them, his eyes slightly clouded with sleep but clearing rapidly. "They are close," he observed.

"Advance scouts arrived during the beginning of my watch," Legolas said quietly, still staring into the night as the chorus of howls ebbed slightly before it started up again. "They found us easily enough and sent word to their pack."

"And now the pack has arrived." Aragorn shook his head and cursed softly. Looking back toward the fire, he noted that the rest of the Fellowship was now awake and that Sam had joined the other hobbits with Bill, his hand firm upon the pony’s halter as the cries of the wolves continued to echo around them.

"The hobbits are not prepared for this," Boromir said, his words almost lost as a gust of wind rushed the camp and the howls became even louder.

"None of us are truly prepared for this," Gandalf murmured as he joined them.

A dwarven oath drew Aragorn’s attention across the fire, and he watched as Gimli took several steps away from the flames, peering into the darkness. As though sensing the Ranger’s gaze, the dwarf then turned toward Aragorn, his face grim. "Eyes," he warned.

A shiver crept over Aragorn and he also looked into the darkness, but he could see nothing beyond the ring of boulders. However, that did not lessen the fear in his heart. Dwarves had exceptional night vision, and if Gimli said that he saw eyes, then there were eyes. "Can you tell how many?" he asked, shifting into a battle stance as several new choruses of howls erupted around the camp.

"More than I care to count," the dwarf answered.

"Gandalf? What should we be doing?"

Frodo’s simple question drove home the observation that Boromir had previously made. The hobbits were not ready for such a confrontation, and looking over at Gandalf, Aragorn saw that the wizard shared his thoughts.

"Stay close to the fire," Gandalf told Frodo. "All of you. And keep that pony under control!" he added when Bill reared and neighed, almost pulling free of his stakes.

Aragorn registered the fact that Boromir had now moved to stand before the hobbits, all of whom had drawn their blades but none of whom seemed at all confident about using them. Gimli was also drifting closer to the hobbits while Legolas had stepped back into a position where he might better cover them with his bow. Leaving the wizard and myself to watch anything that does not directly concern the hobbits, Aragorn noted wearily. A poor defense at best, but given the circumstances, I suppose we can do nothing else. There is no time for greater strategy.

Deciding that he could trust Legolas’s bow to cover everything before the Fellowship, Aragorn moved behind the elf so that he might watch for things coming from the rear. "I pray your arrows fly true tonight," the Ranger murmured, shifting until he stood with his back against the archer’s.

"Have the arrows of the elves ever failed you?" Legolas demanded with an indignant sniff, his voice somehow cutting through the Warg cries that had now become almost deafening.

"To my knowledge, no," Aragorn conceded. "But the fate of this Fellowship seems to have run afoul."

To this, the elf gave no response, and the Ranger was forced to conclude that Legolas was of a similar opinion. It was not reassuring, and Aragorn felt his hope falter even more when he turned his gaze upon a space between two boulders. The light of their campfire was reflecting off of a pair of eyes, and the Ranger thought he could see forms moving beyond these eyes. And as he looked, he could see more eyes appearing in the gaps between the encircling stones. A quiet exclamation of fear and surprise from the direction of the hobbits revealed that he was not alone in his observations, and he quickly agreed with an earlier statement made by Gimli. Aragorn did not really want to know how many Wargs were out there.

And then there seemed to be a lull in the howls.

The fell sounds did not vanish completely, but they quieted as though waiting for something. Behind him, Legolas stiffened, and Aragorn turned to see what had caused dismay in his companion. He soon wished he had not.

Moving out of the night’s protective shadows, one of the largest Wargs that Aragorn had ever seen stepped between two of the surrounding boulders and snarled, his ears flat against his back and the fur along his shoulders rising. His muzzle twisted with hatred and his teeth flashed in the firelight as he lifted his head into the air and howled, his deep voice echoing off the sides of the Misty Mountains. His howl was answered by others from all sides of the hill, as though they were confirming and relaying orders. Yellow eyes narrowed to slits as the wolf regarded the Fellowship, and saliva flew as he snapped his jaws.

"Listen, Hound of Sauron!" Gandalf’s voice startled Aragorn, and judging from Legolas’s slight shift in posture, the Ranger was not alone in his surprise. "Gandalf is here," the wizard continued, advancing slightly and raising his staff. "Fly if you value your foul skin! I will shrivel you from tail to snout if you come within this ring!"

Slightly shocked that Gandalf had just revealed his name to a servant of the Enemy, Aragorn turned anxious eyes to the Warg, waiting for the response. The wolf lowered his head and snarled, and Aragorn could make out a slight bunching of muscles along the shoulders. He sensed the leap moments before it happened and was already moving forward as the Warg sprang into the air, his jaws gaping and his eyes gleaming while behind him the entire pack burst into howls.

The sharp whistle of an arrow stopped them all.

Crashing to the ground, the Warf fell limp with an elven bolt lodged in the side of his throat. One last growl escaped him before his hateful eyes closed, and as this sound ceased, so also did all other sounds. The eyes surrounding the Fellowship disappeared, and the wind that had now moved to the northwest was silent.

Exchanging a look with Legolas to make certain that the archer knew his back was unprotected, Aragorn strode toward the fallen Warg. Gandalf joined him, and together they approached cautiously. But their caution seemed needless, for the area was deserted. A slight tingling along his spine told Aragorn that the Wargs had not left, but they had retreated significantly. None were left upon the hill. Only the fallen captain remained.

"This is not normal behavior for Wargs," Aragorn whispered, struggling to make sense of what was happening. "Why have they withdrawn?"

"Perhaps they are waiting for a better opportunity," Gandalf said quietly.

"Perhaps," the Ranger murmured, moving forward to retrieve the arrow. But he was stopped by Gandalf’s hand upon his shoulder.

"Leave it," the wizard said, his eyes narrow as he studied the Warg.

"Leave it?" Aragorn questioned.

"There is something foul about that creature. A shadow lies upon him. Let him lie where he has fallen and do not draw the arrow."

Aragorn looked at the Warg, wondering what it was that Gandalf sensed. There was certainly a feeling of darkness in the air, but given the circumstances, Aragorn viewed that as something to be expected. But if Gandalf urged caution, the Ranger would heed him. There seemed to be little enough in the way or prudence on this quest anyway. "As you wish," he said, stepping away. "But I expect you to explain this to the elf. His supply of arrows is not without limit."

"I fear that he will not be the only one to demand an explanation," Gandalf sighed, glancing back toward the Fellowship.

"Would that we had one to give," Aragorn muttered, stalking back.

"Aragorn?" a voice called out to him. "Why—"

"Ask the wizard," Aragorn interrupted Legolas, stopping when he reached the others. Glancing back, he sighed as he watched Gandalf continue to examine the Warg. "He claims there is something dark upon the creature. He would not allow me to retrieve your arrow."

A flash of confusion appeared upon the elf’s face, but he eventually nodded. "If Mithrandir says it is so, then I will trust his wisdom."

"But what about the Wargs?" Merry asked. "Where are they?"

"They are gone," Aragorn said quietly.

"Gone?" Frodo echoed.

The Ranger shook his head wordlessly, unable to give a reason for the bizarre behavior.

"They had us surrounded," Gimli said, his brow furrowed. "Why withdraw?"

"It was a test," Boromir said grimly, and there was a fierce anger smoldering in his eyes. "They were uncertain as to what kind of resistance would be offered, and so they staged a trial of our determination. It is not dissimilar to what my brother’s companies face in Ithilien. The forces of the Nameless One make a test of the first attack and then return with greater numbers and greater strategy."

"It happens in Mirkwood as well," Legolas added, his hand curling tightly around the smooth wood of his bow. "You would not truly understand, Aragorn, for in Eriador…" The elf paused and then looked toward Gimli. "And in Dale and Erebor," he added, his tone reluctant, "the Enemy battles constantly for a foothold. No force can be spared. But in the southern regions of Mirkwood—and in parts of Gondor, too, it seems—where the Dark Lord’s power is nigh unto absolute, the Enemy can afford to lose a battalion of Orcs or a pack of Wargs for the purpose of judging defenses." Legolas looked out into the darkness, his face troubled. "That these Wargs have done likewise does not bode well. They have seen how we array ourselves when faced with their presence, and so they have retreated to better organize themselves. They will return ere the night is over."

"However, I sense that their return will not be soon," Gandalf said, joining the group. "Until that time, we must resume the watches. Those not watching must rest, for if Boromir and Legolas are correct, we will face a greater trial before we see the dawn. And should we survive, a long day awaits us come morning. We cannot afford to be wearied."

"Pippin and I shall assume our watch now, then," Aragorn said. "It is nearly time for it."

"That’s probably for the best," Pippin murmured. "I don’t think I could sleep now, anyway. My heart’s pounding too loudly."

"You think the rest of us are going to have an easy time?" Merry asked.

"Having slept once this night, I think you will find it easy to fall asleep again," Boromir said, though he himself made no move toward his bedroll.

"If it will aid your rest, I will sing for you once more," Legolas offered.

"I would appreciate that, Mr. Legolas," Sam said quietly.

"So would I," Frodo added, and Aragorn’s eyes narrowed as he noted that the hobbit seemed to be clutching at something beneath his tunic.

"Then let us retire," Gandalf said firmly, moving toward his own bed. "Every moment in which we rest will help us later."

"Do not hesitate to call if you sense that anything is amiss," Gimli said to Aragorn. "My axe is restless in my hand tonight."

"I pray it remains so, Master Dwarf," Aragorn replied, studiously ignoring the fact that Legolas was rolling his eyes. "We shall have need of it. And do not fear to sleep, for between myself and Master Took, we should have more than sufficient guard."

Something that might have been a snort of amusement came from Merry’s direction, but it was too soft for the Ranger to identify. Still, the tension within the Fellowship lifted slightly, and sensing what was happening, Pippin adopted a rather forced scowl of indignation. It was not much, but it seemed to be enough. With some half-hearted smiles on the part of the hobbits, everyone sought their beds. After a moment or so, the haunting melody of an elven song filled the camp, and Aragorn loosed a sigh as he turned to watch the darkness.

"You meant what you said, didn’t you?"

Aragorn blinked and glanced down, noting that Pippin had joined him. "Pardon?"

"When you talked about having sufficient guard," Pippin explained, glancing uneasily toward the surrounding rocks. "I know you were making a jest, but you meant it, too. Didn’t you? We really will be fine. Won’t we?"

