Summary: A young woman from our world navigates through the tale that is Middle-earth, unsuspecting that her presence—like an accidental blot on the page—is demanding the course of its history to be rewritten. Mostly AU.
Disclaimer: I do not own any material pertaining to The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit.
Warnings: I will admit three things, here and now, to spare you the effort of flaming and confusion;
1) This fanfic is intended to diverge greatly from canon at a certain point, thus making it alternative plotline if not alternative universe. You will also likely see me switching between the movie and book in the use of timeline/events/character roles as well. My intention is not to butcher J.R.R. Tolkien's work, but to give you fanfic readers something slightly different to read about.
2) I am not wise in the lore and history of the LotR universe (never read the books) but...just...not completely clueless. That being said, I am also not a writer who likes to explain how things were implicated in my fanfic. So, if you know, you know. If you don't know, just accept it as it is—most likely it was meant to be a mystery for the main character anyway. If you think I'm dreadfully wrong, then tell me. If you want to warn or inform me further, tell me. I will not disrespect those who are more devoted and more knowledgeable than myself.
3) When I write fanfics for other people's works, I feel especially inclined to try to love all their characters. This may result in canon side characters seemingly warm up to the main character quicker than would be realistic. Again, it is not my intention to butcher their characterization: I do because it gives me more freedom to explore given the restraints of a fanfic.
I apologize if any of the above offends you in my writing, however it is the way I choose to write and I ask your patience.
Myjusta, Witch Maiden
Chapter 1 - "Fool for a Day"
"My," she breathed softly, "would you look at this."
Trembling fingers lightly traced the surface of the wall mural.
The angelic Elven warrior remained unfazed by her touch, his entire focus trained upon his demonic foe.
Elven artists truly must be without peer. She even had to feel the flat surface to confirm that the images were indeed still and lifeless, on contrary to how they appear. Suppose if one had an eternity to devote to one craft, results like these could only be expected.
She was rather envious.
Upon noticing the sword on display next to her, she was, well, explicably drawn to it. It couldn't be helped that she would not get the chance to see many in her lifetime.
An Elven sword, perhaps? There were intricate gold patterns damascened onto the blade. Maybe...maybe no one would be offended if she held it for just a bit?
Her hesitation was only momentary.
Hand gingerly wrapped around the cool hilt. She squeezed one eye shut, half expecting to be struck by a punitive bolt of lightning.
..But, of course, nothing of the sort humoured her.
She let out her breath.
"Light," she murmured. It was light: This sword she held in her hands. Nearly, if not as light as the long knife Boromir insisted to be her weapon of choice.
The young woman raised the sword upright, and then noticed with sudden clarity that the Elven hero in the mural before her wielded this very same sword that was in her grasp. Who was he? An Elven king of old? A warrior of some renown? A noteworthy figure, for sure, if he had a memorial for himself.
All she knew was that it probably wouldn't be respectful of her to be waving around his possession any more than she had. Inconspicuously—as inconspicuously as she could—she replaced the sword with bated breath.
There. Nobody saw that.
With that thought she twirled around and her gaze met up with a pair of light grey eyes.
She could've screamed if it weren't for the feeling that her heart had just lurched up and lodged itself in her throat.
"I-" out came her choked response "-With Boromir. I wait here. Um." Her frenzied hand gestures seemed ridiculous even to her, but she couldn't help it. Had he understood? Had she made herself more suspicious?
Those grey eyes sparkled, and a rich deep laugh poured from his very being.
At the sound her heart did another furious lurch inside her chest, though for a very different reason.
If she had the fortune of hearing laughter so enchanting and sublime for the remainder of her life, she was certain to never feel the cruel bite of cold again.
"There is no cause for fret, my lady," the gorgeous Elven male spoke, and his voice was like music; his accent, magic. "Well acquainted am I with the language of Westron."
She was an idiot.
Then, robbing her of the time to mentally berate herself, the Elf bent gracefully in a bow; his glorious tresses of pure gold flowing over his white robe.
"I am Glorfindel, at your service," the angelic being introduced himself as.
"Glor...findel." She tasted the pronunciation on her tongue. Somehow it didn't sound the same when she said it.
