Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Wings and Fire	By : Bones Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Het - Male/Female Views: 5885 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings, to include places and characters, are the property of JRR Tolkien. I do not make any money from this work of fandom.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5 – Strength
(Aragorn)
                He didn't know if it was the corpses or the blood of the beast from the water that lingered on his arms and shoulders, but something in the Mines smelled horribly. The stench assaulted his nose making his nostrils burn and his head swim. Leiawen was still trying to regain proper use of her legs, pulling away from him to stand on her own. Aragorn eyed her carefully, a hand upon her shoulder to ensure she didn't lose her balance, but she kept ducking away from his touch. It was as if she didn't want him to touch her for some reason.
                Something was wrong with her. He had never seen her so unsteady, not even on the Red Horn Pass in the Caradhras after she had shielded Sam from the avalanche in the wake of Saruman's attack. The hobbit had told him how she had taken the massive weight of the snow and rock that had fallen upon them. He had, in fact, spoken very fondly of her as the little hobbit had walked at his side towards the Road to Moria.
                Sam had told him that she had saved his life, by both keeping him warm and protecting him from the snow and ice. He spoke of how she was uncommonly patient with Pippin's endless questions, doing her best to answer what inquiries she could and even asked the hobbit questions of her own. She was never rude, never snapped at him, she simply smiled that sad smile and did what she could. Sam also told him how she always kept an eye on Frodo, watching those around the Ring bearer for any sign of intent to take the token he carried from him.
                The Ranger had been reminded of that moment up in the mountains after Boromir had given the Ring back to Frodo. She had stood there, the darkness of her clothing and hair like a shadow upon the white of the snow, watching the Steward's son carefully. He had seen her eyes as she looked over Frodo, making certain that he had not been harmed in the exchange, all the while her hands upon the hilts of the two black swords that hung low at her hips. The look they had shared afterward, a mutual trust that had passed between them as he knew she had seen his own hand upon his weapon.
                "She's a good person, Strider," the hobbit had insisted as they made their way down the path.
                After the fight at the Gates of Moria and from everything she had shown him since the beginning of their journey, he had no reason to doubt her.
                The Dragon looked terrible. The dark locks of her wet hair clung to her face and chest; dirt, dust, and blood streaked across her fair skin. She was weary and wounded and he could nearly feel her exhaustion as it leaked through her bones and flesh. Even the braids strewn through her hair, which she had great care to maintain, were coming loose at the ends, unraveling at every movement she made.
                Then she stumbled and he was brought out of his musings; he grabbed ahold of her arm, his fingers sinking unintentionally into the wounds of her arm. Suddenly he felt a sharp, quick pain in his hand and it burned. Despite the pain in his hand though, and the way she cried out in agony, he did not let her go.
                "Drop me," she gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
                "No, milady, I will not risk injuring you further," he insisted and felt her knees finally buckle. His hands at her arms were all that kept her from falling forward into the corpses that littered the floor.
                By the Valar how it burned, though. If he did not know better the Ranger could have sworn that he had just placed his hand into the burning coals of a blacksmith's forge. He gritted his teeth, searching for the source of the agonizing pain but all his eyes found was the dark red of her blood as it all but streamed from the deep gashes in her arm. What was happening to him?
                He felt her chest expand slowly and then release as she called out, "Greybeard!"
                The Grey Wizard turned instantly at the sound of her voice and Aragorn saw him searching her form for the source of her despair. He knew when the old man had found it because his eyes widened as they landed on her arm and his hand upon it. Gandalf was suddenly at his side, the Wizard had pulled him from Leiawen and had his burning hand held carefully between his own. Strange, almost elvish, words flowed from Gandalf and the Ranger could feel the painful burn all but disappear.
                What had just happened? Wasn't the woman the one he had been moving so quickly to help?
                Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli soot just behind the Wizard as he continued to utter the strange healing words. Another wave of the cooling sensation crashed around him and he saw Leiawen some distance from him clutching her wounded and ragged right arm. In the light of Gandalf's staff he finally saw it. As the hobbits gathered around her asking after her, careful to keep away from the gashes and blood; the stream of the dark red substance ran down her arm to the stone floor and he understood.
                "Ah, yes," he heard Gandalf say and he glanced up to see that the Wizard had followed the direction of his gaze. "Now you understand."
