Hey everyone,
Some of you are already familiar with this story as it was posted on my old profile. I have since deleted it off of that one and shall be transferring all of my stories from to this profile.
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Gandalf strode into the quiet, modest village of Bree. The night air brought an icy chill that had his cheeks reddening and his breaths fogging in front of him with every exhale. His gaze moved from the bare village square to the night sky to witness dark, foreboding clouds moving to blanket the stars, bringing with them the scent of rain and the promise of a storm.
He turned his grey eyes towards the Prancing Pony Inn and Gandalf found himself smiling ruefully as he recalled the last time he had been here to see her.
Melveril was an unquestionably difficult Elf to track down when she wanted stay hidden or avoid contact with anyone. It was for that reason that Gandalf had made sure to keep a close eye on her since they had parted ways sixty years ago.
Strolling into the crowded tavern, Gandalf gave himself a moment to get accustomed to the raucous sounds of drunken men and laughing women. Everyone was in high spirits, or drunk enough to not care if they did indeed have any problems. He ignored all of this in favour of looking for her familiar head of mahogany curls.
His smile softened when he spied her in the exact same corner she had occupied the last time, still staring absentmindedly out of the window that had collected moisture. She was gazing up at the night sky, watching as the grey clouds continued to blanket the bright stars. Her once cold amber eyes flickered back and forth between the still starry sky and the now cloud-covered areas. They had softened decades ago; now, they held a raw pain that she tried to hide behind a mask of indifference.
Gandalf watched her rosy lips turn up into a gentle but sad smile, her eyes becoming reminiscent. They had met on a night like this; though, he would not recall her face until much later. Not until they were being battered by rain and almost crushed by stone giants. It would become a friendship that would permanently influence her long after his death.
He made his way through the crowd, eager to speak to her after so long apart. He wanted to see how she was; their last encounter had been in mourning and, truth be told, he was surprised to see her alive. After everything she had been through in her long life, he had feared she may fade when she had gone off on her own.
"Mê g'ovannen, Gandalf," she said softly before he had even fully reached the table she was sitting at, "trevaded and?" Her eyes flickered between him and the chair across from her, a silent invitation for him to join her. She waited patiently for him to be seated before she spoke again. "Am man udúleg hí?" she questioned softly, giving him the soft smile, she had once only reserved for him.
When Gandalf did not reply or return her smile, she sat up straighten, placing her hand on his as their eyes met. "Trastad?" she questioned, her voice pleading for him to tell her it was nothing. Melveril had left that life behind sixty years ago. She had even stored away her blades. Sure, they were always close by, but she hadn't wielded them since the Battle of… since her last battle.
"I have found it," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "all these years, Bilbo had been the one to carry it."
At the mention of her old friend, a friend she hadn't seen nor spoken to in decades, Melveril tensed. She had walked away from him and the rest of her family the day she had left Erebor, running from the memories of her fallen friend. "What does Bilbo carry?" she questioned, her voice high with panic and fear as she studied the wizards face.
Gandalf looked around the room and leaned forward, Melveril mirroring his actions. "The One Ring," he whispered, his eyes searching her face for any recognition of what he spoke of.
The air around them dropped by several degrees at the mention of the Ring of Power. Melveril shivered as she looked from her friend to the window, the flicker of fear in her eyes the only sign she was frightened as her faced remained passive.
"Does Bilbo still possess it?" she asked, not daring to say its name in the crowded tavern where they could be easily overheard by the patrons. Her voice quivered at the thought of what all of this could mean for her darling Hobbit. He had been the first person since Gandalf to ever show her true kindness and she had grown fond of him; she had grown fond of all of them.
With a shake of her head, Melveril forced herself not to think of everything that could befall Bilbo and, instead, turned her gaze back to Gandalf.
He was watching her with a look of utter pity, well aware that Melveril had pulled into herself after the events of sixty years ago. He had been saddened to learn that she no longer wielded her twin blades; instead, she kept them saddled to her horse, Mirima. She had even stowed away her bow and arrows, all things she had never parted with since he had reacquainted himself with her.
