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.