                The old Grey Wizard stood with protest, clutching his staff and leaning upon it heavily once he was upright. "Listen to her," he warned. "I may not have the ability to save the use of you hand again." He walked over to her, completely losing interest in Aragorn once he had been sure that his hand would be all right.
                Legolas helped the Ranger to his feet as he held his hand before his face, examining it carefully. Though it was slightly red from the agitation he had suffered, it was whole and no longer burned at all. Her blood had done that to him...
                It wasn't possible; nothing of this earth had the flesh to stand whole against such heat. He had heard songs and stories of Dragons: Smaug, Scatha, Ancalagon, and Glaurung... Never had he heard of their blood holding such a terrible ability to do thus to someone.
                Aragorn found himself standing next to her, the hobbits on her other side and Gandalf at her front. He stared at the smoldering hole of glowing melted stone where her blood had destroyed the floor.
                "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes reflecting the light of the Grey Wizard's staff in the darkness.
                "Is that why it screamed?" he asked her, his mind going back to the agonized howls of the creature in the water.
                A look of confusion flitted across her face, "Why what screamed?"
                “The creature; the one in the water. When it bit down upon your arm it went mad with pain.” Aragorn motioned to her arm as blood gushed from the wounds and dripped down onto the stone. “Is that why?”
                “Yes,” she admitted with a tone in her voice that Aragorn swore he had heard before, but not from her. “This is why the Watcher went mad.”
                So she had done it on purpose; the Dragon had known that her blood would wound the “Watcher”, as she called it, just as she had likely known that it would wound her as well in the process. The Ranger could not help but be astonished at her resolve. She could have easily lost her arm with the reckless action she had taken, but her thought had been only of saving Frodo. This did not answer the foremost question on his mind, however.
                “How is it possible that you can do this?”
                Her response was simply to look over to Merry and Pippin as they pulled on the upper portion of her good arm and pushed up against her lower back, helping her to stand. Aragorn looked to the hobbits as well and saw that they were smiling at some shared secret jest they had all made together. As they got her to her feet from where she had sat upon the ruined floor, Gandalf steadied her, placing a hand upon her collar.
                “It’s a Dragon thing,” Pippin told him proudly, patting Leiawen on the back as one would a dear friend.
                Leiawen smiled and shrugged her shoulders, “I do not pretend to have all the answers, Aragorn. It is best to accept things you have no hope of changing.” She turned as the Wizard took her good arm in his and lead them up the stair. “Accept what you are, Son of Numenor, you will find that you are better for it.”

(Legolas)
                Gandalf lead them up the stair and down the first passage with the Still-Cursed at his side. They did not speak of anything, simply walked together at an almost leisurely pace; the only sound between them was a steady drip from her fingertips to the stone floor every three paces or so. The rest of them were all careful to avoid it, unsure of whether or not it would harm them should they accidently step upon it. They had all seen the agony upon Aragorn’s face before Gandalf had healed his hand; the phantom of such pain dwelt within his mind still for he clenched his fingers into a fist every time he heard the fall of her blood.
                Within a few minutes of their journey her saw her skin pale to a deathly white and she stopped walking altogether. Worry bloomed within his heart and though he did not want to, he quickly grew concerned for the Dragon.
                “Keep going,” she told Gandalf when he met her eyes, the expression upon his face echoed the feeling in the Elf’s heart.
                Her hair, which had begun to dry before, hung wet and limp around her; he braids having long since unwound, falling with the rest of her dark locks down her back and around her face. The bare skin of both her arms to the greaves upon her forearms was streaked with filth and blood, both her own and the Watcher’s. The Dragon looked like death as the strange glow of her eyes dimmed to a faint reflection of the light before her, as if they were clouded of bore a film of the dust that was layered upon her.
                The Still-Cursed had taken upon herself a great wound in the fight against the Watcher, a wound which was not healing. Legolas remembered the cut he had given her with the blade of a knife; it had been healed just as soon as the metal was gone from her skin. Something was wrong with her and he felt an urge to say something to the Wizard, but Gandalf simply smiled at her and moved on. One by one they quickly passed her by until she was at the tail end of their trail, just behind himself and Gimli.
                Legolas listened closely as she began moving once again. Her heartbeat was erratic, not the strong steady tattoo that it always was, and her chest made a strange shaking sound with each breath she took. There was a long splatter of thick, heavy liquid against the rock and a slight hiss which started to follow her every step. Gimli must have heard it as well for the Dwarf met his gaze, worry etched into the frown upon his face.