With a heavy heart, he shook his head, knowing she would take it as a good sign and wishing he could tell her all was well. He was proved correct when he watched her shoulders sag with relief and she let out a breath she had been holding. It saddened him to have to destroy that relief but he had no other choice.
"No," he replied gently, watching her reactions closely as he continued, "his nephew, Frodo, now possesses it."
Her eyes became haunted. "It's still in the Shire?" she questioned frantically.
The panic he heard in her voice put him on edge almost as much as the haunted look in her eyes. Melveril was a lot of things but she was rarely one to panic. It had come from the decades she had spent alone in a darkened forest. She had had to become what was needed to survive; a huntress. A warrior.
He had barely nodded his confirmation when Melveril sprang from her chair, the piece of furniture falling to the ground with a sound that went unheard in the busy tavern. Her brunette curls whipped around her face as she turned and took off towards the door without a word.
"Melveril!" he called, trailing closely behind her, "where are you going?"
She pushed open the oak door and barely reacted to the frigid cold as she hurried across the deserted town square. "Something brought me to Bree, Gandalf," she told him as she moved into the stables, "something woke me from my slumber."
A weathered hand gently grasped her shoulder and Melveril turned to look at her oldest friend.
"What did you sense, child?" he questioned her cautiously.
Melveril's face piled, making her already snowy skin seem ashen in the dim light coming from the torches adorning the outside of the stables. "I don't know," she whispered, sounding like a child seeking their father's wisdom, "but whatever it was, it terrified me." Her admission concerned Gandalf but Melveril seemed unaware as she continued, "I believe something is seeking the Ring, Gandalf; and it will kill the halfling to get it. Please," she urged, "we must make haste."
Gandalf nodded his agreement, trusting the instincts that had kept Melveril alive all these long years as Melveril quickly pulled Mirima from her stall. Melveril looked over her shoulder at him, a weak smile curling her lips. "You can ride with me if you wish," she offered, "but we must hurry. I fear we might not have much time."
When both were mounted, Melveril urged Mirima into a gallop as she preyed they would reach the Shire in time. Melveril could not be late, not again.
As they rode, Melveril found her mind wondering into dangerous territory; the Halls of Erebor. She recalled the last argument she had with the King Under the Mountain, only days before everything went so horribly wrong.
"You will work them to their deaths if you do not allow them to rest!" Melveril exclaimed as she glared fiercely at Thorn. She had heard of the sickness that lay on the mountain when she and Bilbo had faced down with the dragon, Smaug. She had desperately wanted to believe that somehow, Thorin would be able to resist; but as she stared at the once honourable Dwarf, all she saw was lust. Lust for gold and jewels, lust for power. The kind of lust that could only come from Dragon Sickness and Melveril feared her friend was too far gone to be saved from its influence.
"The Arkenstone is in these halls and they will search until it is found," Thorin replied greedily as he studied another jewel, this one a brilliant emerald that shined brightly in the light of the fire.
"The Arkenstone?" she hissed in disbelief, "is that all you care for? What of your people? What of your family? Do they mean so little to you?"
Thorin's head snapped to her and his eyes held a hatred she hadn't seen in many months. She almost recoiled from the intensity of his glare, so different from the soft looks he had been giving her only days earlier.
"You presume much about me, Elf," Thorin hissed and Melveril cringed internally; so, they were back to Elf it would seem.
"It is not presumptuous if it is fact," she stated firmly, even as she felt her heart breaking. Her eyes softened, showing nothing but affection and concern, "Thorin, you are sick, can you not see that?" Melveril took a step towards him and cupped his face gently, "the stone is not as important as the health of you and your people."
For a split second, Melveril saw his blue eyes soften as he leaned into her touch, her thumb gently stroking his cheek. It was something his One would do to calm him and something she had taken to doing of late as well. Then, the soft look was gone and he was pushing her hands away as if she were infected with some incurable disease.
"That stone is more important than anything," Thorin stated in a rough voice, a voice filled with conviction and accusation. He moved forward, pinning her between the wall and himself as he continued, "it is the King's Jewel; and am I not the King?" he questioned. "Mark my words, Elf; if you have found it and are keeping it from me, I will make you wish you had perished in Mirkwood."
