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Chapter Text

The news reached Shiros through a dream in the midst of a terrible summer storm. The wind pitched itself over and over as if trying to drown in the rain it wrought with reckless abandon. The trees groaned as their roots were torn from their home beneath the soil, their appendages ripped from their woody bodies. The rivers swelled above their banks and flooded the valley. But she awoke naught because of the storm’s temper but because of the dream. Perhaps, dream was not the right word to describe the vision she saw in the unconscious. Perhaps, a surreal, terribly beautiful nightmare was a more accurate description.

There had been an eye and a ring, both beholden with terrible yet alluring power. The Eye and the Ring. They sang a siren’s song of death and destruction, but Shiros was not the intended recipient. Before what could only be presumed as the holder of the Ring was revealed past black curls, she awoke in time with a nearby lightning strike. The air was hot and static, and it seemed to crackle and sizzle long after the light had retreated back to the sky. The rain seemed to compete for her attention and came down faster and harder. The raindrops themselves were thick and heavy. Such storms were often common in the northeastern forests of Rhûn.

The dream was of a troubling sort, the kind that once it had been cast in the mind’s eyes, refuses to leave. Its contents found Shiros moved – and troubled – greatly. She shifted on the rocky cave floor and tried to follow the rhythmic pattern of the storm outside (for there always exists some form of order to even the most chaotic of things), but the dream prevailed. The Eye seemed to burn her even across their great distance, and the golden ring gleamed like the greatest of prizes. She stood then, sleep forsaken, and packed the meager belongings that brought comfort and protection. The storm would not last, and when it ceased, she knew where to go.

From one end of Middle-Earth to the other, Shiros would need to travel.

~~~

The air was crisp and chilled as representatives from all corners of the Middle-Earth and of all Free Folk gathered for the council as had never been seen in the Third Age. Dwarves, Elves, Men, Hobbits, and even an Istari wizard had temporarily laid truces and heeded the call to Rivendell. Though peace there was, each race sat well with its brethren, and interactions were kept minimal as to not stir the passions that lied beneath thin layers of restraint. The elves turned their noses up at the dwarves, who grumbled under their beards. The Men crossed their arms and eyed them all suspiciously. Even the wizard, Gandalf, was unsettled. Only the hobbits, whose race was all but isolated and sheltered from the others with the exception of one exceptional Bilbo Baggins, sat with an unclouded and unstirred mind. All quieted when the master of the Rivendell, Lord Elrond, stood. His voice, clear as the crystal rivers that flowed through the sanctuary, washed over the courtyard.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old, you’ve been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You must unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.” Lord Elrond beckoned the young hobbit to the pedestal at the epicenter of the courtyard. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

Legs shaking but with unwavering courage, Frodo approached the stone table and set down the golden ring. The Ring. Immediately, those of weak heart and spirit were enamored. Entranced. The spell of the Ring was only temporarily interrupted by the muted pattering of soft leather boots on the stone pathway. Lord Elrond eyed the late newcomer coolly but welcomed them to the only empty seat. The newcomer paused, placed their hand over their left pectoral, and bent to the high elf. After rising, the newcomer quickly walked – slinked to be more accurate – to the chair opposing Frodo and adjacent to the most honorable of the Gondorian representatives, Boromir, son of the steward. Boromir tried to quell a twitch when the newcomer sat gracefully, emanating a sense of foreignness. Though the newcomer was mostly obscured from head to foot in grimy dark clothes, the skin around the eyes was exposed by an opening in the fabric. The color was darker than that of anyone he had seen in the West before. It was more similar to Gondor’s enemies from the East and Southlands of Rhûn, Haradwraith, and Khand. The eyes were brown that seemed to burn black depending on the tilt of their head. He almost thought it was a trick of the shadows, but the color did not fade when the newcomer moved. The newcomer left him deeply unsettled.

Clearing his throat, Boromir drew the council’s attention to himself. “In a dream, I saw the eastern sky draw dark, but in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, ‘Your doom is near at hand. Isildur’s bane is found...’ Isildur’s bane.”

Unbeknownst to him, Boromir had risen from his seat during his speech and reached for the Ring. A warm gloved hand on his arm failed to deter him, and the newcomer nearly rose to jerk him back more fiercely when two voices clashed in the air. Lord Elrond’s call to the Gondorian was lost to Gandalf’s chant.

“One ring to rule them all. One ring to find them. One ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them!” Gandalf cried in Black Speech. The mere words caused the sky to darken and the hearts of the present to fall heavy with dread. The newcomer’s hand was snatched hastily away from Boromir in a wince, and the other hand, which was wrapped tightly around the chair arm, almost snapped the wood. The elves hissed, and the dwarves groaned. Frodo’s eyes fluttered closed with the rapid onset of a pounding in his head. But as soon as it started, Gandalf quietened, and the sky brightened once more. Boromir retreated to his chair instantly.

Seldom was Lord Elrond moved to anger or fear, but he felt both as he addressed the gray wizard. “Never before has anyone uttered words of that tongue here in Imladris.”

“I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether evil.”

Boromir disagreed. “It is a gift!” he proclaimed. “To the foes of Mordor. Why not use the Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy, let us use it against him.”

The newcomer stood to challenge Boromir, and they rivaled his height. If one were to interpret the finger pointed at his chair, he could assume it was a command to sit, although they did not yet speak. He glared heatedly at the newcomer, but neither could begin a verbal fight before another member of the Council spoke.

“You cannot wield it.” The dire words were spoken calmly by the dark-haired man sitting to Lord Elrond’s right. Most of the world knew him as Strider. A select few knew him by a more intimate name. “None of us can. The One Ring answers no other master.”

Boromir turned his scathing questions upon him. “And what would a ranger know of this matter?”

Oh, but how quickly civil conversation decays when insult is received by not only the recipient but by his loyal allies. One of the fairest elves present rose on behalf of Strider. “This is no mere Ranger,” he defended passionately. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

Boromir was struck by simultaneous awe and disbelief, and he was not alone. Frodo, many of the

dwarves, and the rest of the Gondorian party were similarly stunned. The newcomer’s face was too covered to tell, but it is likely those blackish eyes were just a bit wider than before.

“Aragorn! This…” he stuttered, “is Isildur’s heir?”

“And heir to the throne of Gondor,” Legolas finished.

Having his intimate title spoken right in public and seeming very little happy about it, Aragorn waved his hand at the elf and spoke in his tongue. “Sit down, Legolas.” The elf did as requested, but his hands were tightly clenched by his sides.

Boromir’s face tightened and pinched as he looked at the dark-haired Dúnedan, insulted and vexed. Who wouldn’t when implied to be an imposter, an impediment to a ruler that had seemingly forsaken them?

 “Gondor has no king,” he spat disdainfully, finally walking back to his seat and slumping into the wood.

“Aragorn is right,” Gandalf declared, and the tension grew stifling. “We cannot use it.”

“You have only one choice,” Lord Elrond silenced any thoughts of protests definitively. “The Ring must be destroyed.”

A red-haired dwarf answered the call, one who you may know as Gimli. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Waving an axe high above his stout head, he brought it down onto the Ring with a yell. But it was the axe that shattered, and pieces of metal, stone, and wood flew outwards. The newcomer was forced to dodge a particularly sharp piece of shrapnel that embedded itself inches from where their head had been resting. Gimli himself was flung backwards from the force of the clash. The newcomer grabbed the metal, wrenching it loose from the chair, and threw it to the ground. The metallic clatter filled the silent air.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess.” They looked to the elf lord. “The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this.”

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” Boromir contested, having quickly grown exasperated and weary. Blonde strands fell around his face, which he held propped on a few fingers, making him far more haggard than his age warranted.  “Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland riddled with fire, ash, and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this; it is folly.”

It was a reasonable concern, but reason amidst strained relations can appear like a spark in the presence of oil. The suppressed bitterness and tension could no longer be contained. Legolas sprung from his chair and rebuked him, proclaiming the man deaf and dumb in words less frank. But his heated reaffirmation of Lord Elrond’s words prompted a retort from Gimli, from which the conversation rapidly deteriorated into heated arguments about personal grievances and historic injuries. The newcomer attempted to appease the situation between one fair-haired elf and a Gondorian representative, who, with one misplaced touch on their shoulder, found himself with his arm awkwardly bent and painfully twisted. Of course, this caused his fellow brethren to defend him and force the newcomer away. The elf sided with the newcomer and pushed back, initiating more debates that became progressively physical. All but the hobbit, Aragorn, and Elrond were engaged in one way or another so much so that none heard Frodo at first.

With each shout of “I will take it,” Frodo’s conviction grew greater and his voice louder while the crowd became quieter until he had garnered all attention. The newcomer relinquished hold of a Gondorian’s tunic to assume a more respectable position.

“I will take the Ring to Mordor,” Frodo repeated once more. His eyes burned with determination, and his voice had held steady. However, under the watchful and critical stares of so many, he faltered. “Now, I do not know the way.”

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said, walking to Frodo and clapping him lightly on the shoulder, “as long as it’s yours to bear.”

Aragorn rose from his chair and approached. “If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will.” He kneeled, the rightful king of Gondor, before the smallest of peoples. “You have my sword.”

Soon Legolas the Elf offered his bow and Gimli the Dwarf his axe. Boromir pledged Gondor, his country, and his soul. In the chaos of another small hobbit bursting forth from a bush, no one saw the deep conversation spoken entirely through an exchange of looks between Lord Elrond and the late arrival. The newcomer sighed softly at his confirmation; there had been a distant hope for a different answer.

“Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me,” Samwise Gamgee cried out. He ran to Frodo’s side without a moment’s hesitation, looking modestly bashful at having given himself away in such a grand fashion.

Lord Elrond broke away from the newcomer and glanced at the hobbit, equally amused and disapproving – “No, indeed it is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council meeting and you are not” – but it seemed Sam was not the only infiltrator.

“Wait! We’re coming too!” a small voice yelled. Two more hobbits, young Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, came scurrying out from behind some stone pillars on the other side of the courtyard and joined the group as well. Lord Elrond looked astounded at their appearance.

“You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us,” Merry said.

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing,” Pippin added.

Merry raised an eyebrow at his relative. “Well, that rules you out, Pip.”

Pippin looked ready to slap his cousin on the shoulder when the company became aware of the approaching newcomer. The newcomer stopped only a distance away and turned to face Lord Elrond again. Elrond lifted his chin in the direction of the Ring-Bearer. Stalling would not change their fate. The newcomer reluctantly went forth to kneel before Frodo, hand pressed over their left pectoral like how they had done before, head bowed ever so slightly.

Then the newcomer spoke. They had heard faint tendrils of it earlier, but it had been swallowed up during the heated arguments, and so it was a different experience to hear it clearly and in several strung-together sentences. It was equally similar and dissimilar to Sindarin – even and tonal but breathier with sibilance. Its syllables were longer and wider than Khazdul and much too soft to be Orcish. It was entirely foreign. The hobbits’ eyes widened at the new sounds, the same reaction given when they’d first heard Elvish. Gimli grunted in triumphant surprise, half expecting the newcomer to speak Elvish like the pompous princeling beside him. Aulë forbid, he’d have to travel with another pointed-ear stargazer.

Legolas found himself in a rather unusual situation. Seldom were elves as confused and unfamiliar with the world’s wonders as Men and dwarves, yet there he stood with them. It was unnerving in a way all new things are but not daunting to the princeling – it inspired intrigue and a desire to learn. It did not frighten him, rather it fascinated him, but he heard his father’s warnings echoing in his mind and restrained his curiosity…for now. Boromir, still slighted by the newcomer’s prior engagement, made his wariness painfully obvious. He did not trust what he did not know, and his hands twitched by his side. Aragorn was a healthy mixture of curiosity and caution. The accent he vaguely believed to be from somewhere exceeding Rhovanion to the east, but he had only travelled past those borders once.

And not only was the accent unknown, but the voice was undeniably feminine. When she straightened and lifted her head, she looked at Frodo. He nearly stepped back from the intensity of her stare. Gandalf alone could understand and cleared his throat to translate, but she spoke for herself. The words, while accented, were spoken in Westron and rang clearly through the courtyard. “I humbly request to join you on your journey.

“I will take all the help I can get. Thank you,” Frodo responded, overwhelmed. She nodded, and Frodo guessed the movement under the scarf was a slow smile.

She took a place next to Legolas, who surpassed her by no more than half a head’s worth. He studied her discretely, awed by the findings of a closer inspection. The richness of her skin and the black-brown of her eyes were not common in the West. A rarity? Or perhaps hailing from the East or South? Lord Elrond drew him from his pondering.

“Ten companions. And you shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

Chapter Text

In the interlude between the Council of Elrond and the departure of the Fellowship, Shiros, as they learned her name to be, proved to be a peculiarity. She was, altogether, significantly dissimilar to their anticipations. First was her appearance.

Shiros traded her travelling garbs for cleaner clothes, and the scarf that had obscured part of her face was removed, though the veil remained to cover her hair. They’d seen only her eyes during the Council of Elrond, and they had seemed hardened by life. So her full face, when finally laid bare before them, surprised them. She was nearly as fair as an elf, with a slender jaw and slim cheeks. Her complexion was warm and dark and resembled the color of a fawn. It was a very fair face indeed but not a flawless one; a tiny white scar arched over the right jawline, an old and faded scratch less than an inch long. Another, just as small and pale, dipped over her cheek bone. But what was most jarring was her age. Shiros was pleasantly albeit unexpectedly youthful, a compliment to her looks, but it weighed heavily on the conscience of the Fellowship. Each had independently raised their concerns to Lord Elrond and Gandalf, never solely on the basis of her sex, but also on her seeming juvenility. It was not right to send a woman who looked hardly into adulthood into war. She was clearly not that of a hobbit, whose looks were known to be deceptive – Pippin, the youngest, being twenty-nine – nor was she of the Dúnedain. Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas did not doubt her skill, but they did not want to risk her future. Boromir had the added concern of her origins. It was clear she was not of Gondorian or Rohirrim background, and she had yet to confirm from where beyond Rhovanion she hailed. They each talked at length with the wizard and the lord, but they were refuted every time.

Shiros, too, was older than she appeared, Gandalf told them. No specific number was provided nor were they inclined to ask Shiros directly. Gandalf refused to say anything more. There was to be no more questioning; Shiros would be joining, and she was to be respected.

While they had been discussing her, Shiros explored Rivendell. She did not shun company and would warmly although tentatively engage in conversation if asked, but she was often found wandering the halls alone or in the forest, where the elves would find her sitting amongst the animals and trees during both day and night. She was no fool so much as to believe the Fellowship would be comfortable with her immediately, so she sought distraction. Animals, she had learned, were greatly less judgmental. However, there were some people she’d also put into the category of good company.

Besides Elrond and Gandalf, it were the hobbits who sought her the most. In particular, the one with the surname Took. It became an unspoken game between them to see how long it would take him to find her. Pippin displayed an uncanny ability to locate Shiros if only to pester her to speak in that unknown tongue despite her proficiency in Westron and Sindarin. She was confused at his determination to hear something he could not understand. With no blush of shame, Pippin admitted it was because her voice was pretty and understanding the words would only distract him from it. It took Shiros a minute to digest and appreciate the compliment. Then she happily obliged him. It did not take many trips until Merry was accompanying his cousin, and some elflings were disregarding their chores to listen until their keepers shooed them away. Occasionally, Frodo joined his fellow hobbits. He could not understand the language either but also fell under the sense that the stories she told were beautiful. Once, they asked her to perform in the Hall of Fire, but she respectfully declined.

The other members of the Fellowship were hesitant around her for all the reasons stated and did not find the same ease of engagement as the hobbits did. However, once her spot amongst them had been firmly stated, they received her more welcomingly. Soon, Legolas and she were frequently found in the woods together or at the stables. Her horse, Hirodil, was a fine and mighty beast, a dappled grey stallion. She told him of how she’d found him as a colt and raised him. His mother had been killed by a pack of wolves that roamed parts of the East. She was to leave him here and would miss him dearly. Legolas asked if ‘hirodil’ meant anything in her language. Its best translation was ‘swift breeze.’ They bonded over a particular fondness for nature, and an easy-going friendliness developed around them. Lacking his prior reservations about her, he was eager to know more about Shiros and her language.

“Perhaps another time,” she told him uneasily in Sindarin when he asked to learn it. Instead, she asked him to teach her his skills with a bow. Her own was crafted from a dark wood, and the arrows were fletched with gray feathers. Symbols had been carved up and down the bow, and two bands of gold encompassed the wood near the tips. It was a magnificent creation, though Legolas still held preference for his own. She was a fine markswoman herself, but she paled in comparison to Legolas, which she readily admitted. He proved to be an excellent teacher during their infrequent lessons.

Aragorn most often approached her at the feasts and dinners because he sensed her discomfort amongst the occupants of Rivendell. He provided relief by explaining to her who was who and giving insight into Elvish nuances. He, by way of his own ranger lifestyle, recognized familiar patterns in her mannerisms. She was nomadic and unused to large groups of people and social gatherings. His guidance was greatly appreciated. Outside the feasts and dinners, Aragorn and Shiros discussed not their travels directly but the beauty of travelling itself.

She did not interact much with Gimli, which she regretted. He preferred the company of his people and stayed far away from the elves, while she was left with no choice but to interact with them. So, by proxy, Gimli stayed far away from her.  

Boromir alone was still opposed to her, and he could not stop a deep sense of bitterness from settling within him. Perhaps the elves of Mirkwood and Rivendell had forgotten, but Gondor would not so readily forget the disasters caused by the Men of the East and South. While Shiros spoke softly and played a kind character, was she truly honest and open? What was she hiding? What ties did she have to the Men who had fought and sacked and destroyed his beloved country? Why did something about her not feel right? Why was there a strange mismatch between her youth and the hardened, weary look in her eyes all soldiers recognized?

As the days turned to weeks, her amity and reputation with the Fellowship bar Boromir steadily grew. Their fears and curiosities were not entirely abated, but they were content enough to let them lie.

The anticipated date of leaving the safehold that was Rivendell arrived faster than anyone wanted, and a heavy cloud of foreboding settled upon the occupants of the House of Elrond. To forfeit your safety is a hard and difficult thing to do willingly. On that fateful day, Shiros was the first at the entrance, hours before sunrise according to the watchmen. She followed the sun’s tired crawl over the rocks while the rest of the Fellowship arrived. All were armed, even the hobbits had some sort of blade. Shiros carried with her the ebony bow and the sword she had worn to the Council. In the commotion, no one had really noticed it, and she had never taken it from her room during their stay. It was sheathed in a black scabbard, and the hilt was wrapped in red leather. As for her scarf, it was once again on her being but laid around her neck. The veil was immaculately secured.

With final words from Lord Elrond of luck and warning, the Fellowship left Rivendell for Mordor. None anticipated how twisted their road would become.

The mood was mellow and somber for the first day following their departure as the sheer weight and enormity of their task occupied their mind. But the hobbits lightened their spirits as early as the second day, and tensions between the members of the company grew less sharp although not yet dull. Long hours of walking in a pack created a sense of trust and reliability. They accepted that their fellow companions might determine the difference between life and death. To fill the void during both the day and the night, stories were tossed around like ale at a tavern. Gimli was the primary bard, and he talked fondly of his past trials and tribulations. He spoke of his father, his wife, and his beloved mountain. There was less-than-subtle slander towards the elves who’d caused his father trouble in Mirkwood. It never failed to put a sneer to Legolas’ fair face. Shiros brought a hand to her mouth to muffle the laugh, and her chuckle smoothed his lines.

Contrary to Boromir’s conspiracies, Shiros’ soft nature was no lie or trickery. But there was more to her, which was made evident by the facets of personality slowly brought to the surface. There were moments of boldness and mischievousness, even making a raunchy joke during one of Gimli’s bawdy tales that made the tips of Sam’s ears burn. It stunned them to silence, and then Gimli roared with laughter and thumped her on the back. There were also times where she displayed behaviors of someone very old. Especially when she talked about herself, she grew distant and retreated somewhere far into her memories.

At the incessant pestering of the hobbits for her to share more stories of her own, Shiros finally but reluctantly revealed her place of origin one night. A nomad she might be, but rarely did she venture past the borders of Rhûn anymore. It was the place of her birth, and she loved it truly and dearly. No other land could sway her heart.

“It is a vast and wild landscape with fierce storms,” she told them. “The forests and plains I travel are largely untouched and pure. Not many live in Rhûn anymore, and the people are diverse and scattered. The native Easterlings linger to the south on the border with Khand.”

“I have not heard much about the people of the East and South besides their barbarianism,” Frodo admitted, feeling rather foolish at the generalization and her disappointed hum.

“Such are the stories told in the West. I will not excuse the horrible actions that have been committed, but not all of Harad, Khand, and Rhûn joined the Dark Lord in the War of the Last Alliance, though they all were condemned as if they had. They have suffered their share of pains and plights caused by war, and most do not wish for another.”

Pippin’s head popped up. “I heard the lands are home to demons.”

“Demons?” She frowned harshly, affronted and disgruntled. The Fellowship had the decency to look abashed, for they knew of the rumors Pippin spoke about but had enough decorum to refrain from asking. “There are certainly no demons in the East and Southlands,” she told them waspishly.

“But,” and here she hesitated, “perhaps I know to what they refer. Those lands, and particularly Rhûn, are home to the d—” she choked on the syllable and patted her chest, “—the déllyth.”

“The déllyth?” Frodo turned to Aragorn quietly.

“In Westron, they are called the eldmer. During the War, they allied themselves with Sauron, and they were fearsome enemies of the Free Folk. They are seldom seen from what I have heard, though I believe they reside most often in the depths of Rhûn. Their numbers have diminished greatly.”

“As they ought to be,” Boromir spat. “They killed thousands of Gondorians when they were still plentiful.”

Shiros was quiet, and Frodo noticed the sullenness that had fallen over her. “Have you seen any of the eldmer in Rhûn, Shiros?” he asked her.

“Yes. If you wander Rhûn for long enough, you are bound to meet one.”

“Did you kill it?” Boromir asked, and she threw him a venomous glare.

“No. The déllyth fear common folk. We saw the other for a moment, and he was gone to the wind. There was no fight. We are not so primitive, Boromir.”

He huffed, and Aragorn spoke. “I, too, believe I have seen an eldmer. She helped me.”

“Surely not!”

“I have only been there once, but even then I learned this quickly: what Shiros said is true, Rhûn is a harsh land for those who do not know it well. The animals are wily and clever, and I was sorely unprepared. By the third day into my journey, I was weak with hunger and thirst and fell into a river. An eldmer pulled me from the water.”

“But how do you know it was an eldmer and not an Easterling?”

“The hair. Although, I was blind by the sun, I thought it to be a burnt amber and richer than the finest of gems.” Gimli huffed, and they ignored him. “Every morning after, I found meat for cooking at my feet.”

Pippin, having been struck by the hair Aragorn described, hounded Shiros to tell him more of the eldmer. She spun him fantastical visages of elf-like creatures with richly colored hair – of course, based on the stories she had heard and the one she had seen. Reds and golds and blacks and ambers. Bronzes and coppers. Purples and greens were rarer, and it was rumored that some had silvers and blues. Shiros, like most wanderers, was an admirable storyteller, and she dazzled the Fellowship with her tales. Boromir, despite his best attempts, found himself listening with rapt attention and imagining the way the sun might shine off an eldmer’s hair. She made them into something beautiful, something no different from any Free Folk. Their biggest flaw, she said, was that of the collective East and South: they let their history decide their present and future. But like the divides within Easterlings, Variags, and Haradrim, not all eldmer had joined Sauron. There were many who were content to do nothing more than live alone in peace and unity with nature.

She did not tell them of the others who were not content, who gave in to their dark desires.

In the earliest parts of morning, Legolas and Shiros kept watch over their slumbering companions. It had surprised them to learn how little she slept yet remained so alert and agile. It was more than the elf but less than everyone else. She attributed it to living alone and years of conditioning. Aragorn did not openly contest her explanation, but he marked it; yes, the rangers he worked with did sleep less than normal, but none slept as little as her. During those long endings to night, she began to teach Legolas the basics of her language. He was a fast learner, but some pronunciations still escaped him. In return, he taught her segments of Silvan. Pausing in his tutelage, he realized he had never asked her how she had come to learn Sindarin in the first place.

“Imladris. Gandalf took me there once before after he’d found me alone – I was young and had been separated from my group in a storm. They were kind and taught me Sindarin. I did not learn Westron until years later.”

“Is that why you use the Sindarin names?”

Partially. She added that her people oftentimes borrowed words from Sindarin that were missing in her native language.

“And what of other Elvish cities? Have you been to Lothlórien?” She shook her head, though her response was no surprise. Not many strangers were given permission to traverse those golden woods. “Have you been to Erys Galen?” Legolas asked eagerly, but she shook her head again and his excitement dimmed.

“I have passed by Greenwood the Great—” he was pleasantly surprised by her use of that name “—but I have never entered it. I have heard that the king does not take kindly to trespassers. Rumors say there are many things the king does not take kindly to but especially foreigners. I do not know if I should ever like to meet him.”

Aragorn, who was awake with them that night, snorted and poorly tried to hide a laugh behind a cough. Legolas glared at him, and Shiros frowned. “What?”

“What indeed, Legolas.” Aragorn cocked an eyebrow.

And that was how she came to learn that Legolas, son of Thranduil, son of Oropher, was Elvish royalty and the Prince of Mirkwood. His mortification of being found out in such a way was overshadowed by the amusing look of sheer panic and horror on Shiros’ face.