"I meant every word," Aragorn said quietly, letting a hand come to rest on the young hobbit’s shoulder. "And yes, we will be fine. We will see the morning sun. You have my word."

Pippin nodded. "Good. I just wanted to make certain."

Aragorn smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes and once again he turned to the darkness. We may see the morning sun, but what of the shadow that lies beyond the dawn? he asked himself. What of Moria? His thoughts were drawn to the memory of the dream that had woken him, and he shivered as he glanced toward the dark towers in the east that marked the line of the Misty Mountains. A tremor of premonition took him, and he saw an image of fire within his mind’s eye. Then it was gone, and naught but shadows remained…

When a touch of silver light suddenly fell upon the Fellowship, banishing the shadows that had managed to evade the light of the fire, Merry jumped in surprise, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

"Peace, Master Hobbit," Boromir said, his deep voice providing an anchor for Merry’s racing heart. "Peace. ‘Tis naught but the moon."

Attempting to slow his breathing, Merry released the hilt of his sword and turned his attention to the sky, looking westward. The rolling clouds were breaking up, and through their parting forms, the waning moon could be seen. Its light seemed to grace the earth below with reluctance, as though that which could not be seen should remain so.

"Dawn is not far away." The gruff murmur came from behind the hobbit, and he turned as Gimli joined him in watching the western sky as the moon sank toward the horizon. "Strange. Our watch has passed quietly enough."

Merry nodded and grimaced slightly. The dwarf was right. Their watch had indeed passed quietly. Too quietly. Since the three of them had relieved Aragorn and Pippin, they had neither seen nor heard any sign of the Wargs. Or any other living creature, for that matter. Even the wind was beginning to fail, and now fortune had granted them the light of the setting moon. A feeble light, to be sure, but a light nonetheless. Something was wrong.

"It is too easy," Boromir said quietly, echoing the hobbit’s thoughts. Merry watched as the man moved from the comfort of the fire and stopped several feet away, absently twirling his drawn sword. "Much too easy," he murmured after a moment.

"They cannot be far," Gimli whispered, his eyes narrowed as he peered into the shadows. "There is something out there. I sense something…dark."

"As do I," Boromir said, his voice as soft as the dying wind. "And I do not think it was there before. But I can tell no more than that."

Merry was already unnerved at the prospect that his two companions both sensed something dark, but Boromir’s admission that he knew nothing else threatened to send the hobbit into the twisting realm of full-blown panic. If there was one thing he had learned about the man since the Fellowship began its journey, it was that Boromir did not admit weakness. Ever. On those occasions when he needed to ask Aragorn or Gandalf about something, he did so with indirect methods.

"Maybe we should wake the others," Merry suggested, somehow managing to speak around the lump of fear in his throat. The moonlight was now making him feel vulnerable and exposed. It was as though the moon shone only on the Fellowship while all else remained concealed in darkness.

"I would not object to waking Gandalf," Gimli said, glancing at Boromir.

A moment of hesitation passed before the man sighed and shook his head. "Rouse the wizard, Merry. Mayhap he can be of aid."

Nodding quickly, Merry hurried around the fire toward Gandalf, dodging the sleeping forms of Sam and Aragorn as he did so. Reaching the wizard’s side, he bent down to grasp his shoulder, but before he could do so, he froze.

Something…something was in the darkness.

Paralyzed by a terrible and sudden fear, Merry tried to move, but his body failed to respond to his commands. The feeling of palpable evil slammed into the hobbit, and he was reminded of the night in Bree when he had gone out for a breath of fresh air. This darkness was not as strong as that had been, but it was potent, and the hobbit found himself powerless before its onslaught. And it was growing.

It was coming closer.

"Merry!"

Somehow, Boromir’s strangled whisper gave Merry the strength to turn his head, and he looked toward the man, hoping to find something that would restore his mobility. But what he saw only lent wings to his already racing heart. Boromir and Gimli stood together, their weapons raised and their muscles stiff with tension. Neither seemed any more capable of movement than Merry.

"Merry, wake the others!" Gimli ordered sharply as a wave of darkness bore down upon them. "All of them!

Merry longed to speak. To cry out. To tell the dwarf that he could not even reach down to touch Gandalf’s arm. But his throat had closed up and the only sound he seemed capable of making was a frightened whimper that barely had strength to force its way past his lips.

Fortunately, he had no need to wake the wizard. Before him, Gandalf suddenly jerked and opened his eyes, one gnarled hand shooting out to seize his staff. The motion was enough to startle Merry into mobility and he stumbled back, arms flailing. A hand reached out and steadied him, and he looked up to see that Aragorn was now awake, his eyes intent upon shadows. On the other side of the fire, a sudden flurry of elvish revealed that Legolas had also risen.

"Wake your kinsmen!" Aragorn hissed, releasing Merry’s arm and giving him a push toward the other hobbits even as he drew Andúril from its sheath.

And then all of Mandos broke loose.

Bill suddenly flung his head back and reared, straining against his fetters, and loosed a noise that could best be described as a scream. And from all sides of the camp, his piercing cry was answered by a sudden chorus of terrible howls. Snarls and growls filled the air, turning the relative silence into a bedlam.

And the Wargs appeared.

From every direction, they came, issuing forth from the void of darkness. Seemingly untouched by the faint light of the moon, the fell hounds of Sauron rushed the Fellowship with teeth bared and eyes gleaming. Once again paralyzed by fear, Merry could only watch in horror as the snarling wolves leaped through the gaps in the circle of stones and raced straight for the Fellowship.

"Merry!"

The shout jolted him from his stupor, and he turned just as he was violently pushed to the ground. A dark form sailed overhead and then its flight was suddenly arrested by an elven arrow, dropping it to the ground.

"Merry, you ninny, stand up!"

Someone had seized his arm and was hauling him to his feet. A quick flash of moonlight revealed this someone to be Pippin, and beyond his cousin, Merry saw that Frodo and Sam had also risen on their own. Then he was forced to turn his attention outward as more Wargs converged on them.

A sudden rush of instinct took Merry, and he drew his sword, sweeping his arm before him. A leaping wolf impaled itself on the end of the blade, nearly wrenching the weapon from Merry’s grasp, and the hobbit stumbled backwards as a spray of blood erupted from the dying creature. Then the forms of Gandalf and Gimli were suddenly before the hobbits, forcing the Wargs to alter their attack.

"Fling fuel on the fire!" the wizard shouted, sparing the hobbits one harried glance. "Draw your blades and stand back to back!"

There was no need for such a command as the hobbits had already huddled together for defense with drawn blades, but Sam did reach out and fling a few nearby branches onto the fire. Merry wasn’t sure how the gardener did this because he himself couldn’t take his eyes away from the charging wolves. Aragorn and Gimli had now joined Boromir and Gandalf in surrounding and defending the hobbits while Legolas’s presence was keenly felt as his arrows screamed overhead, dropping wolves left and right.

"Sam!"

A sudden gust of cold wind fell upon Merry’s back, and along with it came the creeping realization that there was no longer anyone behind him. Standing at his side, Pippin came to a similar conclusion and they turned as one to see Frodo desperately trying to distract a large Warg that seemed to have singled Sam out.

With a shout, Merry moved to aid his friends but Pippin suddenly plowed into him, crying out in pain and surprise. Merry tumbled and rolled to a stop just in time to see a Warg leaping toward him, mouth gaping, fur bristling, and eyes gleaming with the promise of death—

"Baruk khazâd!"

A flash of metal swept before Merry’s eyes and before his mind could understand what was happening, an axe lodged itself in the Warg’s spine, striking the wolf down. Then Gimli was before him, his beard matted with the blood of the Wargs and his axe red in the firelight.

"Get up!" the dwarf yelled before turning to meet yet another wolf.

Scrambling to his feet, something struck Merry’s leg, and he jumped away before realizing Pippin had grasped his pant leg. The younger hobbit was clutching his right arm and blood was seeping through his fingers. "Stay behind me," Merry ordered, trying to ignore the stabbing pain of fear that pierced his heart.

Shaking his head fiercely, Pippin struggled to his feet and raised his sword, though his grip was clearly weak and the blade wavered in his hand.

"Pippin, stay back!" a new voice called, and Frodo and Sam were with them again along with Aragorn, who seemed to be favoring one leg. Gimli also joined them, his axe swinging furiously, and Gandalf stood near the dwarf, the elven blade of Glamdring making short work of any wolf that drew close to the wizard. Further away, on the opposite side of the group, Boromir and Legolas had moved until they stood back-to-back, both engaged in a desperate attempt to draw the attention of the Wargs away from the hobbits. But the elf was nearly out of arrows, and even Merry’s untrained eyes could see that Boromir was tiring as the dwindling supply of ammunition forced him to bear more of the burden for their collective safety.

A loud snarl jerked Merry’s attention forward, and he gasped as a Warg leaped toward him. An axe and a sword descended toward the creature, but the weapons deflected off one another in a conflict of battle strategies. The Warg ducked beneath the blow, barely scathed, and continued the rush. But Sam was suddenly next to Merry, his sword sweeping in from the side and puncturing the wolf’s side even as Merry brought his own sword up and impaled it in the roof of the Warg’s mouth.

"Watch your side!" Aragorn shouted, his frustrated words directed at Gimli. "I will guard the front!"

"And who shall guard the other side?" the dwarf demanded, knocking away yet another Warg with the haft of his axe and quickly swinging the weapon back into position as more wolves rushed to replace their fallen comrade.

"We will!" someone answered, and Boromir and Legolas stumbled into their midst. How they had managed to break through the press of Wargs, Merry could not say. Everything seemed to be happening at once, and everywhere he looked, another wolf was leaping at the company. It was a disorienting din of chaos further complicated by the fact that all around him was a pervasive blanket of fear eerily similar to that which he’d felt in Bree down the street from the Prancing Pony.

"Let the fire guard our backs!" Gandalf shouted from his position next to Gimli. "Withdraw until the flames are nearly upon us!"

Merry could testify that the flames were already consuming his own back, because he and the other hobbits had retreated as far as they could go. But when Aragorn, Gimli, Boromir, and Legolas also stepped back, they were forced to go a little further, and Merry winced at the heat that seemed enough to sear the hair right off his feet. But he knew that this was a minor discomfort compared to what the Wargs would do to all of them should the defense falter. And it was painfully obvious to even the hobbits that their meager forces could not hold out much longer.