Melveril's face became carefully blank, 'isle a sheet of parchment; no emotions, no glares or smiles, nothing. Thorin was so close to her now that she could feel his chest pressed against her stomach. The closeness of their bodies made her instincts scream at her, telling her that she was a fool to allow herself to be backed into a corner.
Thorin must have noticed their close proximity because Melveril watched as he took a large step back; his nose scrunched up as if he had smelt something horrid. A cruel sneer marred his handsome features and Melveril had to tell herself it was the Sickness. The Sickness was making him act this way; like how he had acted towards her when they had first set out on this journey almost a year ago.
Lowering her head, Melveril placed her mouth near his ear; her warm breath ghosting over the cold flesh and through his long hair. She smiled viciously when she saw him visibly clinch before she whispered coldly into his ear, "if I had found that jewel, Thorin Oakenshield, I would sooner see it destroyed than give it to you."
Thorin recoiled as if she had threatened to kill one of his own family before his face settled into a look of pure rage.
Crack!
Thorin stared wide-eyes at the hand that had just struck her. Melveril felt the hot sting from the back of his hand connecting with her cheek, a small cut slowly bleeding from where the gaudy ring he worse had sliced into her skin. Melveril raised herself to her full height, towering over the shocked Dwarf. No words were spoken as Melveril turned on her heels and fled from the large room. She managed to keep the tears at bay until she had found a dark corner in the depths of Erebor.
Only then, when she was truly alone, did Melveril allow a tear to fall. A single, crystalline tear. She resisted letting the others free because she knew the times that were fast approaching required her to be focused; even if she wished more than anything to let her mind wander to the deepest reaches of space where she could no longer find it.
"Melveril!"
Melveril gasped and barely managed to steer Mirima away from the tree they were seconds from colliding with. Her breathing was heavy and her cheeks were damp from her tears. She hadn't realised she was crying and hastily wiped the tears away as got them back on track.
She had tried so hard these last few decades to forget; locking the memories in the back of her mind because they were simply to painful to look at.
"Goheno nin," she whispered to Gandalf, her voice breaking from the remnants of the memory.
"It was him wasn't it?" Gandalf sighed, his grip on her loosening now that she was back with him, "it was Thorin."
"Yes," she breathed, her heart clenching painfully at the thought of her lost friend, her brother in arms.
"Sevin dhâf?" he asked, motioning to the reins she held tightly, her knuckles white and her hands shaking.
She nodded wordlessly, handing the reins over to Gandalf before she leaned into his chest for the comfort he had always provided her since their first meeting. Melveril didn't have to act impenetrable in his presence; he had seen her at her most vulnerable and she trusted him wholeheartedly. Gandalf was her friends, her mentor, and her family; Melveril trusted him with her life.
They arrived in the Shire well past midnight. Gandalf offered his hand to Melveril, who took it with a grateful nod as he helped her from Mirima. They didn't speak further on the events of earlier; Gandalf knowing not to push her on such matters. She would come to him when she was ready as she always did.
"I'll find somewhere to tie Mirima off and meet you at Bag End," Melveril told him as she reclaimed the reins for her companion. They both knew the truth, however; she needed time to collect herself before facing people she had never met before. Sure, Frodo was a relative of Bilbo's, but she had not seen or spoken to Bilbo since she had turned her back of Erebor and her family.
Leading her faithful companion to a nearby field, she found the most comfortable area she could; a soft patch of green grass under a large tree, before she tied Mirima's reins to it.
"*Posto hí," she told her companion, gently stroking her dark muzzle. Mirima merely huffed as she pushed Melveril with her head, drawing a laugh from the Elf before she rushed off to the familiar Hobbit Hole.
When she arrived, it was to utter chaos. Furniture was overturned, contents of draws were scattered, and it looked like a goblins pit with everything cluttering the floor. 'Gandalf," she called, looking for the wizard, "Gandalf! We are meant to be looking for the Ring, not destroying Bilbo's home!"
"There is no time!" Gandalf yelled back to her from somewhere in the kitchen.
Melveril sighed before deciding she would search the library. She knew, whether he was here or not, that Bilbo would not take kindly to someone destroying his precious books. Smiling at the thought, Melveril made her way to the library.
