Incara watched the black smoke billow up over the battlefield as the two armies crashed into one another. Her eyes narrowed and she tightened her grip on the reigns of her dark gray war-horse. There were black smudges on her face, covering the small red tattoo under her right eye. Her scale mail and steel armor were smeared with dirt and soot - and blood. The sword at her side lay ready near its companion, that lay sheathed on her back, the handle facing down instead of the regular up. Her dark red cloak flew in the wind around her calves and she was only a little pissed off. A field messenger rode up and handed her a hastily scrawled letter, she took it and waved the boy away.
    Her emerald eyes narrowed as she read the note, her horse moving restlessly under her. So they were moving forward. This was an odd move for Lord Marshall Dahrin, of course, this was to be expected when you were allied with an over-rich country against the armies of Sauron. She held up a hand and her captain moved up, "I want the horse-archers and skirmishers on the field, the idiot's ordered a push. Cover his tracks."
The man saluted and rode away, she turned her attention back to the battle at hand. This push was suicide. What the hell was he thinking? He knew that if they pushed too far in that the Orc armies could trap them within the borders of this dark land. She
brushed a stray strand of copper coloured hair out of her face and sighed as the signal for a push echoed along the battlefield. Her skirmishers moved into place - this was what the land of Desmorad was famous for. Their light calvary was trained as horse archers, skirmishers and for hit-and-run tactics. She held up a closed fist and waited for a moment, then she let her hand fall. The lines of horses charged past and another messenger rode forward, handing her the message and riding away from her without a backward glance - now that was one of hers.
    Her eyes flickered over the letter and they smoldered in anger. She was being sent to a council of the free-peoples. Away from her troops. Damnit! She crushed the letter in her hand and turned her mount to her line of captains, "Ralik!"
The captain looked up from his tactics sheet, "Yes?"
"I'm giving you command! I've been summoned elsewhere."
Ralik raised an eyebrow at his long time friend and nodded shortly, "Are you leaving now?"
Incara's eyes narrowed, "Yes... I'd stay but I haven't got a choice. Don't kill my men Ralik - or you'll pay for it with your own hide!"

    This was what she was famous for. She was famous for her vise-like control over her troops, and over her captains. She had
been known to kill a captain for killing off her men needlessly, and she did it without a second thought. This had earned her the
name Desdemona. Or Demon Child. She turned her mount and cantered away from the battlefield. It didn't take her long to reach the fortress that her troops were stationed  at on the borders of Desmorad. She dismounted and walked into the building, shooting out orders. She was determined to leave at dawn, and she would do just that.

*****

    The war-horse shot out of the gates of the fortress just as the false grey light of pre-dawn began to fade. It galloped into the
distance, sending chunks of dry earth up in its path, and it soon dissapeared over the horizon.

    Incara allowed her eyes to close as she strapped herself into her saddle - a saddle made for sleeping while riding. Demonsbane continued, knowing which direction to go as she fell into a light doze. Every now and then she would be startled out of the light sleep that held her by something she sensed but could not hear or see, and she urged Demonsbane forward each time. Three days had passed, and she had three days left until she reached Rivendell. She knew that she would be glad to get out of the saddle once and for all, but now, now she dared not stop for the night. She had seen the shadows around her the night before, and she knew that Orcs had followed her out of the mountain range that cut Desmorad off from the rest of Middle-Earth. And she also knew that they were waiting for a moment when her guard would slip so they could attack. Whether she liked to admit it, her head did have a heavy price on it within the bounds of Mordor, and she knew that they'd take it without a second thought. All she needed to do wait until she reached the Last Homely House to fall into a deep slumber, but for now, the light off and on dozes would have to do.