Looking around in the faint hope that he would see an end to this attack, Merry dimly noted that the sky was light in the east and that firelight and moonlight were no longer necessary to see the advancing Wargs. The coming dawn was now bright enough to reveal that the Fellowship was doomed. Wolves swarmed around them like the currents of a deadly whirlpool, and it was only a matter of time before they were swept apart and destroyed. Even now, it was beginning. On Merry’s right, Gimli suddenly stumbled backwards, unable to hold his own. Aragorn cursed and staggered, whipping Andúril from side to side in desperation. Boromir’s shield was torn from his grasp. Legolas reached for his last arrow.

And then a shadow fell.

It was a powerful and looming shadow, but it was not a shadow of darkness or fear. To the end of his days, Merry would never be able to explain exactly what he witnessed or felt. But before his eyes, Gandalf seemed to grow above them all. Sweeping down upon the earth, the wizard seized a flaming branch from the fire and strode forward.

Taken aback, the Wargs withdrew in sudden fear with the exception of one. One Warg stepped forward, his large form indicating his dominance over the pack. With hateful eyes that gleamed in the light of the fire and bristling fur that glowed silver beneath the setting moon, this commanding wolf loosed a deep howl, clearly defying the wizard.

Hurling his burning branch high into the air, the wizard answered his foe’s challenge.

"Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!"

At these words, the fire upon the branch exploded outward with a blast of light. Merry fell to his knees and raised his arms over his head in surprise and self-defense as flames shot into the sky and enveloped the trees upon the hilltop. Limbs splinted and fell, raining ash and spark down upon all. The triumphant howls of the wolves turned into cries of fear before the roaring of the flames drowned out all other sounds.

Somewhere in the sudden brightness, Merry saw Legolas loosing his last arrow, and he heard a choked gurgle as it found its mark in the wolf that had sought to challenge Gandalf. Then he was forced to shield his eyes as the unnatural fires in the treetops flared brightly as though seeking to eclipse the dawn itself. Blinding light blasted its way through the camp, accompanied by the screams of fire and a wave of searing heat.

And then it was gone.

Everything was still.

Almost afraid to look, Merry slowly unfolded himself from his crouched position and looked around, blearily noting that most of the Fellowship had somehow ended up upon the ground. The one exception was Gandalf, who stood quietly in their midst and stroked his beard with a thoughtful look. The Wargs had completely disappeared. Even the bodies of the slain had vanished. The only remnants of the dreadful fight were the smoldering trees and the blackened branches that occasionally fell to the earth, still smoking slightly from the unnatural fire.

A soft sigh drew Merry’s attention, and he turned as Gandalf leaned upon his staff and nodded to himself as though in satisfaction. "I thought that might do it," the wizard said.

Baruk khazâd—Axes of the dwarves (Khuzdul/Dwarvish)

Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth—Fire for the saving of us! Fire against the werewolf host! (Sindarin)

Author’s Notes: We have a wealth of references used in this particular chapter, so bear with me while I give each one due credit. Like last chapter, segments of the dialogue have been lifted directly from the book. For reference, check out pages 356-3577 from The Fellowship of the Ring, Ballantine 50^th anniversary edition.

Before we actually get to the song references, I’d like to say that I used this chapter as kind of a testing ground for integrating songs into a fic. For those of you familiar with the books, you’ll know that Gimli sings a rather long song when the Fellowship hit the 21^st hall in Moria. In my mind, the song is vital to the story for several reasons, not least of which is that it’s one of our glimpses of dwarven society within the Lord of the Rings trilogy itself. Consequently, I feel it should be included in this particular fic but I’m rather unsure of how to do that. So any feedback the rest of you can give me would be very much appreciated! And now, the rest of the references:

The first song Legolas sings is one that Bilbo overhears the elves of Mirkwood singing when he escapes Thranduil’s realm through the use of barrels. Only parts of that song have been included in this chapter, but it can be found in its entirety on pages 182-183 of The Hobbit.

The "ridiculous song" that Aragorn mentions is a reference to yet another song found in The Hobbit. It is a song that wakes Bilbo during the middle of the night on his trip back home when he stops for a bit in Rivendell, and can be found on pages 297-298. There is no evidence that the sons of Elrond composed it, and it seems to have been made up on the spot, but I like to think that they were improvising on a base melody and a general idea. So I’ve taken the creative liberty of making Elladan and Elrohir the instigators of such a song. Who knows? They might have even been the ones singing it the night it woke Bilbo.

The last fragment of song that Gandalf hears as everyone falls asleep can be found in The Tolkien Reader. It’s called "The Last Gray Ship" and is No. 16 in the Tom Bombadil section. Though it was enjoyed by hobbits, it’s obvious from the references contained within the full version of the song that it originated somewhere in the Southern Kingdom, and it is possible that Bilbo learned it (or something similar to it) while staying in Rivendell. If this is the case, it is not too much of a stretch for the imagination to think that Legolas could have also heard it in Rivendell before the Fellowship departed.

Author’s Notes: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I assure you that there is a perfectly good explanation, which I will detail at the end of this chapter. Until then, read, enjoy, and hopefully get ready to forgive me by the time you reach the excuses.

Once again, a lot of things in this chapter are being drawn directly from the book. Much of the dialogue is taken verbatim while some of the descriptions are loosely paraphrased from Tolkien’s own words. For those of you reading along at home, you’re looking at pages 357-361 of The Fellowship of the Ring Ballantine 50^th edition paperback version. There is also a brief bit of remembered dialogue from Elrond’s speech to the Fellowship just before they set out on their journey. You’ll recognize it when you see it, and for reference, it can be found on page 336 (same source as above). So with that out of the way, on with the chapter!

January 13, 3019 (Day)

Instinct and a keen sense of time told Boromir that the tip of the sun was climbing over the mountains. A tingling feeling of warmth upon his skin confirmed dawn’s arrival, and despite a rising surge of frustration, Boromir felt a flash of gratitude that at least some of his senses were still working. His eyes certainly were not, for at the moment, he was quite blind.

Large, white spots danced across his vision, not unlike what happened when one ventured up into the snowfields on the northern face of Mount Mindolluin and stared at the reflection of the sun in the ice for too long. Gandalf’s inferno had taken him by complete surprise, and he had not been able to look away in time to preserve his vision. At the very least, he could have warned us, Boromir groused, ignoring the pounding in his temples as he pushed himself to his feet and reached out blindly to collect his fallen shield. In addition to destroying his sight, the blinding flashes had also managed to set off a painful headache.

"What did I tell you, Mr. Pippin?" Sam exclaimed from somewhere behind Boromir, his voice hushed. "Wolves won’t get him. That was an eye-opener, and no mistake! Nearly singed the hair off my head!"

"Mine, too," Pippin said softly. "There’s a lesson to be learned here. You just have to know how to talk to those creatures. I don’t know that I could ever manage whatever Gandalf did, but I’m making notes for the future."

"Where are the Wargs?" Gimli asked, his voice tense.

"They have fled," Gandalf answered. "Fear not. I do not think they will return for some time."

"Mithrandir, ú-cenin," Legolas spoke sharply, and though Boromir did not understand the words, he could not miss the alarm in the elf’s voice.

"Unless I miss my guess, Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli cannot see either," Gandalf said. "It was to be expected. Aside from myself, the four of you were closest to the flames. Have patience and the blindness will pass. Until then, I suggest we pause a moment to calm ourselves. The night has wearied us all."

Grimacing, Boromir gingerly shook his head and blinked rapidly. He was not quite ready to relax, despite the wizard’s assurances that the Wargs had indeed left. If there was anything Boromir had learned from traveling with this company, it was that trouble was never far behind. He was actually forming a theory that someone within the Fellowship had severely offended the Valar and they were now all being punished for it. Boromir was not a particularly religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but their current run of bad luck had given him cause for second thoughts.

"Is anyone injured?" Aragorn asked.

There was a moment of silence in response, and then it was broken by Merry. "Yes!" the hobbit exclaimed, his voice carrying a measure of both fear and guilt. "Yes, Pippin is hurt."

"It’s just a scratch," Pippin said hastily. "Those Wargs had claws, and one nicked me. Nothing to be concerned about."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Pippin, but it drew blood," Sam pointed out. "Best not to take chances."

By now Boromir’s sight was finally beginning to clear. Shadows still clouded much of his vision, but if he squinted, he could make out details around him. And as he looked back toward the hobbits, Boromir spotted a line of blood on Pippin’s arm. Merry was pressing his handkerchief against it—trust a hobbit to bring something like a handkerchief on this journey—and the wound did not seem too serious, but considering that it was caused by a servant of the Enemy, it was best to err on the side of caution. Boromir had seen similar scratches go from simple injuries to raging infections in a matter of hours when left untreated.

Aragorn—who appeared to be getting his vision back as well, though he was doing an unusual amount of blinking—knelt next to Pippin and started to examine the wound, gently pushing Merry to the side. He was almost immediately joined by Frodo and Sam, and Boromir turned away, confident that they had the situation well in hand. A glance at the rest of the Fellowship revealed that Gimli and Legolas also appeared to be regaining their sight and that they were both drifting into defensive positions around the cluster of hobbits and Ranger, almost as if they expected the Wargs to return at any moment. Gandalf was standing several feet away leaning against his staff, and if Boromir hadn’t known any better, he would have said that the wizard was exhausted. But despite his appearance, Gandalf’s keen eyes were scouring the area around them, looking for signs of danger.

Deciding that the hobbits were adequately protected, Boromir took a few steps away from the others and surveyed the hilltop as best he could with his recovering sight. Gandalf’s display of power had given them the advantage of surprise, but the Wargs would be back. While Boromir was not experienced in dealing with the Enemy’s fell wolves, he had dealt with Orcs enough to know that fear easily gave way to hatred. And in these empty lands, hunger would probably be a factor as well. The Wargs would return, and in preparation for this, it was likely that they left scouts to watch the Fellowship in the interim. If those scouts could be found and dispatched…

"Well, Master Took, we shall wash and bandage this, and afterwards we will have to watch it carefully for infection. But I believe you are going to live."

"Don’t tell me. Tell Merry."

Boromir smiled slightly and glanced back toward the hobbits. Still kneeling beside Pippin, Aragorn was now searching through one of his packs while the other hobbits watched. They had moved away from Pippin in order to give Aragorn room to work, but Merry was still rather close and it seemed as though Pippin was beginning to feel smothered.