~~~

Sometimes, just before the morning light, Shiros would leave the Fellowship to hunt and would never fail to bring back a bounty. It inadvertently led to the discovery of another strange habit. Rarely did she eat anything that wasn’t meat. It was less believable that it was due to her nomadism this time. Surely there were berries and roots in Rhûn to eat, but no one pried. Aragorn made a second mark.

On the last day surrounded by a true forest, Shiros went missing. She had gone out to hunt and provide them with game for dinner, but two hours passed with no sign of her. Legolas volunteered to search the trees, and he darted away quickly. His keen eyes saw her tracks and followed them. He came to a complete halt with fear upon spotting her bow lying on the ground, hidden by tall grasses and fallen leaves. He had heard no disturbances, but he had never seen Shiros parted from the bow. He rushed ahead only to slow again. Below him, Shiros was silently crouched a few paces away from a fawn and its mother. She made no movement towards them but looked on tenderly. She spoke to them quietly in her native tongue and smiled. It all made her seem as young as she looked, but there was something in her smile that gave Legolas pause. Something old and weary. It was akin to the look of elves who’d seen centuries pass and who hoarded every moment of peace which came across their paths. Legolas did not intercede, content to watch the scene from above. After some time, the fawn and its mother darted into the thick foliage, and he joined her on the ground. Shiros didn’t startled.

“They are so peaceful,” she told him in Sindarin. “Such lovely things. I fear we will not see them anymore where we are going.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. He, too, would miss it.

They hunted for rabbit and collected four. During their return to the camp, Legolas questioned her about the manner of animals in Rhûn. She affirmed Aragorn’s description. They were very cunning and less plentiful the further south you went for the deserts there were unforgiving. The wild animals did not trust like the ones here for there were none to trust. Hunt or be hunted. They were fearful but ferocious, more willing to attack than flee if threatened. The people were the same. A harsh and unforgiving environment breeds harsh and unforgiving things. It hadn’t always been so, but plague and famine had changed the landscape and the requirements for survival.

She bit the inside of her cheek. The responsibilities of their atrocities against the Free Folk rested on the perpetrators alone, but their misfortune made them desperate. Sauron preyed on their cries for help, twisting them to destruction under the guise of salvation. The rest of the history would be told at a later time; they were too near to the camp now.

The Fellowship, during their rests and pauses, often practiced their swordplay. They could not afford to slack. Shiros did not partake other than to give advice to the hobbits and stayed cross-legged next to Gandalf. She studied their patterns. How different they were from her own style. Aragorn, catching her eye, beckoned her from the rock. There was a moment’s hesitation before she unbuckled her sword. Aragorn frowned and called out.

“Would you not honor me with a fight using weapons?”

“Not mine.” She laid it on the stone at Legolas’ feet. “The blade is poisoned.”

The admission caused a stir. Legolas and Aragorn balked at the idea. They had seldom heard of Free Folk tainting their weapons – That was reserved for goblins, orcs, Ringwraiths, and other creatures of Sauron. Frodo shivered and remembered the Morgul Blade. Gimli sputtered in shock, and Boromir tightened his grip on his pommel.

Gandalf willingly offered his own sword, and she took it graciously, testing its weight. It was a beautiful and solid blade, and she readied her stance facing Aragorn. A single shift of his foot was all that was needed to initiate a flurry of steal, each blow received with another and all were blocked and parried. Her foreignness shone brightly in her fighting style, so different from the blunt and rigid ways of Gondor, Rohan, or any of the dwarven colonies. The elves were more graceful and fluid and the Dúnedain fought swiftly and strategically, but neither were as serpentine as hers. She kept her stance low and bendable, never truly standing straight except to attack when she believed he least expected it. It belied a much greater experience and skill than he had thought she possessed. She was trained and deadly. However, for all her formidable prowess, Aragorn was the better swordsman – her skills with a blade and a bow were suited for hunting wild game, not for battle. His quick adaptation to her style left her with little room for error so when she stepped to the side to attack at his ribs, he was ready. He had anticipated her to dodge but underestimated his own speed, and the blade scratched a line into her bicep. Shiros immediately stopped and pulled back from the fight, observing the way blood beaded along the shallow cut. Aragorn, unthinkingly, crowded her, muttering apologies while he pulled back the fabric to look. Shiros jerked from his touch. Legolas, noticing her posture turn defensive, pressed a hand to Aragorn’s chest to stall him. Gandalf murmured something they could not understand to her and, taking a deep breath, she addressed Aragorn evenly.

“You fight well, as to be expected,” she praised him. The brief hostility vanished entirely and was replaced by a congratulatory look.

“I did not mean to hurt you.”

She waved a hand, banishing his concern. “Do not worry. I was careless, you were vigilant. It’s a victory well-deserved.”

Shiros had no desire to engage in any more duels, so Gandalf tasked her with bringing them more meat despite the deep glow of the setting sun. Aragorn kept watch of her until she left his sight.

The tendrils of the thirteenth night reached into the sky, and the company sat around Sam’s wonderfully prepared dinner. To her sensitive nose, it smelled heavenly. But she rejected all of it but the meat to Sam’s chagrin; his potatoes were to die for. He was used to her dietary preferences by now, but he was still miffed.

Feeling stifled by the stillness of the world, Pippin lightened the atmosphere by asking to see her arrows. Shiros drew one and gently placed it in his hands. Its craftsmanship was extraordinarily beautiful. The feathers were sleek and long and perfectly unmarred. He’d never seen silver feathers before. He ran his fingers along them and gasped. They were so soft! Soft but with sharp edges, he noticed when he almost cut his forefinger on them. They had been plucked by a bird native only to the forests near the Sea of Rhûn. He moved to the shaft of the arrow, which was made of wood so dark it was almost black. His hands traced the dents and grooves along its body. An old saying written in her language, she told him; ‘Fly swift and true, make home the mark.’ Engraving weapons may not a common practice in the West, but it is abundant in the East and South. Shiros continued and pointed to other parts of the arrow. Pippin knew not to touch the tip, although she assured him they were not poisoned…at the current moment. Only her blade was. When he asked her about the wood, she claimed they came from the black trees that grew in the vast and cold northern region of Rhûn. So intriguing were they that Pippin offhandedly asked to see another and, to his surprise, was granted his wish.

He soon had collected a pile of five arrows and her bow on his lap, to the amusement of the Fellowship. Aragorn, peering over the hobbit’s shoulder, inspected the weapons for himself. They were remarkable, and he offered his compliments to Shiros. She was quick to dispel the belief that she was the maker, just the gatherer of their components. But, when she went back to Rhûn, she’d pass on the praise.

Pippin’s request to hold her sword was strictly denied. However, she offered to show him the blade. Delicately, she slid the sword from its sheath and rested it carefully across her legs. It was the first time it had been unsheathed in their presence, and they took advantage of the opportunity. The blade’s point was deliberately away from Pippin and faced Legolas, who she trusted to be a responsible person and not accidentally nick himself. The red leather wrapped around the pommel glowed in the flickering firelight. There was another inscription etched into the metal, but she did not translate this one. Pippin reached out to touch the hilt, but she sheathed it and set it on the ground behind her.

The Fellowship became preoccupied with passing around her bow and arrows. Their distraction left Shiros and Legolas, who had already seen it in Rivendell when he was instructing her, to themselves. She turned to him and whispered something in her language. He was able to understand bits of it but not everything. At his confusion, she provided the translation, and the elf flushed, scandalized. He responded rather urgently in Sindarin before attempting his admonishment in her tongue. He stumbled on the second word. She laughed at him but did teach him how to reprimand her properly. Legolas turned from her in embarrassment. Their conversation had caught the attention of Boromir, who sat across the fire. Legolas spoke Sindarin over his shoulder, and Shiros clapped him on the arm, gleefully replying in her language. He did not understand either of them and scowled lightheartedly into the distance. To them, her remark was playful, but it sounded like a slimy hiss to Boromir and unnerved him. By curse or fate, she met his glare through the flames, and he mistook the reflection in her eyes for mocking. Boromir’s patience and restraint snapped, and he sprung to his feet.

“Speak a language we can all understand!" The Fellowship quietened uneasily. Legolas turned around and started to defend Shiros, but her hand settled him.

“Why does it bother you? To my knowledge, my conversation was not with you,” she responded coldly.

“I do not trust the words of an Easterling, let alone words I cannot understand," he spat. “For all we know, you could be corrupting the elf and all those that hear it. Your language is foul.”

“Boromir!” The Gondorian ignored Aragorn.

Shiros' anger flared at the insult. The fire between them was the only thing preventing them from taking swings. Instead, she pointed at him. “Foul? You know nothing of it,” she scoffed. "Do not act as if it is Black Speech. I am not your enemy, Boromir!”

“How can I believe anything that comes from the lips of an Easterling, a follower of the Dark Lord?” The company stiffened, and Aragorn's attempts at passivity went unheard. “From one who betrayed the Free Folk and killed my kin? For all we know, with your secrets, you could be working for him.”

“Do not,” she seethed, “question my loyalty to this quest or my intentions toward the Free Folk. Keep your prejudices and bigotry behind your teeth. I cannot help where I was born or what I am, but nor will I be ashamed of them. My ancestors’ misdeeds are not mine. I will not let you define me by them!”

Boromir threw out his arms. "Then how do we define you? You tell us nothing of your past, only of the land."

Shiros paused, conceding the point. Her hand curled inward and retracted back to her body. She breathed deeply to calm herself. “I can't.”

“And pray tell why not lest you have something to hide?”

“My privacy does not equate to guilt,” she protested.

“It does not suggest innocence.”

“SILENCE!” Gandalf roared, striking his staff on the ground. A hush settled over the nine. “I will not stand for such insolence and bickering. Now is the time for vigilance, not petty fighting.” Shiros and Boromir flushed in shame at his scolding. Boromir sat and avoided looking at her, casting his gaze anywhere but.

Shiros knelt in front of Pippin and apologized for taking back her arrows and bow. She stalked off into the night. Legolas wanted to follow her, but Gandalf commanded he remain put.

They did not see her again until daybreak.

Chapter Text

Shiros was melancholic and forlorn in the following days. She stayed far from Boromir and retreated into herself. She did not participate in conversation during their meals or rests other than giving curt answers. The scarf was back around her mouth and nose to hide the extent to which Boromir’s words had stung.

Legolas fell to back to where she sulked. In an attempt to cheer her, he asked more about her language, making sure they were well out of earshot of Boromir. Aragorn glanced at them and walked ahead to distract Boromir.

“What does meh-keer mean? You often call the hobbits that.”

“Meh-heerr.” she corrected softly. The ‘h’ was harsh, and it came from the back of the throat where the back of the tongue pressed against the roof of the mouth. The ‘r’ was slightly rolled, clipping the end of the word. He tried it again, but it was not quite correct. It was an odd contortion of his voice, different from the velvety quality to the elven languages. This was sibilant. But one day, he would master the pronunciation. “Mechir. It means ‘little one.’ Mechim for ‘little ones.’ It’s a term of endearment.”

“And ath-ee-g-knee?” She frowned. When had he heard her say that?

“Just before we left Imladris.”

“Oh, ah-hig-nay. Athigne ni Eru.” The ‘h’ again a hiss. The ‘t’ was silent. “Eru’s blessing. Breld athigne ni Eru irtha. It means ‘Eru’s blessing be with us.’”

“Breld athigne ni Eru irtha,” he repeated. His Elvish heritage made itself clear through his mispronunciations, but then again, her accent was present when she spoke Sindarin and Westron. “It’s beautiful.”

She smiled under her mask. It was a strange but pleasant experience for someone to take interest in her language, and Legolas had been rather adamant about learning it. It was the first time she had shared it with outsiders, and he was a quick learner. He had already mastered the alphabet. She taught him a few more basic words and phrases, still promising to detail the grammar at another time. It would take some time to explain.

Their lessons were put on hold during their next break. While Aragorn and Boromir continued to teach the hobbits how to use a sword, Shiros was crouched next to the wizard on a rock with Legolas not far behind them. Her gaze was not focused on the practice fighting nor towards the mountains Gimli pined after. Rather, she stared at nothing. There was a gnawing pain in her stomach, and tremors were beginning to wrack her body. Her breaths were deep and even, but several waves of shakes caused her to physically shiver. A quick glance of her hand confirmed her worry; it trembled. Legolas and Gandalf witnessed it as well. Noticing their concerned stares, she spoke words of reassurance. Nothing more than a bout of fatigue that would pass with proper food and rest. Gandalf hmphed and moved on, but Legolas’ worry was not assuaged.

Earlier in the journey, Gandalf had provided their path – they were to travel west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. If their luck held, they would take the Gap of Rohan, and from there, they would go east to Mordor. Though they drew closer to her beloved Rhûn, Shiros was not filled with relief but dread. Several days had come and gone since then, but Gimli continued to hold a grudge.

“If anyone were to ask for my opinion, which I note they have not, I would say we are taking the long way round,” he grumbled. “Gandalf, we can pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin, Balin, would give us a royal welcome.”

Gandalf would not hear it. “No, Gimli. I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice.”

There would be no more conversation, and Shiros tentatively patted Gimli’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort, but the dwarf was inconsolable in his frustration. Another wave of shakes stuttered her breath, and Legolas forced her to rest. He chastised her for not taking care of herself. Under his stern, unwavering watch, Shiros shifted onto her back and closed her eyes. The sun was cold.

It was Legolas who saw the Crebain first, but it was Shiros who smelled them. She bolted upright. The wind carried the disgust of hundreds of rancid breaths, and the air filled with an overwhelming smell of decay and carnage. The shrieks grew louder and the smells stronger as they flew closer, and Shiros bent down and pressed a hand over her mouth and nose. She wanted to warn the Fellowship but when she opened her mouth, she gagged.

Legolas cried out urgently. “Crebain from Dunland!”

There was a mad scramble to douse the fire and destroy any signs of their stay. Packs and weapons were grabbed, members were forced under any shelter they could find – stone outcroppings, divers, bushes, shrubbery. Shiros herself slid under a tangle of thick bramble branches. Her body curled inward, and hands were balled around the scarf she tightly pressed to her nose. Her eyes watered at the smell, and she tried to breathe as little as possible.

The tension unfurled once the beasts had flown past them, and Shiros gasped, drawing in large breaths. Legolas, who had hidden under the rock just outside her patch, noticed her struggle and helped pull her from the tangle of branches. Shiros hardly had time to thank him before she was pulling her scarf down and dry retching over the bush. Legolas stayed by her side, hovering a hand over her back. After a minute, she was able to stand straight, and Legolas sent Pippin to fetch him Shiros’ pack and waterskin. She took them gratefully and dug into the bag to pull out an unknown herb. He did not see much of it before it was swallowed with a violent grimace. Shiros nearly gagged again and drank deeply from the waterskin. Legolas continued to hover over her. Her reaction was not normal, but Shiros continued to claim health. He withheld his frustration at her obvious lying when it became clear she would not answer otherwise.

“Spies of Saruman. The passage south is being watched.” Gandalf looked at the Fellowship and gestured to the high mountain pass. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras.”

It left a sour taste in everyone’s mouths, and Shiros privately pulled Gandalf aside. Speaking in her native tongue so they could not understand her, the others saw her grow expressive. She seemed to wilt with despair and swell with anger at each counter Gandalf gave her. A shaky hand was cast in the direction of the white peaks. Her breathing was ragged.

“Shiros!” Gandalf’s yell brought her from her panic. He spoke calmly to her and pointed at the road behind them. She nodded slowly, not reassured but growing calm-headed, and picked up her weapons from where she had stolen them away and headed down the path they’d just travelled. Gandalf solemnly watched her go and turned to the group.

“Worry not about Shiros; she simply does not like cold and snowy lands.” The half-truth was given halfheartedly and did nothing to soothe the unease brewing amongst the Fellowship, who exchanged looks amongst themselves. None were fond of the cold, but none had reacted like Shiros. Her apparent ‘dislike’ bordered on hysteria and terror. “I have sent her to gather food for the way ahead will be barren. Let us stay here for the night lest the Crebain find us on the open road.”

