To say Gandalf was surprised to see King Elrond standing at the gates of Moria would’ve been a gross understatement indeed. He was so surprised that he stopped dead in his tracks. Pippin, as usual, paid no mind to where he trod and crashed into the mage’s scrawny back.
        “L-lord Elrond,” he stammered, “I did not expect to find you here.”
        “Nor did I expect to be here, I assure you,” he answered, stepping forward from the shadows of dusk. “However, something has happened that requires my immediate attention, and I am on my way to Lothlorien. I was hoping to travel there with the company.”
        Out loud he said, “We’d be honored, Your Majesty,” but privately he was gravely worried. Lord Elrond never left Rivendell, not even under threat of orc attack. Whatever business he had in Lothlorien must be of the utmost importance. The venerable elf looked gaunt and distracted. Clearly something was amiss, and he intended to get to the bottom of things. “What troubles you, sire?”
        “Nothing I wish to discuss at the moment,” he said abruptly, but Gandalf saw his eyes flick furtively to Legolas.
        Legolas, too, saw the look, and he rested his hand on Elrond’s forearm. “Sire, is all well with my father?” he asked.
        Elrond smiled thinly. “To my knowledge, your father is well. I have heard no ill tidings.” He turned to go.
        “My wife, then?” he continued.
        Gandalf thought he saw the great elven king blanch, but the king answered, “My dear nephew, you worry yourself needlessly. I have received no word from Mirkwood, for good or for ill. Turn your mind to more pressing concerns, such as how we are to open the entrance to the mines.”
        “That is quite a simple matter, King Elrond,” said Gandalf, sensing he wanted to change the subject. “According to these inscriptions, we need only wait until the moon shines her light, and the way shall be revealed.”
        “Alas, the moon shall not rise for another three-quarters of an hour,” sighed Elrond. “Come Gandalf, my old friend, let us take a walk and discuss things, for I am sure much has come to pass.”
        As they walked off into the quiet seclusion of an outcropping of boulders, Elrond saw Legolas’ keen eyes following their every move. He suspects something, said the dreadful voice inside his head. Of course he did. Legolas was anything but stupid, and he himself had always been a terrible liar. He doubted he’d be able to conceal the truth for long.
        When they had ducked behind the outcropping, Elrond dropped listlessly to the ground. He rubbed shaking hands over his pale, exhausted face. “Oh Gandalf,” he cried, “how can I begin to express the magnitude of the tragedy I have wrought by my arrogance?” He kneaded his temples with trembling fingers.
        “Of what do you speak?” asked Gandalf. He had never seen King Elrond so disconcerted.
        “My nephew I have deceived,” he said in a dry, cracked voice.
        “Not very well,” pointed out his companion.
        “Three weeks ago,” continued Elrond as though he hadn’t heard, “Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, came to Rivendell in search of him.”
        “Why would she embark on such a journey? Most elven wives are quite content to stay behind.”
        Elrond gave a tired smile. “Saryn is no ordinary woman. In my brief acquaintance with her, I found her to be quite determined. And she had elven law on her side.”
        “I do not understand,” said Gandalf, reaching for his pipe.
        “She was with child. Three weeks along, according to the midwives who examined her.”
        “That’s splendid. Does Legolas know?”
        “I’m almost certain he does not. The date of conception falls upon the same day as his departure for Rivendell. Neither of them would have known by then. But that is not the worst of it.”
        “Oh?” said Gandalf, intrigued and uneasy.
        “Indeed. I refused to tell her whither he had gone, and she flew into a rage. In a moment of haste as I tried to reason with her, I let slip from my tongue his whereabouts. Like a fool I had her locked in the tower and ignored her heartfelt cries. I was arrogant in my power. I should have explained all to her as best I could. She made me pay for my presumptuousness. After three days, she escaped with the help of one of my own sentries, wounding many men and beasts.”
        “Surely you captured her again and explained all?”
        “No. I did not. I feared more bloodshed and damage to her or the unborn should I intervene. I let her go. In doing so, I had hoped to spare my nephew a great hurt, but I have instead caused one greater. I have reason to believe that, in desperation to reach her beloved before he crossed into Mordor, she has gone into the Bay of Basylis.”
        “Surely not!” cried Gandalf, nearly dropping his pipe. His face had gone the color of bleached parchment. “She is too young to know of that place.”
        “Still your voice,” hissed Elrond, alarmed. “Elven ears are sharp indeed.” He peered anxiously around the outcropping. Sure enough, Legolas’ gray eyes were riveted to where they sat. “I hoped as you, but the grandfather of her sentry is a collector of ancient lore, and he has surely spoken of it to Telvryn.”