                Just as he turned to ensure the Still-Cursed would be alright, she stumbled and her legs gave out completely. Before even he could understand what had happened he found himself holding the unconscious Dragon in his arms, her wounded arm draped over his shoulder at an odd angle to keep her blood from damaging him. He heard Gimli call for Gandalf and as the Wizard hurried to where he knelt with the Still-Cursed in his grasp, he noticed that she was quickly going cold.
                “What’s happened?” the Wizard demanded fiercely, urgency and deep worry in his voice and on his face.
                “She began to falter, when I looked back, she was falling.”
                “She hasn’t been sleepin’,” Sam supplied as Gandalf took her from Legolas’ hold and laid her flat upon the ground.
                “No, Samwise, Still-Cursed Dragons do not require sleep; this is something I should have seen earlier.” The Wizard was frustrated with himself, pressing his hands against her face, wiping both fresh and drying blood from the ragged gashes on her arm. “Fool Dragon,” he said in a voice so low Legolas almost missed it. “You should have said something, should have told me.”
                “What is it?” Frodo asked, kneeling at her side. “What’s wrong with her?”
                Legolas looked on as the Wizard placed a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “Leiawen will be quite all right. Such a thing as this is normal, I’m afraid. One of you shall have to carry her until she recovers. Fear not, her blood is of no danger now.”
                Boromir began to step forward but before the Gondorian could so much as touch her, Legolas was pulling her onto his back. He gripped her thighs firmly to keep her from falling, her arms draped over his shoulders. “What is this? How is this normal, Gandalf?” he asked as they began to walk once more. “One would think her near death in this state.”
                “No, Master Green Leaf, Dragons do not die as the people of the earth. Their souls are what keep their bodies together and I fear there lies her problem.
                All of the creatures touched by Morgoth’s power feel the presence of one another; the Watcher was one of his own creations. To make them stronger in battle, he laid a Curse upon them with his dark magick, that their power might grow as more of them gathered together. The creature in the Water was created to draw its power from the darkness within the lake and though its power was not great, both it and Leiawen grew stronger with the other’s presence.”
                “The way she jumped,” Aragorn said from behind Legolas. “That strength allowed her to do such a thing?”
                “Yes,” Gandalf told the Ranger.
                “Then why has she fainted?” the Son of Gondor asked, a strange urgency and concern in his tone. “Should she not be healed and…doing whatever it is that she does?”
                “There is a drawback to such power in numbers, a part of the Curse that, at the end of the First Age, the Valar were able to unravel. The Dragons began to call what happened to them afterwards ‘The Great Loss’; after those gathered are separated, the strength they gained leaves them, but it also takes a great deal of their natural strength and power as well. It takes them to a very low point and they often do not recover; so they stayed away from other creatures altogether.”
                “Divide and conquer,” Aragorn remarked, a grim expression upon his face.
                “What you see now is the result of her using such dangerous strength and being wounded in the process. Had her foe been greater…” the Wizard shook his head, leading them on.
                Legolas understood though, the more powerful those that gathered were, the greater the gain; but the recoil, the loss afterwards, was larger. It was a great price for her to pay in order to save Frodo from the Watcher; what spy or conspirator would make such a sacrifice, risk so much? Either she was uncommonly devoted to a cause or…he might have been wrong.

(Aragorn)
                Leiawen woke finally on the third day of their journey through Moria. Thankfully the Road had been quiet and they had not been attacked by any of the creatures that were surely hiding in the Deep. As she had lain unconscious each night, the hobbits had taken it upon themselves to wash the dirt and grime from her skin, fussing and worrying each hour that she did not awaken. On the second day, Aragorn had woken to see Gimli talking to her as she lie on the stone ground, his fingers deftly working braids throughout her hair only to brush them out once more, berating himself for doing such a thing. Just that morning, when Legolas had her securely on his back, he noticed braids were weaved in her hair again only they were far more intricate than the Dwarf’s fingers would have been able to manage. Once he looked more closely, he saw they were Elvin Warrior’s braids tied at the ends in knots worn only by those that carried Ancient blood. The woven strands suited her.
They had been settling down for the night when he heard a moan from between himself and Legolas. He looked over as all four hobbits jumped up to be at her side.