"If you would be just a bit more careful, I wouldn’t have to worry so much," Merry said defensively. "First you went up that tree after a quiver strap, and then there was the cliff you had to tumble over, and then there was your dizziness while we tried to climb a mountain, and then there was the mountain itself, and then—"

"Most of that wasn’t my fault!" Pippin interrupted, hissing slightly as Aragorn began to clean the wound.

Shaking his head, Boromir turned away and redirected his attention to the outer edge of the hilltop. His vision had almost recovered completely, and the morning sun was now casting her light over the land, uncovering all that the darkness of night had attempted to hide. Unfortunately, that included the Fellowship, and Boromir mentally grimaced at the thought of the coming journey in broad daylight. The clouds from the previous days had vanished, and the sky was painfully clear. It would be difficult—if not completely impossible—to walk unseen.

"What happened to the wolves?" Gimli abruptly asked with akin to alarm.

A retort was quick to rise in Boromir’s mind, but it died swiftly when he realized what Gimli meant by this question. He was not asking after the surviving wolves but rather the wolves that had been killed. Now that he looked closer with eyes unhindered by blindness, Boromir saw that there was no sign of any Wargs, alive or dead, upon the hilltop. There were no carcasses. No bodies. No remains. Not even the stain of blood.

"He’s right," Frodo whispered quietly. "Shouldn’t there be dead Wargs about?"

An uncomfortable hush fell over the Fellowship, and Boromir clutched the hilt of his sword firmly. Out of the corner of his eye, Boromir saw Legolas step forward and then kneel, his hand grasping at something on the ground. When he rose, he was holding an elven arrow.

"We have all observed that there is little game in this area," Aragorn suddenly said, giving a final tug on Pippin’s bandage before rising to his feet. "Perhaps the Wargs have been forced into devouring their own. And perhaps with meat in their bellies they will not be so intent upon attacking us again."

As one, the Fellowship turned to stare at Aragorn, though Boromir now felt he knew what the other man was doing. The Ranger had spoken like this the day before, and to Boromir, it had felt as though Aragorn was seeking to deny the fact that they were now being hunted in earnest, even to the point of ignoring all evidence to the contrary. It had made no sense then, but now that the idea of traveling through Moria had been revealed, Boromir understood. Something about the dwarven mines frightened Aragorn. Frightened him badly. Frightened him enough that he was grasping desperately at anything that might allow them to avoid those ancient halls.

But Gandalf did not seem to appreciate Aragorn’s attempts to change the path of the Fellowship, and Boromir found himself taking a step back in an effort to avoid the flash of the wizard’s eyes. "You do not believe these Wargs will return?" he challenged.

"They may not be in league with the Enemy," Aragorn answered, his eyes clearly defiant. "Wargs have been known to operate independently of the Dark Lord. And perhaps they followed us in an attempt to assuage their bellies. It is not wholly unheard of. Is this not so, Legolas?"

All eyes now turned to the elf, who looked somewhat startled at his inclusion in the conversation. Nevertheless, Legolas recovered his composure so quickly that Boromir wondered if his eyes were yet playing tricks on him. "It has been known to happen in Mirkwood," the archer said slowly, as though considering his words. "During the spring when the rivers flood and the wolves have pups to feed, they hunt primarily for food and seem not to care what type of prey they hunt—be it goblin, spider, or elf—so long as they can bring it down. However…" He looked away for a moment, bent down, and retrieved a second arrow from the ground. Turning back to Aragorn with something of an apology written in his gray eyes, he held the arrow up and shook his head. "I do not believe that to be the case here."

"Perhaps those are from shots you missed," Aragorn said quietly.

The elf’s eyes darkened, though the rest of his face remained unchanged. "Do you truly believe that?"

For a moment, no one dared to breathe. Legolas’s voice, deceptively quiet, had contained hints of a dangerous anger, and even Gimli seemed impressed. All waited to see how Aragorn would react, and it was not long before the Ranger turned away from the elf, his hands clenched at his sides. "We should search the area before believing anything," he murmured.

"Then let us search," Gandalf said. "Sam, begin organizing breakfast. The rest, look for signs of the Wargs. But do not stray!" the wizard added, his eyes turning toward the hobbits. "Let us not lose sight of one another."

A difficult command considering our Fellowship, Boromir reflected grimly. There are many here who would like nothing better than to lose sight of one another. But perhaps because of the night’s battle—or perhaps because of the stern warning in Gandalf’s eyes—everyone did as they were asked. The Fellowship spread out and began searching for traces the Wargs might have left behind. Boromir was not quite certain what they were looking for or if they would even know it when they found it, but if nothing else, he was discovering quite a few arrows. At least the elf would be happy.

Collecting the bolts as he went since Legolas had exhausted his supply during the night, Boromir traced a wide circle around the hilltop. Upon completing his route, he stopped and looked around, sighing in resignation. In one hand he clutched his sword. In the other he held his shield and a fist-full of arrows. At no point during his search had he found any evidence that a fight had even taken place with the exception of the smoking trees and the arrows that littered the ground.

"Boromir?"

Boromir turned and discovered that Frodo had come up behind him. "Yes?"

"All I found were arrows. Did you…"

Boromir shook his head, taking in the arrows that Frodo clutched before turning his attention back to their surroundings. "I found only arrows as well."

"But the Wargs were here. We saw them. We fought them. Why is it that—"

"I do not know," Boromir interrupted bitterly, wishing desperately that he had better answers for the hobbit. These days it seemed that he was always short of answers. There was never enough information. Never enough strength in arms. Never enough men. No matter how hard he tried or how much he endured, the Enemy always had more. It was like an endless dance in which he was always a beat or two behind, and despite his best efforts, he could not learn the steps fast enough to keep up.

"Boromir?"

Shaking his head, Boromir chased away his grim thoughts and looked back at Frodo. "Let us speak with Mithrandir," he said. "The others are gathering around him. We would be wise to regroup as well."

The hobbit nodded his agreement and Boromir started back toward the fire, which now seemed to be dying quickly. Frodo fell into step beside him and the two arrived just in time to see Legolas drop a bundle of arrows at Aragorn’s feet. "I can account for nearly every shot I took," the elf said quietly. "I am only missing twelve arrows, and I can assure you that I killed more than twelve wolves."

"Here are three more," Frodo offered, adding his arrows to the pile.

"And I have eight," Boromir said, doing the same. "They all appear to be undamaged."

"Thus leaving only one shot unaccounted for," Gandalf said heavily.

"I think that would be this one," Gimli said, holding up the head of an arrow. "The shaft was not attached. It was like this when I found it," he added, tossing the sharp head toward the pile of bolts on the ground.

An uneasy silence fell upon those gathered as they looked at the arrows, all of them whole and intact save one, and then Pippin finally spoke, apparently unable to endure the tension any longer. "I don’t suppose this is normal when dealing with Wargs?" he asked hopefully.

"Nay, it is not," Legolas answered. The elf looked up, his eyes meeting Aragorn’s briefly before turning to Gandalf. "The wolves did not come upon us unaided. They were granted power, both in the attack and in the retreat. There is no other explanation for the arrows. And given these facts, the Wargs are almost certain to return tonight."

"It is as I feared." Gandalf shook his head darkly and sighed before he took a step back, drawing the attention of the Fellowship to himself. "These were no ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness," he said firmly, looking at all gathered and allowing his glance to linger upon Aragorn, as though challenging the Ranger to dispute his assertion. But when Aragorn said nothing, Gandalf nodded and turned back to the rest of the Fellowship. "Let us eat quickly and go!"

And no more discussion did they have. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin quickly joined Sam in creating the morning meal. The others broke camp and packed all the supplies that were not used for breakfast-supper, or whatever it was being called at the moment. All this they did in silence, which was not entirely unusual except for the fact that the silence was accompanied by a strangling sense of foreboding. There was always a certain amount of tension within the Fellowship, whether it was the wars of superiority between Legolas and Gimli, the struggle for dominance against Aragorn, or the strange attempts by the hobbits to push Gandalf as close to the end of his patience as they could get without suffering an untimely death. But this foreboding…this was different. It was palpable. Tangible. Overpowering. It could not be ignored or dismissed. It demanded acknowledgement, and upon receiving that acknowledgement, it continued to make itself known by insisting that doom was only days away. Boromir was not gifted with foresight as his father and brother both were, but he had learned to trust his instincts implicitly. And at the moment, his instincts were rife with warnings about the Fellowship’s next steps. And to think that this is probably only a portion of what Aragorn feels, Boromir reflected, glancing over at the grim Ranger as he secured a bag to Bill’s back. I deem his foresight to be greater than mine, and he has been firmly set against this course from the beginning.

Boromir’s thoughts were then interrupted by Sam’s announcement that breakfast-supper—or supper-breakfast, depending upon who was asked—was ready. Tucking his fears away for the moment, Boromir joined the rest of the company as they ate in silent haste. It was a far cry from normal, and Boromir could not quite suppress a shiver of anxiety. Even the hobbits—who tried to make each meal last as long as possible in an effort to make up for both quality and quantity—finished quickly. Almost before they knew it, the breakfast supplies had been packed and they were ready to depart.

"We must reach the doors before sunset, or I fear we shall not reach them at all," Gandalf said as the Fellowship gathered around him. "It is not far, but our path may be winding, for here Aragorn can not guide us; he has seldom walked in this country, and only once have I been under the west wall of Moria, and that was long ago."

Boromir blinked at this. Up until now, he had been somewhat comforted by the fact that both Aragorn and Gandalf seemed to have an unerring sense of direction. The area was unfamiliar to him, but as long as those guiding their path knew the way, Boromir was able to set aside his natural unease that came with navigating new territory. But the wizard’s announcement about winding paths and inexperienced leaders fanned the growing fear in his heart, and the foreboding that had loomed over him all morning now dimmed the light of the rising sun.

"There it lies," Gandalf continued, seemingly oblivious to the reactions of those around him. Raising a hand, he directed the attention of the Fellowship to the southeast where the base of the mountains still lay shrouded by shadow. Faintly could be discerned a line of cliffs, their faces bare and sheer where they sat at the bottom of the towering peaks. "When we left the pass I led you southwards and not back to our starting point, as some of you may have noticed," the wizard pointed out. "It is well that I did so, for now we have several miles less to cross, and haste is needed. Let us go."

