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.