                She touched a hand to her brow and one eye slid open, glowing in the darkness, and they all let out a sigh of relief. No lingering effect of when she had suffered The Loss seemed to remain; her breathing was good and her heart beat had settled to its usual strong steady pace. The ragged gashes on her arm had healed over only a few hours ago, the wounds would likely re-open if she stressed them overmuch. Hopefully their luck would hold and she would not have to overuse her arm.
                “Mister Gandalf, sir,” Sam called, “she’s awake!”
                In the dim light Aragorn saw a strange slit through the black of her eye that gave it an odd, almost cat-like shape, but as he looked harder it rounded until nothing was amiss with it anymore. Could it be that as she recovered from Bottoming Out certain aspects of her heritage took over her physical self? But before he could consider it further he was suddenly and rather harshly pushed out of the Wizard’s way as Gandalf settled before her.
                “Ancalalei,” he said softly, taking her face between his hands.
                There was that name again, why did he call her that?
                “My soul has not yet flown away, Greybeard,” she assured him.
                What happened next Aragorn could not hope to describe with words. Something passed between the two of them, the Wizard and the Dragon, it charged the air like heat lightning on the plains. A feeling that went far deeper than devotion or even love overtook his heart as it flowed over them and Gandalf all save lifted her up to pull her tightly to him in a fierce embrace. They stayed that way for several long moments before Aragorn saw it. It was small, barely noticeable, but in every pass Leiawen’s hand made as she stroked the Wizard’s back to comfort him, there were sparks of what he could only assume was magic.
                Aragorn looked to the others to see if any of them had noticed it as well, but all save Legolas had turned from them to go about laying out blankets and such, leaving the two in peace. The way the Elf was staring though, he knew he saw what flickered between them as well. It shimmered like a light rainfall in the sunlight on midsummer’s eve and sparked as lightning across the clouds; it was truly a beautiful thing to behold.
                They pulled apart and a look that could only be described as righteous indignation settled on Gandalf’s face. “You fool Dragon. Why did you say nothing?”
                Leiawen gave him a wry smile and glanced around. “Where are we now?”
                “We are deep in the heart of Moria,” came Gimli’s voice suddenly.
                “How long-?”
                “It is night on our third day of travel,” Aragorn answered and her gaze shifted to him, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Legolas and I carried you while you recovered your strength, Milady.”
                Perhaps it was his choice of words but he saw her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. The woman gave him a nod, voiced her gratitude, and went to sit with the hobbits who eagerly awaited her and the Dwarf who, perhaps, was growing to favor her presence as well.

(Third Person Normal)
                After what felt like hours of speaking with Gimli and the hobbits of what they had seen thus far within the Mines, Leiawen finally made her way to Greybeard who was speaking quietly with Frodo. The poor boy looked lost and indecisive as she sat before the three doorways with them. When they finally came to the conclusion of their conversation Greybeard smiled at the young hobbit.
                “May I speak with Leiawen alone?” he asked the boy’s pardon.
                Frodo nodded and gazed at her with a smile, “I’m glad you’re all right.”
                “As I am glad you are as well.” When he had finally made his way down the stair to sit with Merry, Pippin, and Sam she turned to the Wizard, concerned, “What is it that troubles you so?”
                There was a moment in which her friend struggled to find the words he meant to say, to not worry her, but then his shoulders sagged and he spoke frankly.
                “I fear I may not have the strength to overcome what lies ahead.”
                His admittance shocked her, “Strength?”
                The Still-Cursed hated that word, hated that a pit opened up in her gut with its utterance as it weighted down her heart with fingers of ice. That single word had seemingly defined every year of her very long life. Was she strong enough? The last of the Unbroken Line would have strength without measure once the Curse was lifted. To be their Great Lady she would have to… She was fairly sick of that word and all of its meanings.
                “Do you know that Saruman has always hated you thus?” she asked her friend.
                Confusion crossed his face and when he opened his mouth to speak she lifted a hand to stop his words.
                “He has always been jealous of you for you are the favored of you kin among the Valar. That is why he was sent so easily into madness by the Second Deceiver, because he always knew that when you were ready, you would surpass him. Your strength is his weakness and when you become what you are meant to be, you shall have found all the strength you need only to discover that you held it within yourself all along.”
                After a moment of taking in the meaning of her words, the Wizard smiled at her and laughed heartily, “When did you become wiser than I?”
                “You may be older, my Grey friend,” she told him with a haughty expression, “but I have walked this earth far longer.”
