Legolas plodded through the monotonous darkness. They had been traversing the mines for four days, and he was covered in a thin brown film of dust. His lungs suffered from the dirty air, and he coughed frequently, but he was aware of none of these things. He was only aware of the wine-cloaked figure a few yards in front of him. Elrond. No force in heaven or earth that should’ve driven him Rivendell, and yet, here he was, shambling through these endless tunnels with the rest of them. He wanted to know why.
        He was convinced Elrond had been lying when he said all was well. He had seen it in his eyes. He could meet his gaze when he’d asked about Saryn. What harm could possibly have befallen her in Mirkwood? There was no evil there. Yes, his father hated her, but he wouldn’t dare harm her for fear of his wrath. Would he? Surely not. His mother would protect her.
        Then a new thought occurred to him, one more horrible than the first. Suppose orcs had attacked Mirkwood? It had never happened before, but anything was possible in these times. If that were so, wouldn’t Elrond be there tending to the wounded? Maybe he already had been. That would explain why he looked so haggard, so drained.
        What would you do, Legolas, if you came home to find everything you’ve been fighting for destroyed? If you found sweet Saryn in pieces? You know what the orcs do elves, especially beautiful elven woman. How would you feel if you came home to find the lips that kiss you so softly in shreds on the threshold? The eyes that melt your heart cast upon the bed? The arms and hands that caressed and massaged away your cares and worries strewn over the kitchen table, or maybe sizzling on the breakfast fire? The heart that loved you so faithfully bobbing in the teakettle? Maybe the womb that longed to bear you children draped over the rafters like party streamers? Perhaps Elrond has seen all these things, and for that, he cannot meet your gaze.
        The bloody images in his head made him feel sick. He steadied himself against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn’t go on. He had to know. “King Elrond,” he called, the words resonating in the dark cavern, “where is my wife?”
        All motion ceased, and Gandalf adjusted the level of light flooding from the crystal perched atop his walking staff. He sensed that the outcome of this conversation would have important consequences for all of them. The others must have sensed it too, for they all stood watching expectantly. He noted with some irritation that Boromir was observing the proceedings with a peculiar my-isn’t-this-interesting expression on his face. All he lacks is a goblet of ale in one hand and a leg of lamb in the other, he thought. He snorted in contempt.
        Elrond turned to face his nephew. He suddenly felt very old. “I believe we have already discussed this matter,” he said wearily.
        “It has not been resolved to my satisfaction,” he shot back.
        “I have but one answer to give you, and it remains unchanged. I do not know.”
        “Deceit does not become you, sir,” scoffed the younger elf.
        “Your impudence tries my patience,” he said, trying to sound angry. He only succeeded in sounding beaten.
        “My impudence or my persistence?” he countered.
        “Enough,” he barked, mustering the last of his energy. “I will waste no more time with your baseless accusations.”
        “If they be baseless, why can you not look upon my face?” he responded in a strained, uneven voice.
        Looking at Legolas’ pale, exhausted face, Gandalf suddenly realized how frightened he was. He’d had four long, dreary days to conjure up untold numbers of horrifying scenarios. Heaven only knew what sort of terrors his mind held in regards to his wife. Gandalf was disgusted with himself. He should’ve dealt with him sooner.
        “Legolas,” he soothed, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “calm yourself. If King Elrond says he knows nothing, then we may be certain it is the truth. I have known him for five thousand years, and he has never given me reason to doubt him.”
        “All liars must begin somewhere,” Legolas said, but his voice had steadied.
        “You speak the truth, my young friend,” conceded Gandalf with a twinkle in his eye, “but he has not started here. Have you forgotten that I am a powerful wizard? If something so terrible as the visions you have seen in your mind’s eye had taken place, surely one of my many friends would have come with the news by now. Take heart, young master.”
        “Yes…yes, you’re right, wise Gandalf,” he said, relief flooding his face. To Elrond he said, “Forgive me, sire. I have insulted your good name without cause. I pray you will excuse my behavior.” He bowed at the waist and moved forward again.
        Gandalf saw the look of relief wash over the Legolas’ face and felt a pang of self-loathing that he quickly smothered. Yes, it was cruel to deceive the boy so, but he had no choice. In order to safely deliver the vile Ring into the bowels of Mount Doom, they would need his quick bow and keen reflexes. They would have neither if he was prostrate with grief. There would be time enough for that in Lothlorien. At least there they could hope to recruit a replacement. Until then, he would have to be kept in the dark.