His light grey eyes—eyes that sparkled with so much joy she couldn't help but liken them to diamonds—they peered up patiently, and she arrived at the realization that there was a certain response he was expecting.
"Ah!" How could she have missed something so obvious? "You...You are the one in this painting," she remarked in awe. Just for courtesy's sake she threw in a little extra reverence to go with that statement.
The arch on his refined brows twitched almost imperceptibly, and a corner of his lips tugged up.
"Your keen perception is to be commended, my lady." Though his body language belied anything but serenity, his youthful eyes were chuckling. "Have I not the honour of also learning your name?"
Instantly she realized that—far from expecting her to recognize him—he had been waiting for her to give her name. Her cheeks burned with the misunderstanding.
She really was an incorrigible idiot.
"My-Myjusta." It was brief and simple: Her response. What was the use of trying to appear graceful any longer? "My name."
"An unique name, I daresay it is like no other." The Elven male extended a hand with what might've been a mischievous smile.
An unique name. She would've thought so, herself. The young woman took his hand with an ironic smile in return.
'The title 'Witch Maiden' suits you not? Then are you wonted to some fouler form of address for your name?'
'My-...just a minute!' she had been about to demand, except her voice had choked up her in her indignity, and her broken response had been taken quite literally.
'Myjusta', she was now known as. How stupid. How ironic.
He had taken her hand into his warm grasp, and raised it to his lips. While she had expected him to brush his lips against her knuckles as was the knightly way of greeting a lady in this world, she hadn't expected him to upturn her hand to lay one at the base of her palm.
She wrenched her hand back with violent force, heart screaming inside her ears. What was that! That had been too close, too exceedingly close, she thought desperately. Her hand encircled the bandage on her right wrist protectively, and a shudder shook through her. It was almost as if he had known about it.
"Was there a reason you sought me, Lord Elf?" she asked in a low voice robbed of strength. Painfully was she aware that she was rude with her accusation and her actions just now. She simply didn't have the heart to make amends.
If he had felt any bit of offense at her reaction, it did not reveal itself on his fair features. He informed her courteously, "Lord Elrond bids you to see him, now."
"Right." Though, looking past him down the bright, cloistered hallways, she didn't know where she was supposed to be going.
Aware of her dilemma, the tall and golden-haired Elf extended a kind arm in offering whereas others may have been afraid, or indignant, after such a rejection. Truly a gentleman among gentlemen. Or was that gentleelf?
She accepted it wordlessly.
"This is where we part, my lady." All too soon, they have arrived before a very formal, very solemn set of double doors. "Lord Elrond awaits."
Could it be said that she was experiencing a dread akin to waiting trial?
She turned to glance up at him for the first time since they have embarked on that wordless yet strangely comforting walk.
"Thank you," she said in whisper. He nodded in acknowledgement, magnificent golden hair rustling. And to her surprise he once again took her right hand into his and pulled it towards him.
Hadn't he learned from the first incident? She thought that with dread.
But, the Elven male did not attempt. His flawless fingers cradled against hers, briefly pausing on the metal bands she wore on each finger.
"Fear not, my lady: you are in good hands."
The way his grey eyes sparkled warmly down at her, she almost believed it.
"Until I have the pleasure to meet again," he said, releasing her hand. He bowed with the elegant dignity borne by kings. "And I should hope that one day you will honour me with the divulgement of your true name."
It was a knowing smile that shaped his lips before he left her.
Honestly, these Elves were...
What was the point of sending someone like him to fetch her anyway? She shook her head and faced the doors. She sincerely doubted she would meet someone of his caliber a second time.
Her knuckles barely made sound against the tough wood. She frowned to herself and was about to reattempt, but a voice from within commanded, "Enter."
Alright. No use postponing the inevitable. Even if she was about to meet the one who would decide her fate.
In this world or other.
The doors pulled open to reveal a brightly lit room. Soft white curtains flowed vibrantly in the breeze coming from the large arched windows. She instantly spotted the tall form of Boromir by one of them, gazing out with his hands held behind his back.