                “Yes, yes, that’s true-” he stopped and looked to the doorway closest to them. “It’s that way.”
                “He’s remembered,” she heard Merry tell the others, glad to be moving along.
                “No,” Greybeard told the young hobbit as they descended the stairs in the path leading further down. “But the air doesn’t smell so foul down there. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose!”

(Samwise)
                To Sam it felt as if the dark stair would never end, they had been walking for so long. The stairs going down were just as steep, if not more so, than the ones they had climbed up and his legs were getting tired. Just as he stepped down, his foot slipped on a loose rock and he pitched forward. He heard Leiawen snap out a curse and then he suddenly wasn’t falling anymore; the back of his shirt had been pulled tight to keep him from taking the long dangerous tumble down.
                As he was set back down upon his own two feet he saw that it had been Strider who had grabbed the back of his shirt to keep him from the fall. “Thank you,” he murmured, feeling like a fool. Any one of the others could have been hurt just because he couldn’t walk down a simple flight of stairs.
                He did not have the time to dwell upon what had happened though for it was then that the stairs emptied out and a dark cavern lie ominously before them. As he looked back he could see the glow from Leiawen’s eyes, they were like two twin candles flickering brightly. He wondered just how well she could see in the darkness; as her eyes flickered up and around, piercing the black before them. What was it that stood before them in the looming darkness?
                “Let me risk a little more light,” came Gandalf’s voice at the head of their group. The Wizard tapped his staff against the stone ground and with a wave of his hand a great light blazed like a flash of lightning; shadows rose up and fled from the oncoming light. “Behold! The great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf.”
                Sam looked up to see a vast ceiling far above his head upheld by great pillars hewn of stone; there were endless rows upon rows of them and he couldn’t imagine just how large the cavern must have been. Before them stretched an enormous hall with black walls that were polished and smooth, they gleamed like glass against the light from the Wizard’s staff.
“Well there’s an eye opener and no mistake,” he marveled in awe of the sight before his eyes.
Not far off there was a door and streams of light pierced through the darkness past them. As they drew closer to it Sam saw that the wooden door had been smashed open, sinister black arrows embedded in the hard, thick wood and more corpses lie all around it. Gimli let out a shout and rushed past them, running as quickly as he was able into the room full of light.
“Gimli!” Gandalf shouted after him, but he didn’t stop.
They ran after the Dwarf, determined not to let him get too far ahead of them. The vast chamber beyond the door was lit with a narrow shaft of sunlight, beaming in from a small hole situated at the top of one wall; it fell upon a large stone monument that lie in the center of the room. Corpses of both Goblins and Dwarves were piled high in every corner, rusted axes, swords, and arrows strewn about in the same careless manner as those that had wielded them. The great white stone of the monument glowed in the light and Gimli fell to his knees, a look of despair settling upon him.
“No…no…oh, no,” he sobbed.
“Here lies Balin, son of Fudin, Lord of Moria,” Gandalf read from the inscription of Dwarven runes carved into the white slab. “He is dead, then. It’s as I had feared.”
For some reason, the news of the death of Gimli’s cousin made Sam uncommonly sad, and as he watched the great Dwarf lie his brow against the stone of the grave, he knew he could never wish such a thing upon someone else. He looked away, trying to give Gimli what small amount of peace he could to mourn his cousin’s passing, and he saw Gandalf hand his pointed hat and his staff to Pippin. The Grey Wizard knelt down to carefully lift up the rotting remains of a book from the skeletal fingers of a Dwarf’s corpse; it had been slashed and stabbed and by the look of it, was covered in dried blood as well. The pages cracked and broke in protest as he opened it.
“We must move on,” Sam heard Legolas whisper urgently from somewhere behind him, “we cannot linger.”
                “They have taken the Bridge and the second hall,” Gandalf read, drawing the attention of the entire Fellowship. “We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes…drums…drums in the deep. We cannot get out, will no one help us? A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out…they are coming.”
                A loud clink and clatter of a heave chain startled Sam so badly that he jumped, his eyes whipping over to where the sound had come from as something crashed all around them. There Pippin stood with his hand reached out near the bones of a now headless corpse that sat rather precariously on the edge of a well. The corpse tottered as the other hobbit turned away before it followed its head into the hole of the well. The crashing grew louder, deeper and after a moment it faded away into silence once more.