        For his part, Elrond was feeling even worse than Gandalf for their conscious deceit of Legolas. Boromir was looking at him in a conspiratorial fashion he didn’t quite like. One liar knows another, taunted the voice in his head with a brittle laugh. Tell me, sire, which one of you will he kill first when he learns of your deception? He will, you know; he’ll have nothing left to lose. I’d bet on the old wizard myself. That way there’ll be no magic spells to worry about while he’s skewering you like a boar on the end of a spear. Will you scream as you meet your ignoble end? With the two of you gone, Boromir will have little trouble laying his hands on the ring and delivering all of Middle Earth to its doom. Yet another wise decision by the great King Elrond.
        “Shut up, shut up, damn you!” he hissed, squeezing his temples.
        “Are you alright, sire?” asked Strider, surveying him with calculating hazel eyes.
        “Oh, oh yes, Aragorn,” answered Elrond, looking up quickly. He was ashamed to have been caught in a moment of vulnerability.
        “If I may say so, sir, you do not look well.”
        Aragorn thought the king looked awful, in fact. There were dark blotches under his eyes, and his cheeks were alarmingly hollow. He shuffled rather than stepped when he walked, and his hands always steady, now trembled constantly. Now he had begun talking to himself. Clearly he was not a well man. He wondered would could have wrought such a drastic transformation in so short a time. Whatever had reduced this stalwart king to a nervous, haunted, irascible wreck must be powerful indeed.
        “Does the Ring prey on your mind, sir?” he probed gently.
        Elrond tittered and ran a shaking hand through his disheveled hair. “The Ring? Of course. The Ring and all my sins. Each and every one of them.”
        Aragorn prodded further, but the king would say no more, only fixed his eyes straight ahead and trudged through the interminable corridor. He stopped only when the group stopped to rest in an enormous stone vestibule surrounded by a myriad of offshoots.
        “I think I should take some to reflect on our course, as I do not remember this place,” Gandalf announced, looking around him at the unfamiliar surroundings.
        Boromir muttered something unintelligible under his breath and sought out a dark corner. No doubt he was questioning his judgment, but Gandalf didn’t care. He had his sights set upon the smooth slab of rock situated above the group. From there, he would be able to observe the group as a whole without being disturbed.
        Once ensconced atop the gray slab, he peered out over the group. The view was better than he had imagined it would be. He could see Legolas sitting cross-legged against the wall, twirling a small silver object between his fingers. It was too small to make out from here, but judging from the dreamy expression etched on his face, it had something to do with Saryn. Boromir was brooding in the corner, jabbing the point of his sword into the dirt. Merry, Pippin, and Sam were rounding up what kindling they could to start a fire. He chuckled. No matter how often they ate, the little hobbits never tired of food. The fourth and most special of all the hobbits, Frodo, was standing a little way off from the rest, his large blue eyes lifted to where he now sat. The Ring he wore around his pale neck twinkled faintly in the dim light. From the look on his face, he’d soon be up to discuss something with him. He sighed. Let him come then. He enjoyed the little fellow’s company. He turned his faded blue eyes to Strider, who was leaning against the wall, aloof, guarded eyes watching the last member of their entourage. Elrond.
        Gandalf frowned as he gazed down upon the huddled, pitiful figure of the elven king as he watched his nephew warily, barely concealed guilt imprinted on his face. Saryn’s probable death had affected him immensely, more than it should have, but why? What was it he had said? I have killed my own with my arrogance. What did he mean? He was an able general and had seen numberless elves fall in battle, so it was not her mere race that set her loss apart. Could it be because she was family? He supposed so, but even then, this reaction was a bit extreme. Thranduil was not his blood brother, after all. What then? Why would her loss so unseat his mind? Some thought niggled at the back of his mind, an ancient rumor of long ago, but before it could coalesce in his mind, there was a small tap on his knee, and the memory flitted away.
        “I had a feeling you would be coming to see me, Frodo,” said Gandalf without looking down. “What troubles you?”
        “You lied to Legolas,” answered the hobbit without preamble, hopping up onto the stone.
        “Yes.” No use denying it with Frodo.
        “Why?” Frodo’s eyes were incredulous.
        “Sometimes lies are kinder,” was the only thing he could think of to say.
        “Was it because of the Ring, what happened to her?” he asked.
        “Yes,” came the answer.
        “I hate it! I wish the Ring had never come to me,” Frodo burst out, enraged that the Ring he carried had brought misery to another of his friends.