She had been looking through the bookcase when she stumbled upon a drawing that had her heart clenching painfully. It was Fili, Kili, and Thorin. Melveril felt a tear fall as she traced the sketched image of Thorin; the only one she hadn't been able to save. The one she would give her life to bring back.
He looked just as she remembered; so regal and important, with an heir of pride and honour. He was a man that inspired great loyalty in all those he met and she had failed him; all because of her promise.
Thorin gazes into her eyes with a look that was half pleading, half ordering. He gripped her hands; his rough, callused fingers warm against her pale, soft skin as he spoke to her in rushed tones.
"Promise me you will protect my nephews," he pleaded, "promise me they will survive this. The line of Durin will survive through them."
Melveril shook her head, her curls bouncing around her as her eyes grew moist. "I won't leave you," she replied, "I can't."
His eyes softened. "I will be fine, Mel," he told her gently, "we will see each other once this fight is finished."
She stared into his bright blue eyes before nodding. "I promise," she said, her voice thick, "I'll do anything in my power to keep them both alive."
Thorin leaned forwards and placed a soft, love-filled kiss on her forehead before offering her a smile she had only seen him send her and his nephews. "I know you will," he told her confidently, "I will never forget what you have done for my people today, Mel."
She shook her head, "I didn't do it for them."
"I know," he smiled.
The looked of hope she had seen in his eyes when they had run from Erebor to re-join Dain in battle had made Melveril believe they had stood a chance of everyone surviving. She had never thought that she would lose him and the pain of his death was still there all those years later.
She placed the parchment down gently, shaking her head and wiping her eyes before she heard a sudden commotion coming from the kitchen. How long had she been standing there?
Melveril walked through the house and made her way into the kitchen quickly. She found Gandalf and two Hobbit standing in the small space. As she entered, all three pairs of eyes turned to look at her but Melveril only held Gandalf's gaze as she silently asked for answers.
"Melveril," he began, "this is Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee."
As Gandalf introduced each Hobbit, he gestured towards the one he was naming. Melveril saw his eyes roll as he gestured to the one named 'Samwise' and she could only imagine he was not meant to be present. He had probably even been lurking, Gandalf had the uncanny ability to tell when someone was doing that.
"It is an honour, Master Baggins, Master Gamgee," she said with a smile and a small bow of her head.
"Wait," Frodo started and Melveril could detect the not-so-subtle hints of excitement in his voice, "Melveril the half-Elf? The one Uncle Bilbo spoke of so often?"
"The very same," she answered before she smiled cheekily, "unless, of course, he met another on his travels," she jested.
Gandalf watched the proceedings carefully, marvelling at how much Melveril had changed. He remembered the Elf from sixty years ago; the one who wouldn't smile at anyone but him, let alone actually joke with a person she had only just met. He was proud of how far she had come but he knew it had not come without pain. Gandalf hated seeing her alone, he wanted her to find love and happiness.
Frodo and Sam began sending question after question at Melveril, who wondered if they could actually breath when their faces began to turn red in their rush. They only stopped when Gandalf finally shouted for their attention. "You can question her on your journey," he scolded them lightly, "Frodo, Sam; go pack."
When the two Hobbit's ran off, Melveril threw Gandalf a questioning glance, her eyebrow raised and her mouth pursed. What is he up to? she thought to herself.
"They need someone who can guide and protect them, Melveril," he began, "I trust very few more than I trust you."
She shook her head, "I'm not like others of my kind, Gandalf. What if I fall to the Ring? What if it tempts me and I harm the Halflings? I would never be able to forgive myself."
Gandalf approached the woman and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, squeezing when she didn't look to him; her eyes lingering intensely on her worn leather boots. "I do not believe you would," he began, "you are not like other Elves; yes, but you are not like the race of Man either. You are both and yet neither at the same time. You doubt your strength; have faith in yourself, child."
"I don't think I can," Melveril whispered despondently and Gandalf was reminded of the nervous child she had once been; long before she had lost her memories and before she had become the confident woman he had travelled with so often.