"This is the one you spoke of, Boromir of Gondor?" At the mention of his name, the Gondorian captain glanced back over his shoulder at her. A curt nod.
"Come here, Child."
She obeyed. Why, she couldn't even have thought of doing otherwise.
What a commanding presence this man—no, Elf—embodied. His robes hung rich and regal off his powerful frame, and the silver diadem encircling his head marked his lordship over the Elves. On his extended hand was compassion; and deep wisdom on his brow.
She wouldn't have doubted that his was a presence even his worst of enemies would have respected.
He took her hand into both his own. At once something in his stern but serene expression changed.
"Recount to me once more," the dark-haired Elven lord requested with a brief glance at Boromir, "how she came into your companionship."
The Elven lord's intense gaze came back to her, but she herself looked to Boromir feeling a bit uncomfortable with the attention.
The Gondorian man took a swig from the chalice in his hand, wiping his chin with his sleeve before
answering, "Dungeons of Osgiliath."
He set the chalice back down on the small table next to him. A glass wine jar that was half-empty stood upon it. So he'd been drinking.
"Inside its sturdy walls was the last stand made by the Orcs, after our forces captured the gates. They were trying to escape, and she one of them: in their pathetic state of defeat they called to her in desperation, 'save us, Witch Maiden!'"
"Witch Maiden?" the Elven lord said with a sharpness to his tone that startled her.
Her heart sped.
"That-..."
Realizing that her tongue had slipped in protest, and that now she held the attention of Elf and man alike, she tried explaining for the umpteenth time, "I already told you: that was just a ruse..."
Already her defense sounded weak. She couldn't help if she were sounding dejected. She had never gotten him to believe her.
"I saw by my own eyes an Orc gave his life for yours!" Boromir retorted sharply, unusually on edge. Why? Haven't the two of them, by the end of their long trek to Rivendell, developed a sort of comfortable companionship?
No...Just because he had chosen not to bring the subject up...didn't mean that he had gotten to trust her.
"Go ahead and scoff at my mortal naivety in believing a human witch," Boromir boomed, flinging an arm in emphasis. "But confirm it for your own eyes! Lest I have traveled all this way for the security of both our peoples be for naught!"
To her surprise, the Elven lord, Elrond, answered with prompt confidence, "There is not the slightest clue to suggest this woman is a magician of any form. She is not a 'witch'."
It was as if her head went blank, not daring to believe.
Movement from Boromir caught her eyes. He was kneading his brow with one large hand, shielding his eyes as would a man in torment. "Then I have done you wrong," she heard him say brokenly. Blinking, she wondered if it would be too much to hope that his admission was directed at her?
"He is rightly cautious," Lord Elrond conceded with a pointed look at the tall—and in this case had been rather intimidating to her—Gondorian captain. "Although one's lack of propriety, not justly so." His stern but kind gaze returned to her. "If what you say is true, how came you to be left unscathed, Child? The Orckind are not known for their compassion, even to those of their own."
...
...It was finally here. The question she had been dreading.
They have a right to hear it from her, she acknowledged with a swallow. Might as well get it over with, now, once and for all...
"My Child?" Lord Elrond prompted gently, soothingly. It wouldn't surprise her if he had felt her anxious heartbeat from her hand which still laid covered in his.
She looked up into his empathic eyes and parted her lips to speak.
...
"...I am sorry..." With that, her gaze drooped despairingly. "I thought-...I thought I would be ready to speak-..." Her expression contorted to one of pain. "And-...I'm-I'm even an adult and yet-" Her hands flew to her forehead and whatever she meant to say was lost in her state of shame and self-resentment.
Before any words could be offered, before she had to see the expressions on their faces, she pleaded, "Please. Please send me home. Back to my world."
"Your world?" Lord Elrond asked, as she knew he was going to ask. "I am afraid I will require some explanation."
"Her world," repeated Boromir. "She spoke of one different from the likes of middle earth and the mystical places of Arda."
His interruption was appreciated by her. She was sure that if she had to answer Lord Elrond's question at that moment, she wouldn't have been able to contain her grief.
A contemplative pause.
"And what do you make of this, Boromir of Gondor?" the Elven lord inquired for his opinion.