        “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide,” said Gandalf kindly. “We must decide what to do with the time we are given.”
        Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but the wizard interrupted him. “Ah, it’s this way,” he cried, pointing to a passage on the far left.
        “Did you remember the way?” asked Sam as the group clambered up the crumbling steps and followed Gandalf into the passage.
        “No, the air is less foul this way,” he said. “When in doubt, follow your nose.”
        They had only gone a few hundred yards when Legolas heard a sharp intake of breath followed by an agonized cry. It was coming from Gimli.
        “Noooo!” wailed the dwarf, he eyes fixed on the doorway in front of him. Before anyone could stop him, he took off for the doorway, stubby legs running as fast as they could.
        When they caught up with him, he was kneeling before a white sarcophagus and rocking to and fro, strange gurgling noises coming from his wattled throat. After a moment, Legolas realized he was crying. Great watery tears were cascading down his leathery cheeks, and for the first time, Legolas saw him as something more than an odious little dwarf. He saw him as a fellow creature who had lost a huge chunk of his family in one fell swoop. In a wave of empathy, he imagined what it would be like to return to Mirkwood to find the entire village slaughtered. A cold clamminess enveloped him, and he shook it off. He squeezed Gimli’s shoulder and moved away, feeling hopelessly inadequate.
        “Here lies Balin, lord of Moria,” he read, tracing his hand over the intricate inscription carved into the stone. “So he is dead then.”
        This pronouncement only served to heighten Gimli’s grief. He began rocking harder and faster, beating his helmeted head against the cool granite. Legolas doubted this was doing much to assuage his grief and might even be alerting enemies to their presence. He was about to tell him to stop when he heard a thin rustling behind him.
        He turned to find Gandalf prying a dusty, cobweb-covered book from the fragile fingers of one of the skeletons slumped in the corner. It was a gigantic volume filled with thousands of brittle, yellow pages that sent up a cloud of dust as they were turned.
        “They have taken the north hall and the south hall,” he read. “We have barred the gates, but it will not hold them for long. They are coming…they are coming.”
        Gandalf closed the book with a dusty snap. Everyone regarded each other uneasily. It did not seem a pleasant way to die. Pippin was too uneasy, it turned out, because he backed into a moldering skeleton perched atop a cistern, setting in motion events that would nearly kill them all. The armor-clad skeleton toppled backward down the ruined, dry well, its rusted helmet ringing and clanging merrily as it went. The rotten wooden bucket followed it, bouncing crazily off the powdery stone walls.
        There was a moment of stupefied silence, and then Gandalf exploded. “Fool of a Took! Next time throw yourself in and rid us all of your stupidity.”
        Pippin never got a chance to stammer out an apology. Before the echoes of the tumbling armor had faded, the daunting throb of orc drums filled the air. The men and Legolas sprang into action. Boromir scurried to the great oak doors they had passed through and peered cautiously around the corner. He was rewarded with the sight of two orc arrows whizzing past his nose for his trouble. He jerked his head back inside like a turtle retreating into its shell.
        “They have a cave troll,” he glibly announced, putting his shoulder to the door and pushing with all his might.
        “Splendid,” said Strider flatly, coming to his aid.
        Legolas and Elrond joined in while Gandalf tossed them axes with which to barricade the door. When they had done all they could, the men and elves backed up, drew their weapons, and waited. Legolas stood with his bow drawn taut, adrenaline pounding in his temples. He could feel tiny beads of sweat trickling down his armpits. His mouth had gone desert-dry. On his left, he could see Elrond calmly waiting in much the same stance. A fine sheen of sweat dampened his forehead. On his right stood Boromir, whose complexion had assumed the cheesy green hue it always did when a battle was imminent. Don’t think he cares much for battles, he thought. Only Strider appeared unconcerned, standing almost jauntily with his bow pointed at the door.
        There was a gabbling, shambling sound, and then the door bulged inward, the ancient wood creaking beneath the strain. Now gravelly orc voices could be heard as they grunted and simpered at one another in preparation for a second assault upon the door.
        “Let them come,” trumpeted Gimli, “there is yet one dwarf in Moria that draws breath!” He hefted his battle-axe onto his shoulder and narrowed his eyes.
        Legolas duly noted that he issued his brave challenge while sheltered behind four of the best archers and swordsmen in all of Middle Earth and returned his attention to the door in front of him. There was a second jarring thud, and the beleaguered door began to splinter, momentary glimpses of mottled orc flesh becoming visible. His fingers tightened on his bowstring, tingling with electricity.