                “Fool of a Took,” Gandalf said angrily, snapping the book shut and all but slamming it down onto the white stone monument. He strode over to Pippin and snatched his hat and staff from his hands. “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity.”

(Legolas)
                Silence loomed over them in the aftermath of Pippin’s folly, but then he heard it. A low, rolling sound rose from the depths below, growing louder and faster with each tattoo. It was a single drum that drew all of the creatures that were hidden in the deep that surrounded them, until all the caverns of Moria were turned into a vast drum. A horn blasted nearby and others answered shortly thereafter; the sound of running feet and harsh cries sounded beyond the door.
                “Mister Frodo!” Sam cried and as the Ring bearer drew his weapon they all took notice of the blue glow upon the blade.
                “Orcs,” Legolas warned Gimli and Boromir, who didn’t know of the magic in the weapon.
                As the two men rushed to the door Aragorn yelled back to the hobbits. “Get back! Stay close to Gandalf!” They slammed the door, leaned up against it as both he and the Still-Cursed retrieved a pair of axes; they threw the weapons to the men and they wedged the door shut as best they could. Boromir’s eyes went wide as he caught sight of something through a gap in the door, he turned to Aragorn with a strange look upon his face.
                “They have a Cave Troll,” the Gondorian remarked.
                Legolas made ready his bow as the men fell back, his eyes trained upon the door. He heard the sound of heavy, booted feet leap up onto the tomb and metal being drawn across leather. They were as ready as ever they would be for whatever passed through that door.
                “Let them come!” Gimli hollered viciously. “There is yet one Dwarf in Moria who still draws breath!”
                With an enormous boom the door burst open, reduced to splinters and a shower of wood fragments as a hoard of Goblins rushed headlong into the tomb. Legolas drew and released arrows over and over again as Boromir, Aragorn, and the Dragon waded into the mass of creatures, swords drawn. He fired each deadly projectile into the Goblins, piercing throats, hearts, livers, whatever vital places he could to keep them from the hobbits. Then came the Cave Troll.
                From behind him Gimli threw two axes, burying them deep into the Goblins’ skulls; the Dwarf let out a mighty bellow and Legolas ducked out of the way as the Cave Troll swung its club down from above him. Nearby he could hear Gandalf shouting, striking down the creatures with both his sword and heavy wooden staff, but he was steadily moving further from the hobbits and into the frey. Just as Legolas had loosed another arrow, a Goblin came rushing up from behind the Wizard and he knew he couldn’t stop it in time.
                He heard the sound of something flying through the air in that moment and then a black sword sank almost to the hilt into the creature; it was the Still-Cursed’s sword, or one of them. The Elf drew his bow once more and as the Cave Troll loomed before him again, he fired two more arrows into it. It let out a guttural growl and swung its club down at him again; the weapon crashing into the stone floor. Then the Dragon was there, both swords in hand once more and he couldn’t help but to marvel at the way she looked when she fought.
It was as if she had been made for battle. She exuded such ferocity as she swung a sword, turned and brought down the other, all but cutting the Goblins in half. The blades turned and flashed in her hands for she was never still; she was a flurry of movement and intensity. It was like a storm was dancing through the Goblins; with each foe that fell she simply moved on to another, leaving their deaths in her wake.
“Aragorn! Leiawen!” Legolas heard Frodo call out in fear and both he and the Dragon cut a path to the hobbit.
The Cave Troll was almost on top of Frodo, a great spear in its hands as it stabbed at the boy. He looked away for barely a moment and then Sam was screaming. Frodo was lifted off his feet by the spear tip and slammed against the wall. He slid down the stone, crashed to his knees, and fell forward, the spear coming loose form his body as he fell.
The Ring bearer was dead.

(Third Person Normal)
The breath was gone from her lings and she felt as though she had just received a blow to the chest; he was dead. She had given her word that she would not let him fail, would not leave his side, and now he lay dead before her. Here. In the depths of Moria. By the hand of a wretched Cave Troll. Red coated her vision like a film of tangible anger and she trembled with seething, ill-contained rage; the Troll…
The Still-Cursed went after the Troll ferociously, moving more swiftly than before as she laid blow upon blow into its scaly hide. Leiawen barely registered the sight of the other hobbits attacking it as well; Sam slashed at the creature’s knees, Merry and Pippin crawled atop it to beat it about the head until it threw them from its back. The Firstborn and Greybeard were piercing its thick skin with arrow and sword, but it was not enough to bring it down. Aragorn, who had retrieved the spear from Frodo’s body attempted to run it through. Nothing seemed to avail them.