*****

    Incara wasn't the only one to arrive in Rivendell that day - no, at the same time as she rode in another group of Humans, a group of Dwarves and a group of Elves rode in too. She stopped her rather impressive looking warsteed and dismounted, allowing someone to lead him off. She followed the elf in front of her as she was led into the quarters that she would have until she left Rivendell. Once there she dropped her packs onto an empty chair, stripped out of her armor and collapsed into the bed, sound asleep.
    When she awoke she found that her armor hade been cleaned and that a hot bath waited for her. She glanced toward the
window and noticed that it was almost noon, so she'd been asleep for almost twenty-four hours then. She stood and streched, the muscles in her back complaining loudly. Sh walked over to the steaming basin and washed quickly before dawning black breeches, tall black boots, a black undertunic and a blackened shirt of ring mail. She belted the shirt to her frame and attached her left-handed blade to it. She then twisted her shoulder-blade length hair and held it up with a pair of sticks. She glanced at herself in the mirror and sighed, today was going to be a long day.
    She spent another day hidden in the woods around Rivendell before retiring again. When she awoke the next morning she
dawned the same clothes as she had worn the day before - only now, they were once again clean. She exited her room and walked down the corridor, following the quartet of human men as they walked to where the council was to meet.
    She was the last to enter, and she was different from all the others - she seemed more severe and battle hardened - and she was. Elrond walked forward, "Ah, Desdemona. I did not expect your father to send you with your troops inside Mordor."
She grasped his forearm, "Nor would I have expected such an action. I don't know why he sent me."
Elrond nodded and motioned to her seat. She took it and Elrond began the meeting.
    Most of the words that were spoken she let slip past her until everything actually began to get interesing.
"Frodo," Elrond said, gesturing to the Hobbit beside Gandalf the Grey, "Bring forth the ring."
The Hobbit stood and placed a single gold band on the empty stone in the center of the half-circle. Her eyes flamed as the ring
shone. She did not like this, Elrond continued, "There is only one choice, the ring must be destroyed."
"Then what are we waiting for," a red haired Dwarf said, and stood, bringing his ax down on the ring. The well made steel shattered like a stained glass window.
"No weapon forged can destroy this ring, Gimli son of Gloin" Elrond said, "It must be taken into the very heart of Mount Doom, and be cast back into the fires from whence it came. Who would do this?"
Much to her surprise one of the men stood, "Why destroy this thing? Why not take it and use it against Sauron?"
"You cannot wield it," the dark haired man to her left said, rising.
"I wish only for the power to protect my people!"
"The ring has only one master, and can only be used by Sauron," the other said.
"Who are you to know of such things Ranger," the blonde asked.
Much to Incara's surprise, an Elf came to the other's defense, "This is no mere Ranger. He is Aragorn son of Arathorn. Heir of
Isildur."
The dark haired man spoke something in Elvish as the blonde turned to him and opened his mouth to speak.
"Hold."
Her voice rang out clear and the room fell silent, she stood, straight and glared at the men before her, "Do you not see why we are here? The ring must be destroyed! You cannot wield it Man of Gondor - I know this."
"How would you know this," he retorted.
"I have seen the effects of that thing's power since child-hood. It is the reason I am known throughout Middle-Earth as Desdemona! Do you know what that name means?"
At his astonished silence she continued, "It means 'Demon Child'. I am from the land of Desmorad, my people now fight every day within the borders of Mordor, against armies of Orcs so large there is no end to them! My people die at the hands of these dark shadows every moment and you wish to wield the power of the thing that brought this darkness upon my people?"
The silence continued, "I have seen much battle, and much suffering at the hands of Sauron, and if I must kill you to see that the ring is destroyed I will do so."
    The man's hand moved toward the hilt of his sword but Elrond cut in, "Incara, hold. The ring will be destroyed, who will take it?"
One of the Elves stood and said something Incara did not hear, for she was still staring into the man's eyes. A Dwarf said
something, and suddenly eveyone was on their feet and arguing - Even the great Gandalf.

"I will take it!"

    Incara's keen hearing heard the Hobbit's fist shout, and she turned to stare at him.
"I will take it," he yelled, gaining the attention of everyone there, "Though, I do not know the way...."