"I do not know which to hope: that Gandalf will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost forever," Boromir sighed, glancing at Aragorn as he spoke though his voice was pitched so that all might hear. The Ranger had already tried to warn them of the danger they faced. Now it was Boromir’s turn. "All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance." He turned his eyes back to Gandalf, making certain that the other had at least listened, though he knew the wizard would not hearken. After a pause, Boromir shook his head and swung his shield up onto his shoulder. "Lead on."

"How much further?"

"Mr. Gandalf said only two or three miles."

"But he said that almost six miles ago."

Sam grimaced and glanced at Pippin, tightening his grip on Bill’s halter when the pony’s hooves slipped slightly on the rock they were scrambling across. "Maybe our reckoning is off and we’re not judging the distance right. I know my mind’s having a bit of trouble taking all this in."

"Even if our reckoning is off, we’ve been walking for more than two or three miles since we asked," Pippin whispered darkly, his eyes turning skyward. "Look at the sun. We’re closing in on noon, and the last time Gandalf said we were close to the stream was at least an hour ago. I may not know much, but I do know that we’re traveling fast enough to have covered more than two or three miles since then."

Sam frowned and looked toward the front of the company where Gandalf and Gimli walked. According to the wizard, there was a trail to Moria that followed the course of a stream, which ran out from the base of the cliffs that had been pointed out earlier that morning. Gandalf’s plan, as near as Sam could tell, was to head south until they found this stream and subsequently the road, which would in turn lead them directly to Moria. It sounded like a good idea to Sam. Going from one landmark to the next made sense, especially after that horrible declaration that no one knew this land well enough to know exactly where they ought to go. But as the Fellowship continued to travel south and neither saw nor heard any sign of this stream, Sam was beginning to wonder about their course.

Beside him, Bill tossed his head restlessly and pawed the ground. Sam quickly laid a hand on his neck, stroking gently and whispering nonsense words to calm the pony. Bill snorted but quieted, obediently following Sam as the hobbit led him over the rocks and through the dry brush, and for this, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Any sound, no matter how slight, seemed to echo for miles around them. It was so quiet! And open. When they’d first set out, Sam had been thankful for the clear skies, enjoying the light of the sun. But as the morning wore one, he’d become aware of just how exposed the Fellowship was. They scrambled over rocks and around brush with nothing overhead to cloak their presence from spying eyes. Sam tried to keep Bill’s feet on dirt as much as possible, but when he was forced to travel over rocks, the sound of the hooves rang out loud and clear in the still morning. Even Pippin’s occasional whispers seemed to become shouts that revealed their location to all.

Readjusting his hold on Bill’s lead rope, Sam shivered and tried to pick up the pace a bit. Fear was overtaking his mind, fueled by the oppressive silence and driven by the slow realization that Gandalf was lost. Pippin was right. By the wizard’s reckoning, they should have found the stream half an hour ago. The distant cliffs Gandalf had pointed toward before they set out seemed as far away now as they had during breakfast. It felt as though they could wander forever in this dismal country and yet never really move a step.

"Maybe we should say something," Pippin hissed.

Sam thought about that for a moment but then shook his head. "I don’t think we’re the only ones who are concerned," he said, keeping his voice low. "And as no one else is saying anything, maybe we’d best keep our thoughts to ourselves. It could be that Mr. Gandalf’s reckoning is off."

"Which is exactly what we don’t need," Pippin grumbled.

"If we were too far astray, Strider would have said something," Sam argued, speaking more to reassure himself than to reassure his companion.

"Strider is too busy trying to pretend that he doesn’t have a limp."

"He explained that," Sam sighed. "He said—"

"—that he’d turned too sharply during the fight with the Wargs and strained his ankle but that it wouldn’t slow him down or interfere," Pippin finished quietly. "That may be true, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t in pain. And maybe he’s focusing more on that than on—"

"Gandalf!"

Gimli’s sudden call was somewhat muted, but given the complete silence of their surroundings, it seemed almost as loud as one of Gandalf’s fireworks. Bill reared, and Sam hastily pulled him back down, looking around and half-expecting a horde of enemies to descend on them. Judging from the way his fellow hobbits had bunched together and the sharp looks of surprise and wariness on the faces of Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas, Sam wasn’t alone in his fear. Gandalf alone didn’t seem to mind that they’d just shattered the oppressive stillness and moved toward the dwarf without a word of caution or blame. Unable to do anything else, the rest of the Fellowship followed.

Sometime during the past few minutes, Gimli had pulled ahead of the group and now stood atop a small, rocky knoll, his eyes fixed on whatever discovery had prompted him to shout. Coaxing Bill up the incline was not an easy matter as the pony was now skittish and edgy, but Sam wasn’t about to be left at the bottom while everyone else learned what had caused Gimli to cry out. And after some quiet words and the promise of a meal—a meal that Sam hoped would not be far off for both his sake and the horse’s—Bill surged forward, stopping beside Gandalf and Gimli just as the others reached the top of the knoll. And glancing down, Sam quickly saw the reason for Gimli’s shout.

Below them was what appeared to be a narrow trough that at one point had probably contained water. Indeed, a trickle of liquid could be seen in the midst of the hewn stones in the bottom of the deep channel, but that was all. Whatever waters had previously rushed through this course were long gone.

"Ah! Here it is at last!" Gandalf said, nodding with what seemed to be a strange combination of relief and concern. "This is where the stream ran: Sirannon the Gate-stream, they used to call it," the wizard continued, his voice becoming somewhat distant. "But what has happened to the water, I cannot guess; it used to be swift and noisy."

If it were swift and noisy, it might have provided a bit of noise to cover the sound of our traveling, Sam thought dismally, staring at the trough as though he could will it to fill with water by his gaze alone. After the bitterly cold night on Caradhras, the eternal trek down from the mountain during which they were seen by the birds, and the terrible night spent fending off enormous wolves, Sam had been desperately hoping that this day would prove to be a good one. He hadn’t really been expecting anything extraordinary, but even a slight break in the tension would have been very welcome. Unfortunately, it seemed that all their hopes were falling short these days. First Gandalf had been unsure of their road, and now that he had found their road, it seemed that something was wrong with it. Something that Gandalf could not explain. And Sam had learned that when the wizard could not explain something, trouble was usually not far away.

"Come," Gandalf said, breaking the silence that had fallen over all of them. "We must hurry on. We are late."

I still don’t think it would hurt Mr. Gandalf to humor us once in a while, Sam sighed, tugging gently on Bill’s halter as the wizard led the way toward an ancient road that lay beside the empty stream. I’m sure it wouldn’t do any harm to tell us that we were ahead of schedule or making good progress. I know it would do wonders for my spirits.

"I don’t suppose we could stop for a bit of food," Merry said casually. They had reached the broken road and were starting to wind their way around pieces of wall and cracked stone. It was not exactly a good path, but at least now they had a clear trail to follow. Sam decided to be grateful for small miracles.

"Soon, Master Meriadoc," Gandalf answered, his pace quickening slightly.

"Soon?" Pippin grumbled. "And what does that mean, do you think?"

Sam grimaced in sympathy but refrained from answering. He had given up trying to interpret vague or indefinite statements uttered by anyone other than his fellow hobbits. From Boromir’s snow-packed and nearly impassable "lane" to the complete and utter corruption of the word "shelter," it was clear to Sam that the taller members of the Fellowship had decided to create their own language.

"The wizard said we were late," a quiet voice behind Sam spoke. "Know you how late we might be?"

"Nay, this land is unfamiliar to me," Legolas answered softly. "I have seldom journeyed west of the mountains, and I have never traveled here. Aragorn?"

"We have been delayed by our inability to find the trail, that is certainly true," the Ranger murmured, his voice no louder than a sigh. "I am not altogether certain in my judgement, but I believe that if we maintain a good pace, we should still reach the gates by sunset."

Glancing over his shoulder, Sam noted that Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir seemed to be having a conference of sorts. The three walked closely together, and their voices were pitched so that those in front of them would be hard pressed to hear what was said. But what they had failed to take into consideration was the fact that hobbit ears were sharp, and Sam’s were sharper than most. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, who had drawn ahead with Gandalf and Gimli, might not be close enough to listen. But Sam was. And he could not bring himself to ignore the words whispered behind him.

"That thought should gladden my heart, yet it does not," Boromir was saying. "Rather, I feel consumed with dread."

"Would you rather face the wolves than the darkness of the mines?"

"A good question, Ranger. Perhaps if I knew more of this darkness I might be able to answer. What can you tell me of it? For it seems to wear upon your mind."

A long pause followed Boromir’s statement, and Sam risked another glance over his shoulder. Legolas had fallen slightly behind the two men, his eyes scouring their surroundings for signs of enemies, but the tilt of his head indicated that much of his attention was still fixed on the conversation. Boromir was watching Aragorn closely, allowing instinct and skill to guide his feet along the tumbled ruins of the road beneath them. And Aragorn seemed to have turned his concentration inward, his gray eyes unfocused and his brow creased.

"I saw something last night," the Ranger whispered at length. "Something in my dreams. I believe it was something that lies within Moria."

"Can you describe what you saw?" Legolas asked, his voice so soft that Sam had difficulty hearing it.

"Darkness. Naught but darkness. Yet this darkness was not born of shadow or night. Rather, it had a source. It had strength and presence. Almost I could feel its thoughts as they bent towards me."

"And you believe that this darkness will pose a danger to us?" Boromir asked.

"Yes, but more specifically, it shall pose a danger to Gandalf. I have sensed this for days now, and I believe my dreams confirm it. But he will not listen to me when I speak of it."

"Were he to heed you, what would you have him do?" Legolas said. "Few choices are left to us. I do not wish this path, but I do not see another option."

"You do not have to go with us," Aragorn murmured. "You agreed to go only as far as the mountain passes."

"And leave you to the devices of a dwarven mine? Nay, that I cannot do. I will not leave the Ring-bearer now. My own people need me, that is true. But for the moment, I am of more use to them here than I am at home. Should we survive the mines, then I shall see where my path takes me."