The Fellowship was exhausted, and they were not greatly inclined to argue with the wizard. They reestablished their camp and kept a vigilant eye on the sky. The Crebain flew overhead again on their return to Mordor. Shiros waited for the threat of the Crebain to pass before reappearing at the camp, carrying a string of three field rabbits and two grassland birds. She tried to appear composed and strong, but everyone noted her anxiety. After laying the game at Sam’s feet, Shiros retreated to a rock separate from the group and started sharpening her arrow tips with a whetstone from her pack. The repetitious movement sought to soothe her. It was a common practice among those who travelled long stretches; Aragorn and Legolas themselves had used it to escape boredom and to distract the mind.

Pippin stared at her faint outline. “Is she alright, Gandalf?”

“Of course. I suspect Shiros will be fine for the time being.” Fine but not well.

“Have you known her for long? You seem to know a lot about her, even her language.” Merry’s question captured the attention of the Fellowship, who failed to eavesdrop subtly. It was a question that’d been on all of their minds.

“Hm? Yes, I have known Shiros for many, many years. But you are a fool if you believe I will divulge the details of her life. They are hers alone to tell.”

“Do we not have a right to know?” Boromir’s voice was not quiet, and Legolas noticed Shiros pause in her sharpening. She was listening. “She is an Easterling, one of Gondor’s sworn enemies. I have been asked to look past that, but I cannot sit in ignorance and be told to have patience. What separates her from those who allied themselves with Sauron and ransacked my people!?”

“Boromir!” Aragorn and Gandalf admonished simultaneously, and Aragorn’s eyes flashed warningly. ‘My people.’ Boromir fell quiet, and the absence of blade on stone was deafening. Legolas knew she was holding her breath. In anticipation or in sorrow, he could not tell.

Surprisingly, it was Frodo who came to her defense. “Lord Elrond trusted Shiros enough to join the Fellowship,” he said. The Ring-Bearer lowered his voice and continued, “Though I do not know her well, I trust her.”

“Have faith in Shiros for a little longer, Boromir,” Aragorn added placatingly, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We do not know what guides her silence, but we cannot be quick to condemn. And Frodo is right; we should trust in Lord Elrond’s judgement.”

Boromir huffed and took his leave for the night. Pippin and Merry attempted to fill the awkward atmosphere with conversation, and Shiros’ sharpening continued. One-by-one, they retreated for their bedrolls until only Legolas and Shiros were awake, though it was not her turn to keep guard. It was not the first time either. She had been sleeping less and less as their journey progressed and when she did fall into the abyss it was unkind to her. He did not remember her sleeping last night or the one before it. Though the tremor from earlier was gone, she jeopardized it returning. He joined her on the rock.

“You should sleep,” Legolas told her softly in Sindarin.

“I can’t.” She sounded terribly tired. “I close my eyes, and I have terrible dreams. I see snow and fire, and I feel a frost too cold and a blaze too hot. I see stars, but they are in disarray and corrupted. I think about Boromir…” She rested her head in her hands. “I should not have reacted as I did that night. My anger had gotten away from me, and now he believes himself justified in his beliefs.”

He shifted. The animosity was perpetrated by both parties, and there would be no solving it without forgiveness, compromise, and compassion. “Will you pardon Boromir?” he petitioned on the Gondorian’s part.

“I do not know.” She looked to the night sky with a heavy heart. Seeing the stars in their natural position always calmed her. “He does not understand, nor do I think I can make him. His prejudice runs deep, and I cannot blame him. But,” she clutched at the fabric over her chest, “my native language is precious to me. It is one of the few things I have left of my people. I fear that if I lose it, I will have nothing except a distorted legacy.”

 “I’m afraid I do not understand, mellon nin,” Legolas confessed. “You speak of an endangered people, but the Easterlings still live.”

“That is because I am not of Easterling descent, despite what Boromir claims. Their native tongue is not mine, I do not follow their traditions. I was merely beget and raised in Rhûn – my blood is of something much older. My people are do not have a land anymore to call ours, so we wander. We are so few now, and I fear we will not be for much longer. Then Boromir’s wish will be true. He resents me for something I am not but will also resent me for the thing I am.”

He pitied her. Being part of a dying people, losing a home, a language, a culture – a truly horrendous thought. He, as an elf, knew how things bloomed and faded and were lost throughout the ages. Several Elvish cities were no more, and many of his people were sailing from the Grey Havens for Valinor. But there were still thriving nations of elves; he was a prince of one. They had their homes, their customs, and they had the other elves. Her people possessed none of that. He was overcome by compassion for her loneliness.

“Come,” he beckoned her to the spot next to him. Tentatively, she inched closer and laid down at his request. He began to sing an Elvish lullaby. She fought against its pull to sleep until he rested a hand on her furrowed brow. “Your mind and body are weary. Sleep.”

Slowly, she calmed and drifted into a slumber that carried her through to the morning, one devoid of terrors.

~~~

Her attitude was improved after her first night of well-resting since leaving Rivendell, and she thanked Legolas profusely. ‘Mir goil diod lurn’ – ‘my many thanks to you.’ He gave her a bright smile and told her it was nothing. He was happy to help and see her healthy. If there was a tinge of red to her cheeks, she would fervently deny it.

“Brelda rir mir sulth.” ‘It is my pleasure.’ She applauded him enthusiastically. The pronunciation was nearly perfect, just needing to roll the ‘r’s more.

“Brelda tin al ulni narisha, Legolas! Beph, breldich tin al inchali nos min,” she praised him joyfully. He ducked his head and asked for the translation as they packed their belongings. “You are learning quickly. Soon, you will be speaking like me. It has been too long since I have heard someone other than Gandalf speak my language, and your voice is much more pleasant to listen to.” If there was any sort of rose on the tips of his ears, he would fervently deny it. He did not miss Aragorn’s pointed grin.

But the comfort of the morning could only last so long, and Shiros’ apprehension returned as they started towards the Pass of Caradhras. Legolas provided a wonderful distraction, but even his energy waned. The poor hobbits were dead on their feet, spirits low. A frown did not seem natural on their otherwise happy faces. The way the sun glinted off of the snow reminded her of its reflection upon the Sea of Rhûn, and she remarked as such. Thinking of Rhûn made her heart light, and she recounted her first encounter with one of the Blue Wizards. He’d appeared out of nowhere while she was resting on the banks, and she’d nearly fallen into the water in fright. His name was something lovely, but try as she might, it eluded her. They looked to Gandalf for help, but he did not know either.

“I, too, have quite forgotten, and whatever name you knew him by is certainly not the name I would recognize.”

“Why is that?” Merry asked.

“Our names change with the Age so it seems.”

Shiros cleared her throat and continued her tale. “It was the Blue Wizard who pointed me this way when he had found me after a terrible dream. I was supposed to arrive in Imladris days before I did, but a flood had delayed me two weeks. And Rohan…” she frowned. “There was a blanket of sickness over the plains, and I was wary to pass through it. I was forced to move slowly and cautiously, but it was better than journeying close to Isengard.”

“You knew Saruman had turned?”

“No. A warning came to me in another dream and diverted my path from the White Wizard’s land. I did not learn of his misdeeds until I’d arrived in Imladris.”

“You have met two Istari. That is quite the honor,” Aragorn said. Many would go their whole lives without meeting a one much less two Maiar. There were no stories of the Blue Wizards in the West, and he was intrigued to hear more. Though the encounter had been brief, Shiros described him as splendid. Mellow and tranquil if not a bit morose, but splendid nonetheless. It was a great fortune to meet him. Gandalf hmphed, and Shiros rolled her eyes. It was a great pleasure to have met the Grey Wizard as well.

Legolas went next, describing his first encounter with Gandalf, but soon the stories dwindled as fatigue settled in their bones. The path grew steeper and colder with their quick work in climbing the mountains to the Pass, and the mood chilled with the temperature. Snow came up to the hobbits and the dwarf’s thighs and brushed the knees of the other races. It dampened and weighed down their clothes. Shiros had never held any ill will towards Legolas but seeing him run atop the snow and remain unbothered by the icy wind that lashed at their faces and clothes made her bitter. He alone went ahead to scout out the passage while Shiros was left shivering miserably next to the hobbits. Pippin practically huddled against her side in hopes to leech some warmth, but she was no warmer than him.

They were made colder by the slick ice hidden under the powdery cover that caused them to stumble and slip, drenching their fronts and backs with snow. Partly through their journey up to the Pass, Frodo became a victim to the ice’s tricks and tumbled backwards. Aragorn and Shiros, who were traveling nearest to him, rushed to catch him. They picked up the halfling and helped him stand. Shiros bent to brush the snow off his cloak and chest and froze. Her eyes were wide, and she patted his chest again.

“Where’s the Ring, Frodo?” she whispered. Frodo felt his chest frantically and panicked when he could not feel it around his neck. He searched the snow around him, but the Ring was not there. Shiros spotted the chain some paces away and went to retrieve it, but someone else grabbed it first. Boromir stared in awe, entranced.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing.” He was mesmerized by the gold band.

Aragorn called his name in warning, and Shiros’ hand was deceptively relaxed on her sword’s hilt, prepared to strike at any moment. But Boromir handed the ring back to the dark-haired hobbit and ruffled the curls. Her breath return only once the Captain of Gondor turned his back. Legolas waited for her and fell into step, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders.

“Can you feel it? The Ring’s effects on Boromir?” she whispered to him. Deep in her heart, something turned at the thought. The Ring was already seducing him. Every day, she heard its call but denied it. Her resolve was wavering but not broken. What was the state of Boromir’s?

It wasn’t long before a blizzard set upon them and blocked the sun. The sky became muddled and dark, and snow and wind relentlessly pelted them from every direction. It was so cold that Shiros’ fingers were tinted blue under her gloves and thick, fur coat. Oh, to be an elf! She scowled at Legolas as he remained largely unaffected by the cold, though he’d been forced to take back his light cloak. Noticing Merry’s windburned cheeks over Boromir’s shoulder, she unwrapped her scarf and pulled it around Boromir’s neck so it covered Merry’s face. The Gondorian looked at her own pale, chapped lips and nonstop trembling and begrudgingly expressed his thanks. The Fellowship edged towards a thin ledge with a steep drop. Shiros clung tightly to the rocks, keeping her eyes on the figures ahead and not below. Heights of this extent disagreed with her.

“There’s a foul voice on the air,” Legolas alerted them from his lead. Shiros scanned the blurry distance, but the voice’s origin was obscured.

While she was not the first to notice the breaking of rocks overhead, she was the quickest to react and dove to draw Boromir and the hobbits in his arms away from the edge. They were buried by feet of heavy snow a second later. For a moment, there was a blackness and then all she could see was white and all she felt was cold. Her mind was slow to process what had happened, and she was still in a daze when Gimli’s digging reached her, and he pulled her out. She rasped in the air harshly, and Gimli helped her stand on wobbly legs. Her head was buzzing, and she wavered. Legolas caught her before she could fall and let her lean against him. Boromir was shouting at Gandalf, desperately trying to convince him to abandon this path and make for the Gap of Rohan, but his words were ignored. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach as Gimli spoke of the Mines of Moria.

The decision was given over to the ringer-bearer, and Frodo decided their new path.

~~~

The journey from the Pass of Caradhras to the Mines of Moria took the weary travellers a full day. They were cold, wet, and anxious. They were utterly exhausted, but their guards could not be dropped. Shiros thrummed her fingers along her sword’s hilt, constantly looking over her shoulder. Her moment of dizziness had passed, though a purple bruise formed over her left eyebrow. She detested mountains. She had never been to the Orocarni, the Red Mountains, in the far northeast of Middle-Earth, but she had been to the very edges of the Grey Mountains once. She hated mountains. They were desolate and barren of food. They were cold and enclosed. The hills and forests around the Sea of Rhûn were open and bountiful if one knew how to navigate them. Mountains and deep cave systems were not.

However, she could admit that the Walls of Moria were a sight to see, so tall and imposing. If in better tidings, she would have been pleased to see them. The Fellowship moved cautiously around the dark lake resting in front of the Walls, and Shiros saw it ripple in the distance and regarded it uneasily. Gandalf approached the stone and brushed away the dirt to trace an inscription. She had heard stories of Dwarven doors, but seeing the doorway appear under the soft gaze of moonlight took her breath away. Gimli looked on with pride at the work of his kin (and, begrudgingly he though, the elves too).

Gandalf translated the Tengwar. “It reads, ‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’”

Elves and their infamous vagueness. Even Legolas was confused. Merry asked the question on her mind, “What do you suppose that means?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open.”

It did seem simple enough until Gandalf’s Elvish chant was denied. His second attempt yielded no success either.

“Nothing’s happening,” Pippin remarked unhelpfully.

“I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves…Men…Orcs,” the wizard muttered to himself.

“What are you going to do then?”

“Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took! And if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words.”

Shiros gently guided Pippin away from the angry wizard and placed him beside his cousin. The others soon settled at the edge of the dark lake to rest their weary legs. Shiros, at the quiet request of Legolas, went into an uneasy sleep with his help. It would take time for Gandalf to solve it, he promised her. Enough that she was not needed now. He vowed he would wake her, but it was unnecessary; the grinding of stone against stone jarred her to awareness, and the doors to Moria opened before her eyes. She scrambled to her feet to join them in the dark opening but stumbled and slapped a hand over her nose.

“Soon Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves.” Shiros coughed noisily. “Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone—”

“Gimli,” she hoarsely called to him, but he did not hear. At the front of the group, Gandalf created a light and looked into the dark.

The dwarf was oblivious. “—This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!”

“Gimli!” Her voice was harsher and louder, finally drawing attention to what lied around them.

“This isn’t a mine,” Boromir said in a horrified whisper. “It’s a tomb.”

Skeletons littered the ground, covered over with dust and cobwebs, coating the air with a scent of decay. Goblin arrows littered the bodies. They drew their weapons and made to retreat. But what Aragorn had not wanted to disturb, what Shiros had sensed in the lake, had awaken, and the Watcher in the Water grabbed Frodo. Being the closest, Shiros hacked at the tentacles, but one harsh swipe had her thrown into a rock. She cried out and clutched at her ribs. The beast dangled Frodo over its mouth. Boromir and Aragorn slashed at it with greater viciousness, and the Watcher writhed with each cut until it lost grip of Frodo. Boromir caught him and ran.

“Into the Mines!” Gandalf yelled.

Shiros pushed herself off the rock and sprinted into the darkness. Running past Merry, she caught the back of his shirt and hauled him in front of her. The Watcher swarmed the Doors, trying to get through to them. But stone is breakable. Behind them, the Watcher brought down the rocks, and the Doors was sealed.

They were left in total darkness. Shiros blindly felt around her for a sense of orientation but gasped sharply when she felt a skull crack under her foot. She scrambled back and knocked into a strong body, who steadied her.

“We now have but one choice.” Gandalf’s staff illuminated the mine, and Shiros looked up into the face of Boromir. He helped her upright, and for a moment they stared.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he nodded. They quickly moved apart, and Shiros retreated to Merry and Pippin.

“We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world,” Gandalf warned as he guided them further into Moria. “Quietly now. It’s a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”

Chapter Text

They moved cautiously through the Mines of Moria. It was a battle between speed and safety. Everyone was tense and alert, ears and eyes strained for the quietest of sounds and the smallest of movements. They were not alone; they were only unnoticed. For now. It was unsure how long their good fortune would hold.

They took breaks just long enough to eat and sleep. Shiros refused to rest despite Legolas and even Aragorn’s protests. She was uninjured…more or less – Legolas had glared when she’d said that and checked her ribs and her head thoroughly – and accustomed to long periods of time without sleep. The others needed it more. Gandalf silenced their protests, ‘Stop bickering. Let her do as she pleases.’

During one of these rare breaks, Shiros suddenly stiffened, her head tilted to the darkness behind them, attuned to something hidden from the rest even Legolas. The Fellowship immediately paused their activities and stared at her. She pulled down her scarf to discreetly smell the air, but it was so foul she sharply pulled it back up. Her whispers carried through the stale air to Gandalf who listened warily. Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn observed the tautness of her muscles and, as if ready to pounce, rested their hands on their weapons, ready to unsheathe them in seconds. Gandalf waved them down and spoke again only to Shiros. With a nod, Shiros slinked along to the edge of the thin bridge they had just crossed. Aragorn barely managed to muffle Pippin’s cry when she swung herself over and dropped silently into the shadows. Legolas ran to the edge and spotted her moving out of sight into what used to be a hallway. Boromir, feeling a strange tug on his heart, hissed at Gandalf.

“What is the meaning of this? Have you gone mad? Have you sent her off to die?” Boromir struggled to keep his voice no louder than a harsh whisper.

Gandalf glared at him. “She is to explore the grounds and tunnels below. She will return with news. Let us move on.”

Shiros did return an hour later and no worse for wear much to their comfort. However, her findings broke that sense of comfort. The catacombs stretched far underneath them and told of failed resistance and goblin and orc infestation. She had not dared to go further after she saw the outline of light from their torches, but their colonies thrived in the depths. There had been a whiff of ash that had stung her nose badly, but she’d written it off as something they were burning for food. She rubbed at her nose and wrinkled it, the searing sensation not yet gone. Legolas sympathized and offered her some sweet-smelling herbs from Sam’s bag. She pulled down her mask, which had done little to block the odors, held them up to her face, and inhaled deeply. Her stomach was strong after years of exposure to unsavory smells that came with unsavory deeds, but it churned from the vile and putrid stench that surrounded the minions of Sauron. She grabbed the same herb she’d used after the Crebain from her own pack and chewed it.

“Mir diod lurn, Legolas.” He flashed her a brief smile.

But beneath it brewed a thought. An elf’s senses were fabled and extraordinary, superior to all others. And while he, too, was repulsed by harsh smells, she fared far worse. Like with the Crebain, the smells had nearly made her sick. He could blame it on a weak stomach, but it seemed doubtful since even the hobbits did not react as strongly. He recognized the herb she used now – it dulled the sense of smell and taste among other things, reduced them to hardly anything. It was a very potent herb. An ugly feeling of suspicion stirred in his mind and in his heart. He wondered if Aragorn thought the same when the ranger watched her carefully. Legolas did not voice these thoughts to anyone and kept them locked tightly. For his sake and hers.

The Fellowship eventually came to a three-way crossroad on the fourth day of their journey and stopped.

“I have no memory of this place.”

“No memory?” Shiros asked Gandalf, alarmed. “I can scout ahead,” she offered, but Legolas caught her arm and held her still.

“There are too many paths, and you are tired.” Despite her earlier claims, he had noticed her becoming sluggish. She had slept only once since they’d entered the Mines. “It would be unsafe. Rest,” he stressed. “Ethnadal, Shiros. Please”

Legolas could not be swayed, and Shiros begrudgingly relented and settled on the ground beside him. And they waited. Aragorn and the hobbits pulled out their pipes and smoked. Shiros tried to reach for her whetstone after a few minutes, but Legolas took it and kept it far from her reach. She was to rest and nothing more. To her benefit, she did try, but Merry and Pippin’s conversation kept her from successfully doing so and roused her ire.

“Are we lost?”

“I think we are.”

“Shh. Gandalf’s thinking.” There was a pause.

“Merry?”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

Shiros hissed through her teeth, causing them to freeze on the spot. She wiped a hand down her face and sat up, ushering them to her with an annoyed flick of her wrist, ignoring Legolas’ disappointed sigh.

“What will it take for you to be quiet?”

Pippin smiled mischievously, and she glowered.

“A story.”

“Now is not the time,” she told him. “Once we reach the other side, I will tell you the story of Oriph the Stag. It’s a popular Easterling fable. But only if you stay quiet until Gandalf determines the way.”

Pippin and Merry nodded vigorously and scuttled back to their original places on the rock. Shiros laid back against the stone, exhausted. Legolas began to hum a soothing Elvish tune, and it carried her away. She always looked so peaceful during these sleeps but these sleeps only, and he wondered if malformed stars still haunted her dreams.

It was too soon, he thought, as he shook her shoulder to wake her. Her head hurt from the abrupt disruption, and he looked apologetical. A small handful of herbs known to help with headaches were pressed into her hand, and she chewed on them to ease the pain.

“Gandalf has found the path,” he told her and helped her to her feet.

The Fellowship followed Gandalf down a dark stone corridor, which opened to a great hall. It was extraordinary in size and detailed with intricately carved pillars and arches. They stared in amazement at the great realm and dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf, almost forgetting the horror that had transpired here. Shiros pressed a hand to her chest to stop a phantom ache. As beautiful as it was, it was abandoned and ramshackled. Debased and desecrated. Another precious city full of precious people and precious histories destroyed by Sauron, and another reminder of the filth that stained the world. She tried to imagine Dwarrowdelf in its prime – it must have been lovely. They walked through the halls slowly to take in everything. Their eyes were above, but Gimli’s were below and searching. It was he who spotted the small door off the side of the hall. He dashed to it.

Skeletons decorated the floor like a carpet to welcomed visitors to the grim antechamber. It was another tomb. They hurried after Gimli and found him sobbing at the base of a bier, illuminated by a single stream of light. The breath was knocked from her chest at his cries. She made to kneel at his side, but Legolas’ hand stayed her.

