His Queen

Chapter 22 - Alana

Alana watched in horror as Gandalf lost his grip and fell into the abyss, his final words echoing in her ears. "Fly, you fools!" Time seemed to slow as the reality of what had just happened sank in. Gandalf, their leader and mentor, was gone.

Chaos erupted around her as the others cried out in anguish. Frodo's desperate screams tore at her heart, but there was no time to stop and grieve. Arrows whizzed past them from the encroaching orc archers. They had to keep moving.

"Aragorn!" Boromir called out urgently. The ranger stood frozen, staring at the spot where Gandalf had disappeared, disbelief etched on his face. But at Boromir's shout, he snapped back to the present. In one swift motion, Aragorn scooped up Kitra's limp form and threw her over his shoulder. "We must go! Now!" he commanded, leading the way up the stairs towards the exit.

Alana forced her numb legs to move, grabbing Frodo's hand and pulling him along. The little hobbit was nearly catatonic with shock and grief. She kept a tight grip on him as they raced up the steps, the sounds of pursuit not far behind.

They burst out of the mines into blinding daylight. Alana blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting as she stumbled onto the rocky hillside. The hobbits collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. Boromir held a thrashing Gimli back from charging back inside. Legolas stood apart, his fair face marred by confusion and sorrow.

Alana's heart ached as she watched her companions break down, their cries of anguish piercing the air. She felt numb, her mind still reeling from the sudden loss of Gandalf. It didn't seem real that he was gone, that he had sacrificed himself to save them all.

Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back, knowing they couldn't afford to linger here and grieve. The orcs would surely pursue them once they recovered from the Balrog's fall. They had to keep moving.

Her gaze landed on Aragorn, who was gently lowering Kitra's unconscious form to the ground. Worry gripped Alana as she hurried over to them, kneeling beside the pale, still woman. "Is she...?"

"She lives, but barely," Alana watched anxiously as Aragorn felt for Kitra's pulse at her neck. His brow was deeply furrowed with concern. After a few tense moments, he let out a sigh. "She lives, but barely," he said grimly. "The poison spreads quickly. We must get her to Lothlórien with all haste."

Gently, Aragorn peeled back the bandage on Kitra's forearm, revealing the ugly gash in her arm. Alana gasped at the sight - black tendrils snaked out from the edges of the wound, pulsing sickeningly under Kitra's ashen skin. The veins in her arm were darkening, the poison visibly creeping towards her heart with every shallow breath she took.

"By the Valar," Alana felt panic seize her as she stared at the black poison creeping through Kitra's veins. "Will she even survive the journey to Lothlórien?" she asked Aragorn desperately, her voice shaking. "There must be something more we can do!"

Aragorn quickly re-wrapped Kitra's wound, his expression grim but determined. "We have no choice but to press on and pray we reach the elves in time," he said as he gathered Kitra into his arms once more and stood. "Their healing magic may be her only hope now."

He turned to survey the rest of the devastated fellowship. "Legolas, get them up," he commanded the elf. "Boromir, Alana - help the hobbits. We must move swiftly."

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake!" Boromir protested, gesturing to the distraught hobbits. His own eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears.

Aragorn shook his head, his expression filled with regret but also steely resolve. "By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up!"