Sam felt a slight easing of the tension that had fallen over his heart. He remembered Elrond saying that both Legolas and Gimli had been willing to go as far as the mountains. It was plain from Gimli’s enthusiasm that the dwarf was also willing to braves the mines, but Legolas was another matter. Sam had secretly been wondering if the Fellowship was going to lose one of its members, and his heart was lighter knowing that the elf would tarry with them at least a little longer. Sam didn’t understand all of what Aragorn had said, but he knew enough to know that the Ranger was worried. Anything that Aragorn found threatening was certain to be something dangerous, and if it was something that could be dangerous to even Gandalf…

Sam shook his head. Whatever Aragorn feared wasn’t here yet, and until it was, he wouldn’t concern himself with it. Some things were better left unknown until there was no avoiding them. And perhaps the Ranger was wrong. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to be feared and they were working themselves up over nothing. Perhaps fortune had decided to favor the Fellowship.

And perhaps my old Gaffer will grow himself a pair of wings and learn to fly, a small and disturbingly cynical voice in the back of Sam’s mind replied.

Trudging along stoically behind Gandalf and Gimli as the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, Frodo wondered if the amount of time spent on a meal was somehow directly related to the amount of strength that was gained from said meal. He was exhausted, and as their road had not been unduly difficult this day, the only reason Frodo could think of was that they hadn’t stopped long enough when they paused for lunch. It had been one of the briefest meals he could remember on this trip.

Although, I suppose my weariness might be due to the failed trip up the mountain and the harried night with the Wargs, Frodo reflected, stopping briefly to readjust his pack before summoning the strength to continue.

It was some measure of consolation to Frodo that he was not the only member of the Fellowship who seemed tired. Sam’s feet were also dragging, though he was fortunate enough to have the excuse of having to lead Bill around the various obstacles in their path. Merry and Pippin were also much slower today, and as they did not have the excuse of a pony to explain their faltering steps, they had begun quietly arguing with one another. To them, this was an acceptable reason for a more relaxed pace, and as the afternoon wore one, the rest of the Fellowship had begun to reluctantly indulge them. It was a sign that the hobbits were not the only weary travelers, and aside from that, the soft bickering served to break up the silence that had crept over the land.

Frodo could hear their voices now, though the rear of the party had fallen somewhat behind the three in the lead. At the moment, the topic of debate seemed to be the cliff that ran a stone’s throw away to the left of their trail. Pippin was protesting Merry’s words of warning about heights, arguing that he was not unusually prone to tumbling down rocky inclines and that his fall several days ago had been a singular occurrence. The occasional comment from Sam kept the conversation going while the muted chuckles and asides on the part of Aragorn and Boromir testified that Merry and Pippin were managing to lift the spirits of the party. It was probably a good thing that Legolas had disappeared an hour ago on a scouting run or he might have found himself bearing the brunt of some good-natured jests concerning his own fall into the ravine.

Smiling and shaking his head, Frodo thought about stopping to wait for the others so that he might join the conversation. Gandalf and Gimli were rather dour company at the moment, and Frodo was feeling the need for a bit of mirth that might break through his gloom. But even as he considered the idea, he decided against it. The Fellowship was on this journey because of what he bore, and as Its bearer, he felt it was his duty to know something of their situation. That meant staying close to Gandalf, who was currently the one most familiar with their trail.

And part of staying close to Gandalf means keeping Gandalf in sight, Frodo admonished himself as the wizard and the dwarf turned a sharp bend up in front of him and disappeared from view. Hastening after them, Frodo hurried around the bend and quickly skidded to a halt, almost running into the back of Gimli, who was no longer moving forward. Struggling to catch his breath, Frodo shifted to the side and wondered what had caused his companions to stop so suddenly.

He found himself looking up at a towering cliff face that had been worn down until it was almost completely smooth. A trickle of water tumbled down the middle of the stone, though judging from the cut of the top of the cliff, there had once been a sizeable waterfall here.

"There are records of this place, and I have heard stories of the western Gate," Gimli said quietly, his eyes dark as he looked at the sorry remnants of the waterfall. "But based on descriptions, I saw things quite differently in my mind’s eye. Either things have changed, or we are once again off in our reckoning."

"Indeed things have changed. But there is no mistaking the place," Gandalf answered, and in his voice was a slight note of uncertainty that made Frodo’s stomach jump. "There is all that remains of the Stair Falls. If I remember right, there was a flight of steps cut in the rock at their side, but the main road wound away left and climbed with several loops up to the level ground at the top. There used to be a shallow valley beyond the falls right up to the Walls of Moria, and the Sirannon flowed through it with the road beside it." The wizard paused, considering the sheer rock before them, and then he seemed to shake himself. "Let us go and see what things are like now."

Frodo was of the opinion that they should wait for the rest of the Fellowship to catch up before they went off to investigate anything out of the ordinary, but neither Gandalf nor Gimli looked as though they were in any mood to wait. With a sigh, the hobbit decided that whatever happened, he was probably safer in their company than waiting alone at the base of the cliff. Readjusting the straps of his pack, he swallowed his hesitation and followed.

They found the flight of steps that Gandalf had mentioned off to the left of the waterfall’s remnants, partially hidden from the light of the setting sun by the shadows of the cliffs. In days when water had actually flowed, these steps might have been wet from the spray, but now they were dry and dusty, as though none had dared to use them for years uncounted. Frodo found himself drawing back and even Gandalf seemed to pause as though considering the wisdom of his actions. But Gimli held no such reservations and quickly climbed the stairs, sparing neither a glance nor a word for his two companions. With a shake of his head and a muffled sigh, Gandalf followed the dwarf, and Frodo had no choice but to take up the rear.

Frodo found himself wondering if these steps had indeed been built by dwarves, for while they were broad and sturdy, they were also quite steep. They didn’t seem to slow Gimli at all, who had reached the top by now, but surely a dwarf might have found shorter steps to be easier. Of course, dwarves are not known for going about things the easy way, Frodo remembered, calling to mind some of the things he’d seen and heard from dwarves who’d come to visit Bag End over the years. And Gandalf and Legolas said something about this land having elves at one point. Maybe the dwarves built these steps to prove that they didn’t need any special treatment from the elves. That would make quite a bit of sense.

Gandalf had now reached the top and stood next to Gimli, and gathering his strength, Frodo mounted the last few steps with a burst of energy. He took a moment to enjoy the colors reflected off the top of the snow-capped peaks as the sun prepared to plunge below the horizon, and then he turned his attention to what lay in front of him, namely a large and rather dismal lake.

"That explains where all the water’s gone," Frodo murmured. Looking to his right, he saw a crude dam of logs and rocks that allowed only a thin trickle of water to escape over what used to be the Stair Falls. "I don’t suppose this pond is as big as the one in your stories, Gimli."

"There is no pond in the stories," Gimli answered, his voice quiet and troubled. "Dwarven memory recalls this place as Gandalf said. There should be a shallow valley with the Sirannon running through it. But someone or something has changed that, though for what purpose, I cannot guess."

"Whatever purpose they had, we must hope that it does not interfere with our quest," Gandalf said. He pointed across the lake where the smooth faces of imposing cliffs rose up from the base of the water. "There are the Walls of Moria. And there the Gate stood once upon a time, the elven door at the end of the road from Hollin by which we have come. But this way is blocked. None of the company, I guess, will wish to swim this gloomy water at the end of the day. It has an unwholesome look."

Unwholesome seemed a rather mild way of putting it, in Frodo’s opinion. There was something altogether wrong with the murky water. The sky and the mountains were basked in the light of the setting sun, taking on its fiery colors with enthusiasm. But the lake reflected none of that. It was still and quiet. No ripple marred its dark surface, and no hint of life stirred in its fathomless depths.

"We must find a way round the northern edge," Gimli said at length, shaking off whatever mood had fallen over him. "The first thing for the company to do is to climb up by the main path and see where that will lead us. Even if there were no lake, we could not get our baggage pony up this stair."

"But in any case we cannot take the poor beast into the Mines," Gandalf said, looking at Frodo as he spoke. "The road under the mountains is a dark road, and there are places narrow and steep where he cannot tread, even if we can."

Frodo gaped, his mouth opening wide in a soundless protest, but he seemed incapable of giving voice to his thoughts. What was Gandalf suggesting? That they leave the pony outside the mines? That they abandon him miles from anyone who might be able to look after him? But even as he began to construct an argument in his mind, the words Elrond had spoken just prior to their departure from Rivendell came to him. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will.

And that was it. Bill was one of the free companions that Elrond had named. And Gandalf had just explained that the pony could not venture into the mines as there were places he could not walk. The further he went, the harder it would be to let him go. If they actually took him into the mines themselves and were forced to abandon him in the darkness, he would have almost no chance of ever seeing safety again. To set him loose now was their only real option. "Poor old Bill!" Frodo whispered, looking back and noting that the other members of the Fellowship had caught up to them and were now congregating at the base of the stairs. "I had not thought of that. And poor Sam! I wonder what he will say."

"I am sorry," Gandalf sighed. "Poor Bill has been a useful companion and it goes to my heart to turn him adrift now. I would have traveled lighter and brought no animal, least of all this one that Sam is fond of, if I had had my way. I feared all along that we should be obliged to take this road."

"Should we…" Frodo hesitated, his eyes drawn to Sam and Bill where they stood somewhat separated from the rest of the group. "Should we set him free now?"

"Nay, not yet," Gandalf answered. "Let us take him with us around the lake. That way there will be an obstacle between him and pursuit."

Frodo nodded mutely, and he felt a strong hand come down upon his shoulder in a silent gesture of comfort. Smiling briefly at Gimli for the gesture, he let out a deep breath and stepped away. "We should go back down, then, and tell them what we’re doing."

"Yes, let us go down again," Gandalf said, glancing back at the cliffs across the lake. "Evening has come upon us. We must make haste."

The trip back down the stairs was not nearly as tiring as the trip up had been, but it was more dangerous. The sunlight was all but gone, and Frodo half suspected that the steps had become even steeper. But through care, caution, and a sense that Gimli was getting rather impatient behind him, Frodo made it to the bottom and breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of the Fellowship drifted toward him, and he noted that Legolas had rejoined the group at some point. The elf’s face was inscrutable, but something in his eyes spoke of unease. Frodo wondered if the archer had found something during his scouting trip, but hesitated to ask. There was tension enough without adding to it, and if Legolas chose not to speak, Frodo would not press the issue.

"Where now?" Pippin asked as Gandalf descended from the last step. "We wondered if we should come up after you, but we didn’t think we could coax Bill up those stairs."