Gandalf read the inscription. “‘Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.’ He is dead then. It is as I feared.” He stooped to the ground to pick up a heavy tome.

“We must move on. We cannot linger,” Legolas warned Aragorn.

“‘They have taken the bridge and the second hall,’” Gandalf continued to read. “‘We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out—'”

Shiros pulled her gaze from Gandalf at the sound of shuffling stones. Her breath hitched and she moved to grab Pippin away from the well, but she was seconds too late. “Cett!”

She froze as the clangs echoed and echoed and echoed throughout all of Moria.

No one spoke, and no one moved. They hardly dared to breathe as they waited for something to happen. A terrible minute passed. Boromir relaxed with a relieved sigh, thinking they had avoided disaster. Gandalf snapped the book shut, angry to a point she had never witnessed. He reviled the Took harshly, telling him to throw himself in next time and rid them of his stupidity.

They were deluded into thinking that perhaps they had escaped the doom beneath them. They had not.

A deep, looming drumbeat. And another. And another.

Then the screeching began.

“Sarth Eru mincha.”

Frodo’s blade glowed blue, and Boromir dashed to the door to close it. Two arrows landed inches from his face. They threw him axes and spears to barricade the doors, but it would do nothing against a cave troll. Shiros drew her sword and sank into a fighting stance. The orcs broke through parts of the door, and Legolas fended them off with precise and rapid arrows. But he could not hold them all back, and the rotting wood of the door gave way. It became a massacre. Shiros dove into the battle, slashing and slicing with speed and accuracy, aiming for the weak spots in their armor – the small gap between their breastplate and their helmet exposed their throats. She nicked every orc she could, knowing the poison would slow them and sap away their strength. Blood coated the ground and created slick puddles. She was almost crushed by a stone when the cave troll burst through the entrance and barely avoided being stomped on.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam fighting with a pan. That hobbit…Grabbing a knife from her boot, she threw it at an orc behind Sam, who jumped when the body fell.

“Take it,” she ordered, not sparing him any more time. Distraction was a death sentence. She knew that all too well.

Shiros ducked between the cave troll’s legs and targeted the tendons at his heel, but the skin was too thick. The poison would not work well on a beast such as this one, so there would be no slowing it. She cursed loudly and ducked under its swing. Legolas drew the troll’s attention away from Shiros, and she killed the orcs aiming for him in return. At some point, it all began to blur. Bodies fell and blades flashed. Rocks crumbled and sprayed over them, and shrieks and screams were all she could hear.

In a moment of clarity when time seemed to stop, she spun around to watch the cave troll skewer Frodo. She screamed his name as he fell and attacked the troll with a fervor, hacking at it with Gimli and Aragorn. Pippin climbed onto its neck and stabbed it, causing the troll to rear back with a roar. Legolas took the shot, and the arrow made its mark deep in its jugular. A swift death. It fell limply to the floor, and Shiros caught Pippin before he could crash onto the stone. They ran to Frodo’s side, whose head rested on Aragorn’s thighs. She halted abruptly and could not believe her eyes – the hobbit was breathing and coughing. Legolas’ hand clasped onto her shoulder, and she smiled at him, even with blood and dust streaked over her face, and huffed a disbelieving laugh. He flashed an even brighter smile. Eru must favor this hobbit.

“I’m alright. I’m not hurt,” Frodo said breathlessly, sitting up.

“You should be dead. That spear would have skewered a wild boar.” Aragorn’s heart still raced.

Frodo opened his tunic to display a beautiful chainmail shirt. Shiros had never seen mithril before and gaped at the marvel it was.

“Mithril,” Gimli muttered in awe. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.”

If anyone else had wished to speak, they would have to wait. Their fight was not over, and goblins came after the orcs. The same goblins Shiros had seen and smelled in the depths. She hissed a cursed. Goblins were more dreadful and damning than orcs for their weapons were poisoned and they came in droves of hundreds. Strength in numbers.

“To the Bridge of Khazad-dum!”

Shiros shoved Merry and Pippin in front of her, and they ran for their lives back into the great hall. The goblins crawled up through crevices in the floor and down from cracks in the ceiling. They were fast and would soon overtake the Fellowship. They came from all sides. There were too many goblins, hundreds too many, and there was no way out. Shiros held up her sword. She would not die without fighting.

They were surrounded, and she swung at one who came too close. Blood splattered the floor, and the goblins jeered louder.

Just before the goblins jumped forward and swarmed them, all the creatures in the hall startled at a guttural, deep, wicked growl. It rattled their bones and vibrated their chests. It was unnatural. A tint of fire painted the corner across the hall from them, a sinister illumination. The goblins scattered, and Shiros knew something was very, very wrong. Whatever was coming was born of smoke and hellfire. She could hear her racing pulse, drowning out the world. Dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum. Her heartbeat quickened, and panic rose. Gandalf’s face contorted in dreadful fear and anguish. What he had hoped to never have disturbed was awake. The bane of the Mines of Moria, the reason he never wanted to step foot into these wretched halls, was nearly upon them. The creature was coming closer, and its growls echoed louder.

Boromir felt the same horror. “What is this new devilry?”

“A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.”

Legolas seized in unbridled terror. The Balrogs were known to the race of Elves as one of the greatest evils Morgoth had ever created. The others did not know the ancient stories of the Balrogs – the ones who destroyed Gondolin in the First Age; the Balrog who dragged Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, by his hair into the deep abyss; Gothmog who slew and was slain by Lord Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain; the stories proving the Balrogs as devastation incarnate. But Legolas did. He knew the dangers of the Balrogs, and he feared for his life. He prayed to Eru that he would not find himself added to this tomb. He prayed for the chance to see the sun and the stars again.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

Shiros straggled at the back of the group, but Gandalf ushered her ahead of him. Boromir nearly pitched himself over the edge of the broken staircase, but Legolas pulled him back. Shiros sheathed her sword to swiftly navigate the narrow and crumbling stairs, delicately perched on the thin line between solid stone and a fatal drop. There was a large gap of fallen stone ahead of them, and the staircase itself was growing more unsteady by the second. Legolas and Gandalf crossed it with ease, and Merry and Pippin followed. But then part of the stairs cracked and fell away, leaving a bigger jump. Goblins shot at them from nearby pillars and ledges, forcing them to dodge. Boromir caught Shiros before she could slip and crack her head on the edge of a step and shoved her towards the gap. Legolas caught her and pushed her behind him, firing and killing the goblins aiming at them. Shiros drew her own bow and shot where Legolas did not. The arrows whistled through the air, silver feathers glinting gold in the distorting firelight.

Frodo and Aragorn barely made it to the other side, and the rest of the staircase crumbled entirely behind them. They ran to the thin bridge. Shiros was the last to cross it, racing right behind Legolas, and the flames from the Balrog seared her skin through her clothes despite the distance between them. She turned around to pull Gandalf with them, but he was not there. He stood between the Balrog and the Fellowship, an impasse at the middle of the bridge. Shiros ducked under a goblin arrow and returned fire. She did not know if it hit; she could not look away. Gandalf yelled at the devilish beast.

The Balrog fully emerged from the ash and soot, a being of shadow and flame, and she felt the pain from her dreams – the blaze too hot. It was a true monster, the corrupted compliment to the Maia. It reared its head, but the wizard did not falter. Gandalf did not move even as the Balrog howled, drew its weapon, and swung. He did not move even as the strain of maintaining the shield tore his muscles. He would not falter.

The Balrog cracked its fiery whip. Gandalf raised his sword and his staff.

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” he cried and struck the ground. The shockwave knocked everyone back. The Balrog recovered quickly and took a step forward to claim its prey, but the bridge fell, and it plunged into the dark.

But a Balrog would never fall alone. Just as Glorfindel had been pulled into the abyss by his golden hair, the Balrog’s whip lashed out and wrapped around Gandalf’s ankle. It dragged him to the edge of the broken bridge, and the wizard hung on by the tips of his fingers, unable to keep a steady grip. The Balrog would not release him, two connected by a line. Should one fall, they both fall. Should one crawl up, they both crawl up. Gandalf realized this with a slow acceptance. Frodo was screaming his name, held back by Boromir. No one was there to grab Shiros, and she slipped by them easily, ignoring the calls. Tears fell down and slid off her cheeks as she ran. She could make it. She dodged goblin arrows. She could make it. She could grab his hands, pull him up by his sleeves, save him.

She was seconds too late. Always seconds too late.

“Fly, you fools,” he whispered his last parting.

“Gandalf!” The scream tore through her throat.

Shiros dove towards the edge and skidded across the stone, chest leaning over the darkness, hand reaching into the chasm inches from his own. A pain rippled through her hip, but she was blind to it. She watched him fall into the dark nothingness, and she could do nothing but stare blankly, so far away, lost and uncomprehending. Distantly, she felt hands on her waist, hoisting her up and away from the broken bridge. She thrashed against them and punched them in the mouth. They grabbed both her shoulders and shook her.

“Shiros!” Legolas yelled in her face. “Wake up!”

The roughness jerked her into reality, and he held her face to ground her, staring her in the eyes. They were so blue, so full of sadness, but so real. He saw her regain awareness and tugged her away from the abyss. They sprinted across the bridge, and she followed him up the stairs, fumbling on the steps and pushing through a sharp tug on her veil. She was the last to exit the Mines of Moria, running past the stone arches with a large, bleeding wound in her heart. The pain – it clawed, it tore, it shredded the organ. She collapsed to her knees upon the stone.

She had stepped from darkness into light, so why did the world seem so much colder?

Chapter Text

It wasn’t right for the sun to be waking now. Not after three days in the Mines of Moria, not after Gandalf was not given the chance to see a new day. It did not feel like a beginning at all – it felt like an end. A death, not a rebirth. Merry was holding back his own sobs to cradle Pippin, who wailed at his feet. Boromir held Gimli’s head to his chest, holding him tight to keep him from marching back into the Mines, turning him away from it. Legolas couldn’t believe it, and he swayed on his feet, trying to comprehend. Aragorn alone could control the tides of overwhelming sorrow that threatened to drag him under as it had his friends. His cheeks were the only ones dry of tears.

He turned to face his companions, to call out to Legolas to get them on their feet, when the words caught in his throat.

Shiros didn’t notice him. The tears stung her eyes, and she cursed the sun above her. It seemed to burn her worse than the Balrog. She dug her hands into her hair and into her scalp, desperate for the thoughts to stop, for the voice screaming at her to stop. A strand of her hair, fallen loose during the battle from the tight braids that had kept it hidden beneath her veil, fell in front of her and brushed against her cheek.

She froze.

She met Aragorn’s stare.

“Shiros?” The quiet and uncertain question slipped past his lips unintentionally, and it was enough to rouse the attention of the others.

They all looked to her, and Boromir stopped restraining Gimli.

He charged her in an instance, sword unsheathed and aimed at her neck. Shiros barely delivered herself from an early grave with a lucky dodge. She tried to retreat but tripped over a rock and fell to the ground, forced to scramble back as he approached with another attack. Her arms raised futilely to protect herself from the falling blade, the tip pointed straight at her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The end didn’t come.

The sword wavered an inch from her chest, its descent halted by Legolas’ hands which were tightly wrapped over Boromir’s. His muscles strained, and the sword shook with the power struggle played between Man and Elf. If Legolas loosened his grip just for a second, it would plunge into her chest. He was the only barrier between her and death. Shiros couldn’t move, frozen by the battle for her life taking place above her. Aragorn ran to them and pulled the Gondorian back, wrangling the blade from his hands. He dropped it with an angry shout, and Legolas flung it from them. The metal crashed onto stone, the clang like a screech. Shiros heaved, but no air filled her lungs; each gasp was short and broken. The hobbits and Gimli were stricken mute, and Boromir’s curses were the sole sounds filling the air.

“Why?” he yelled at Aragorn and Legolas. “Why did you stop me? She is an eldmer! She must be in league with Sauron. If she hadn’t, Gandalf—” He cut himself off with angry tears and hateful abuses toward her. He blamed her for the Crebain, for the Pass, for the Mines, for Gandalf’s death.

Aragorn grabbed him by the shoulders. “You cannot kill her,” he told Boromir firmly, trying to keep his own feelings below.

“She is an eldmer!”

“She is part of the Fellowship!”

“I will have nothing to do with that monster! She deceived us! You led the Balrog to us, didn’t you? You found it when you were sneaking in the dark,” he yelled over Aragorn’s shoulder.

“BOROMIR!” Aragorn shook him harshly. “Stop!”

The struggle subsided, but the burning hatred did not. Instead, it spread like wildfire. The Gondorian was not alone in glaring at her with disgust and malice, like she was an abomination akin to the orcs and goblins they’d killed.

“Drazûk,” Gimli spat. He hefted up his axe.

Poor Pippin was so confused and scared. “What’s going on?” he asked helplessly.

“She is one of them,” Boromir hissed. “Behold, a true eldmer, an agent of Sauron,” he jeered spitefully.

Legolas had yet to say anything, and Shiros looked to him. There were too many emotions shifting in and out of his fair features, contorting them until it settled on betrayal. His stare snapped away from her, and he left her side. Legolas picked up Boromir’s sword and handed it to the man. However, he issued a quiet but baleful caution against rushing Shiros again.

“We must go if we are to reach Lothlórein before nightfall, and our enemies will not be far behind us,” Aragorn warned them. “Legolas, get them up and lead them away.”

The elf gathered the hobbits and the dwarf without another sound and guided them towards the woods. He refused to look back, but he could feel her staring right at him.

Boromir had not moved. “And what of the eldmer?”

Aragorn met Shiros’ eyes, searched them intensely, and felt the sting of guilt. He could not see the taint of the Enemy, only pain and fear. There was so much fear. He closed his eyes. “She will not come with us.”

Boromir’s knuckles were white beneath his gloves, and he threw out a hand in her direction. “And you would leave her be? So she can lead them to our trail?”

“She cannot tell them anything they do not already know. Boromir, we must go. Now. Orcs will be swarming these hills by nightfall.”

With one last venomous glare and a promise to kill her if she followed, Boromir left to rejoin the Fellowship. Aragorn stayed behind, although he did not approach her.

“Aragorn?” His name was barely audible, a plea, but the Dúnedan made no move to help her. She was still on the stone, propped up on her elbows, from her fall.

“Continue east to Rhûn – it is the safest place for you,” he told her. “They will kill you if you follow, and I cannot stop them.”

“You said an eldmer saved you once. You know I am not an agent of Sauron. You know I am not with him. Aragorn, please. Don’t leave me here.”

The eldmer lived long lives, and she was likely older than all but Legolas; but Aragorn knew they matured slowly. She had the experience but not the mind for it until recently. She was not on the cusp between juvenility and adulthood – the last remnants of childhood had long since faded, by force or by time – but she was not old by any means according to her race’s standards. It seemed obvious now: why she had that old look in her eye but a youthful look to her face. The veil, the diet, the lack of need for sleep, the keen sense of smell – all signs pointing to a blood not shared with Men. They had been blind, and she cloaked in a good disguise.

She could not come with them. If it could be different, he would choose it to be so. But it could not. For her sake, they must leave her.

“There is nothing I can do. Go. Before the orcs come.”

She was left on the stones, alone and battered, while Aragorn reunited with the other seven. What had begun as ten was down to eight.

Aragorn pushed the thought aside, buried it deep where the other feelings of shame and sorrow rested. Twice now had he abandoned people who had placed their trust with him. His hand found its way to the Evenstar beneath his clothes, and he let regret for Shiros and longing for Arwen flow through him. Once the minute to feel was over, Aragorn steeled himself to become the leader the Fellowship needed him to be. He did not speak of Shiros and coldly silenced their questions. He sternly prompted them forward; they had wasted enough time, and they must reach the Golden Wood before sunset. He pressed onward, scouting ahead so he did not have to hear the hobbits defend Shiros. He was convinced of her goodness for he had never sensed malicious intent, but there was too much at stake. The Fellowship was already beginning to break, and it would shatter if she remained with them. It was better for her to be alone than dead at their hands.

Frodo was too lost in grief and Sam was too distracted as his guide, but Merry and Pippin were persistent. Their protests and pleas to go back could not be quietened. Legolas moved nearer to Aragorn. He did not want to listen to them.

“You do not understand, young hobbits, but they are terrible things,” Gimli told them gruffly.

“Shiros told us—”

“Shiros was deceitful,” Boromir snapped. “The stories she told of the eldmer were lies. There is no goodness in them.”

“But Aragorn was saved by one.”

“He must have been mistaken. I do not wish to speak ill of him, but if he had been struck with delirium, he must have misremembered. He said the sun had been in his eyes. It must have been a trick of the light. The eldmer are murderers. Vicious and cruel. Before the War, they took our women and our children and killed them. We were scared to leave our borders, confined to our cities.”

“No.” Pippin adamantly shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She’d never hurt us.”

Gimli pitied the naïve hobbits. “Aye, she would have had she gotten the chance to be alone with you. They took our women and children in the night, too, if they strayed too far away. We rarely found their remains.” The stain of the drazûk on the dwarves was deep and ugly.

What being could be so cruel? “Why?”

“They are parasites. They survive on it.”

“…It?” The question was nothing more than a whisper.

“Us,” Boromir stressed, desperate for them to see sense. “Free Folk. They feed on us.”

Pippin’s stomach turned, and his face was ashen. “No, no. Shiros ate Sam’s dinners.”

“But only the meat. She could not pursue her true desires with us there. It was no doubt a farce, an act.”

“Gandalf and Lord Elrond—!”

“Enough, Pippin!” Merry opened his mouth to defend his cousin, but Boromir did not let him. “Any kindness she spared you, any care you think she held for any of us was not genuine. She would have led us to our doom. You’d do best to cast her from your mind and pray you never meet another one.”

The hobbits did not bother Boromir with any more questions. He did not mean to be harsh with them, but they did not know; they were sheltered. His ancestors had faced the threat of the eldmer and suffered. His own family had experienced great tragedy, losing a daughter and two sons to the eldmer when they had been most fearsome at their peak. For as much as Gondor hated the kingdoms of the East and South, nothing compared to the rage they had for the eldmer. The stories were awful and made even a veteran shudder. (The Ring cackled with glee at the hatred overflowing Boromir. Frodo grabbed at it through his clothes like it had burned him).

Legolas, many paces ahead, could not stop himself from listening despite his attempts. He knew of the déllyth as well. They had plagued Mirkwood along with the territories of Men and of Dwarves. But unlike Gimli and Boromir, he was actually old enough to have experienced the aftermaths of the attacks and remember them. The wailing of mothers when their elflings did not come back from their ventures near the edge of the woods would never leave his memory. For the elves of the Woodland Realm, the déllyth’s attacks did not subside with the end of the War of the Last Alliance. Instead, they were renewed with a fervor in coincidence with the rise of the Necromancer in Amon Lanc, furthering the black shadow threatening to corrupt the forest. They were part of that plaguing evil for two or three hundred years before their numbers mysteriously declined. The elves did not wonder why the déllyth grew fewer or why those who still lived retreated back to the East and South, but they did not seek the answer. One does not question a miracle.

The Fellowship passed the hours with wretched and grim thoughts. The visions and images Legolas’ mind conjured were appalling. They did not let the memory of Shiros leave him and instead showed him awful fates awaiting her. He blamed the Ring, but deep inside, he knew it was nothing more than his own guilty conscience that tortured him. He reminisced on the time he’d spent with her. All those times she trusted him enough to let him help her sleep, his songs to stave off the nightmares. All those times she took watch with them and they talked of their lives. He’d never sensed dishonesty in her words. Reluctance, yes, but never deception. With a great stab to his heart, he realized they would never hear the tale of Oriph the Stag she’d promised to tell Merry and Pippin. He doubted their paths would cross again even if they both survived this. Survival. Life or death. Thoughts of orcs or wargs or worse finding her flooded his mind, and he swallowed his revulsion. But…would she find a better fate with them? The orcs became Boromir, and he felt sick. Aragorn rested a hand on his shoulder, sensing his mounting distress.

“Peace, mellon nin. We are nearly upon Lórein.”

“Was it right?” Legolas despaired. “Lord Elrond and Gandalf are wise – they must have known of her true nature. I cannot in my heart believe it was all false.”

“Nor can I, but it is safer for her if she does not come. I do not know what Boromir would do. He is too blinded by his anger. The injustice done to Gondor weighs heavily on him.”

“Where will she go? It is not safe to travel alone.”

“I told her to return to Rhûn. If there were any among of us to be trusted to travel alone, it would be she. Shiros is clever and resourceful, and she has lived as a wanderer for many years, more years than any of us except you. I must believe she will survive.”

“And if she doesn’t? What if she has passed already?”

Aragorn exhaled slowly. “Then I will accept that her blood is on my hands. Come now, we are here.”