    Black smoke rose over the silent battlefield, filling the air with blackness. In the distance you could see the orange light that came from Mount Doom. But below the smoke were huge bonfire, bonfires lit to burn the dead soldiers of Desmorad. A general stood at the center of the circle, clad in scale mail and fine steel, covered from head to toe in grime, soot, dirt and blood. Green eyes reflected the flames and two swords were simoultaneously sheather, one on the warrior's back ,and the other at her side.
    Incara's eyes were vacant of all emotion, her face stony as she watched her men burn. Her troops were warriors, trained as the best fighters in all of Middle-Earth, but they had still lost their lives. The armies of Desmorad had won the battle, but at great cost. The armies of the neighboring kingdom of Khand had been spared because of her men. Her skirmishers had charged in at her command to save the men of Lord Marshall Dahrin, only to be slaughtered in their places.
    Dahrin had called a retreat the minute her men charged, determined to save as many of his men as he could, no matter what the cost was to Desmorad, the only thing standing between Khand and Mordor. It was his fault that Incara was burning over one hundred of her men tonight, including three of her Captains. It was his fault that she had to prove once again why she was called Desdemona, and she did not like it. She waved for her horse and mounted Demonsbane while looking down at Ralik, "Finish up here and then take our people home Captain."
He nodded at her decision to pull out of the war for the time being, for he agreed with her. She turned her horse in the directions of the Khandin encampment and rode off.
    She didn't wait to be announced before she entered the command tent where Dahrin and his Captains were standing over a pile of maps. They looked up and swalloed at the sight of her. She was fresh from the battlefield, and still wore her battle armor, covered in grime and blood, and therefore looked the part of Desdemona. Dahrin opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off as he found himself staring down the point of one of her swords. Her eyes narrowed, "What the hell were you thinking?"
Her voice was deadly calm and quiet, Dahrin swallowed, "I-"
"Why did you pull out," She demanded, cutting him off, "You got my men slaughtered Lord Marshall. I have over a hundred men burning on the battlefeild as we speak! So explain yourself."
"I was losing to many men," Dahrin said, "I needed to pull out for reasons that -"
"Reasons," she barked out harshly, "Your own selfish reasons! The Orc armies of Mordor have grown in numbers, they now outnumber us twenty to one and yet you pulled out! They can only win by brute strength! Because of your stupidity, I have withdrawn my forces from this war until further notice. If you want to complain about it, talk to my father. If I ever see you make such a stupid move again, I will skin you alive!"

    Incara sat bolt upright, her breath bated and heavy. She ran a hand over her face in a feeble attempt to banish the images from her mind and she sighed, looking out into the star studded sky. She sat there for a moment before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and standing up. Her bare feet moved across the floor without barely a sound, stepping out onto the balcony and staring into the distance for some time. She had hoped that the dreams had left, that the memories would not come back. She had become Desdemona with those actions, and she was not proud of them. She had lived up to the name she had been given, that she had earned for herself, and she hated herself for it. She prided herself in the discipline of her troops, of the respect she showed them when she charged into battle with them, and for the respect she was given in return. But these momories haunted her and reminded her what she really was.
    The Fellowship was supposed to leave just after dawn, and the pale gray light of pre-dawn had begun to show on the horizon.Incara wasn't sure if she could handle both the burden of the Fellowship and that of her nighmares without breaking.She hoped that the dreams would leave so that she could concentrate - so that she would not have to relive the failure that she called her life. It was like suffocation - both horrifying and truthful of your end.

*****

    The journey began lighthearted for all except Incara. Her face was drawn and pale, she had pulled her cloak over her shoulders to hide her battle-armor from view and her left hand remained on the hilt of her sword. Her eyes scanned the area for the Orcs that had followed her here from Mordor, a rustle to her left told her that they were indeed being hunted in broad daylight - Or, at least, she was being hunted. She stopped abruptly, causing the rest of the company to raise questions over her actions. She silently flipped her cloak over her shoulders, revealing her armor that shocked the rest of her companions. Both of her swords were out and ready on a flash and she crouched, eyes narrowed - It was time for Desdemona to re-emerge.
    Incara took no time explaining her actions to the company, for at that moment, their persuers sprang forward. She pivoted and ran one through while bringing her other sword around and decapitating an Orc that had focused its attention on Pippin. She spun again and flipped over another Orc's head and ran him through. Another pivot to the right created a power struggle. Her swords came up  to block the Orc's and was being pushed downward. The creature's brute strength was not enough to save in as she suddenly dropped to the ground and swept its feet out from under it, its own sword impailing its abdomen.
    The battle fervor lasted longer than it should have. When the clearing was scattered with Orc bodies and her companions stood panting from the fight, Incara remained jumpy. What the hell was going on? She didn't understand why all of a sudden killing a few Orcs hit her so hard. It was almost as if she had never done it before. Incara had pretty much grown up on the battlefield, yet all she could see were the flames as they licked at the bodies of her men two years ago. The stench of death was now heavy on the air, just as it had been that day. She followed the other subconsiously as her memories overcame hjer once more.

    Incara was deep in thought as they traveled, her memories taking over her mind. She did not want to face her past, and as she sat there staring into the flames of the camp fire she determined that she'd rather forget. She didn't want to face what she had become. She sighed and looked around at the other members of the Fellowship. They all seemed so carefree and happy - Even Frodo, and that said something. She stood quietly and made her way to her bedroll, and with her back facing the company, fell asleep...