        A beady eyeball appeared in the ragged hole in the door, and he loosed his arrow with a sharp twang. There was a garbled shriek of agony and the eye disappeared, but so did the door as several dozen orcs trampled down the last vestiges of the barrier between them and their quarry. They cawed in triumph as they flung themselves at their hated foes, their large, cloudy green eyes blazing in malicious glee.
        He met them head on, trading his bow for his blade when they drew too near. He danced nimbly away from their clumsy sword strokes, blonde hair swirling around him as he spun and lunged. He swelled with satisfaction each time his blade struck home in the repugnant flesh of an orc, knowing that each orc he felled would mean there was one fewer left to terrorize Middle Earth. Their thick, gelid blood coated his blade, and he hummed as he fought, exhilarated.
        He flicked his eyes to the left and was relieved to see that the frightened haunted look in his uncle’s eyes had disappeared. Invigorated by combat, Elrond’s eyes were radiating life and vitality, flashing each time he claimed another foe. Incredibly, he was grinning. On his right, Boromir was doggedly impaling orc with his blade. He looked queasier than ever. Gimli, to his credit, was living up to his boast, wielding his axe with a dexterity that surprised him. Even the hobbits were doing their part, tiny swords flying as they gamely waged war against the much bigger orcs. Only Frodo did not fight, preferring the meager shelter of the pedestal in the center of the room.
        Further assessment of the battle was hampered by an ear-splitting howl as the cave troll Boromir had mentioned made his grand entrance. He looked up at the towering creature in dreadful awe. It was monstrous, nearly thirty feet tall and covered in smooth gray skin like an eel. In its huge, muscled hand it held a club the size of a sequoia tree. A club he now saw with some alarm, that was swinging at his head. He ducked, and the weapon passed over his head with a deadly whistle and crashed into the thick stone wall, sending down a shower of jagged rock.
        He rolled right and saw that the troll was clutching a thick length of chain in its other meaty hand. The chain lashed out and sank into his calf, tripping him. The troll, pleased with itself, grunted happily and started to pull him forward. He was saved by an unlikely hero. Merry ran up behind the beast and jabbed it in the hindquarters with his sword.
        “Bugger off,” he sniffed indignantly.
        The troll, registering the pain in its tiny, dim brain, turned to locate its source. Merry, only now realizing what he had done, beat a hasty retreat behind Gandalf, but his distraction had given Legolas the time he needed. He scrambled to his feet and shot two arrows into the creature’s broad back. He had an idea. Come on, you slow-witted brute, he thought fiercely, turn around.
        The troll stood befuddled in the center of the room. It was deciding what to do next, tiny eyes squinched in concentration. Legolas helped it along, placing an arrow in its shoulder. The ground shuddered as it turned around to fix its glazed eyes on the insignificant insect that was troubling it so. As Legolas had hoped, the murderous chain shot out again, aimed at his face. He avoided it, feinting right at the last moment. When the second blow came, he was ready. He stepped on the chain as it crashed down beside him and wrapped his hands around its girth. When the troll pulled it back to itself, he went with it, landing on the creature’s back with a jarring whump.
        Being on a troll’s back was a rather unpleasant affair for the elven prince. It smelled a great deal like unwashed dwarf, and the agitated troll was swiping blindly at him with his hands. He flinched away from an oncoming blow and planted his feet as he fitted another arrow into his bow. From his swaying perch, he could see the other members of the fellowship waging war against the few remaining orcs. Decapitated, shuddering corpses lay strewn about the room. Elrond was watching him, his brow knitted in concern.
        He took a deep breath and shot the arrow into the troll’s skull at point blank range. It did not have the effect he had expected. The troll did not lie down decently dead, but rather redoubled its efforts to shake him off. It whipped its shoulders back and forth, bellowing in frustration. He wobbled and stutterstepped, trying to maintain his balance, but it was no use. He tumbled from the beast’s back and landed with a loud thud on the floor below.
        He couldn’t breathe. Someone was crushing his chest. Oh, Elbereth, the pain was huge. He tried to scream, but there was no air. The only sound he could manage was a barely audible moan. He whipped his head from side to side, trying to jumpstart his breathing, but the air remain lodged in his throat like a lump of cold pork fat. Black spots were dancing before his eyes. He was choking to death.
        Suddenly a bright pain exploded in his face, and the lump in his throat dissipated. He sucked in greedy lungfuls of warm air, grateful that he had not perished on this filthy floor. He hardly paid attention to the voice buzzing in his ear. He was content to lie on the cool stone floor and breathe.
