Balin's Tomb

[Aragorn]

"Give them nothing."

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”But take from them... everything

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The light from Gandalf's staff had kept them going, the last glimmer of hope within these once great halls of dwarves. The journey was long, in the cold, black abyss. The gently plodding of their shoes against the hard stone, as the wise old wizard guidedd them tunnel by tunnel, staircase by staircase.

There were no songs, unless ones of stomachs churning were played. The food supplies were low and rationed. Even Aragorn felt the pain of a morning without breakfast, but down here - there was nothing. No growth, no life, night. Every now and again, startled into hostility by the scuttling of a rodent, scuttering away from the sound of the giants footsteps.

The ranger remained ever close to the young ringerbearer, so much rested upon the shoulders of one so small.. he shared common ground with the halfling, he too shared the burden.

"Nobody can compare to the brilliance of Dwarven masonary."

Aragorn admitted, the halls were huge and perfect down to every last detail. He laughed, reminding himself they probably had enough time to complete such masterpieces as they greedily isolated themselves from the rest of Middle-earth. There was bad blood with the Dwarves from Elves; but Aragorn remained neutral in their feuds. Middle-earth would not defeat Sauron without the help of both races.

"Man le trasta, Legolas. Man cenich?"

"What troubles you, Legolas. What can you see?"

Aragorn said, born and raised in Rivendell; Elvish was his second language. Legolas grew weary, the Elves were naturals of senses, they could predict or know of things - long before they were true.

[Legolas]

out with a friend, we're singing alone
THINGS ARE GOING WRONG
THEY GRAB ME BY THE HAIR
my ribs went pop

"Nad no ennas, Aragorn..."

"Something's out there, Aragorn..."

He left it at such in response to his comrade's inquiry, avoiding the brief glances of the others as he silently signaled to the rear with his index and middle fingers.

Legolas had caught up with the rest of the party, each member staying rather close to one another in attentiveness, unwilling to separate from the group and be left isolated in the darkness. And now the fear of desolate abandonment grew all the more real, at least to the two speaking in the Elvish tongue, and possibly Gandalf. The pattering of feet in the distance behind them continued, and to the extent when the archer was reluctantly certain did not belong to any of the eighteen feet of the Fellowship.

His head would wheel about every so often to attempt to see what was trailing behind them. And yet he dared not to make a cry to halt the stalker or to halt the party's hastened advance. It was unwise to alarm the inexperienced Hobbits of the dangers that might befall them.

And yet, to some relief, Frodo's blade stayed a piece of cold metal in the dark, not a trace of light shining through the sheath. No Orc had trespassed their path, but there still had to be an explanation to the Dwarves' demise. It was no natural cause of death.

"O nin..."

He stopped in his tracks before the first split in the cavernous mines, the path dividing into the dim outline of three separate trails leading into total darkness. A foul stench bothered his nostrils, but it was only a trifling matter, as corpses were abundant in the trail they had passed. There was not a hint for which path to take, as Legolas worriedly eyed the two guides of the expedition.

"Gandalf? Gimli?"

what the hell?

I'M IN THE TOMBS TONIGHT