        “This is terrible news,” muttered Gandalf, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe. “Have you hope that she yet lives?”
        “Precious little,” sighed Elrond. “Legions of strong and brave men have perished in that place. I can see no way that a woman, especially one so young and in such condition, could survive for long. I have sent her and the child to their deaths.” In a move that utterly unnerved the venerable wizard, the king began to weep, silent sobs shaking his thin shoulders.
        “Your Majesty,” he said when he found his voice again, “though it is a great tragedy, I do not see why you punish yourself so severely. You only did what you thought best.”
        “I have slain my own with my foolishness and weakness,” he growled, swiping fiercely at his eyes.
        “Countless men have fallen under your command, and yet all those thousand deaths have not affected you so much as this one. Why?”
        “You would not understand,” he answered, and said no more.
        “When do you intend to tell him then?”
        “If there is no sign of her by the time we reach Lothlorien, I will have no choice, though I am not sure how to do such a painful thing.”
        There was an awkward silence, and then Gandalf said, “Ah, look, the moon rises. Let us return to the others and discover the way.” He rose with an effort, and Elrond followed suit a moment later.
        They rejoined the others to find a spectacular sight. Where once there had been only cold black granite, there now stood the outline of a doorway limned in a soft white glow. Above it was an inscription in ancient Elvish, and Elrond repeated it softly to himself.
        “What does it say?” asked Pippin, squinting up at the elegant script.
        “It says, ‘Balin, Lord of Moria commands speak Friend and enter,’” said Gandalf, tracing his hand over the delicate outline.
        “What does that mean?” said Pippin, more perplexed than ever. He had no patience for riddles.
        “Well, it’s simple. You simply say the password and the door opens,” answered the wizard, placing his hands upon the door.
        “Erel D’reth anya sa’il,” he intoned, pressing against the door.
        Nothing happened. The door stayed shut. He tried again with no success. After a third attempt failed, he stepped away from the outline, quite confused. “It appears I need to think about it for a spell before we proceed,” he announced, thoroughly embarrassed.
        For ninety minutes, Gandalf tried one incantation after another to no avail. Elrond noticed that the entire company was watching the little drama with varying degrees of bemusement. All save one. Legolas’ eyes were boring into him like hot steel screws. Try as he might, he could not escape them. He wanted to shrink away from his gaze, the gaze that followed him like a sentence already imposed. But to shrink before his nephew would be an admission of the terrible truth, and that he could not yet face. Instead, he turned and gazed out over the small silver lake that bordered the mines. Its surface was smooth and placid. Perhaps if he concentrated long enough, he could calm his own hectic mind.
        He suspects, jeered the insidious voice of self-doubt that had nested in his mind since the Ring had been rediscovered. What do you think he will do when he finds out that your stupidity has cost him both his beloved wife and his heir? How great will his rage be? What will you do if he dies of grief? How will you explain it to his father, who has despised you more with every breath since the day you stole half of what was rightfully his? Surely he will unleash the armies of Mirkwood upon you. What will you do then? Can you bring yourself to kill King Elendil’s only son, can you disgrace the man who opened his arms to you when the rest of the world shunned you, in such a manner? You have failed Middle Earth a second time, and this time your incompetence shall bring about the destruction of Rivendell.
        He hadn’t realized he was hyperventilating until Pippin, who’d been idly skipping rocks across the pond, spoke.
        “Are you alright, sire?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.
        He was about to answer when Strider appeared and grabbed Pippin’s arm. “Do not disturb the water,” he said, apprehensively scanning the water.
        Elrond turned back to the lake. What had disturbed Strider so? His own keen eyes could detect nothing out of the ordinary. There was a dark patch toward the middle, but that was most likely weeds. It hadn’t moved at all. Before he could investigate further, he was startled by a shout from behind him.
        “It’s a riddle!” cried Frodo, his small voice squeaky with excitement.
        “What?” said Gandalf, rising from the slab of stone upon which he had been ruminating.
        “A riddle! What’s the Elvish word for friend?” The little creature was practically dancing with excitement.
        “Moloch, why?” asked Gandalf.
        No sooner had he spoken than there was an enormous rumbling sound. The smooth black surface of the granite began to splinter and crack, and the great glowing door swung outward.
        “Well done, Frodo,” praised Gandalf, and the hobbit swelled with pride.