Melveril knew she would sooner kiss and Orc then harm an innocent person but the Ring had a way of changing people. It made the honourable, dishonest and corrupted even the purest of intentions. Had she been a full-blooded Elf she may have been able to resist it but her human blood made her weak and that weakness was something the Ring could exploit.
"Then I shall have faith for the both of us," Gandalf replied with a small, paternal smile. His smile widened when Melveril laughed lightly, the sound almost as carefree as he had wished for it to be. "I must go," he sighed, "I must seek the council of Saruman."
Melveril nodded, "take Mirima with you; she is dying to stretch her legs," she replied before she pulled her closest friend into a hug. "Please be safe, my friend," she whispered into his ear, "everything is changing and nothing is as it seems." Her arms tightened slightly as she gripped the wizard like a child would grip their father before he would go away to war. "Tolen di meriad," she told him softly.
Gandalf nodded before he turned to leave, Melveril watching him until he was nothing more than a dark figure in the light of the rising sun.
When she heard a light cough from behind her, Melveril looked down to see Frodo staring at her with both curiosity and fear. Kneeling to his height, Melveril sent him a comforting smile, "are you ready?"
As Frodo shook his head, Melveril felt her heart break for the young Halfling. He was so innocent and naïve of the troubles of the world; just like Bilbo had once been. If she did not fear that she would not fall to the Ring's temptation, she would take the journey on her own to spare him the hardships she had no doubt he would face. She wondered if, like herself, the Baggins' were destined to go on dangerous, life-threatening quests.
"Did Gandalf tell you where we are to journey to?" she asked him softly, her lips quirking at the corners as she watched him shuffle nervously.
"Bree," he replied in a small voice as his cheeks flushed.
She nodded, "then let us go and find Samwise."
Melveril waited for Frodo to give her a nod before she stood and they both made their way out of the small, but cosy home. They walked in comfortable silence as they passed house after house; Melveril studying each one closely as she passed to see what set it apart from the others. None of the other houses compared to Bag End; it was, in a word, beautiful. With its brightly painted green door and little cobble-stone path, Bag End made you feel welcomed and at home.
Sam was just exiting his home when they reached him and Melveril motioned for them to follow her as she continued to walk ahead. It was barely ten minutes of silence before Frodo was the first to speak. "Did you really punch a Mirkwood guard in the nose?" he questioned her; Melveril could hear the disbelief in his voice but beneath that was the slightest undertone of amusement.
She smiled at the memory.
The arrogant prince was sprouting off orders and Melveril watched the guard before her steadily. He smirked as the prince ordered for them to be searched for weapons and practically sauntered towards her.
She looked around and watched as the Dwarves were searched. She couldn't believe they had been ambushed. Thorin's blue eyes met her russet ones and she smirked when she saw him roll his eyes as an Elf guard removed the dagger he kept inside his coat. His eyes narrowed in her direction just before Melveril felt a foreign hand touching her waist.
Melveril reeled her arm back, curling her hand into a fish before she sent it into the guard's nose. She felt it crack beneath her fist before he stumbled back with a small cry, of pain or surprise she didn't know or care, before she was being forced to her knees by two other guards.
She heard the protests of her companions from somewhere to her left before a sword was placed under her chin and she let loose a feral growl of her own; the sound causing some of the Elves to step back cautiously.
When Melveril looked up at the wielder of the sword, she had the strangest sense of déjà vu as she looked into icy blue eyes. She saw something flicker behind the icy façade before it disappeared.
"Are you aware of the punishment for striking a guardsman of Mirkwood?" he asked in a flat tone.
When her silence continued, the sword was pressed a little closer. Melveril felt a small trickle of blood fall down the soft curve of her neck from the small nick inflicted by the sharp blade.
"*Law i thraston," she replied in Elvis, her eyes narrowing at the guard in question. "His hands should not have wondered. If I am to be searched, let it be done by the she-elf," she continued in Westron for the sake of her Dwarven companions.
She saw the prince's lips twitch as if he found amusement in what she had said, before he removed his sword from her throat and nodded to the she-elf behind him. "Search her," he ordered the she-elf who nodded once before she approached Melveril.
Melveril remained silent and still as she was searched and her weapons were removed; she had said all she was willing to at that moment. When the she-elf was finished, she gently grasped Melveril's arm and looked to the prince for more orders.