~ * ~
    Dark clouds covered the sky, and cold, poisoned rain fell down upon the dusty gray earth. Incara wiped sweat off her forehead as she scanned the silent battlefield. Another bloody battle, and all they had to show for it was another piece of uninhabitable land. she stared into the distance, toward home, toward freedom.
"Incara?"
She turned tired eyes to Ralik, "Yes?"
"I have the count..."
"How bad is it?"
"Seven hundred," he said softly.
"Another seven hundred that will never see their brothers, fathers and sons again," she ran a hand over her face, "There is so much blood on this land, and yet more still on my own hands."
Her eyes closed in a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening, Ralik remained silent.

    Incara slammed her fist into an Orc's face and slashed another across its chest. She kicked out with one foot, bashing in another's skull. Arrows flew through the air suddenly and struck her mount, making it fall to the earth, dead. Agony seared through her as she pulled her leg from under the horse, and wincing, she rose. She gasped for breath, trying to clear her vision, and when it did, she looked up and her eyes widened. A Balrog was looming over her, its eyes narrowed to slits and its fiery sword poised and ready to strike. She began backing up as it advanced on her, the earth trembling with the force of its steps. The creature's sword came down and ripped through the metal of her armor, causing a jagged wound to appear from the top of her right shoulder to just below her belt line... Incara then did something she had never done before - she screamed.
~ * ~

    Her scream transferred to the real world as she shot up, eyes wide and clutching at her chest in agony. The Fellowship awakened at the sound and stared wide-eyed as she staggered to her feet and tried to move forward. She fell to one knee, coughing, blood pouring from her lips. She groped at the buckles of her armor as she felt the scar that her encounter with the Balrog had created re-opened and sent pain and fire searing through her as the metal pressed against the wound. She managed to pull off the breastplate, and she tried to remove the rest of the armor on her upper body, but coughing wracked her frame and she could not. Boromir and Aragorn rushed forward, lowering her into a laying position on the ground and removing the armor for her. Her tunic was soaked through with her own blood, and Aragorn shouted some orders before ripping her shirt down the middle to examine the wound.
    Blood began to seep out onto the ground as he was handed a cloth by someone and Aragorn tried to qwell the bleeding. The flow of blood seemed endless, and his job was made only worse as as the bleeding woman began to convulse. Boromir held her tighter in hopes of holding her still enough for Aragorn to do something. He could only try to stop the bleeding.
    Incara's vision was swimming with blackness and white dots as the pain overcame her senses. She had not felt pain like this in eight years - not since the wound had been inflicted - not since she had become Desdemona - not since she had stared up in agony as the Balrog went to strike for the final time, but was stopped by her own men as they attacked the creature fearlessly while others carried their leader from the battlefield. She didn't understand how the wound could have re-opened because of a dream, but her mind was too clouded for her to think rationally. She was vauqely aware of Boromir holding her still while Aragorn stemmed the flow of blood, but her senses went into overdrive as her vision went white.
    Her back arched and in a flash of white light it was over. Boromir and Aragorn covered their eyes at the brightness of the light, and when they opened them again what they saw shocked them. Incara lay on the ground unconcious. The wound was gone, and all that remained was a long thin silver scar that looked as if it had been there for years. They knelt in Incara's blood and were covered in it as well, so they knew that what had happened had not been a figment of their imaginations.

****

    Incara was unconcious for three days before she awakened to the sound of laughter. She immediately recognized the voices of Merry, Pippin and Boromir but the thoughts were pushed from her mind as she remembered the nightmares that had pauged her mind for three days. She kept telling herself that what had happened wasn't real, but she knew it was from the weakness and exastion she felt. She knew now that if she let them continue, that her dreams would destroy her. Suddenly the noise made by the company stopped and Sam spoke, "What is that?"
"Nothing, just a wisp of cloud."
"It's moving fast. Against the wind."
"Crebain from Dunland!"
"Hide!"
Incara felt herself being picked up and pulled close to someone as the person dove into the underbrush. cinnamon and spice. The smell invaded her senses and she suddenly felt protected and she managed to gather the strength to open her eyes.
    She stared up at Boromir as he watched the birds circle overhead, body rigid with tension. When they dissapeared he looked down at her, "You're awake."
She nodded weakly as he stood and helped her over to a large boulder.
"So our path to the Gap of Rohan is being watched. We have no choice but to take the pass of Charadas," Gandalf said. Incara looked up at the snow covered mountain and paled.