She tensed.
"The woman speaks true."
Astonished, the young woman lifted away her hands to stare.
Pointedly ignoring her stare, the Gondorian captain elaborated, "Many a time in our travels had she spoken or asked about places or things in Arda, and yet her pronunciation of those nouns are off while the rest of her speech is flawless. Like she has read but never heard them spoken." A brief glance flickered her way, and quickly retracted.
Was...was that the case? Her cheeks heated up in embarrassment.
"And from this you have deduced the truth?" Lord Elrond pressured, seemingly someone not easily impressed.
"No!" Boromir was quick to deny. "There were signs, many more!" Again a hand went to his brow as a frown troubled him. "I was just a fool, adamant in suspecting she might pose threat to my people that I dismissed them all!'
"Lord Boromir..." she whispered. There was a lump in her throat, as she was touched by his sincere admittance.
Finally, maybe finally...she may have an ally?
"That may be it..." Lord Elrond acquiesced to say. His eyes shut for a moment in deep meditation. "This is beyond my knowledge alone. Boromir," the Elven lord advised him, "You have traveled far and thus are wearied from the journey. We shall speak on the morrow, and then will all your questions be answered."
The Gondorian captain recognized a dismissal if he heard one. There was only a brief hesitation before he replied, "Very well, then. For your hospitality toward an uninvited guest, you have my sincerest gratitude." He bowed his head to the Elf. For a moment the tall man glanced at her indecisively, then made his way wordlessly out of Lord Elrond's study.
The heavy doors clicked shut.
Suddenly, she felt very ominous.
"There were words," Lord Elrond said, "that I have withheld simply now; words perhaps best not meant for his ears."
With a gesture of extended arm and velvet sleeve, the Elven lord told her, "Have a seat, young one. It would be best if you did."
...Already she could tell this wasn't going to go well.
Shakily, the young woman lowered herself into the armchair he indicated to.
Looking up, she discovered the regal Elven lord facing his desk, his back to her and arms clasped behind him. From her view, with the light from the windows silhouetting his intensely dark hair and powerful black frame...it was like she was looking at a dark angel. An angel of judgment.
"What the man from Gondor said," Lord Elrond sought from her, "Is it all true?" His stern gaze found her. "No misconception, none more to add?"
Her gaze averted, her breathing became shallow.
It hadn't been a question, despite his firm voice. It had been a demand.
"Three weeks hence have scouts on our borders reported repeated Orc sightings. At times it could be overheard from those capable of speech," He had half turned to face her, now, a quizzical arch on one of his elegant dark eyebrows, "Find her, the woman witch. Find her" with emphasis "the one can see the to-come."
If it were at all possible, she would've shrunken in her chair.
"...I-..."
Two knocks sounded upon the door, before they creaked open without awaiting response.
"Impeccable timing, Mithrandir," Lord Elrond greeted the newcomer. "For there is much I have to seek your counsel on." He then added, "And Frodo?"
"Reuniting with family and friends," a chuckling voice answered him. It was a sound laden with a wealth of knowledge and empathy. A sound that compelled her to turn her head and acknowledge its owner.
Grey robes and long beard sauntered into view. Ah! A staff, as well. Was he-...?
"And who is this little one?" A pair of pale green eyes crinkled down at her.
"If I am to understand," Lord Elrond answered in her stead, given her awed silence, "a traveler from a different dimension with insight to our own."
Immediately Gandalf's—for she was certain he was Gandalf—expression changed as if he'd just been told that the Ents dropped an acorn and she had sprung from it. He looked her up and down, stole a fugitive glance at Elrond, and back to her again. But the only thing he said was a powerless, "Owh."
Her gaze dropped down to her lap, and she was silent under his scrutiny.
"This is the one they seek, bearing the black banner of Saruman," Lord Elrond informed him. She gripped the armrests tremblingly.
"Ah, yes..." Leaning both hands on his staff, Gandalf sounded well-informed about the Orcs that plague the forests of Imladris. "The 'Witch Maiden'."
The young woman looked up.