        The voice belonged to King Elrond. “Draw breath, boy,” he commanded, rubbing his still-stinging hand on his leg. He had slapped him a bit harder than he had intended, but the prince had been a terrifying deep plum color. The fall had driven the wind out of him, and the momentary shock of the pain had made his muscles rigid. He’d nearly suffocated himself. He was about to help the still-gasping Legolas to his feet when a sharp, pained cry from behind him made him whirl about.
        The cave troll was crowing victoriously as it drove a nearby spear deeper into its quarry. For a moment, Elrond wasn’t sure what had happened, and then he saw Frodo’s wide, agonized eyes over the troll’s shoulder. Lords of Elbereth, it got him. We have failed, he thought. The little hobbit grunted and toppled facedown on the concrete.
        The effect on the rest of the company was immediate. Sam, Frodo’s faithful companion, cried out, crawling to his friend’s side. Merry and Pippin, who had been watching the fracas from a recess high above, leaped onto the creature’s brawny shoulders, screaming vengefully. Their feeble blows did little to hurt the troll. It only shook its head as if trying to rid itself of fleas, but perhaps they could distract it until Strider and Boromir arrived.
        The two in question came scurrying to the troll’s feet, Boromir wearing a highly offended expression. They jabbed and slashed at the behemoth, but their skillful strokes could do nothing to injure it. It stamped its mighty feet and leered at them, daring them to do their worst. Will nothing stop this evil progeny from slaughtering us all? the king thought bitterly.
        Legolas was quick to answer his question. He staggered unsteadily to his feet, weaving a little as he fought to recover his equilibrium. He reached into his quiver of rapidly dwindling arrows and fitted one into his bow. His vision swam, and he saw first double, then triple. His head ached ferociously, and he heard whistling and bells inside his skull. He thought he might vomit. He forced his humming brain to concentrate, forced it to focus blurry eyes and align his quivering hands. Please Elbereth, he thought.
        The troll’s eyes bulged comically as the arrow embedded itself in its throat. It stood motionless for a moment, then clutched a hand to its neck. Loud, guttural gargling sounds came out of its mouth. It lumbered into the center of the room, the hand that wasn’t wrapped around its throat stretched out in front of it. It coughed, spraying out a thick mist of green blood. Then it pirouetted and collapsed in a heap, its giant head landing inches from Gandalf’s feet.
        With the troll finally dead, Strider hurried to where the inert form of Frodo lay sprawled beside the ruins of Balin’s coffin.
        “Is he?” asked Gandalf. He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
        Strider reached out and gingerly tugged on Frodo’s shoulder, expecting to find lifeless dead weight. He was rewarded, however, with a thick groan as Frodo rolled onto his back.
        “I’m alright,” croaked Frodo, raising himself onto one elbow.
        “That spear would’ve killed a wild boar. You should be dead,” marveled Strider.
        “I think there is more to this than meets the eye,” said Gandalf, amused.
        He was right. Frodo unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a shimmering vest of snowy white mithril. Mithril was the hardest substance in all of Middle Earth, a magical creation of the elves. From time immemorial, it had protected generations of elven nobility. Both Legolas and King Elrond had worn it at the Battle of the Five Armies, and now it had saved the life of this diminutive hobbit.
        “You are a truly remarkable hobbit, Frodo Baggins,” laughed Gandalf, leaning on his staff.
        “Yes, well, I hate to interrupt this celebration, but perhaps we should make haste before more orcs arrive,” suggested Boromir, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.
        “Right you are,” agreed Gandalf.
        They left Balin’s tomb at a dead run, hoping to reach the bridge of Khazad-dum before any orcs caught up with them. Legolas, still woozy from his fall, fell behind. His sharp eyes saw things the others, save King Elrond, could not. Only their eyes could see that the dark mine walls were pulsing with orcs. Millions of them. He put on a burst of speed and hoped his aching head did not betray him. If he tripped now, nothing could save him.
        He could hear the orcs swallowing the path behind him. The path in front was quickly closed off by legions of orcs descending from the walls and ceiling. They were quickly surrounded. They huddled together, back to back, watching helplessly as the hideous, bug-eyed orcs closed in. They were gleeful, and why shouldn’t they be? They were about to devour the fellowship, two of them elves.