Leiawen, now at the far side of the vaulted chamber from the Troll, knew what it was that she had to do. She took two steps back, flipping her swords in her hands before she hurtled forward with an infuriated scream. With a slight jump, she stepped up onto Balin’s tomb and from there leapt for the creature’s throat as it turned. The two black swords sang in the air as she swung them with every bit of strength she possessed, and then she and the Troll were falling together. As they fell to the floor, a mess of blood gushing from the large creature, she quickly tucked her legs in and rolled to her feet. The foul Cave Troll’s head landed at her feet and she kicked it away.
“Frodo,” she gasped, sheathing her weapons and hurrying to where the boy lay.
Aragorn was at his side and as she drew closer he looked up and met her eyes; the despair upon his face plain for everyone to see. They had failed the Ring bearer, and as he lie upon the cold stone floor, they could not decide what it was they should do next. Then, the small dark haired hobbit let out a wheezing gasp and took in a deep breath; his sudden movement shocking all of them into motion.
“He’s alive!” Sam exclaimed with no small amount of relief; relief that they all felt in that moment.
“I’m all right. I’m not hurt,” Frodo assured them as he sat up, a hand upon his chest as he took deep, gasping breaths.
It was one of the few moments in all of her long life that Leiawen had a reason to thank the Valar for whatever foresight he had been given. The Ring bearer was alive and she had reason to hope once more.

(Legolas)
Gandalf was leading them further into Dwarrowdelf and they ran through the massive chamber with only the light at the end of the Wizard’s staff to guide them. As they rushed headlong to a distant door, masses of Goblins and Orcs came scuttling down the great stone pillars and through chasms in the floor. The shrieking, snarling creatures soon surrounded them entirely and every member of the Fellowship had drawn their weapons. They were hopelessly outnumbered in the battle to come; despite how many of them they had defeated within the chamber of Balin’s tomb, they no longer had the advantage of an enclosed space or a funnel to thin their numbers.
Legolas caught a glimpse of the Still-Cursed as she stood at the ready beside him, legs braced shoulder width apart, weight perfectly balanced, muscles coiled and ready for whatever movement her mind might command. She had indeed been bred for battle, the fearsome look about her came too naturally to be the product of anything else. Frodo stood behind her, shielded by both her form and Aragorn’s, and as he glanced to his other side he noticed they were all gathered around the hobbits, protecting the small creatures. However, no matter how fearsome the Still-Cursed appeared, the dark creatures before them did not recoil or retreat.
Suddenly, a deafening roar filled the air of the great chamber. A fiery light grew and danced, flowing down a row of massive pillars, making ominously foreboding shadows rise up from out of the darkness. The Goblins and Orcs froze at the sound of the roar and the growls that followed; they backed away fearfully from the thing that approached. And just as quickly as they had surrounded the Fellowship, they melted back into their caves and holes.
Legolas gazed down to the end of the chamber as the creature approached, attempting to catch a glimpse of what now came for them from the bowels of the Deep.
“What is this new devilry?” he heard Boromir ask in a hushed voice.
An enormous shadow, surrounded by flame, fell across the chamber and the ground quaked. A sound not of this world rumbled and as he looked over to the Wizard he saw the Dragon had gone deathly still. The Elf couldn’t describe it but there was a kind of glow surrounding her, she looked more alive somehow; and as he took that singular moment to truly gaze upon her, he knew what it was.
“A Balrog,” Gandalf told them, his voice low and serious, “a demon of the Ancient World. This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”
Aragorn lead them to the top of a dizzying, the Dragon ran at Gandalf’s side following shortly behind. As they began their descent of the stair Legolas saw the Ranger stop, waiting for the Wizard and the Still-Cursed.
“Lead them on, Aragorn,” Gandalf told him, leaning heavily against his staff. “The Bridge is near.” Aragorn hesitated, looking to the old Wizard but Gandalf propelled the man into movement. “Do as I say; swords are no more use here.”

(Third Person Normal)
Fire and strength pulsed within her flesh as they made for the Bridge of Kazad-dum; the great fires of the heart of the world and her kin empowering her. She knew though, that despite the great swelling of power she now felt, she had little hope of defeating the cousin to her kind as she was. So as the Fellowship raced across the narrow stone Bridge, Leiawen allowed the Grey Wizard to push her ahead of him. The sheer magnitude of just how far the fall downwards would be made her head spin; she continued onward though, listening for her friend’s footsteps. It was once she had reached the other side that she realized he had stopped following.