"Our King will decide your fate," he told her in an almost apologetic voice that had her eyebrows furrowing before they were being led through the forest.
"That I did," she replied with a light laugh.
She watched as Sam and Frodo seemed to fight their own laughter; she suspected, out of respect for her race.
Sam was the next to as a question, apparently Bilbo had spoken often of their journey to Erebor. "It is true you are related to the Lord of Rivendell?" he questioned eagerly.
"It is," she sighed, "though, I don't think I will ever truly get used to that. Lord Elrond is a noble man and anyone would be lucky to call him family."
"But?" Frodo urged.
"But I never thought of myself as an Elf who would be a 'art of such an important and well-known Elvish family."
"Why do you say that?" Frodo questioned further, curious as to what she could possibly mean.
Melveril thought carefully for a moment, choosing her words wisely, before she spoke gently, "when I woke up after Smaug had taken Erebor, I couldn't remember anything. All I knew was that I spoke a language that no one around me could understand a d my ears were pointed. A few other signs pointed to the fact I was of Elvish decent so it was a truth I accepted."
She looked down to see that had the full attention of both of her charges. "Well, anyway. O spent a hundred years alone in a forest and by the time Gandalf found me, I was more animal than human. I tried to kill him; you know?" she said casually, hiding her laugh as the two Hobbit's eyes widened.
"I had figured he would be easy prey; I had smelt the food he carried and I had been hungry for days. I was very talented when it came to combat; muscle-memory, I'm assuming. He proved to be more powerful then he looked and he easily overpowered me.
"I thought I was going die," she breathed, "I honestly believed he was going to kill me and like a frightened animal, I growled and prepared to flee."
Melveril's eyes gazed off into the distance, trapped in past memories before she continued, "but his eyes softened and he released me. He even gave me some of his food and water. Gandalf became my first real friend," she smiled, "he taught me Westron so that I could better communicate with others. Not that I did so unless absolutely necessary.
"Even though Gandalf managed to see the humanity in me; I had spent a century living like an animal to survive. Learning that you come from some royal family when you've spent so long the way I did; you begin to doubt your worth."
Melveril was gazing at her fingers when she finished, watching as they furled and unfurled slowly. "Lord Elrond told me I would always be welcomed amongst them," she informed the Hobbit's, "but it terrified me and I had never been more thankful than I was when… when Thorin demanded that we leave Rivendell."
Frodo and Sam didn't miss the way her voice hitched at the mention of the King Under the Mountain but both Hobbit's decided not to acknowledge what seemed to be a painful memory.
Wanting to gets back onto lighter topics, Frodo was next to ask a question. "Did you really throw your boot at Smaug's head?" he asked, "Uncle Bilbo said you hit him right in the eye."
Her laugh filled them with warmth as she told them about facing off with the 'great and terrible, Smaug'. It was different hearing it from her somehow; when Bilbo told them story, it was from a Hobbit's point of view. To get and Elf's view was somehow more unbelievable; like at any moment, Melveril would look down at them with a smirk and tell them she was joking.
It went like that for most of the morning. Frodo and Sam would ask questions and Melveril would answer them; occasionally getting lost in past memories she had tried to repress over the decades. Each memory seemed to warm her though; because she knew that it had all led to her having a family that she cherished above all.
When Sam asked Melveril about the Battle of Five Armies, they watched as her smile dropped and her features became pained before her who face went blank. She didn't answer their question, merely urged them to continue walking as she increased her own pace.
Frodo thought she looked like someone who was trying to run from painful memories that had been locked away tightly within the deepest recesses of her mind.
It wouldn't even be ten minutes later that their trio would become a quintet. Not even ten minutes would pass before a cheerful day turned into he beginning of the toughest journey they would ever face.
Mê g'ovannen, Gandalf – Well met, Gandalf.
Trevaded and? – Long Journey?
Am man udúleg hí? – Why are you here?
Trastad? – Is there trouble?
Goheno nin – Forgive me.
Sevin dhâf? – May I?
*Posto hí – Rest here.
Tolen di meriad – I will protect them.
*Law i thraston – I don't care
All translations are from realelvish dot net