The trip up the mountain was exhausting as Incara insisted that she was fine. She stumbled along blindly, focused on putting one foot in front of the other and
staying within the path created by Gandalf. She stumbled suddenly and Boromir steadied her before sweeping her up into his arms. She stuggled helplessly, as it had been that her physical strength had left her.
"Put me dow, I'm fine."
"You're lying," he replied, "And it's going to kill you."
"I don't need you telling me what to do."
He glanced down at her pale face, "You need someone too."
She looked up at him sharply, her face bleak and angry, but unable to hide the exhaustion in her eyes, "I know my limits."
"Do you?" he asked, "Can you tell yourself that it is okay to need help every now and then?"
"I -" she sighed and looked down, watching as the snow dissapeared behind Boromir's long stride, "I've never had that privlige."
"What happened in your dream Incara?"
His question caused her to scowl again, "Nothing."
"Nothing my arse," he snorted, "I saw the blood and the wounds. I saw the terror in your eyes."
"It doesn't matter," she replied tersly, "It is gone now."
Boromir didn't believe her, bacause now she looked haunted.

*****

The wind picked up and a sudden blizzard beat at the company as they moved. In her weakened state, Incara was vaguely aware of the fact that her teeth were
chattering. She sighed and moved forward, slamming into a solid wall of warmth. She stood stunned, hearing a muffled debate and Gandalf yelling. A rumble ran
over the mountain and she felt the body she was using as a wind block turn and sheild her as tons of snow fell onto them.

She clawed her way to the surface, face pasty white and her lips blue. Oh how she hated being such an invalid. She heard someone say something and she felt
herself being lifted from the ground. She gazed up at Aragorn as he talked with someone. Warmth enveloped her as a cloak was quickly placed around her. Spice
and cinnamon. She knew that smell. She'd spent days surrounded by that smell. It had lingered in the back of her mind and now she was fully aware of who was
around her.

Boromir had warpped his cloak around Incara after a short discussion with Aragorn, who placed her in his keeping. He felt her bury her face in his chest and
inhale deeply. She had indulged in a moment of weakness and had allowed herself to be pulled into the warmth and safety that he provided. Right now she didn't
care. She hated being weak - it was a foriegn sensation and it scared her. All she wanted was to be able to feel her feet again, to be able to depend on herself
again.

*****

When Incara awoke she was aware of the eeire scilence surrounding her. Her eyes snapped open and she got to her feel, staggering slightly as a dizzy spell hit
her. She was helped to a large boulder and a canteen was pressed into her hands. She drank greedily before finally looking around.

A murky lake expanded out into the dark on one side, and a huge rock wall stood on the other. A doorway of somekind glowed softly in the moonlight. Gandalf
sat next to the door, muttering to himself, as Aragorn admonished Merry and Pippin for something.

"How do you feel?"
She looked up at Boromirt, "A lot better."

He nodded and they lapsed back into silence. She watched him for a momeny before looking away and pushing unwanted, foriegn feelings back. She didn't
understand what these feelings were or what they meant, and generally. she tended to avoid things like that.

"Gandalf? What's the Elvish world for 'friend'?"
"Maylon..."

The doors graoned and swung open as they stared. To Incara it looked like the gaping maw of some creature. She shuddered at the thought and moved forward
into the blackness, a hand on the hilt of her sword.

The stench was almost unbearable as Gandalf ignited the gem on his staff. Gasps filled the air and Gimli yelled out.
"This is no mine. It's a tomb," Boromir said.
Legolas bent over and removed an arrow from one of the carcasses, "Orcs."
Incara drew both of her swords quickly, and Boromir shouted, "We should never have come here. Get out! Get out!"

"Strider!"
"Aragorn!"

They all turned at the Hobbits' voices and gaped. A long tentacle had pulled Frodo into the air and was shaking him about violently. Incara charged into the water
with Arafgorn and BOromir and began slashing at the Craken's tentacles.

The water began to froth and bubble as the Craken's head appeared, opening its jaw and begining to lower Frodo to it. Aragorn slashed through another tentacle
and Boromir caught the petrified Hobbit, running back into Moria, the others following closely behind.

Dust filled the air as the doorway caved in and silence followed. Gandalf once again lit his gemstone and sighed, "We have no choice now but to face the long
dark of Moria. Come, it is a four day journey to the other side - let us hope that our presence here may go unnoticed."

"What are you thinking about?"

Incara looked up at Boromir as he sat down next to her. They had been stitting here for nearly two hours while Gandalf tried to remember the way to go from the three doors in front of him. And Incara, now having nothing to occupy her mind, had been swamped by memories again.

"Merry?"
"What?"
"I'm hungry..."

Incara looked over at the two Hobbits. "Merry, Pippin, come here."