        Inside the mine, it was dark, a soulless darkness that seemed to overpower anything within its reach. There was a musty, unused air about the place that unnerved Elrond. Even in a deep mine such as this, there should have been the distant echo of the pickaxe or the surly, boisterous grunts of the dwarves as they toiled. Yet there was nothing, save their own clumsy, tentative footsteps. Even the ground felt wrong, as though they were walking upon gritty, brittle pebbles.
        “There is something wrong here,” called Boromir, giving voice to the disquiet Elrond was feeling.
        “Nonsense,” retorted Gimli. To Legolas he said, “Soon Master elf, you will experience the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. All the ale and beer you can drink, red meat on the bone…” He sounded immensely pleased at the prospect.
        Elrond was not surprised when Legolas gave no answer. He didn’t need light to know that a pair of intense gray eyes was resting upon him. It made the hackles on the back of his neck rise.
        “We shall settle the matter momentarily,” declared Gandalf. There was a rustling, snapping sound, and the corridor was suffused with a soft, eerie light.
        “Elbereth save us,” groaned Elrond when his eyes had adjusted.
        Hundreds, perhaps thousands of skeletons littered the mine floor. Moldering arrows protruded from the skulls and ribcages of most. Some had been decapitated. From their condition, they had been here for quite some time. Gimli was making guttural whining noises as he surveyed the carnage before him. For a moment no one moved, and then Legolas stepped forward and inspected a carcass.
        “Goblins,” he pronounced, prying out an arrow and tossing it away with a grimace of disgust.
        “This is no city, it is a tomb. We should never have come here!” declared Boromir, trying to look in every direction at once. “Run! We make for the Gap of Rohan!”
        As they turned to flee, the dark patch in the lake exploded upward. What Elrond had taken for weeds were in truth monstrous tentacles. They waved wildly, extruding from a giant rounded body that looked like a great leathery turtle shell. Three sets of coal black eyes glared out at them. The largest tentacle lashed out and seized Frodo by his ankle, lifting him high into the air.
        “Strider, help me!” screamed Frodo, swinging ineffectually at the appendage that held him.
        Strider waded gamely into the churning water, drawing his sword. Boromir followed suit, looking for all the world like he was going to be sick. Legolas had drawn his bow and was firing madly at the multitude of slithering, grasping coils, his bowstring twanging feverishly. It was the first time since Elrond had arrived that his attention had been diverted elsewhere, and for that the king was grateful. Sam, having forgotten his small sword in the heat of the moment, was pounding the monster with chubby fists.
        “Let go of Master Frodo, damn you!” he bellowed, punctuating each word with a meaty thud.
        Elrond drew his sword and sprinted into the fray. He grabbed Sam and tucked him under his arm like a parcel, stabbing at the clutching tentacles with his remaining arm as he retreated to shore. Once there, he dropped Sam and stood on his cape to prevent him from returning to the attack. Then he sheathed his sword and drew his bow. He fitted an arrow and took aim at the three sets of pitiless black eyes.
        Four of the eyes disappeared almost instantly, victims of his deadly accuracy, but the last two were blocked by Boromir and Strider, who were hacking mercilessly at the endless stream of slimy tendrils. The water was black with the creature’s blood, but still it fought with a fierce vitality. Gimli was viciously chopping at the monster with his axe, his face contorted with fury. He was no doubt thinking of his fallen kinsmen.
        Overhead, Frodo was still dangling precariously over the creature’s slowly opening mouth. His terrified screams had reached a hysterical pitch. If they didn’t reach him soon, it would be too late.
        Both Legolas and Elrond aimed for the tentacle that held him, and both struck home. The creature screeched and dropped Frodo, who bounced off its smooth head and into Strider’s waiting arms.
        “To the cave,” roared Boromir as they scrambled to shore.
        The fellowship retreated into the cave, the two elves firing parting shots as they went. The creature tried to pursue them, heaving its massive bulk onto the shore and scuttling after them on its remaining tentacles. Now it looked like a malformed crab. It was deceptively fast and would have reached them were it not for its size. It was too large to fit inside the cave, and it became lodged in the opening. It squealed in frustration and struggled harder, but it remained stuck. Its struggles set off an avalanche of stones that showered down over the open with crackling roar. The sound was immense, and it made Elrond feel like a marble being rattled around in a tin can. When the dust settled, it was clear there was no way out.
        “Now we have but one choice,” said Gandalf in soft resignation.
        As they set off through the suffocating, eager darkness, Elrond felt the weight of two intense gray eyes settle on his shoulders. He thought he would go mad.