"...It is an old tale," the grey robed wizard started, pacing slowly to one side. "The Orcs invented it. The Orcs believe it," Gandalf said. She didn't know when he had lit his pipe, but now he drew on it. "That a 'Witch Maiden' would appear...and usher them into a new age of power and advancement."
"Gandalf," Lord Elrond's voice rung out with sharp authority.
"She deserves to know, Elrond," Gandalf answered with a leveled look, and some quiet authority of his own. "Be it for good or ill."
She...didn't like how that sounded.
A long breath of smoke puffed out, and his pale blue eyes burned into her. "And for whatever reason that is...those Orcs seem to believe it's you."
"But I'm not-" her protest burst forth, with dread twisting her insides "I am not a witch...!"
"Nay," Gandalf the Grey said in agreement, "that you are not. But," he pressed the question, "How much..." sagely eyebrows raising "...How much do you know?"
Judging by the look of serious concentration on his face, she didn't dare doubt she knew what he had meant by that.
"...A little..." the young woman replied hesitantly. She knew little, from what she remembered of the movies watched and the fanfics read long ago. "...And perhaps too much..."
With that admission finally out, she sunk back into her seat; exhausted and lonely.
"Who else?" he asked, no, demanded, "Who else have you spoken this to? It is dangerous knowledge indeed."
"No one..." she said weakly. "There is no one..."
Gandalf turned away with a sigh of relief, and tension eased somewhat between the occupants of the room.
"Can-...Do you know a way to send me home," brief pause, "Gandalf?"
The wistful blue eyes of the wizard looked back at her, and there was a sigh of a different nature.
"...I am afraid that would be difficult, my child."
He must have recognized the despair in her face, and with ages of experience dealing with troubled souls as herself, he came to comfort. "Do not lose hope, daughter of man: Whatever was made can be unmade; whatever path led you here can be retraced." Despite his encouraging words, his eyes wore a deep regret, and knowing. "I'm just afraid until a time indefinite, there are more pressing matters on hand..."
She shut her eyes.
The destruction of the Ring. And war.
She knew she shouldn't be any more selfish than this, but she couldn't help but feel crushed by the comprehension. The understanding that they may not have the effort to spare for her sake anytime soon.
"Fear not, little one," Gandalf offered the only reassurance he could for the time being, "You are safe here in Imladris."
"And I will see to it that your stay be a pleasant one, however long it turns out," the Elven lord, Elrond, chipped in smoothly. "Come, now. You must also be wearied from your journey. I will have someone see that your needs are met, starting with proper attire."
She felt more than a little embarrassed, wondering if her current attire offended their senses. It was actually one of Boromir's warm cotton shirts, though she used it as a tunic with rolled up sleeves.
The young woman rose with a heavy heart, and nodded once in mute obedience.
...She, too, knew a dismissal when she heard one...
Gandalf the Grey paced before the windows, silent agitation in his steps.
"The enemy is moving, Gandalf. Saruman's forces are encroaching upon our eastern borders. And the Great Eye is fixed on Rivendell."
The lord of High Elves would give no quarter in his reasoning.
"What has happened to you, my old friend?" Gandalf paused to look outside at the courtyard, questioning weary sadness. "Were you ever one to abandon a child to potentially face the same torment she suffered?"
"My people are leaving these shores," Elrond retorted sharply; sharper, for he had touched upon a topic hurtful. "The time of the Elves is over—We have not the strength to fend off both Saruman and Mordor!"
"And who will you look to once we're gone?" the Elven lord maintained his argument. "The Dwarves, hiding deep in their mountains, furthest from the reaches of Mordor? They will care nothing for the trouble for others until the Black Army is at their own gates, and by then, Mithrandir," articulating the next words forebodingly, "it will be far too late."
Silence resonated inside Elrond's study, as the Elven lord let his statement sink in.
Slowly, the Grey Wizard turned back with a solemn suggestion. "The daughter of man..." Gandalf said "...send her...with Glorfindel—the twins; an able protector, and leave her safe with good men of Eriador, where she will be harder to find among the rest of her kin."
"Men?" An abrupt counterargument. "Men are weak," stated Elrond. "Sooner would they betray ally and kin for their own gain. Men are not prepared to harbour a 'witch'. Men will not want to harbour a witch!" He spun away.