The Fellowship arrived at the Golden Wood right as the sun began to wane. Its amber glow created dancing shadows on the falling leaves and the trees. It was ethereal, but their hearts were too heavy to fully appreciate the beauty. Legolas and Aragorn, no stranger to the forest, trespassed lightly, but Gimli warned the hobbits of the great and terrible elf-witch who could spell any who looked upon her. He hid his sorrow, worry, and betrayal behind a layer of callousness and cockiness. To divert from his real emotions, he renewed his distaste and distrust for elves.

“Here’s one dwarf she will not snare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox—” His boasting was abruptly ended by an arrow in his face as the Galadhrim patrol surrounded them. Legolas instinctually cocked his own bow.

“The dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him in the dark.” The Marchwarden stepped forward.

“Haldir of Lórein. We come here for help. We need your protection,” Aragorn implored.

They were taken to a flet in the trees to evade orcs and other unwanted watchers following close behind. But Haldir would not bring them further into the Golden Wood; the evil they carried was too great. Legolas and Aragorn argued with him for hours. However, it was only at the behest of the Lady of the Wood that the Marchwarden guided them through the twisty and winding trees. The longer they spent in the peaceful and entrancing nature of the woods, the more they were able to forget their grief and worry – a necessary but temporary respite. They laid eyes on Caras Galadhon at half-light the following day, but it was well into night when they finally reached the heart of Lothlórein and were brought before the Lady of Light.

Galadriel, with Celeborn by her side, both clad in wholly white, looked down upon each and every one of them. While Celeborn asked of the fall in numbers and of Gandalf, she took up residence amongst the whispers of their souls and became privy to things even their owners did not know. She travelled upwards with the whisps that did escape their locked away confines and met Aragorn’s eyes.

Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land, Galadriel’s voice swept through their minds like a gentle breeze. And neither has Shiros, but this was only to Aragorn, whose gaze briefly flickered to the ground.

“He has fallen into shadow,” she whispered aloud. Celeborn slowly faced his wife

“He was taken by both shadow and flame. A Balrog of Morgoth.” Legolas suppressed the tremor that threatened to overtake him. He did not think he would ever forget the Balrog – its flames, its eyes. He had never been more terrified. “For we went needlessly into the net of Moria.”

“Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life,” Galadriel reproached firmly but not unkindly. “We do not yet know his full purpose.”

To Gimli, son of Glóin, she told him to rest his heart; for the world is full of peril and there would not be found any love unentwined with grief in all the lands. To Boromir, she turned and within her eyes, eyes imprinted with starlight, he found the object of his greatest temptation and his greatest doom: the Ring. Even as the Ring called to him, she spoke silently of the fall of his father and of Gondor. She bid him have hope. Hope? He could not see any hope. He could bear to hold her stare no longer.

Their quest and the fate of Middle-Earth stood on the edge of a knife, supported by eight or broken by one.

Galadriel left them to ponder and to properly grieve. There was made no mention of Shiros, a fact Aragorn was very aware of, but perhaps it was for the best.

They were given lodgings, clothed in the garb of elves, and fed. But the lodgings were too contained, the garb too soft, and the food, rich and savory, tasted bland. The pleasures of the world were dulled.

The sweet night air was filled with a lament for Gandalf. Gimli retired early for hearing the song was too much. It was the most beautiful sound the hobbits had ever heard, and the sheer emotion and the waves of unleashed sorrow threatened to overwhelm them. Merry and Pippin retreated in on themselves. Sam composed a brief poem about Gandalf’s fireworks, but he did not believe they did the firework displays justice. And, disheartened, he fell into an uneasy slumber. Once Gimli and the hobbits were asleep, Aragorn rose and joined the Gondorian, who sat a distance away. Legolas strayed from the group, having no desire for company. He drifted through the land aimlessly, pursuing his grief. He gasped as that breeze washed over him again, and he heard her voice calling him.

Galadriel beckoned him to her, pulling him from his mourning and lament. He followed her guidance to a path. It gave way to an ethereal but empty courtyard with the exception of a tall, empty basin in the middle. He scanned the architecture and foliage for the Lady but found only the moonlight shining through the canopy. Legolas approached the basin and looked at its dry base. He could feel magic from it but could not find from where or from what. It felt wrong, an uncomfortable itch beneath his skin. He startled when Galadriel’s voice echoed through the courtyard.

“Will you look into the Mirror?” Galadriel carried a silver pitcher to the basin and poured water into it. In the moonbeams, it looked like melted starlight. The Lady of Light always looked otherworldly but there in the courtyard, she was almost devastating to look upon. Too beautiful and too terrifying.

 “My lady?”

“Will you look into the Mirror?” she repeated, tilting her head to catch his eye. He could not hold her stare and ducked away, fixating on the basin.

In his heart, Legolas knew he did not want to gaze into the Mirror. He was afraid of what he might see but nevertheless stepped up to the basin and peered into its waters. It showed him many things from his past – Mirkwood in its prime, news of the délloth attack, Thorin’s company of dwarves, the Council of Elrond. Shiros. It showed him the conversation with Shiros in the forest, how at ease and peaceful she had been. His heart clenched uncomfortably, and he wanted to divert his eyes, but a voice in his head bid him to stay.

The Mirror was kind when it showed him those memories from his past, even as conflicted as they were, because the ones that followed shook his faith. He saw a bloody battlefield littered with the bodies of elves, Men, and orcs; the black wood of Shiros’ arrow sinking into a man’s chest; himself hunched over a corpse and sobbing freely; Aragorn kneeling at his bedside, holding his hand to his chest.

The last vision was of Shiros lying just within the boundaries of Lothlorein. Her face was lifted to the stars, but there was no light in them. Her skin was too pale, her lips cracked and dry. Blood stiffened her clothing from above her hip to her knees. She did not move.

Legolas jerked back from the Mirror, pressing a hand to his heart to still it. His head snapped toward Galadriel.

“She’s dead?” His voice broke.

Galadriel turned to face the Mallorn trees. “Not yet, but she fades. Go.”

Legolas flew through the trees, ignoring the protests from the Galadhrim he narrowly avoided. Haldir made to follow him, but the Lady must have stopped him. In Legolas’ mind, Galadriel guided him through the woods and promised to send two of the best healers behind him. It took hours – hours he did not know if Shiros had – to reach the borders. He eventually spotted her through the last few trees, but he knew it was her instantly; that unmistakable hair tangled in the grass acting like a beacon. He dropped by her side, shaking hands hovering over her.

Please. All the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar, please. Do not let her die.

Chapter Text

Shiros stayed on the ground, watching the clouds drift with an empty mind and cheeks tacky with dried tears. Eventually, she climbed to wavering feet, instinctually shifting her weight onto her left leg and wincing. She drew the tightly woven plaits over her shoulder, the plaits that had kept her hair short enough to be covered by the veil since the beginning of her travels from the far recesses of Rhûn over seven months ago. One by one until it all hung loose, she undid the braids with trembling hands.

The wind took it, shook it, and coiled it between its fingers, caressing it like a lover it had been deprived of. It blew the long length of free hair behind her, lifted it into the air like a great mane the shade of rubies. She plucked a handful from the grasp of the breeze and observed it. It was longer than she remembered. Darker, too, from the vibrant shade it had been in Rhûn. The strands were still soft and thick, but they prickled her skin like a foreign substance. She knew it would have changed in the seven months, but to see it different was disconcerting.

It had been so long since she’d seen it at all.

Shiros hated that.

She’d been so foolish to ever leave her home. She should never have gone to Imladris and never should have joined the Fellowship. Her own hair was a stranger to her now because she had covered it for so long to hide what she was or otherwise her life would be at stake. Her hair, her beautiful hair that she loved, hair like her father’s, was damning.

Shiros knew her life was under constant threat, but the Fellowship had been so welcoming and cordial, extending a kindness she’d been deprived of. So she forgot. She forgot that her language made her a stranger. She forgot that her hair marked her as the enemy. She forgot that her diet made her a horrendous monster even if she only ever consumed animals. She forgot that they could not separate the sins of the father from the sins of the son and would judge her based on crimes committed hundreds and thousands of years ago – crimes she had no hand in. Instead, she had lowered her guard around them, formed a companionship with Legolas…or at least so she had thought. When she had been with Legolas, it was not as an elf and an eldmer, but simply one being to another. She dared say it were two friends enjoying the presence of the other, and nothing more and nothing less. It was not as strong with Aragorn, but it had been there. And the hobbits, the lovely hobbits, were joys.

How could she have been so stupid as to believe it could ever actually be so? It was nothing more than an illusion, and they would never see her as anything but an eldmer. The bonds and the trust they’d formed were only valid as long as she was part of the Free Folk. The second he had learned, Boromir tried to kill her. Gimli was filled with hatred, and Legolas turned cold. And Aragorn… her hands clenched. Nothing she did mattered. She could have been sent by the Valar themselves and they still would scorn her, Shiros thought bitterly. It was and always had been folly.

She truly thought Legolas and Aragorn would be different, had been assured of their character so many times by Gandalf and Elrond. She never should have trusted them; they were no different from the rest.

Their abandonment hurt like a physical wound.

Beneath her shirt rested a thin leather cord carrying fifteen inscribed gold rings, fourteen for the unfallen Valar and one for Eru Ilúvatar. They were amongst her most treasured gifts, though not the most cherished. They clanked against one another, sounding like tiny bells, when she pressed her lips to them and whispered an apology. Normally, they would be braided into her hair, but she did not have the heart to bind it again. The rings fell atop the clothing, bared to the world.

She turned to the horizon in the direction of Rhûn. It was hidden by mountains and plains and miles upon miles of a lonely journey, filled with the taint of shadows from Mordor. For a moment, she simply looked at it and was lost to memories of its lands, its forests, and its sea. She did not belong here, not in the West. Her heart yearned to return, and she would not deny its pleas.

Shiros took a step towards the East, despite her mind screaming at her to stop, and her leg buckled completely beneath her. She dropped to a knee instantly and shrieked behind clenched teeth. Her hands flew to her hip to stop the pain, but they landed on damp clothing. Slowly, Shiros withdrew her hands. They were covered in a sticky red.

And then she finally felt it in full.

A pulsing and piercing ache leaked from a spot just above her right hip, freezing cold and burning hot at the same time. Shiros threw her cloak to the side frantically to discover the wound. There was a goblin arrow embedded just above the bone, the shaft snapped so short it was hardly visible, peaking barely an inch out of her skin. It had broken when she’d tried to save Gandalf. She stared at it dumbly, prodding it in a daze. She gasped and doubled over as a new wave of pain wracked through her side. It was a struggle to catch her breath, and she wheezed. She went to scrape the blood off her hand onto the rocks, but the blackish speckling stopped her.

Poison.

It was poisoned.

She was poisoned.

Another experimental tug on the arrow made her choke on a wail. The tip was barbed, and the shaft was too short to grasp. She couldn’t pull it out or push it through. Even if she could remove it, there was no way to clean or stitch the wound, and she could not risk blood loss. But the longer the arrow sat, the more the poison would travel through her veins. Without knowing its composition, there was nothing she could do anyways; she didn’t know or have the antidote. Shiros sat numbly with this knowledge until the sun hovered overhead, warning her of the time passed.

The poison was going to run its course, and she could not stop it.

The wind continued to carry her hair and brush against her face, eventually rousing her from her stupor. Her lungs struggled to compensate for the panic raging in her chest and the effort of stumbling to her feet. She could not stand straight but bent at the waist to keep the arrow from tugging inside. She carefully cut open her shirt to examine the skin around it. The skin was bruised dark purples and blues, and dried bloody rivets divided it into separated splotches. What made her heart sink were the inflamed and discolored ring around the wound and the faint sprawls of black arcing from it. It was already festering – her body was failing to reject the poison, and it would only get worse. The longest black sprawl was still very short but nearly as thick as her thumb. She could feel the heat radiating off it, a sure sign of infection. It was only a few hours old, but the wound was already diseased. With this rate of worsening, it would not be long before the cold heat crept into her heart and snatched her from the world. Her throat was suddenly dry, and it was hard to swallow

Perhaps it was for the best she had not accompanied the Fellowship further.

Rhûn called her name from beyond the horizon, and another awful revelation struck her: she would never see it again. The reality was disconnected and disjointed at first, like she could perceive her future but not comprehend it. Her heart did not accept it; how could it when it’d just been longing for it? She was going to die in a distant land unbeknownst to anyone. Alone. Her heart would stop, and she’d be lost to time. Her body would be left for the scavengers and decomposers to reduce to unidentifiable bones.

Shiros clutched at the rings and pined for the way East but shifted to face the way the Fellowship had gone. She held the rings tighter and hardened her stare. If she were to die, she refused to die on the rocks outside the Mines of Moria for orcs to defile her and birds to pick at her. The path to Lothlórein called to her, invited and beckoned her to follow their footsteps. All the rumors she’d heard of the Golden Wood boasted of its beauty and serenity. A good place for one’s final rest. Cutting the edge of her cloak, Shiros tied it tightly above and below the arrow to stabilize it. She may not die in the land she loved, but by the Valar and Eru’s sakes, she would not die until she could rest under the cover of the watchful stars and the golden hue of the fabled Mallorn trees.

She stood, and the rocks fell behind.

Shiros trekked through the hours. Her footwork was sloppy, and tree roots and rocks tripped her. Every stumble made the wound flare, feeling like she’d been shot with another arrow each time. Sometime in the night, blinded by darkness, she slipped into a small river. Her hip took the brunt of her weight, and she nearly fainted in agony when the broken shaft brushed against the rocks. For a moment, she debated not continuing at all and remaining by the water’s edge. There was so much pain, and it would not end. She just wanted it to end.

While the thought was strong, it was fleeting, and she knew she must continue forward. Shiros pulled herself up the bank and unsteadily climbed to her feet, almost falling again when her leg shook violently under her weight. But as the water droplets fell from her body, a strange sense of calmness and rejuvenation filled her. She kept going.

The poison's course was hindered and delayed by the few healing herbs she carried: one which slowed the heart, one which dulled the senses, and the wonderful kingsfoil. In sheer desperation, she also took the antidote for her sword's poison, a concoction made from the venom of a snake found in Far Harad. Perhaps, by some outrageous miracle, the poisons would share similarities. However, Shiros knew it wouldn’t be enough. She hardly had the energy to hunt for food – the weakness and pain starting to branch out from her hip – but she persisted until her stomach would not keep down meat or water. When that time came, dehydration and malnourishment wracked her body. Shivers descended, and her body burned as much as it froze. The meager vitality regained from wading in the river Nimrodel dwindled with every mile, and it fell to the last dredges of strength and sheer grit to carry her forward. She dared not sleep that night in fear she would never wake again, by the poison or by an orc's hand. Come the next morn, the herbs were gone and had lost effect, allowing the poison to ravage her body unimpeded. Fever set in at noon, and delirium followed at evenfall. It distorted her senses – she smelled spices only found in Rhûn and heard voices of people very far from her. Grounded things swam, lines stretched and shrunk; the world tilted like she was on a rocking ship.

She finally reached the edge of the Golden Wood with the moon high in the black sky and slumped against one of the Mallorn trees that stretched high and mightily towards the sky. The burning cold had long since leeched into her legs and left it numb, and she no longer felt the strain of two days’ worth of nonstop walking. She no longer felt the way the arrow twitched and shifted with every movement of her hip. It was the greatest pain she had ever experienced, but it was all drifting into nothingness. It wouldn’t be long. There was nothing left to retch, so she suffered a bout of dry heaving. Shiros rested her feverish head, drenched in sweat, against the bark. The reality of death slowly grew more real, and the fragile walls she’d built around her heart and mind fell into shambles. Shiros grieved. A gut-wrenching sob wrecked her body, and she muttered incoherent pleas. She was lost and alone. She did not want to die. She did not want to go. Not now, it was too soon. Shiros was nearing her 200^th nameday, but had she been of Men, she would naught have been older than twenty-five at most.

And let it be known that the fear of death does not diminish with age for even the oldest of creatures cower before it.

There was so much left she had to do, so much she wanted to see, so many places to go; and Shiros cried against the tree until the tears no longer came. Dark ebbed on the edge of her vision. Just outside the border of Lothlórein, her legs gave way and collapsed beneath her again. This time, she did not fight to rise from the earth. This time, she traced the Mallorn trees to the swirling black heavens. The stars were hazy clusters of dots, and the constellations smeared together. The world was out of focus and messy. Shiros weakly dug her hand into the dirt and grabbed a handful. It slipped between her fingers, and she realized she could not feel it. She could no longer tell if it was warm or cold, soft or coarse, wet or dry. Her arms had become completely numb. The wind now lashed at her skin, making her tremble viciously though she did not feel its bite. The noise of the breeze rustling the trees was lost to the buzzing in her ears. Her body felt so heavy, and it was a struggle to open her eyes after every blink. Her breaths slowed. The poison which had infested her body seeped closer to her heart, leaving nothing in its wake.

It would not be long. She wished she could thank them. She wished she could curse them. She wished she could see them just one more time, a familiar face in an unfamiliar world. She wished she had more time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “Tary naith lur. Treorith rira, Eru. Sarth rira. Ethnadal. Ethnadal.” Guide them, Eru. Save them. Please. Please.

Chapter Text

Few things remain consistent across time and space. Languages change, environments change, people change. But the sky and the stars are always present even if they’re hidden behind clouds, and it was something Shiros took comfort in. Whether in Rhûn or in Harad or in Gondor or in Imladris, it was the same sky and the same stars.

Even in death were they the same.

“I don’t understand,” she spoke to the stars above. They were blurred with tears. “Why? Why is this my fate? I wasn’t not ready to go; I’m not ready. I still had a long life to live. Why did they tell me to come here? I forsook my lands, my home, my safety to help them, but I find betrayal and death instead.” Angry tears fell in unending streams. “Why did you take Mithrandir? Why did you take me?!” she yelled and sank to her knees. The stars, those twinkling crystalline onlookers, seemed to pity her and pour down their own tears, shimmering brighter in the heavens. “I wanted to see the new world; I wanted to see Arda without the shadow of the Enemy. I wanted to see the beauty return to all the plagued lands. I wanted to see Rhûn in the spring again – I promised Bren I would. I wanted to find Ianthe. I never wanted to die. It scares me far worse than I thought.

“And now I am here. Is this my punishment? To wander a dark plane alone with the stars, now cold and distant, to judge me?” She laughed mirthlessly. “I wanted to die under the stars, and yet I could not see them clearly then; but here they are in all their glory. It’s cruel.” Her voice shook with emotion, with heartbreak, sorrow, and anger. It shook with the hurt of a life cut short, the hurt of journeys left unfulfilled, never even having the chance to begin.

Shiros wept for days, years, centuries; there was no time there. And when the tears receded, she walked. She walked for days, years, centuries, wandering as she had always done. In life, her wanderings had had a purpose and a destination. There was neither here. This wandering was aimless for the planes never changed and the stars never shifted position. It was walking without going anywhere. It made no difference whether she sat or she walked. It was barren and lonely – there were no animals to chirp, no leaves to rustle, no wind to whistle. Silent and still. Full of nothingness.

It was torture.

After some time, perhaps hours, years, or centuries, one by one the stars blinked out and extinguished the unchanging light. Darkness closed around her. It was tender, so unlike the vicious, relentless shadows that had suffocated her till death. This black swaddled her and wrapped her in warmth. Although she was scared, she welcomed and embraced it, finally finding a soft place to rest.

Chapter Text

Her breath was labored, and her body was drenched in sweat. It was burning out a deadly fever, which refused to release its host easily. For four days, it fought against the healing, and her body and mind paid the price for its struggle. The poison had had the time to settle deep into her bloodstream, and maladies of the blood are already more difficult to treat. They require vigilance, constant care, and time. A great amount of time. They feared they would lose her during those four days; it was not in their favor. But she was strong, and her unconscious rebellion against the everlasting sleep made her resilient. On the fifth morning, the fever broke, and she relaxed into the bed. Her muscles no longer seized, and her breathing was even and calm. If one did not know better, they would say she was sleeping not but peacefully, like she hadn’t been on the brink of death for days.

The damp towel on her forehead was replaced with a cooler one, and a hand brushed over her cheek. She leaned into it unconsciously, and the hand abruptly paused. After a second, it tentatively cupped her cheek, a thumb drifting over the skin. She let out a satisfied sigh, though her eyes remained closed.

The Lady entered the room, unsurprised to see the elf by her bedside. She sat gracefully next to him, noting how the patient had turned towards the warmth and softness of his palm.

“She will recover,” Galadriel told the elf.

“I know. Her fever broke this morning, but she still has not awakened.”

“In time. The healing process is delicate, but she has been brave.” The Lady of the Woods brushed the woman’s hair back.

“It haunts me,” he admitted. “She was so pale. I feared I was too late, and in my dreams, I am.”

Galadriel looked at the elf, though he did not match her stare. Much of all the wisdom of Middle-Earth was held in her eyes, and they were all at once too great to meet. “You are not solely to blame for what befell her, though you do bear part of the responsibility. Nonetheless, Aragorn was right – she could not have continued with you. She would have suffered greatly,” Galadriel said ominously. Legolas did not want to know what alternative future she saw in her Mirror. “You must not dwell on it for grief does not become you. Do not wallow in the dark – atone for your faults and reenter the light.