        Not wanting his last thoughts to be of orcs, he fixed his mind on Saryn. His mind’s eye pictured her with heartbreaking clarity. Her deep blue eyes filled his mind, and he was overwhelmed by an ache of longing so intense it made him gasp. He wished he could have held her one last time. He summoned all of his love for her and sent it toward her on one last thought. I love you so much, Saryn. I’m sorry I could not keep my promise to return to you. Forgive me. He closed his eyes and prepared to die.
        Boromir, who was standing next to Legolas looked at him in bewilderment. His eyes were closed, and he was making soft moaning noises as if in the throes of a fine erotic dream. A fine thing this. Here they were, about to be torn to pieces by orcs, and Legolas was indulging in a bit of amorous fancy. Of course, it wasn’t such a bad way to end, he supposed. He shook himself and gave the elf a hearty smack in the arm.
        “Open your eyes and greet death like a warrior,” he groused.
        Except they did not greet death. Just as the jubilant orcs were about to set upon them, the air grew still and oppressive. A sound like creaking hinges could be heard in the distance. A low, bruising vibration was felt in their bones. Apparently the orcs could feel it, too, because they gave voice to a collective cry of anguish and scattered.
        “What is this new devilry?” asked Boromir. Anything that terrified murderous orcs from their prey was a formidable foe indeed.
        “A balrog,” answered Gandalf, never taking his eyes off the opening in front of them.
        At the mention of its name, the creature appeared. None of them had ever seen anything like it. It loomed over them, impossibly large. The troll was a pixie in comparison. Huge, diaphanous black wings hovered over them. Its eyes were round balls of molten flame set in invisible sockets, and when it opened its jaws, it revealed a tongue of red flame.
        “This foe is beyond any of you!” cried Gandalf. “Run!”
        No one needed to be told twice. Legolas sprinted toward the bridge that beckoned from afar, the stabbing pain in his head forgotten. It felt like his knees were touching his nose, but he knew this could not be. He could see his uncle in front of him, long brown hair streaming behind him. Strider had two hobbits, one under each arm, and was running as fast as a human could. Just behind him, Boromir was carrying Sam like a sack of grain and Gimli like a knapsack. Only Gandalf was behind him, and he could hear the old wizard’s labored breathing.
        “Have courage, Gandalf, we’re nearly there,” he called back.
        Indeed, no sooner had he spoken than his feet touched upon the narrow span of the bridge. Relief flooded over him. They were safe. Yet the horrified expression on the faces of his companions told him something was terribly wrong. He spun around as soon as he reached the other side, and a brain-numbing sight greeted him.
        Gandalf had stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned to face their pursuer. He held his staff before him as though it could offer him protection from the hellish demon glowering down at him the way a bear observes a floundering trout just before the kill.
        “Go back to the flames from when you came,” ordered Gandalf, pointing his staff at the balrog.
        The balrog, unimpressed, took another step onto the bridge. Then the fellowship watched in awe as Gandalf gripped his staff in both hands.
        “YOU…SHALL NOT…PASS!” he roared, and drove the staff into the bridge.
        There was a blinding flash of white light, and then the bridge split in two with a grinding roar. The half holding the balrog tumbled down into the abyss, taking the creature with it. But as the wizard turned to rejoin the group, a long, serpentine tendril of flame shot out of the darkness and curled around his foot. The balrog intended to take its conqueror with it. It jerked Gandalf to the edge of the fractured bridge and disappeared out of sight.
        “NO!” shrieked Frodo. He tried to run out onto the bridge, but could not extricate himself from Strider’s iron grasp.
        Gandalf struggled to pull himself onto the bridge, but he was too drained from his confrontation with the balrog. He could feel his tenuous grip beginning to fade.
        “Fly, you fools!” he ordered.
        King Elrond flew, alright, but not in the direction Gandalf had intended. He leaped onto the shaking bridge and hurried to the exhausted mage. He had made too many mistakes already in this life. He would not make this one.
        “What are you doing, fool? Flee while you can,” ordered Gandalf.
        “Why are you in such a hurry to die?” asked Elrond, grabbing him by his dusty robe and dragging him to safety.
        The old man was still too weak to walk, so the king carried him across the bridge. The ground beneath his feet was growing more unstable by the second. It could collapse at any moment.
        “Legolas, help me,” Elrond said, lifting the trembling Gandalf toward his nephew.
        Legolas laid on his stomach and reached over the ledge to grasp the semi-conscious wizard. When he was safe, he reached out to his uncle and pulled him up just as the remains of the bridge disintegrated beneath him. They left Moria without looking back.