They stood and wandered over, taking seats around her and Boromir as she dug out a pair of apples and handed them to them. She smiled softly at them, once again showing her softer side, and turned back to Boromir. "I wasn't thinking... I was... Remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"Battles, scars.... thing in the past that created my life as it is."

"How so?"

Incara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "When I was thirteen my brother was killed in an Orc raid against our castle. I was there, he died protecting me. After that, I had demanded to be trained as a warrior. By the time I was sixteen I was riding with the army, and was a Captain at the time. Dahrin would always ask me for advice... As if he thought there was a bit of my brother's abilities in me. The battle field on which I ride is not just covered in Orcs, but troops of Trolls and other evil beasts... Dahrin was surrounded by such a group of Trolls and killed when I was eighteen because of a stupid move made by the lord Marshall of Khand... It was that day that I became Desdemona, I had seen red when I saw my mentor fall. By the time I could see straight again on the battlefield rivers of blood flowed in the poisoned, rain, and I was named leader of the armies on the battlefield.

"My men follow me. I have their respect because I don't let them do the fighting and dying, I charge right in there with them... That night, when I had that dream and those wounds re-opened. They were a memory of something that happened eight years ago... I was twenty one, young yes, but not inexperianced. We were fighting, and there were about four Balrogs on the battlefield... My horse had been shot from under me, and my leg broken in three places by the fall. By the time my vision cleared I was staring up into the eyes of a Balrog, it's sword raised to strike. Before I could utter a word it had slashed through my armor and created that wound... I was told later that one of my mages had found me and gotten me to the healer's tent early enough that the healers managed to save me."

Incara's eyes opened then. "I will not lie to you... I am a monster... What I have become attacks me in my nightmares... I haven't had a dream for two years, and suddenly I had one the night before we left. I don't know if it was the ring that tore down my mental sheilds, or something else, but I am only good to you if I stop having those flashbacks... I will die soon enough... But until that time I have a war to run and a ring to destroy. Do not get in my way. Do not coddle me or worry. I won't let you. I am the way I am, and no one can stop that."

~ * ~

A crash sounded over Gimli's wails and Incara turned, staring past Pippin to the well behind him. She sighed, it was going to be a long day. The drums that suddenly began to echo through the caverns of Moria caused a rueful chuckle to escape her lips as she drew her swords. Boromir and Aragorn barred the doors, and she began humming the tune to a drinking song her men used on their nights off.

Somehow, telling her story to someone had made the dreams back off, and linger barely at the back of her mind. Now Incara was in her element, she lived for the fight, it was all she knew.

The Goblins pouring into the room caused an evil grin to crease her face as she ripped into their ranks, sacrastic comments flying from her lips as if she was carrying an intelligent conversation on with the creatures. Things like 'another one bites the dust' and 'fifty points for the one with the moehawk' managed to make their way to the others' ears.

The crash that sounded, followed by teh Cave Troll broke her from her reverie. Like every battle, the sane part that remained inside her retreated to another room in her mind as the warrior inside her took over. She stared up at the Troll frozen, and when she broke from it Frodo had been stabbed. She let out a war cry and went after the rest of the Orcs before turning at the sound of Gimli breathing "Mithril..."

~ * ~

They were surrounded. And each one was uglier than the one before it. Incara stood in a slouched position musing over the irony over it and and making bets with herself over hown many she could take down with her when it happened. The thunderous boom that came from down the great pillared hall was a footstep, and that footstep repeated itself as her eyes landed on a glowing object moving toward them.

"What new devilry is this?" Boromir muttered. Gandalf closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as Incara muttered his fear in a slight whimper.

"Balrog... Running away NOW!!!"

She willingly spun on her heel and took off as the others followed. She dove through the doorway and spun the corner as her trained eyes took in the drop off as she ran down the steps. She stopped abruptly at a ledge, staring at the gap as she heard the others approaching behind her. Suddenly Legolas appeared and jumped across, Gandalf following. Moments later arrows flew in their direction, but the thunderous crash that came from behind them caused her eyes to widen as Boromir gabbed Merry and Pippin and jumped across. She was vaquely aware of being pulled back as a section of the steps fell apart.

"Incara! Go!!"

Another crash and she jumped, Legolas catching her and letting her run down the steps to a platform as she waited nervously.

~ * ~

She remembered later, that Gandalf had fallen, and that they were outside in the fresh mountain air again. She also remembered being asked if she was alright... And she remembered telling whoever it was that asked, that no, she wasn't okay, and yes, she was terrified.