“Go. She will not wake now, and I will send for you when she does.”

It was a kindly given command but a command, nevertheless. With a bow, Legolas left the room and searched for the Fellowship. He pretended cheer around the hobbits and was even pleasant to Gimli (the first time Legolas had not insulted Gimli when talking directly to him had shocked the whole Fellowship. The dwarf had not known how to receive it and had awkwardly responded in kind), but Aragorn knew his friend and clearly saw his weariness. Legolas could not hide his distress during those first four days, but they (barring Aragorn) attributed it to the loss of Gandalf. The grief he carried for the wizard was no small burden, but it was compounded by the remorse he felt for Shiros. Aragorn’s words brought no comfort to the elf’s worn heart – Legolas’ worry would not end until Shiros woke, and his guilt would last much longer. Every night, while the Fellowship was sleeping, he would go to her side and tend to her. And with each day she did not wake, his dejection grew worse.

But Galadriel was right; Shiros did not wake on the fifth day. She opened her eyes on the sixth. When he heard the Lady’s whispery call in his mind, he ran without hesitation, leaving behind two confused Galadhrim guards on a flet. He raced to the room and entered it cautiously, cognizant of how she might be sensitive coming out of such a long slumber. Indeed, she was confused and stared at Galadriel like she was Elbereth, so ethereal she appeared. The Lady was speaking to her quietly and gently. Galadriel’s shift in gaze caused Shiros to turn. Legolas stepped forward, but Shiros flinched violently. He stopped and flinched as well, his excitement fleeing instantly. Galadriel whispered once more to Shiros and beckoned Legolas forward. Shiros did not flinch a second time, though she remained tense. Galadriel left them with one last depthless, undecipherable look.

Neither spoke immediately. Legolas broke first and bowed his head.

“Tary naith lur. Forgive me,” he pleaded hoarsely. He heard the sheets rustle and felt fingers tug on his sleeve.

She did not say anything but shook her head, and his heart dropped. The air was taken from him, and he knew he must have looked stricken, almost like she had slapped him. He apologized again and made to move away, but Shiros sharply tugged on his sleeve a second time and shook her head. Confused, he sat back down. She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out parched and weak.

“Ethnadal nuch farowyn min. Please stay, Legolas. Giorn biler.”

He searched her face and took her hand in his, squeezing. “Tary naith lur, though I know I do not deserve it. I left you.”

“Yes.” He winced at the blunt response and felt an overwhelming wave of shame. Shiros softened her tone. “But you did stop Boromir from killing me.” She coughed suddenly, and he helped her drink a concoction Celeborn had made to soothe her throat. “Is the Fellowship safe?”

“Yes, but they struggle in their sorrow.”

“Tell me of them.”

So he did. He told her of the state of the Fellowship. They were alive and physically uninjured, but their hearts ached for Gandalf. Everyone’s did. They were healing and resting. It stung to think she’d been so easily discarded, but Legolas reassured her that it was not true; Merry and Pippin did not forgive them for leaving her. They had firmly protested the entire time and even now wondered about her amongst themselves, thinking they were quiet enough that Legolas could not overhear them.

“Do they know I am alive?” she asked alarmed. As much as she wished to see the dear hobbits again, if they were to know, Boromir would follow. His resounding ‘no’ brought bittersweet comfort.

They talked for hours, pausing occasionally to give Shiros’ voice a rest and to drink more of the elixir. When he mentioned the lament the elves had sung, she asked if he would sing it for her now. It was beautiful. She cried silently during it, and he helped dry her tears, smiling tenderly.

When the conversations slowed, Shiros became withdrawn and contemplative.

“What’s wrong?”

Shiros came back to the present and offered him an apologetic smile. She shifted on the bed and carefully reached down to touch the wound. It throbbed and was warm even through the bandages, but the pain did not compare.

“I remember lying beside a Mallorn tree. The stars were blurred, and I felt nothing. I remember no more after that. How did I get here?”

The story was stuck in Legolas’ throat. He recalled Galadriel’s warning and of what he had seen in her Mirror. He had found Shiros on the brink of death and kept her on the bridge between this world and the abyss until the healers arrived to stabilize her enough to bring her to Lothlórein. She was left to Celeborn’s care. There were times when they weren’t sure, where they thought she would be lost, and they spent days and nights hovering over her. The one time she so nearly let go. Her cries, the blood, the incoherent pleading… No words came out.

“Ah.” She understood and did not make him tell her. To watch a person struggle, to watch them in prolonged pain, unsure whether they would even live at the end, is a terrible thing. She did not make him relive it for she could not bear recounting her own experiences.

He would never forget for elves’ memories are long and vivid, such is their curse. She’d briefly awakened in the forest as he begged for her life, and said words he did not understand. They sounded reverent, and in her delirium, he assumed she must have believed him someone else. She’d lifted a cold hand to his cheek, a smear of red left behind when he’d grip it tightly. Sleep took her again until the healers arrived. His panic had soared. His efforts had doubled, but he was no healer. But the worst came when the healers had decided the arrow must be removed immediately. He had held her down as she flailed. The healers decided to push the arrow through, and because it was so short, they had to… He shuddered and remembered the new blood on the ground, on her clothes, on their hands. The healers’ faces had been grim while they worked to staunch the open wound and combat the poison until she could be treated fully in Caras Galadhon. He had rested her head in his lap and brushed away tears and sweat, murmuring prayers, pleas, and apologies.

He was very grateful to move on to better topics like the songs Pippin and Merry sang and the poems Sam wrote. But inevitably, she fell silent again. She looked deep into his eyes, and he saw vulnerability – his and hers.

“Why did you save me?”

“Because you did not deserve to die. You trusted us with your life, and we betrayed that trust.”

“But I am a délloth.” She said it almost accusingly, and he grimaced. Though the truth it may be, he did not blame her for her anger and suspicion.

“And you have done no harm to us,” he told her. “Blood should not define us. Elves once committed great atrocities and caused much sorrow to their own people, but we do not presume that all elves are evil. Forgive me, Shiros. I was a fool, and you nearly died because of my flaws. Please forgive me.”

She was quiet.

“Will you tell me of Erys Galen?”

He did until she fell asleep. The next day he returned and described his home, the things he missed, the things he did not miss. It was evident that he loved his people and his land very dearly; it was endearing to see him happy, unburdened and light. In turn, she told him about Rhûn and about her visits to Khand and Harad. While it was true most dorchim – as they call themselves – lived in Rhûn, there were some who preferred the hotter, drier climates. Two siblings, hair the shade of berries, lived in Harad. In Khand, she knew of three dorchim and even a boy with one Dorchic and one Variag parent. He was the first and only half-dorchir, half-Man child she knew of. They were likely as rare as a peredhel. The family had welcomed her into their home for a time as a reprieve from her journey. It was a joy to have been able to uncover her hair around others. Her hair was often hidden for weeks if not months at a time, which Legolas thought was a shame; it was loveliest and the richest red he’d ever seen.

Aragorn joined Legolas on the third day after she’d wakened, and he apologized profusely. Like with Legolas, she brushed past it without comment, neither giving nor withholding forgiveness, and asked him to tell of his journeys – if she was to be bedbound for days, she needed tales of the outside world lest she begin to forget it. He spoke about the northern lands where the Dúnedain congregated and laughed pleasantly at her sneer when he described the cold weather. He visited a few days later, but in between this time and that time, Shiros made good on her promise to teach Legolas more of her language, Dorchic, and he taught her more of Silvan.

He learned quickly as he had before. His accent needed improvement, but she, not unkindly, reminded him that he would never sound like a native dorchir just as she would never sound like a native Sindarin or Silvan speaker. There was improvement to be had but never perfection.

“So singulars end in -ir, and plurals end in -im?”

“Yes, but only when referring to people. I am a dorchir, and you are an alphenir.”

“Then it is dorchim for déllyth and alphenim for elves.” She tipped her head in confirmation. “What do you call dwarves and Men?”

“Dwenim and terenim. We have no words for hobbits for we have never encountered them in the East or South. For words we do not have naturally, we will often use another language’s equivalent. There is no one language we choose from; it depends on location and family. The siblings I spoke of borrow their words from the Haradrim’s native tongue, which they are fluent in.” Most dorchim spoke only two tongues: Dorchic and the dialect used where they lived. Those who wandered tended to be better versed in the languages spoken in the East and South.

As for Sindarin and Westron, they remained the two languages with the fewest dorchim speakers. The dorchim who knew them were those who had ventured into the West or those whose ancestors did, but they were an incredibly small minority. She’d learned Sindarin and Westron partly from her infrequent engagements with the West, and partly from her father. Her father had learned it from his father, who’d learned it from his father through books and his travels (her great-grandfather was quite the adventurer she’d been told and very unusual for a dorchir).

“Do the dorchim come from Rhûn? We have never known.”

She heaved a despondent sigh and cocked her head in thought. “Our history is…complicated. To begin, we are not corrupted elves or Men or anything of the like – we are a separate race and always have been. My forebearers looked like me, talked more or less like me, with a diet like mine. The base of our diet is as it has always been – meat that is,” she clarified, knowing the misconceptions some held. The dorchim had always relied on meat to live, having difficulty digesting plants, but they were not demonic offspring of Morgoth – he could not make life, only corrupt it.  Why their biology was made that way, she did not know, but it was Eru’s design, she stressed sternly. Like how a deer eats only plants and a wolf eats only meat. Why, she asked him rhetorically, is it so heinous for a people to share the diet of a wolf when there are peoples who share the diet of a deer? Do Men, elves, and dwarves not also eat meat? How some dorchim came to feed on the Free Folk…it is a long story.

She beseeched him to be patient and understanding. “We have very few written texts. Much of what I know was told to me through stories, and each one varies slightly from the next. There are similarities between them, but the details vary. There is perhaps but one dorchir I know who might be able to accurately recall our history. But what they all say was that we used to live contently on an island off the coast of Middle-Earth. For centuries we thrived peacefully in a large, civil city, a people ruled by a king. Its true name is long forgotten, but I’ve heard both the city there and the one that lies in ruins in Rhûn referred to as Dorchiln – ‘-iln’ meaning city, ‘dor-’ meaning of the dorchim.

“One day, a strange man named Rettelor came to the island. His name translates to ‘of soot’ for his hair was so dark, but ‘rettelor’ is similar to word for ‘of vision’; and so he became known as the ‘Visionary.’ He foretold of a famine and the death of the animals. He stressed a need to travel to Middle-Earth where we would not starve and where food would be plentiful.”

A famine and the death of the animals did happen just as Rettelor predicted, but it was foul play. The dorchim did not know this then, but Rettelor was Sauron in disguise. He tricked them into leaving their island and settling in the East and South sometime in the mid-centuries of the Second Age. On the border of Khand and Rhûn, they created a new capital and, for at least several decades years, lived in peace with the world, sustaining themselves on normal animals. But one day, he delivered his promise. He’d presented them with a new meat, saying that it would taste sweeter than wine, heartier than venison, and sustain the dorchim for days at a time. Shiros’ face darkened with a scowl. “He was right,” she admitted bitterly.

Continuing, she told of how it was only after Rettelor gave them this ‘food,’ which was actually slain Free Folk, that they grew cravings for it. The dorchim were never meant to feed on the Free Folk; their bodies were not made for its consumption. It was poison to them, but it was the mind it preyed on and not the stomach. Their very spirits were fouled. The king, who had always distrusted Rettelor, was slaughtered for his refusal to participate in the massacring of the peoples of Middle-Earth and his condemnation of those who did. Many dorchim fled to the wilds after the royal family was killed. But many dorchim turned vicious and wretched, terrorizing the Free Folk in the East and South before moving west. During the War of the Last Alliance, the dorchim who fought with Sauron had made a pact with the Men of the East and South: in exchange for their help, they would stop preying on them. But Men die and forget faster than the dorchim, who used this to betray their promises.

It was a miserable and upsetting history, she knew. She was not ashamed to be a dorchir, but the actions of her forebearers were shameful. Of the dorchim she’d met, which numbered no greater than forty-four (though surely there were more of them…at least she hoped), ten of them preyed on Free Folk. It took her a moment to admit to Legolas that she had killed two of them. For her to kill fellow dorchim to save those who would not hesitate to cut her down was a heroic but tragic act, but the idea of doing the same made him feel ill. He had never killed another elf before – and he doubted he ever would – but he knew he would Fade or worse if forced to slay one of his own. Briefly, he remembered the kinslaying and shuttered, thinking how terrible it would be if kinslaying was as commonplace among the elves as it was the other races.

However, Shiros carried on, she had hope for the dorchim. Many of the corrupted dorchim forsook the ways of Sauron after his fall and returned to feeding on animals like they had in the beginning. And the Blue Wizards were a blessing even if they were elusive. Unbeknownst to him, Legolas frowned when she mentioned the Istari. Shiros’ face soured, and she asked him why he believed the Blue Wizards had stayed in the East and South. His response was not satisfactory.

“Who,” she argued, “if not for the peoples of the East and South, who’d lost their ways, did the Blue Wizards seek to redeem and save? Surely, you Free Folk do not believe that the Blue Wizards conversed only with the cattle of Rhûn and the snakes in Harad.” Legolas flushed at the reprimand.

Shiros staunchly believed that the Blue Wizards’ work was with the Haradrim, the Variags, and the Easterlings. But did they merely seek to help the Men? She thought not, for who also dwelled amongst the Men, condemned by similar ugly deeds, but the dorchim? The Blue Wizards were sent to purify the souls of all peoples who lived in the East and South, and it was most often believed that they stayed because they found the land so enchanting. The West seemed to forget that there was still good past Rhovanion, she remarked with subtle admonishment and condemnation. As she had said before, not all the people of the East and South sided with Sauron during the War of the Last Alliance. Men against Men. Dorchim against dorchim.

Shiros was coming to a close, her tale ending with explaining how the dorchim were a fractured people. They could not go back to their island whose location was now lost to them, but there were few places for them on Middle-Earth. So they lived discreetly and solitarily, rarely having any form of established settlement. Their numbers were low and dwindling still. Were they dead? Did they leave? Where the others had gone, Shiros didn’t know. Legolas mulled over the story and thanked her for sharing it. He promised he would not share it with another soul and that it did not change his opinion of her at all. She gave him a brittle smile when he mentioned her abandonment unthinkingly. He apologized and left for the night. That smile collapsed the second she was alone.

Shiros tried not to harbor anger, but there was an unavoidable taint of bitterness to every interaction. She did not think she was ready to forgive. He was nothing but caring to her, but the coldness he showed that day would not so easily leave her mind. They avoided actually discussing the topic – it lingered between them, but neither decided to broach it. For a later date.

Chapter Text

On the fourth day after she woke, ten days since her coming to the Golden Wood, Shiros was deemed healthy enough to stand, though she was sternly warned not to strain herself unless she wished to be bedbound for another ten days. She swore on her grave that she would not rush the healing process. Eru forbid if she ever rested in Lórein again.

Her body was still weak from the nature of the poison, and her lungs and muscles fell tired more easily now; but under the keen eyes of the two healers assigned to her, sworn to secrecy, strength returned to her legs and arms. With time, her body would be fit and strong again, but it could take weeks if not months. What was left unsaid was the worry that her body may never be as fit or as strong as it once was.

Galadriel, Celeborn, Aragorn, Legolas, and Shiros pondered her fate. Some of the wisest minds in Middle-Earth, but an agreeable solution remained elusive. She could not travel with the Fellowship any further but nor could she stay in Lothlórein. The Lady of Light and her partner were gracious and graceful and well-intended. The elves of the Golden Wood, however, were not as understanding and accepting. Those who helped heal her were hand-selected for their open-mindedness and experience working with the other races. The Galadhrim would not hurt her, Galadriel assured Shiros, but they would not treat her with kindness. Perhaps with time they would grow amiable but that would be with time, and time they did not have. Shiros would be considered an outsider and be met with suspicion and disdain. They debated following Aragorn’s suggestion: Shiros would return to Rhûn. But it was risky to journey alone, especially past Mordor, and there were none that could be spared to accompany her. To return to Rivendell would be to brave the Gap of Rohan, the Pass of Caradhras, or the Mines of Moria again, all of which would likely lead to a horrid fate. Thus, they reached no conclusion. Galadriel called a close to the discussion. The decision did not need to be made now, it was a future issue, and Shiros’ main concern should be on resting and healing.

Shiros could not explore Lothlórein, but the newfound ability to travel between a sparse series of secluded flets was enough for now. So she made use of the new freedom and for the first time, opened the door and walked out.

It had been quite a sight to watch her realize that her residence was high in the Mallorn trees and was very far off the ground with nothing separating them from the forest floor but a narrow bridge, and Legolas could not stop himself from laughing when she grabbed onto him in surprise. She glared and shoved him away, only to immediately latch onto the rope railing with a white-knuckled grip. He had the distinct impression that the Dorchic words muttered under her breath were curses.

“Do you not like heights?” he teased

“Not when there’s nothing but thin wood planks suspended by rope beneath me,” came her sharp answer, not sharing in his humor.

“So not heights themselves?”

Her voice was still tight as she tried not to glance down. “No, just when there is nothing below me. Now, mountains, the northernmost and southernmost plains, and caves, however – those I don’t particularly care for at all.”

“Why?” He slowly but surely helped her cross the bridge safely. They’d given her a veil the color of her borrowed gown – a deep green – but he caught a hint of red peeking out. He brushed it under the fabric, and her disgruntled lour turned into a brief, grateful smile. She let go of his arm with one hand to readjust the veil. It was a shame her hair had to be hidden once more, but he wondered if it bothered him more than Shiros herself.

“There’s no food,” Shiros answered simply, drawing his attention back to his question. “There are not so many animals in those types of places, and I, for one, do not enjoy the sensation of hunger.”

They entered a new flet, this one less of a bedroom and more of a lounge, with books decorating a section of the curved wall. Shiros sagged in relief and released him from her strangling grip, swiftly retreating to a padded chair placed a distance away from the opening. Discreetly, he wrung out his arm, getting the bloodflow circulating again. However, he did not join her and lingered in the doorway, pensive and frowning, and she turned to him when he asked, “Is that why you did not want to travel through the Pass of Caradhras or the Mines? Because you knew there wouldn’t be many animals?” Realization dawned on him. “You feared starvation.”

The relief from having solid ground beneath her faded. Shiros had the feeling she might not enjoy this new course of the conversation. “Yes,” she confirmed reluctantly, “it was a possibility, though it did not come to pass. At least not while in the Mines.”

There was a minute of silence before Legolas said, “The dorchim are not meant to eat plants.”

“It is true.”

“But you consumed a particular herb on multiple occasions.”

“…Yes.”

“Why?”

Shiros exhaled wearily. “The dorchim have a powerful sense of smell, but it is a curse as much as it is a blessing. The Crebain and the Mines reeked of filth and decay, a most nauseating combination. The herb helps to dampen the senses and works to suppress the desire for food. I admit that it is not ideal and causes pain, acting like a mild poison. But I have grown tolerant to it from exposure – the pain is less but the effects are the same.”

“It causes you pain. Acts like a mild poison,” he repeated aghast. “But why, then, did you start consuming it? Is your sense of smell so powerful that the effects of the herb are worth it?”

“My sense of smell doesn’t normally cause me distress, though it unsurprisingly grows worse when I cannot eat regularly. I only use the herb in dire circumstances where hunger is an impediment and the smells around me are too potent, either too vulgar or too wonderful.”

“But I do not understand, Shiros; what has caused you to take it so often that you are tolerant? Surely, the East and South are not so aromatic as to overwhelm you.”

“No, you are right – the East and South are not the cause.” Shiros averted her eyes and sighed again, breathing out so deeply her chest ached.

“In my early life, for two years, I travelled with a group of dorchim who were violent and restless. They were corrupted and fed on the Free Folk. But among those dorchim was a single girl, several decades older than I, who was not fully consumed with bloodlust. She had found the herb years earlier and used it to curb her cravings. By the time I met her, she fed only on animals in contrast to her family. She gave me the herb out of an abundance of fear, however unfounded it may have been. After two years, we left them and ran away.”

“Does it tempt you?” he asked tentatively.

“No. I have never once had the desire to feed on the Free Folk. To me, the elves merely smell like flowers, while the dwarves smell like metal and Men smell like sweat and dirt. My forebearers must have been part of those who fled, whose only consumption of Free Folk was when Sauron tricked them, for the allure dulls with each generation that did not consume Free Folk. The corruption washes out, and we became as we once were. The desire for Free Folk is not natural, so when in a pure state, we do not have any cravings for it. It repulses us.” A haunted look crossed her face. “But for those whose ancestors did not stop or who only recently stopped, blood of the Free Folk is still prevalent in them, passed down to the children when their mother nourishes them. Those dorchim suffer urges that much greater and much harder to resist. The dorchir who helped me, the craving is rooted deep in her gut and in her senses for her parents themselves had fed on the Free Folk. To her, the Free Folk smell like the greatest of wines and the best of meats. Irresistible. It would through the sheer strength of her will that she refrained from acting on her desires, but the herb allowed for it to be just a little bit easier.”