The Still-Cursed skidded to a stop and spun around to see Greybeard facing the Balrog, staff in one hand and sword in the other. Her kin was massive, his horned form reminiscent to those of her sires though he was made of both dark shadow and blazing flame. In one hand was a blade of his own essence that burned as menacingly as he did; in the other, like a stabbing tongue of fire, was a whip of many thongs. The sight before her made her heart skip; what was the Wizard doing?
“You cannot pass!” Greybeard yelled.
“Gandalf!” she heard Frodo cry out.
“I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor. The Dark Fire will not avail you, flame of Udun!” he raised his staff and it let out a brilliant, pure light that shone against the darkness.
Leiawen felt as though she were trapped, suspended between two impossible paths, neither of which would lead to pleasant ends. To get away, take what strength her kin had gained from their Gathering and leave Greybeard to his own devices, in which case only the Wizard would die; or to go and do that which she could to help her oldest and dearest friend, in which case, both of them might die. As the cousin to her kind raised up his sword to strike the Grey Wizard down, she moved and was suddenly behind him, the strength in her flesh rising higher as she funneled her power into the Wizard. The sword came down and she pushed against it, a growl coming from her throat at the effort; a growl like that of her sires.
The blade shattered around them, falling harmlessly as a shower of sparks. Greybeard’s body trembled beneath her hands as they lay atop his shoulders; she knew he was furious with her for not staying with the others, but how could she leave him to face this foe alone? The Balrog looked right at her, its burning eyes seeing through her flesh; it knew what she was, knew the guise of her flesh to be the Curse of the Valar and it let out a loud bellow in its fury.
Leiawen could feel Greybeard’s magic wrapping around his form, preparing for the next assault; so she did the only thing she could. With a great breath, a thunderous roar forced its way from her chest, up her throat, and past her lips, he teeth bared viciously as she challenged her kin in their manner. It stumbled back a few steps, the fire that wreathed its form dying out slightly before returning in full.
“Go back to the Shadow,” Greybeard said to the demon.
It took a step forward and was on the narrow Bridge, whip in hand cracking like lightning and its wings extended full out touching reaching from one wall to the other. The smoke, thick and black, flowed towards the Wizard and herself and she gathered into her another wave of strength. Greybeard lifted both his sword and his staff above his head as she pressed her power into him once more.
“You shall not pass!” he commanded and the echoes of his power sounded out against the stone walls of the cavern. He slammed the end of his staff against the Bridge and she could feel it. Their power, both hers and his, formed a kind of barrier before the Wizard.
The cousin to Leiawen’s kind snorted and rushed forward, whip held high and for a moment she doubted; would it be enough? But then the stone beneath the Balrog’s feet crumbled and broke apart. In a mass of smoke, shadow, and fire it fell with a roar, furious of having been denied its prize. It was a slow fall but after a moment and one last, resounding bellow, her cousin was gone and they remained.
Greybeard turned to her and placed his own hand upon her shoulder, his staff between them, and with an exhausted wince, he gave her a smile. They had done it, they were-
There was a snap of the Balrog’s fiery whip and it wrapped around the Wizard’s ankle, pulling him back. All at once he had lost hold of his weapons and her right hand slid from where it was on his shoulder to his wrist. She grabbed ahold of him as his weight and the force of her kin pulled her forward to the broken edge of the Bridge. She barely heard Boromir’s protests and another desperate scream from Frodo as she lie upon her stomach, trying to pull Greybeard up despite her waning strength.
“No!” Leiawen growled through gritted teeth in desperation. “Come on!”
Her unhealed arm was giving out, failing her just as she was, in turn, failing the Wizard whose fate rested in a strength that was leaving her. She knew the Loss for what it was and as she met Greybeard’s eyes she saw the acceptance there. A sickening snap rang out against her ear and old wounds reopened; she tried, fought, to brace herself in some way, the Loss was already in full effect.
“Leiawen,” she heard him say. “You must let go.”
“No, I will not let you fall. I will not lose you!”
“Ancalalei. It’ll be all right,” he insisted. “Take care of them.”
And as her deadly, burning blood ran down her arm to her wrist, the Dragon let the Wizard fall.
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Wings and Fire