"It is well that you did not follow us, for this way is blocked," the wizard answered. "We must turn north for a bit and climb up the slopes. There is a lake above, which is why there is no stream in the channel. But the lake stands between us and the Walls of Moria. We must search for a way around it. Come!"

With many a grunt and a moan from the tired hobbits—and Frodo was not too proud to admit that some of those grunts and moans came from him—the Fellowship began to scramble up the slopes to the north of the Stair Falls. Surprisingly enough, they made good time. Perhaps sensing that the object of their struggles was growing near granted them additional energy. In any case, it was not long before the Fellowship reached the edge of the lake, and from there they hastened along its shore. The southern end of the lake could not be seen in the fading light, but the northern end was not far away and a stretch of dry ground could be seen that would take them to the other side.

Now they rushed forward, all thoughts of a leisurely pace forgotten. Their goal was not only within sight but almost within reach, and this leant strength to their weary legs. The ominous darkness of the path they were about to tread lingered in Frodo’s mind, but in some ways it was better than the darkness of the path behind him. It felt as though something was watching their movements and tracking their progress. Frodo was not certain of his feelings but he knew he would feel much better if he put stone between himself and possible pursuit.

It was at that point that the leading members of the Fellowship came to a sudden stop, and for the second time that day, Frodo was barely able to avoid slamming into Gimli’s back. Annoyed with the delay now that he had his heart set on moving forward, Frodo stepped around Gimli and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a groan.

They were blocked again.

A portion of the lake had spilled over into their path and created a broad stream that vanished against the darkness of the surrounding cliffs. In the last of the sunlight, Frodo could see that this stream was now green and stagnant, as still as the lake. It was not impossibly wide, but the stench of the water had caused everyone to pause.

Gimli was the first to move. To Frodo, the dwarf seemed as one driven by some great errand, and he had been so ever since Gandalf’s announcement that they would have to take the road through the Moria. It was as though Moria had become a personal quest or vendetta of sorts, and nothing would deter Gimli from entering the darkness of his father’s halls. To this end, he walked into the filthy waters of the stream, stepping with care and slipping once, but righting his balance quickly. After a moment, the dwarf looked back at the Fellowship, his eyes glinting in the sun’s final rays.

"It is not deep," he said. "We can wade easily enough."

Frodo shook his head, looking at the foul stream in dismay, but there was nothing to be done. Gimli had turned and was making his way toward the opposite bank, Gandalf was already wading through, and Merry and Pippin were following, albeit with great reluctance. Boromir went next, a slight grumbling beneath his breath revealing that he was not exactly happy about the situation, and Legolas followed him, walking quickly with a strange stiffness that was very much at odds with his usual grace. Gritting his teeth, Frodo steadied himself and followed.

He could not hold back a shiver when his foot touched the water, and he almost slipped because of it. Fortunately he regained his balance and continued forward, moving as quickly as he could given the slippery stones beneath him. The rocks were slimy and choked with weeds that seemed to cling and grasp. By the time he reached the shore, Frodo’s empty stomach was staging a violent rebellion, and it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and heaving. Trying to put as much space between himself and the water as possible, Frodo hurried toward the rest of the gathered Fellowship as Aragorn moved out of the water while Sam quietly talked Bill through the ordeal. The pony was halfway across the stream and obviously disgusted with the situation, but Sam’s firm, calming voice kept Bill moving forward. After a few stumbles and slips that were nearly disastrous, Sam and Bill stepped up onto dry land, both intensely relieved to have put the dark water behind them.

And then they heard the plop.

It was a noise so slight that in other circumstances it might have gone unnoticed. But the strained nerves of the Fellowship had resulted in acute senses, and all turned to stare at the lake. Far away toward the center, something disturbed the surface of the water. Dark rings began to spread outward, and then came a sound of bubbling. Frodo’s hand went to the hilt of his sword and he noticed that his companions were also reaching for their weapons. But then the noise stopped, and the lazy ripples were all that remained. The sun plunged behind moving clouds upon the horizon, and night began to draw its shroud over the mountains.

"Come," Gandalf hissed, startling them all. "We must hasten."

To this counsel, all seemed to agree, but Frodo hesitated for a moment, his eyes drawn to the lake. And as he watched, he gradually became aware that he was not the only one who lingered. Off to his right he could see the shadowy forms of Aragorn and Legolas, who were also watching the waters.

"What do you feel?" Aragorn whispered, apparently heedless of Frodo’s presence.

"I have felt naught but foreboding since yesterday," the elf answered grimly. "That feeling has not changed. As for this lake, it is foul and dark, but more than that, I cannot say."

"Then can you hear or see anything?" Aragorn pressed, apparently unsatisfied with the answer.

Legolas paused and then shook his head. "I can see nothing, but I hear the water shifting, as though something beneath the surface stirs. But I do not know if this is a trick of the wind or if we have roused something that was better left sleeping." He fell silent and then turned his eyes away from the lake, looking back over the direction they’d come. "There are many sounds scarce to be heard this night, heir of Isildur," he murmured. "Not all of them come from the direction of the pool."

"What sounds?" the Ranger demanded. "I hear nothing."

"Some of these sounds are too distant for your ears, but they are not too distant for mine. I wondered if it was perhaps a trick of the wind as it wandered through canyons in the mountains, but there is not wind enough for the number of sounds I am now hearing. I discovered evidence of it while scouting, and now I am sure. The Wargs have returned, Aragorn. They have found our trail, and they are following."

All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance.

Boromir’s words, spoken as they had left camp that morning, came back to Frodo, and he shivered as the cold hand of fear clutched at his heart. Looking back at the lake, he searched for signs that the water was moving, but whatever Legolas detected, it was beyond Frodo’s ability to sense. Shivering once again, the hobbit decided that he’d heard far too much for his own comfort and turned away, hurrying after the rest of the Fellowship.

Mithrandir, ú-cenin—Mithrandir, I cannot see

Additional Author’s Notes: For those of you interested in such things, here is the reason for the delay in posting this chapter. It’s really quite simple: I’ve been sick. Now, when I say sick, I don’t mean a cold or something that a few days in bed could cure. I mean that for the last five weeks I have been almost unable to stand up on my own two feet. Staying awake for more than two hours at a time was a nearly impossible task. I managed to keep up on my email (somewehat) and I continued posting on the various boards that I visit (I would have gone insane otherwise), but working on my stories was far too exhausting a task.

Fortunately, I seem to be getting better, so maybe now I can get my life back under control. But if subsequent updates are delayed, it’s probably because I’m still recovering. Or relapsing. (I’ve already done that once.) Or caught up with an insane amount of work and chores that have been neglected over the past weeks. Anyway, there are reasons. I just didn’t want any of you to think that I’d abandoned my stories. I haven’t. Sorry to have kept you waiting for so long! And thanks for all your support! The reviews and emails helped me keep in touch with some semblance of a world beyond my bed, and they encouraged me to keep writing, which definitely helped the boredom. Thanks again!!!

Author’s Notes: As an upfront warning, this chapter has quite a bit of dialogue taken directly from the books. For reference, we’re on pages 361-368 of Ballantine’s 50^th Anniversary paperback edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. Additionally, there is a small bit of action taken from an early Tolkien manuscript that never made it into the final version of FotR. The reference for this comes from The Treason of Isengard (vol. 7 in the History of Middle-earth series), page 180 of the Houghton Mifflin 2000 edition. A brief discussion of what this action was and the reasons for its inclusions can be found at the bottom. But in the meantime, bonus points go out to those of you who can spot the event without reading the author’s notes at the end and without looking in HOME for the answer.

January 13, 3019 (Evening)

Aragorn wondered how elves could claim to be creatures of such light and grace while at the same time retaining the ability to make the darkness deeper with naught more than a simple pronouncement. For that was what Legolas had done. By confirming that the Wargs were closing upon their position and that there was now no way back, the elf had turned a dismal situation into a horrid one. Not that the situation wouldn’t have become horrid on its own if given enough time. The stagnant lake beside them was making Aragorn’s spine curl, the tension within the Fellowship was so thick it could be cut with a blade, and they were about to enter Moria, a place whose very name conjured images so black that Aragorn still shook to think of it. But even given these things, it had somehow been the elf that had pushed the outlook from dismal to horrid, and that was a worrisome omen. Nor does not help that we have had worrisome omens aplenty, the Ranger sighed. This is but another to add to the pile. At what point, I wonder, does a hill of omens become a mountain?

"You are uneasy," Legolas murmured.

"Do I appear so to you?"

The elf raised a brow and his eyes moved down to Aragorn's left hand, which was wrapped tightly about his sword hilt. "Dismiss me if you wish, but that does not make my words untrue."

"We are all uneasy," Aragorn said, forcing himself to release the weapon.

"That is certainly true, but your fears seem more focused than mine. And while you did speak of your forebodings, I saw naught more in your dream than a caution to be wary. That hardly explains either your anxiety or your earlier actions of denial. What have you neglected to tell us, Ranger?"

Aragorn grimaced as Legolas's words called to mind last moments of his dream from the previous night. The memory of what he'd seen had faded upon waking, but he could still recall clearly the fear that had overwhelmed his mind.

"Aragorn?"

"More than you’d like, but less than you’d want," Aragorn said quietly.

Legolas's sharp glance fell upon him like a spear. "That answer was more appropriate for an elf than for a man."

"An ordinary man, perhaps. But a Ranger is not an ordinary man."

"True enough. An ordinary man could not endure the trials that you have faced. Nor could an ordinary man endure the foresight that is both your gift and your curse." Keen elven eyes studied Aragorn for a long moment, and then Legolas turned to look out over the lake. "If you feel it serves the Fellowship best to keep your silence, so be it. Time flits swiftly by, and I will not press you. But should you ever decide otherwise, know that I am willing to listen."

"If my foresight reveals more, I will tell you of it," Aragorn promised, relieved that Legolas was not going to force the topic. The Ranger found himself uncomfortable discussing anything that had to do with either the immediate future or with Moria in general. His own visit to the vast dwarven mines was now foremost in his thoughts, and a shiver rolled down his back ere he could stop it. Attempting to push the dark memories to the side, he shook his head and nodded toward the rest of the Fellowship. "Come. We must not let the others draw too far ahead."

He felt more than heard Legolas fall into step behind him. The elf’s presence was a comforting whisper on the edge of his perception, especially when compared with the growing sense of dread that signaled the approach of Wargs. But even Legolas could not stem the darkness that threatened to consume Aragorn. He tried to ignore the nightmarish memories that kept bobbing to the surface of his mind, but no matter how often he fought these memories back, they continued to return.