For the dorchim, the sins of the parent becomes the child’s burden to carry. The last of Shiros’ paternal ancestors to taste the blood of Free Folk had been a dorchir . He was born in Middle-Earth, soon after the Dorchiln of Rhûn built but before they received Rettelor’s ‘gift’. The dorchir was just a child when the royal family was killed, and he was too young to question the origin of this new food. But when the dorchir was old enough to comprehend the vileness and evil, he fled. He raised his son on animals alone, and never again had one of her father’s ancestors preyed on the Free Folk. On the maternal side, it stopped with Shiros’ mother’s eighth-time-over grandmother (although the grandmother’s brother and his line had continued). It had been thousands of years since the Free Folk was refreshed in their veins, and Shiros was as whole as a dorchir could be.

But returning to their natural state came at a terrible price. As Shiros had told Legolas, Sauron’s promise itself had not been a lie. Feeding on the Free Folk made the dorchim stronger and more resilient. Those who retained any part of the corruption were more powerful, were stronger and keener. Of the dorchim who fought in the War of the Last Alliance, the number of slain uncorrupted dorchim far outweighed that of their corrupted counterparts.

Shiros admired none more so than the girl who took the herb and helped her escaped from that horrible family. To have the Free Folk so fresh in her blood, to have been forced to feed on them by her parents, and then stop entirely – breaking the cycle was nigh unbearable. Many who attempted to stop inevitably returned because it did the dorchir no good; they reaped no benefit themself. They would never cease to have the cravings. The intensity would never decrease. And not matter the animal, everything else would taste like ash and dirt, putrid and spoiled, scrapping down their throat. Satiating them but never satisfying them. There would always be a gnawing in their stomach, crying for the Free Folk. A living hell that only ended with death.

But the dorchir who would try would do it because they knew it is wrong. They would do it because they knew that their children would have an easier time, and their grandchildren an even easier time until one day, it is completely washed out; and they would always know that it was them who gave their descendants the chance to return to a pure state of being, to finally be free from the suffering.

It was a fate Shiros was glad to never face. And it was this girl specifically that made Shiros so passionate about separating the sins of the father from the sins of the son. Simply because they were forced to shoulder the consequences does not mean they deserved to.

Legolas gently urged her to different topic, gesturing to the books in the wall. He picked one and handed it to her, saying he thought she would enjoy it. She did, and he picked out another.

They spent several hours in the lounge, reading quietly and listening to the sweet music of the elves that was travelled through the air. Shiros relaxed into her chair. She’d never been in a city more peaceful and tranquil. Perhaps resting again in Lothlórein wouldn’t be so terribly after all.

She had nearly fallen asleep when Legolas roused her and guided her back to her flet, apologizing for his leaving – the Fellowship would become suspicious if he did not show up once in a while. They bid the other a fair night and parted ways.

He did not come to see her the next day but the one after. And when he returned, he carried two blank books with him. Timidly, he asked Shiros if he could record what she had told him of the dorchim. Only if she wanted. He had just thought…well, she had said before that the dorchim had no written texts, so perchance maybe she would like to change that. And, he said, it could show the world a different view of the dorchim. Also, if she allowed, he would like to document his lessons in Dorchic. He recalled that the language was one of the last things of the dorchim she had, and it was fading alongside the dorchim. If she wanted, they could preserve the language so it would never truly be lost. It nearly made her cry. Shiros unhesitatingly agreed and started writing down the dorchim’s history, writing it in Dorchic. Legolas added the Sindarin translation beneath it. The words flowed across the parchment. Dorchic’s written form enthralled Legolas; it was the first time he was seeing it. Its lines were harsh but flowed together, slender in some spots and bold in others.

Because it was much more an oral language than a written one, he’d have to forgive her if some of the words she wrote were her own interpretation of the sounds. In the book for the Dorchic language, she detailed the alphabet, their sounds, and their Sindarin letter equivalent. Syntax, pronouns, prepositions, prepositional pronouns, basic verb conjugations, verbal nouns, verbal adjectives etc. followed. The amount of new information made his head dizzy. He watched over her shoulder and repeated each word as she wrote them. Dorchic did not translate nicely into Sindarin (or really any other language since their grammatical structure was unique and their speech poetic and stylistic), but they made it work.

During one of their breaks, Legolas noticed the rings on the cord around her neck. He remembered seeing them before, when she had… Anyways, he had seen them before but was too preoccupied to appreciate them. Upon closer inspection, he realized they were inscribed with Dorchic. “The rings, what do they stand for?”

Shiros untied the cord from around her neck and let the rings fall into her palm. Legolas sat beside her as she pointed them out. “Fourteen for the Valar, and one for Eru.”

He asked if he could hold one and, with her consent, picked one up – the one for Elbereth ironically. The ring was made of gold, ornate and flawless. There was a blacksmith, a dorchir actually, who was widely known for having incredible skill with a forge. Her grandmother had been his cousin. He had made very gold band she and had engraved them.

He gave the ring back, and she retied the cord, with the rings on it, and slipped it over her head. “Was he the master smith that made your sword?”

“No. By the time I had need to commission a sword, my great-uncle had passed. The crafter of my sword is…or was now, I suppose…an Easterling. Fifty years and no sign of rust or wear. His work is impeccable, and I have never seen another piece made by Men that rivals his. They simply cannot compare. His brother’s grandson is the one who made my bow fifteen years ago. While his craftmanship, too, is wonderful, he cannot compare to his elder, though he was talented with the inscription.”

“I never knew the work of Men could be so beautiful.”

“Neither did I until proof was laid right before me.” Her hand went to the rings, and her lips quirked. “Though I am partial to the crafts made by my kin. They’re meant to be braided into your hair. I have not had the ability to wear them as they should be worn for so long, but I know I will again. One day.”

Legolas shifted, the rings reminding him of another things the veil had hid, and he mustered up the courage to ask about her ears.

“They have rings in them.” He could not hold back the wince.

He’d seen human women with jewelry in the bottom of their years, but never any like hers. In fact, she had no jewelry in the bottom of her ear but three rings evenly spaced about the upper part of the shell of her ears, going through the cartilage. The elf subconsciously grabbed at his own ear as if to shield it when she pulled the veil back just enough to expose the three rings. He was positively pale, and she bit her cheek to stop from laughing.

“Oh yes, the dorchim wear jewelry in their ears, too. It’s tradition to have them done first as a child, with the rings in the highest spot.”

“As a child?! That is…that is…” he flustered.

She laughed gaily. “Oh, my dear elf, I do not think you could survive meeting other dorchim. I have just three holes in my left ear, but I know a dorchir with five rings in his left and four in his right.”

“Why?!”

Tenderly, she touched the three gold rings, also engraved with Dorchic. “They represent our families. The rings all have names on them. The left ear is for the family made for you – brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers. They do not have to be blood, though most are. The right ear is for the family you make – spouses, sons, daughters. And in turn, as you bear rings with their signatures, they bear yours.”

She had three. One for her mother, one for her father, and one for a sibling. “What are their names?”

The atmosphere all at once mellowed, and Shiros’ mind went far away. There was sorrow written over her face, and he wished he had not asked. But, to his surprise, she answered in a voice so quiet, “Rishos, Abbres, and Ianthe.” She blinked and shook her head, coming out of the trance. Her voice returned to normal if not sharper than before. “I do not wish to talk about it.”

“I understand,” and he moved the conversation back to the preservation of Dorchic history.

When they returned to the regicide of the last Dorchic king, she elaborated on the story. Many believed the entire royal family was killed that day – the king, the queen, their four children, even the king’s brother and his wife and child. But it is not true. The youngest of the royals, a daughter, escaped with her cousin. By luck or by Eru’s will, the two children were not in the main hall with their families when the bloodshed began. The king’s brother had survived the initial attack, though gravely injured, and took them to the wilds. When the traitorous dorchim tracked them down, wanting to end the lines permanently, the king’s brother sacrificed himself, already bound for death. He told the children to run as far as they could and never look back. The children disappeared into the wilderness of the far reaches of Rhûn. They were never found by the dorchim, so the corrupted dorchim spun a discouraging rumor proclaiming their deaths occurred in the main hall or in the wilds.

If the rumor was so prevalent and convincing that most dorchim believed it, why didn’t she? Shiros merely said she had seen things to contradict it. It was one of the only concrete, detailed pieces of Dorchic history she knew for certain.

All the descendants of the king, no matter how diluted, will have hair tinted blue. All the descendants of the king’s brother will have hair tinted silver. He asked why, and she shrugged. She thought it may be because they were blessed by a Vala millennia ago but could not really say. It simply was.

From there, they moved onto biological features. With much persuading, she allowed him to quickly sketch her in the book as an example of dorchim. She stubbornly faced away from him the entire time much to his amusement.

Obviously, their hair was a defining characteristic. Colors resembling bright jewels and precious metals. They wore it long like to the elves and in braids. There were ceremonial plaits, but they were seldomly worn. Their ears were slightly more Elvish in looks but on a whole unremarkable with the exception of the earrings. He still cringed at the sight of them. The dorchim’s eyes and skin, Shiros told him, were similar to those who live in the East and South. It was why she was so easily believed to be of Man hailing from the East or South. The dorchim were on average taller than Men but not as tall as most elves. Their senses were as keen as the Dúnedain’s, with their nose being the exception, the best of any race she’d compared it to. The dorchim did not need as much sleep or as much food as Men. Clearly, they could only eat meat. They were more enduring against illness but not more resistant to poison. It would have been nice if they were robust to both.

“How old are you?” Legolas asked without thinking. Her head whipped around, and he rosied and apologized quickly.

“I will have my 200^th nameday in three months. And before you say it, no, we are not like elves in this way either. We grow old, and we die. We mature at an even pace, though eight years to us is like a year to Men. We do not reach maturity until one hundred and sixty, but most dorchim do not bear children before they are at least two hundred; and we can no longer beget soon after we pass three hundred summers. The dorchim commonly live to eight hundred, though the royal line is said to be blessed with longevity, living a thousand namedays or so.”

His hand flew across the page as he tried to keep up with the information, listening in sheer astonishment. How was there this whole race – this whole group of beings with intricate traditions, histories, cultures – they knew nothing about it?

“Because there are not many who are willing to learn.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud and jumped when she answered him. “The West whispers about the demons in the East, cold and heartless murderers with no sense or capacity for goodness. And who would be willing to have a conversation with a monster like that?” She watched him fall into condemnation, at himself and at the Free Folk, and lightly touched his arm. “Legolas, do not take the weight of the all sins of the Free Folk upon your shoulders. You are but one of countless many who have judged us to be foul creatures of Sauron. But, you are one of a mere few who no longer looks at me and sees a demon instead of a person. You have shown me a great hurt but not the greatest hurt I have known; but you have also shown me one of the greatest happinesses and companionships I have known.”

He placed down the book and took her hands, earnestly promising he would do better. To her, to the dorchim. He uttered apologies for the hundredth time over.

But this time she believed him wholeheartedly.

This time she forgave him.

Chapter Text

The day of the Fellowship's departure from Lothlórein came too swiftly, but at the same time, so slowly. They had rested in the Golden Wood for a month, healing from their grief and readying themselves for the future, but there was so much yet to be done.

Their second parting from Shiros was bittersweet, and the pain in her chest that had settled over the past few weeks returned with a vengeance. Before, she had mourned their betrayal, their leaving her with coldness. Now, she mourned their duty, their leaving her with fondness. Loss compounded by longing. It is easier to be parted from someone you are angry at, but it is much harder to be parted from someone who brings you joy and comfort. She did not want Legolas and Aragorn to leave (although, secretly, Legolas more so since he'd always been her main companion during her recovery; and the bond they'd created over sharing their stories and simply learning who each other were as a person was unreplicable). She did not want the hobbits to leave either – she did not want them to continue on a path that would certainly lead to more pain and more suffering. Hadn't they seen enough already? Not even Boromir did she wish the fate awaiting them once they left the bounds of Lothlórein.

She was inconsolable the night before they began their journey anew. Legolas unintentionally worsened things when he presented her with the two tomes, the sketch of her finished, and asked her to keep them safe and continue on without him. Shiros responded by shoving the books into his chest and yelling at him in Dorchic, much too quickly for him to understand. His words made her panic and, in her panic, illogical. Her mind conjured the worst images of them – horrible, ugly, awful images of what would be done to them should they fall. No, no, surely he would survive…surely? The stress of staying behind and watching her friends face the greatest evil in Middle-Earth – it all terrified her. It awoke that deep part in the soul that houses the richest forms of emotion, where none are good but none are bad, just passionate if not volatile. And it tormented Shiros, who was overwhelmed with no way to abate it. She did not ask them to stay, she could not ask them to stay, but it did nothing to lessen the pain.

Shiros ripped off her veil and threw it in the direction of a padded chair. The spring green silk fluttered to the floor instead, Shiros' aim thrown off by her pacing. Legolas picked it up and patiently waited for her to calm. The stress made her head ache, and her muscles protested at the aggressive, animated movements she'd used to rebuke him. She sank onto her bed, covering her face with her palms. Legolas took a seat beside her and drew her hands away, holding them in his.

"I will come back," he promised. "We will come back. All of us."

"Do not assure things you cannot know," she hissed without a second thought. Her head snapped up and she made to apologize, but Legolas was faster.

"Do you not think we will live?" His brows were pinched, reasonably upset. Her mouth opened and closed, a resigned sigh lifting her shoulders.

"I want to believe it, but I do not know the future. Every time someone has uttered those words to me, I never saw them again." She shifted to face him and squeezed his hands tightly. "Mellon nin, mir erthoir, be safe. Watch the shadows, keep your guard up, trust what the world tells you. Trust in the Fellowship, even in Boromir, though do not do it blindly. Stay cautious." She squeezed tighter. "Do the things needed to keep your promise. Prove to me that you can break the pattern. And, if I am able to request one more thing, please watch over mircha mechim, our dear hobbits. The world is far too dark for them."

He swore it on his life; he was an elf of his word. They would see each other again, and the hobbits would be safe. Reluctantly, Shiros withdrew her hands from his and told him to rest his spirit and replenish his strength. He would need it for the journey. Legolas hated to leave her in such a state, but there was truth to her words. He left with one more promise to keep his promise, but the dread in Shiros' soul was not assuage.

While he slept fitfully, Shiros did not attempt any at all and watched the sun rise over the land. Bathed in gold, Lothlórein truly was a place like none ever that came before or would come after. Soon the Fellowship rose themselves, and Legolas and Aragorn arrived at her flet in the early morn to offer her a private goodbye. They embraced, and both pledged to keep a sharp eye on the dangers around them. It was a brief meeting (which only served to make the visceral feeling in her chest worse) before Legolas and Aragorn left to rejoin the Fellowship at the river's edge to receive a farewell from the Lady of the Golden Wood herself.

Three boats on the river awaited them, packed with necessities to aid them on their journey. One bag in particular caught Legolas' eye. It was filled to the brim with Elvish waybread, and Legolas withdrew one and pulled back the mallorn leaf. He told the dear hobbits the blessing of it: one small bite is enough to fill the stomach of a full grown man. It was a most gracious present for its recipe was known to Galadriel alone and no other. His cheerfulness dimmed slightly when he realized that Shiros would never be able to taste lembas or benefit from its properties. Galadriel drew his attention, meeting his stare knowingly, and beckoned them from the water's edge to receive gifts.

The eight were cloaked in the garb of the Galadhrim and the leaves of Lothlórein pinned to their breasts. Never before had it been done.

To Merry and Pippin, she gave Noldorian daggers, which had already seen war. They were fine weapons and belonged to an age long past. The daggers were durable, and so were the hobbits, hearty and stubborn. And to Pippin, she spoke words of comfort and encouragement.

To Sam, Elven rope made of hithlain. He did not fully appreciate the extraordinariness of his gift, relying on his eyes and not his heart. He saw greater value in the Noldorian daggers, but anything can be mightier than the sword if used properly. Hithlain is light and flexible and burning to anything corrupt that touches it. A rope made of it would be unwaveringly sturdy and strong, a reflection of Sam himself.

To Boromir, Galadriel gave a belt linked together by golden leaves. If something was said between them, it was unknown to the rest.

To Gimli, she had nothing to offer except the granting of a wish. He said he wished to look upon the fair Lady of the Galadhrim one last time, for she was more fair than all the jewels beneath the earth. She laughed softly in surprised delight but would have it that he had a true gift. He asked for one hair from her golden head. She gave him three.

To Legolas, a bow of the Galadhrim was given, a weapon among the finest made in the Third Age. To him, she uttered quiet reassurances. Shiros would come to no harm within her realm.

To Aragorn, she could not gift anything greater than the treasure he already bore: the love of her granddaughter, Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar. And to him, she left a reminder of his choice, whether to rise above his fathers since Elendil or fall into darkness with the rest of his kin.

To Frodo, she bestowed the light of Eärendil, their most beloved star, and laid a kiss upon his brow. A light for him in dark places when all other lights go out.

They settled into the boats and off they went. Legolas with Gimli; Boromir with Pippin and Merry; Aragorn with Sam and Frodo.

None could have foreseen the friendship that blossomed between the elf and the dwarf during the month in Lothlórein, but there they were, breaching the widest divide between those of the Free Folk. Grief had made them all bare and vulnerable, and they saw each other plainly, in their truest forms. Not all elves are haughty and snobbish, and not all dwarves are callous and piggish. Not all hobbits are mindless and blissfully naïve, and not all Men are selfish and nearsighted. Heal together they did, side-by-side, recreating and constructing bonds of trust, however fragile some of those may be. And perhaps the strongest of the healed bonds between the remaining members of the Fellowship was that beautiful, entirely unexpected, friendship between Legolas and Gimli. Of course, let's not discount the dear friendship between elf and dorchir, which rivalled if not surpassed the bond with Gimli. The gap Legolas crossed to befriend Gimli was large, but it was nothing compared to the chasm he and Shiros bridged between Free Folk and the Others.

Before the river could take them out of sight of Lothlórein, Legolas glanced back and barely stifled a gasp. She was there, high in the trees, a stream of red entangling in the golden leaves. Part of him wanted to scold her, but the other half was moved greatly with affection. She was very, very high in the trees, no doubt absolutely terrified of falling, but she had done what was needed to see him off in the only way she could. She had even released her hair for him to see it, to use it to find her. Risky and reckless, but she had done it for him. The distance between them was too wide for him to see her clearly, but he raised a hand and hoped she would notice it. His company took it as another farewell to the Golden Wood, but Aragorn, having just made out the tell-tale red for himself, knew otherwise and smiled. He also raised his hand. His belief that she could not join them remained steadfast, especially with the backing of the Lady, the Lord, and Shiros herself, but their parting stung nevertheless. He never did know if she forgave him but would not fault her for whichever answer she chose. He wished her all the blessings the Valar could bestow.

Once the time allotted for a farewell had passed (less he make himself odd by continually holding up a hand), Legolas turned around and caught Aragorn's stare, which turned cheeky and teasing. The elf glared before adamantly concentrating on paddling the boat. The river was gentle and calm, foretelling of peaceful travel for the day.

But the light of good tidings fades so quickly under the shadows of a darkening heart.

The world seemed dimmer now that she was alone again. Shiros tried to distract herself by reading Elvish texts, but her mind drifted. When that failed, she tried to occupy herself by writing down as many versions of Dorchic history as she could remember. Once that was finished or at least so for the moment, she moved onto the book for the Dorchic language. The pages were quickly filled, and it was soon designated as Volume I. She moved on to start Volume II (her request for another book easily fulfilled) and described nuances and colloquialisms. One section was dedicated to small regional differences in phrases, pronunciation, and vocabulary (for, like any language, distance and time spent apart created variations. There was no standardized form of Dorchic but three main dialects, each influenced by the different Eastern and Southern kingdoms of Men respectively). She also wrote down some of the Eastern and Southern languages themselves and which words the dorchim commonly borrowed. It all took a decent amount of time. However, all distractions are temporary, and her mind was still left to wander in the breaks she took to rest her hand.

Shiros remained restless and anxious for days after the Fellowships' departure. Her sleep that first night was fitful and agitated, leaving her bleary and tired in the morning with an even greater yearning to leave behind the stagnation of ethereal, uncanny Lórein. It was an itch under her skin, a rush in her blood, a suffocating feeling that she was not where she was meant to be. The last straw came during the third night.

There came another dream, similar to the one she'd had in Rhûn all those months ago, the one in which she was showed the Ring and black curls she now knew belonged to Frodo. Tumultuous and erratic, shadows raged on the edges of the scene before her, and they seeped into the river and land around the Fellowship, fouling the water and poisoning the banks. Like snakes, tendrils slithered from the water and congregated in Boromir, perverting him with smoke and ash from Mordor. It controlled his body, moved his legs to carry him into the forest and through the trees until he came upon Frodo. He drew his sword, the look of madness in his dead eyes, and—

Shiros jerked awake and pressed a hand to her heaving breast. Her hair, damp with sweat, stuck to her neck and back, the strands feeling too eerily similar to the threads of shadow from the dream. She quickly gathered it into one clump over her shoulder and went to her window. The night sky was in its prime, dark and encompassing. The moon was gone, but the stars remained, just bright enough to illuminate a path through the trees. It called to her, tugged her forward. Without hesitation, she left the windowsill and went to the chest that held her clothes.

Shiros dressed in her old travelling garb, newly mended and cleaned. It felt so right. The black veil she carefully adjusted over her hair. She would miss the colored veils of Lothlórein, but silks of greens, blues, and silvers had no place in the world outside the Golden Wood. Her weapons, too, were kept securely in her room, and they were fastened to her body. Under the watchful stars, Shiros snuck out of her flet, trekking carefully through the series of ropes, determinedly avoiding looking below. Her heart was already beating so loudly she feared the elves would hear it.

Climbing the trees to see the Fellowship was a spontaneous idea. She didn't regret it, but Valar know she would never do it again.

Shiros did not make it far when she abruptly halted. Galadriel stood serenely in the middle of her path as if expecting her. She was. Legolas had said that her Mirror was special, showing scenes of the past, present, and future. Shiros stiffened, hands clenching by her sides, and was rendered mute at the sight of her. But she mustered up her courage and firmly told the Lady she was leaving. The Fellowship…she could not leave them. Not in a time of need. This was something she knew she had to do.

The Lady was quiet during Shiros' explanation, only at the end holding up a hand to stop her. "I know of what you speak, and I am not here to keep you. Go to them. I merely offer you a gift."

Galadriel led Shiros to a hidden, empty flet and gave her a piece of parchment, a quill, and an ink pot. "Call to your brethren for you need not face this alone. In the darkest of times, who else should we turn to but the ones we love and trust?"

Shiros considered the Lady's wise words and dipped the quill into the ink. The letter, written in Dorchic, was concise and informative, and addressed to 'Therran.' As the ink dried, Galadriel promised that it would be sent at first light. And worry not, for the letter will be delivered to Therran's hands alone, no matter where the dorchir may be. Shiros did not have time to wonder how the messenger bird would find him halfway across Middle-Earth, but if Galadriel said it was so, then it must be true.

The way would be clear for her, from Caras Galadhon to the edge of Lothlórein. Follow the Anduin to the Argonath, Galadriel told her, but be wary of the evil lingering in the darkness. She could reach them within four or five days if she moved swiftly. It would be strenuous, but she had the heart and the will for it. To help her on her journey, Galadriel procured an ample pack of dried meat and two small bottles: one to replenish strength and the other to aid in healing since her body was still not to its full strength. Galadriel also gave her a pouch of the sense-dulling herb, which Shiros gaped at and graciously accepted. The herb was not found in this part of Middle-Earth, so it came as a great shock. It struck Shiros then that Galadriel had known about her plan long before she did and had prepared for her. It must be the Mirror, and she shivered in sudden fearful awe of the elf.

Shiros reverently thanked the Lady of Light again and offered a Dorchic blessing reserved for only those held in highest regards. She pledged her servitude since words would never repay the kindness and care showed to her. Should Galadriel ever call upon her, she would return. Galadriel smiled in that indecipherable way and left the dorchir. Shiros headed into the star-lit forest with fiery determination fueling her pace.

She travelled tirelessly through the woods, treading lightly and carefully. She dared not to rest any longer than necessary, but in the end, she still arrived too late.

A third arrow drove home in Boromir's chest and sealed his fate. The hobbits were separated; Frodo and Sam heading alone to Mordor, Merry and Pippin captured to be taken to Isengard. Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli were fighting for their lives against an entire company of vicious orcs.

The Fellowship shattered, and Shiros was only a few miles away.

Chapter Text

Shiros heard the clash through the trees, heard the rough, awkward shuffling steps characteristic of orcs. Her teeth grit, and she unsheathed her sword without hesitation, cutting down stragglers she found. The last orc died with an abruptly ended squeal, and Shiros yanked her sword from its body. The sounds of fighting ahead grew dimmer until the forest was uneasily quiet except for faint whispers. The orcs were retreating, but the dread in Shiros only grew. When the tree line finally gave way, Shiros stumbled upon a devastating sight.

The dorchir cried out Boromir’s name and ran to his body, falling to one knee beside him. Her hands hovered over him uselessly as she took in all his injuries. ‘No. Valar, why?’ she despaired. She hadn’t been fast enough to outrun her dream, and just like that, Legolas’ futile promise was broken. Legolas and Aragorn quickly grabbed onto Gimli and held him back from rushing her. They could do nothing, however, to prevent the curses the dwarf hurled at her and his shouts directed toward them. Shiros ignored the dwarf entirely and smoothed Boromir’s hair away from his face tenderly, tracing his features. The last time she had seen him, all those weeks ago, he had looked upon her with so much anger and hate. But now, lying cold on a bed of leaves, he looked so vulnerable, peaceful even. Unburdened. He would never know what happened to Shiros. He would never know her true nature. Every possibility for amends and conversation was snuffed out alongside his life, and their last interaction would forever be his attempt to murder her. It made her sick. He may have wanted her to die, but she’d never wished this fate upon him. She glanced at the arrows and remembered the pain of being shot herself. It was a horrible way to go, drowning in agony, grief, fear, and regret—a truly terrible way to die. Shiros bowed her head and recited a Dorchic mourning prayer and hoped for him to find peace in the heavens before pressing a light kiss to his brow to finish the blessing.

“Tarya min naith lurn, arra brelda honn cora.”

The forest had quieted when she had begun her prayer, and Gimli had subsided in his struggles as he truly saw what was before him, the cloudy veil of fear and hate pulled back at the sheer intensity of her sorrow. He quietly watched her show nothing but care for their fallen member, no animosity or savage intent. There was a moment of silence after she had finished where no one spoke. The wind didn’t rustle the trees, and no woodland creature sounded. Shiros finally looked up at the three, eyes wet though no tears fell. Slowly, she rose to her feet and crossed the forest floor to them. Before Gimli, who had been let free, she kneeled and bowed her head. Legolas’ breath caught, and he made to step forward and raise her when Aragorn placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Instead, the elf and the Man took a step back from the dorchir and the dwarf.

“I cannot change my blood,” Shiros started stoically, her voice strong and clear. “I cannot be anything but a dorchir anymore than you cannot be anything but a dwarf.”

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “But blood does not rule the contents of the heart, where good and evil are decided. Am I your enemy for who I am or what I am? Judge me on what is in my power to control, what I have done of my own volition. Judge me on my actions, not my ancestors’. If you can find but one occasion where I have shown intent to harm any of the Fellowship, let your axe fall upon me.”

Gimli was still as he deliberated, looking her over intensely. He saw no deception in her words or in her eyes. What he saw was a young woman putting her life in his hands despite knowing he could easily kill her, despite knowing that his initial reaction was to kill her. Shiros was willingly giving him permission to do just that should he find her guilty, but in all his memories, there had been no such instance. He sighed heavily and told her to stand. He would rather die than let his axe fall upon an innocent being. Legolas let out a controlled exhale in relief, and even Aragorn relaxed, his unknowingly tightening grip on Legolas’ shoulder falling loose. Shiros stood, leaves clinging to her clothes, trying to hide the tremor in her hands and the frantic beating of her heart. She glanced at Boromir’s body and turned her head away sharply, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“How will we tell the hobbits? They’ll be devastated.” The three males shifted; Legolas stared at the woods to his left, and Gimli dropped his gaze to the forest floor. Only Aragorn looked at her. Her hand twitched involuntarily, the shaking growing worse. “They’re at the beach, are they not?” There was a hitch in her voice at the end of the question, and her throat felt tight. Her entire body was doused in cold fear. The longer their silence dragged on, the worse her horror grew until she nearly felt like retching from visceral panic. Aragorn laid a hand on her shoulder to ground her, to dubious success.

“Shiros,” Aragorn began solemnly. “The Fellowship is broken.”

“But where are they?!” she cried, knocking his hand off her and taking a step back. She frantically scanned the forest as if it was a trick, and the hobbits were hiding behind the trees. “Are they—?”

“No,” Aragorn cut her off firmly. “They are not dead. Frodo and Sam head to Mordor, and it is no longer our path to accompany them. Merry and Pippin were taken by the orcs.”

“Then let us find them!” She glanced at Boromir again, and her tone lowered to something sorrowful but adamant. “We cannot waste time on the dead when time for the living is running out.”

Gimli jerked, angered at her seeming disregard for the fallen member. He burst into argument, ridiculing her and cursing her, but Aragorn was swift to end it. She was right, he conceded, though he would not leave his brethren to be ravaged by wild animals. He carried Boromir to the river and laid him gently in a boat. The arrows were broken and carefully pulled from his body. He would not be defiled by the Enemy’s weapons at his final resting. His shield was placed above his head, and his hands were folded over his sword, which had served him well until the end. From his arms, Aragorn untied the bracers and put them on his own being. They weighed heavy on his arms and his heart, a reminder of his failure and a reminder to see it through the end in the place of those who couldn’t.

The others watched on silently as Aragorn waded into the water and guided the boat to its course, Boromir’s belt of gold leaves glinting beautifully in the sun. Each prayed for him in their own language. Aragorn waited for the boat to pass over the waterfall before he returned to shore, a haunted air to him. As the leader of the Fellowship in all but anointed name, the weight of their failure was greatest on him, and Galadriel’s words returned to torment him. Could he ever rise to Elendil’s grace, with this tragedy on him? Legolas nudged his friend forward to break him from his spiraling thoughts. Shiros was already many feet ahead, wasting no time and rushing through the trees, with Gimli, being stouter, trailing a little way behind her. The elf and the Man ran to join them, and thus began a new journey.

They ran tirelessly for hours, only taking enough time to sustain themselves but forsaking sleep. The weariness took its toll on Gimli and Shiros, the former due to being a natural sprinter versus long distance runner and the latter due to refraining from eating the appetite-suppressing herb so her nose could help trace the orcs. But nonetheless they pushed on. The fire of vengeance fueled her heart and body forward, fading the pain into the background.

During one of their rare breaks, Shiros’ body’s protests won, and she flopped on the ground, breast heaving and limbs limp. The strain of their pace was clear on her face. Legolas helped sit her up, though she retracted from him immediately after. When he met her stare, he felt burned by the anger in them. It cooled into bitter disappointment before she turned her head.

“I told you not to do it,” sneered Shiros, voice small and lacking true venom. “It was a fool’s promise.”

Legolas bowed his head and sat near her but maintained a distance away. He kept quiet; he had no right to defense. She said no more but looked over her shoulder, grief contorting her features. He had continued the pattern so cruelly of those cursed words.

“Did you truly believe it?” she asked barely above a whisper.

“…I do not know. I think I had hoped for it,” he admitted.

“I nearly did.” A shaky breath pushed past her lips. “I know you meant well. I know you tried your best. But I warned you. I told you not to assure things you cannot know. Boromir is dead, Pippin and Merry are hostages to orcs, Frodo and Sam journey to Mordor alone, and the Fellowship is more than broken; it is gone.

“How much innocence should suffer until it ends?”

“Shiros…”

“I will not lose heart, but it is wounded. How can it not be?”

And he had no reply for her. Their break, hardly more than a few minutes, ended, and they were off to the plains of Rohan. The sun and moon rose three times, and still they persisted. A gnawing ache ate away at her stomach, and the world was too scented, giving her headache a dizzying sensation. Her mouth salivated at the memory of Sam’s rabbit (which intruded into her mind when the hunger seemed depthless) only for her to subsequently taste ash when she remembered where the hobbit and the ringbearer were.

On the fourth morning, they looked to a rising red sun and knew something had changed. They had been steadily gaining on the orcs and would have reached them by nightfall at the latest, but with the rising of the sun, their prey was undetectable.

“A red sun. Blood has been spilled this night,” Legolas said.

The wind altered course and blew upwind, and Shiros cringed and held the back of her wrist to her nose as a torrent of ugly smells hit her. She retrieved her veil from her pack, fixing it securely over her hair until its red hue was smothered, and told her companions what she smelled. “Burning flesh. Horses. Their riders.” She nodded grimly toward Legolas, “And blood. Either someone has killed our prey for us…”

“Or our prey has killed again,” Legolas finished. Shiros glared at the plains. The first option was more favorable, but she would have preferred the privilege of killing them herself. She would have shown them no mercy if she found a single hair on the hobbits’ heads disturbed.

And if it was the second option…when they inevitably reached the orcs, she would make their suffering great.

The four ran even faster down the hill, despite the protests of their lungs and calves and especially their hearts, which pounded too hard in their chests. They did not get far before Shiros gestured for them to duck between two large stones. Not a moment later, a horse whinnied nearby, and the company of riders she had smelled stormed past. Shiros took a shuddering breath to quell the urge to leap at one of the horses.

Aragorn glanced at them before jumping out from behind the rock once the last of the horses had passed. Shiros moved to pull him back with a hushed curse, but he had already called out to the Riders of Rohan. Quickly standing, Shiros, Legolas, and Gimli joined his side—better together than alone—and they were completely encircled by the horsemen, their lances lowered at the level of their necks.

One horse broke through the circle, the man astride it bright and commanding. “What business does an elf, a Man, a dwarf, and a woman have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!” he demanded.

“Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine,” Gimli challenged, earning him an exasperated and pleading glance from both Aragorn and Shiros. The rider slipped from the saddle and approached them on foot. Aragorn pressed a hand to Gimli’s shoulder.

“I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” he sneered.

Legolas drew an arrow and had it aimed at the rider before another word could be spoken. “You would die before your stroke fell.”

“Legolas! Cett!” Shiros pushed down his bow and, in a softer tone, added, “Ethnadal. You will only make things worse,” she finished in Sindarin. The horse-master looked at her sharply, but she did not take her eyes off Legolas.

Aragorn stepped between Legolas and the rider and introduced them. For Shiros, he kept her title simple and vague, Shiros the Traveller, nothing more, though the rider continued to eye her. “We are friends of Rohan and of Theoden, your king.”

“Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe.” The horse-master removed his helmet, revealing long, blond hair and a face bearing resemblance to the ruling Rohirric family. “Not even his own kin.” The other rides finally withdrew their lances and spears, and Shiros’ hand, which had wavering around the handle of her sword, dropped as well. “Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished.” As the rider continued, he looked each of them in the eye. First Aragorn, then Gimli, then Legolas, and lastly, Shiros. “The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets.”

“We are no spies,” Aragorn said. “We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive.”

Shiros stepped around Legolas to stand in front of the rider. “There is the smell of smoke in the air. Do you know of its origins?”

“The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night,” the rider nodded at Shiros, “and burned them.”

“But there were two hobbits. Did you see two hobbits with them?” Gimli asked, desperation making his voice higher and strained at the end.

“They would be small. Only children to your eyes,” Aragorn elaborated.

The rider looked at the ground and was silent for a second. “We left none alive. When we burned them, we piled the carcasses together.” He pointed to a plume of thick, white smoke in the distance.

“But you cannot remember if you placed the body of seemingly two children into the flames?” Shiros asked in disbelief. Surely, they would’ve known.

“I am sorry,” was all he could offer. Shiros took a step backward, bumping into Legolas’ chest. His hands landed on her shoulders, and she felt them shaking. The rider whistled and called out three names, and soon they were presented with three horses’ reins.

“May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell.” The rider replaced his helmet and returned to his beast. “Look for your friends but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.” The rider called his company, and as one, they left Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and Shiros in greater sorrow and fear than they had let themselves feel before. Shiros immediately climbed atop a horse, her hunger completely vanquished by the news they’d just been given. Her eyes were fixed only on the white smoke, and she was flying towards it without a second wasted. By the time the other three caught up to her, she had already dismounted and was standing still in front of the impaled head of an orc. The smell was unbearable, but still, she did not move away.

Gimli searched through the smoldering bodies with his axe and pulled out a damning belt of Lothlórein. Shiros jerked at the sight and stormed away, cursing tearfully in Dorchic while Legolas whispered in Sindarin. Aragorn kicked a helmet and screamed in anguish, collapsing to his knees. The sound tore through Shiros’ already ribboned heart.

“Nuch brelda rir firrich. Nuch brelda rir firrich,” she said over and over, hands pushed up under her veil to grip at her head as she paced. The ground under her boot squelched, and she crouched to touch the pool of blood. Dipping a finger lightly in it, she brought it to her nose and recoiled. “Orc,” she spat and started roughly wiping her hand off on the grass. Yet, she paused and sniffed the blood again. It was only orc blood. Her head shot up, and it seemed that, at the same time, Aragorn was seeing tracks on the ground, tracks that only a tussle, and one done by a small creature, could make.

Aragorn drifted across the ground, tracing an imaginary fight. “They crawled. Their hands were bound.” He pulled up a sliced rope from beneath the brush. “Their bonds were cut. They ran over there…” He choregraphed the hobbits’ moves, leading them through the hobbits’ struggles until they stopped before Fangorn Forest.

“Fangorn?” Gimli repeated. “What madness drove them in there?”

“Assurity of death should they have stayed.” Shiros’ hand squeezed the hilt of her blade. She started into the forest. “C’mon.”

Gimli startled. “You can’t mean to go in there!”

“If Pippin and Merry are in there, we must find them. And I smell orc blood, however faint, which means they were followed.”

“Shiros is right,” Aragorn said. He entered the forest with her, Legolas following at their heels, while Gimli tottered behind, wary.

Fangorn Forest was eerily quiet in ways of natural sound, remining Shiros too much of the forest after Boromir’s death. Likewise to then, the birds did not sing, the squirrels did not scurry, and hardly did the wind whistle hard enough to move the moss dangling from the twisty branches overhead. The forest was old, ancient. It far surpassed the dorchir’s age and as well as the elf’s. But with time comes memory, heartache, and anger, and that was conveyed in the little sound the forest contained, which were the groans and creaks of the trees. Gimli lifted his axe, and the tree noises grew louder.

“The trees are speaking to each other,” Legolas said, as a particularly loud sound came from the giant tree behind Gimli.

“Gimli!” Aragorn half-yelled, half-whispered. “Lower your axe.”

Gimli did as commanded with a short ‘oh’.

“The trees have feelings, my friend. The elves began it—waking up the trees, teaching them to speak,” Legolas explained.

“What do trees have to talk about, hm?” Gimli grumbled. “Except the consistency of squirrel droppings.”

“I suspect a great many things,” Shiros countered. “The taste of the wind, the music it brings, the refreshingness of rain. Perhaps even—”

Legolas interrupted, speaking lowly and quickly in Sindarin, rushing forward and reaching back toward his quiver. “Something’s out there.”

Aragorn and Shiros chased after him. “What do you see?” Aragorn asked.

“The White Wizard approaches.”

The whole company felt a terrible fear and anger overcome their hearts.

“Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us.” Aragorn pulled out his sword.

Shiros dashed to a tree, whispering an Elvish apology to it, and climbed it until she was perched and hidden on a thick branch. An element of surprise, a different direction of offense…it wouldn’t bode to have them all clustered together. Shiros unshouldered her bow and notched an arrow. Controlled exhales and inhales ruled her body as she aimed at the approaching figure, but just before she released it and as the others yelled with their attacks, the wizard let out a great light, blinding her. Her arrow flew errantly and was harmlessly struck to the ground. The second arrow followed the same course. Suddenly, the string of her bow snapped, whipping a sharp line across her face. Hissing, she dropped it to the forest floor and unsheathed her sword, aiming to swing down upon the wizard from above, but the metal burned her hands. Her sword joined her bow on the leaves below.

The White Wizard’s voice was deep and rich, filling the silence of the forest completely when he spoke. “You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits.”

“Where are they?!” Aragorn asked.

“They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?”

“Who are you? Show yourself!”

The glow around the White Wizard dimmed, and Shiros nearly slipped from the tree. She jumped down immediately, staring at Gandalf in awe and horror.

“This is a trick,” she denied, yet her hands did not stray to pick up her fallen weapons.

Legolas kneeled, eyes wet. “Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman.”

“Legolas, no. It’s a trick,” Shiros weakly protested.

“It is no trick, Shiros. I assure you. I am Saruman. Or rather, Saruman as he should have been.” Shiros staggered back. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. Alive and well before her, and imbued with greater power, greater brilliance than before.

“Gandalf? Yes. That was what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. That was my name.”

“And Mithrandir and Ilrothir,” Shiros said, in a daze. “The Grey Pilgrim and—”

“The Grey One. Now, I am Solrothir for I am Gandalf the White. And I come back to you now at the turn of the tide.”