Darkness was what he remembered most from his previous journey to the mines. Darkness was sometimes all he remembered. But that was enough, and usually far too much. The darkness he’d felt within Moria had been more than the simple absence of light. There had been a source for the shadows, much as the sun might be a source for daylight. Aragorn had been unable to find this source, nor had he spent much time looking for it. It was buried in the depths, and Aragorn had been more than willing to let it remain there. But it had marked him, all the same. Just as one might feel the sunlight brush against both skin and soul, so too had the darkness of the ancient stronghold wrapped itself around Aragorn. For weeks after leaving the mines, he had been forced to sleep during the day, haunted by the memory of living night and unable to close his eyes when darkness covered the land.

What few other memories he retained from the mines were almost completely overshadowed by the darkness that had watched him unceasingly. Few things could frighten the average Ranger—if indeed any Ranger could be considered average—and even fewer things could frighten Aragorn. But Moria… Aragorn fought back a shiver. He would much rather face the jaws of the hungry Wargs than the passages of Moria. The slight chance that this road might see the Ring safely beyond the mountains kept him going, for the Quest still took priority over Aragorn’s fears. But only just.

His eyes strayed to Gandalf as the wizard led the Fellowship to a section of the cliff face containing smooth, vertical walls, devoid of any cracks or scars. They were close to the Doors. There was no sign of an entryway, but Aragorn knew that they were near. His senses were prickling, and the light of the waning moon seemed to pale and dim. Fool, Aragorn moaned, his thoughts directed toward the wizard. You sense the danger even as I do. You must! And yet you pay it no heed. My friend, this is madness. Surely you see it! Know you not how much we depend upon your guidance? Know you not how much power you grant us with your very presence? Know you not your own worth?!

As if hearing the anguished demands, Gandalf paused and turned back, his eyes locking with Ranger’s. The moment did not last long and Gandalf soon turned away again, but the brief glance had been just long enough for Aragorn to glimpse something akin to weary acceptance in the wizard’s eyes.

Not knowing what to make of this, Aragorn gave himself a mental shake and tried to turn his attention elsewhere. It was no good resisting the inevitable. Gandalf would find the hidden doors, Aragorn had no doubts about that, and then they would enter the dwarven mines. The Fellowship was committed to Moria. All other ways were closed to them. Aragorn knew this. He knew that he could not keep denying it. He knew he had to accept this fate. He did not have to like or understand it, but he did have to accept it. To do anything else now would be foolish. And so with a shake of his head that did not shake away his grave misgivings, Aragorn silently followed the wizard until Gandalf came to a stop at the foot of two enormous holly trees.

They had passed a few rotting remains of holly trees before now, and the ground underfoot was littered with cracked branches and limbs. A meter or so out in the foul lake, several stumps could be seen, silent and still as the water gently lapped against the decaying wood. Only the two trees beside the cliff face itself remained, and Aragorn could not help but feel a swell of kinship for them as well as grief for the passing of their companions. Towering overhead with their roots spreading wide until they disappeared beneath the filthy waters, the surviving trees stood straight and tall in open defiance of the darkness that had taken the others. Aragorn’s mind turned instantly to his fellow Rangers, remembering lives that had been lost and the desperation of those left behind.

"Well, here we are at last!" Gandalf said, interrupting Aragorn’s thoughts. Judging from the twitch of Legolas’s head and Boromir’s slight start, Aragorn was not the only one whose mind had turned elsewhere. "Here the elven-way from Hollin ended," the wizard continued. "Holly was the token of the people of that land, and they planted it here to mark the end of their domain; for the West-door was made chiefly for their use in their traffic with the Lords of Moria. Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship at times between folk of difference race, even between dwarves and elves."

That last statement had been made with a rather pointed look toward Legolas and Gimli, and Aragorn felt himself tensing. Legolas was clearly reluctant to enter the mines, and Gimli’s obvious enthusiasm had done nothing for the elf’s mood. In a similar vein, the dwarf seemed to be upset that none of the others shared his desire to learn what had happened to his lost kin, and Legolas was not helping matters by continually hanging behind the group as though wanting to stay as far away from their destination as possible.

"It was not the fault of the dwarves that the friendship waned," Gimli murmured, folding his arms across his chest and sending a challenging glare in Legolas’s direction. Aragorn winced.

"I have not heard that it was the fault of the elves," Legolas answered, lifting his chin slightly as he spoke. Aragorn winced again and prepared to step between the two.

"I have heard both," Gandalf said sharply, and his voice took on a commanding tone that reminded Aragorn very much of Glorfindel. "And I will not give judgement now. But I beg you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends, and to help me. I need you both. The doors are shut and hidden, and the sooner we find them, the better. Night is at hand."

It was a final plea for an end to the feuding, and Aragorn fancied he heard a slight hint of desperation hidden deep within the wizard’s voice. He fears the mines more than he shows, the Ranger realized. Would that he might fear them enough to forsake them.

Perhaps also hearing Gandalf’s hint of desperation and recognizing it for what it was, Gimli and Legolas both took a step back and looked away. It was not exactly agreement, but it signaled a potential truce, and Aragorn fought off a sigh of relief. Looking similarly relieved, Gandalf nodded and then turned his attention to the rest of the Fellowship.

"While I am searching, will you each make ready to enter the Mines?" the wizard instructed. "For here I fear we must say farewell to our good beast of burden. You must lay aside much of the stuff that we brought against bitter weather: you will not need it inside, nor, I hope, when we come through and journey on down into the South. Instead each of us must take a share of what the pony carried, especially the food and the water-skins."

Stunned silence met this announcement, and Aragorn found himself turning wary eyes upon Sam. The thought of leaving their pony on the doorsteps of Moria was something that should have occurred to Aragorn before now, but his mind had been occupied with other concerns. Still, it was a logical decision. They couldn’t take the poor animal into the mines where water and food would be rationed and where they would meet with obstacles that the pony could not overcome. Aragorn doubted that Sam would see it that way, though.

"But you can’t leave poor old Bill behind in this forsaken place, Mr. Gandalf!" the gardener roared, confirming Aragorn’s fears. The hobbit’s expression was a mask of anger, and his fists were clenched tightly about Bill’s lead rope. "I won’t have it, and that’s flat. After he has come so far and all!"

"I am sorry, Sam," Gandalf said, his voice gentle yet firm. "But when the Door opens I do not think you will be able to drag your Bill inside, into the long dark of Moria. You will have to choose between Bill and your master."

"He’d follow Mr. Frodo into a dragon’s den, if I led him," Sam replied hotly, eyes shining with both defiance and tears. "It’d be nothing short of murder to turn him loose with all these wolves about."

The rest of the Fellowship watched this exchange in silence, and Aragorn studied each member in turn. Legolas and Boromir appeared to accept the necessity of leaving Bill behind, but neither looked happy about the prospect. Gimli was difficult to read, yet almost it seemed as though he’d expected this, and Frodo appeared likewise. Perhaps Gandalf had said something to both of them earlier. Or perhaps they had reached the conclusion on their own, as Aragorn should have. Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, had clearly been caught off guard and were looking at Gandalf with mutinous expressions, making certain that all knew they favored Sam in this argument.

"It will be short of murder, I hope," Gandalf said quietly, addressing not only Sam but also Merry and Pippin. His eyes spoke of confidence, and after a moment, Merry sighed and looked away. A short while later, Pippin followed his example, leaving only Sam, whose anger seemed to be trading places with fear. Gandalf now focused his attention completely on the gardener and stepped toward Bill, placing a large hand upon the pony’s head. "Go with words of guard and guiding on you," Gandalf intoned, his words so soft that Aragorn had to strain to hear him. Bill’s ears pricked up, and he became completely motionless as the wizard spoke. "You are a wise beast, and have learned much in Rivendell. Make your ways to places where you can find grass, and so come in time to Elrond’s house, or wherever you wish to go."

Gandalf lifted his hand and stepped back. Bill’s tail swished as he tossed his head once, almost as though in acknowledgement, and Aragorn wondered how much of this the pony understood.

"There, Sam," Gandalf said, sounding somewhat weary. "He will have quite as much chance of escaping wolves and getting home as we have."

And what chance is that? Aragorn thought bitterly before he could stop himself. He was usually able to find a glimmer of hope in every situation, but the threat of Moria looming in his mind made the shadows difficult to ignore.

Sam seemed to be having similar thoughts, for he did not appear remotely comforted by Gandalf’s words. He stood as though frozen, his eyes swimming, until Bill whickered softly and butted Sam with his head, nuzzling his neck and blowing gently upon his hair. It was the last straw for Sam, who finally loosed his tears with a choking sob and groped blindly at the buckles that would release Bill’s halter.

"Divide the goods as evenly as you can," someone murmured at Aragorn’s side, and he turned to find Gandalf at his elbow. "But do not overburden the hobbits, and do not take more than is necessary. Much should remain here, for we can obtain more supplies after leaving the mines."

Aragorn nodded and the wizard left, moving back toward the wall. By now, Sam had managed to get Bill’s halter off and was working at the packs on his back, still shaking under the force of tears. Frodo, Pippin, and Merry had moved to help, but the rest seemed reluctant to intrude. At length, Legolas took off his own pack and handed it to Aragorn.

"I can carry far more than I have been given," the elf said quietly. "I trust you to add whatever you think necessary. I am going to retrace our footsteps along the lake and move away from these cliffs. Hopefully I will be able to better hear the Wargs where sounds do not echo so."

Sounds of the fell wolves had yet to reach Aragorn’s ears, but he knew better than to doubt Legolas. "How close are they?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"That is what I mean to learn," Legolas answered, his gray eyes dark with concern.

"I will accompany you," a new voice said, and Aragorn suddenly found himself holding Boromir’s pack as well. "None should wander alone."

"I welcome your presence," Legolas said, dipping his head at Boromir. "Come, then, and let us depart. We must be swift."

"Do not stray far," Aragorn warned. Most of the pony’s packs were now on the ground, and Gimli had joined the hobbits in going through their contents. "We will not take long, and we should enter the mines shortly."

"Valar willing, we shall return ere Gandalf opens the Doors," Legolas promised before slipping away into the night. Boromir followed him and the two were soon no more than shadows silently moving up the shore of the lake.

As if by signal, a chill wind began to blow.