Calming just a bit, the Elven lord folded his arms behind his back. A soundless sigh.
"...Understand this, Mithrandir, my friend: Had you requested this three weeks hence, I would have given much consideration. Alas," Elrond admitted with a wistful glance, "deny if you would, but you have surely felt it as well."
"Our world is changing. To which cause and effect I know not." His grey eyes tired and burdened by the acknowledgement. "I have no one to spare, for the sake of my people in these evermore uncertain times. All I know now is only this."
The Grey Wizard, Gandalf, hung his head and nodded resignedly, already knowing what was about to come out of the Elven lord's mouth.
"The Ring cannot stay here," Elrond said with finality. "And neither can she."
The Elven female drew out article after article from the basket, appraising them against her shoulders before either tossing them on the bed or on the chair at her side.
She couldn't help but notice that they were, as expected, long Elven dresses capable of tripping her over with every step.
"Erm..." The wo-no, the Elven female looked at her in question. She assumed the Elf was young for her race, for she was bright of face and light of step. Really, there was no way to tell.
"Does there happen to be...pants?"
She had found that even though the Elf didn't speak her tongue, she seemed to be able to understand it. Although at the moment only a questioning look graced her lovely face.
"Er...trousers? Breeches? Um. Leggings?" she winced upon saying the last one.
"Ah." The Elven female replied quickly and fluently in Elvish, making several gestures with her slender white hands. And smiled.
...Alright. She was going to assume that she'd just be told she'll get to wear them in the future, and not that they were exclusive to men-er-to males.
The Elven female had chosen a simple white dress of lovely material, and she thrust it against the young woman. Insistently. She made gestures to the human's hair, and to the dress.
"...T-Thanks?" Maybe she was trying to tell her that it matched her hair. And not that her hair was in desperate need of care after her travels.
She wasn't exactly a positive thinker.
In fact, it had been nothing short of a miracle that she hadn't broken down during her encounter with Gandalf and Elrond. She and her desperate cling to humanly pride.
Nodding as though all was well and good, the Elven female gave her a pearly smile and retrieved the dresses on the chair. She said something in Elvish, and presumably left so that she could be left alone to refresh herself.
Alone at last, she fell backwards, deflated, onto the bed.
What was she to do, now...?
Evening had descended by the time she stepped out of the room allocated to her.
It was the sound of music that had roused her from her nap: There were many, and seemed to have come from many places inside the house of Elrond. It was like the entire place had come alive with music and song.
Somewhere close by, she thought she recognized the mythical notes of a harp being played.
Did Elves mind if they have an audience? She wondered, initiating an inner debate with herself.
Finally, her curiosity over seeing an Elven harp got the better of her, and she was drawn to the paths of the inner garden from whence the melody came.
The garden was simply magical in the twilight. Tiny wisps of light floated from the greenery in dancing, upward movements.
The harp player was seated on a stone bench with his back to her—assuming he was a male since he wore a robe and not a dress—his long fingers gliding gracefully over the harp strings. A song seemingly endless; alien to her but not at all unpleasant.
She watched, entranced and breathless, afraid that the smallest sound she could make would break the scene of serene perfection before her.
But, she only allowed herself a moment. Knowing that it was probably rude to disrupt, she turned quietly and was thankful that Elven fabric didn't seem to catch onto any branches.
The playing stopped.
Ah... Uncertain as to why, but certain that she was somehow the cause of it, the young woman glanced back delicately.
He stood and placed the harp onto the bench, then turned around to face her.
His white and gold-woven robes seemed somewhat familiar. As well as those laughing eyes.
"Ah..." she recognized. "You're-..."
Glorindel? No, that wasn't quite right. Gorewindel? "-you're-..."
She forgot his name.
"-beautiful."
Instantly one hand flew to her lips in horror. Of all the things she could've said to cover up the situation, how had it ended up being that?
"S-Sorry, I-..." Cheeks burning, she tentatively glanced up at his eyes, fearing his reaction.
If he had felt any reaction to show at her words, it only came forth as a humourous chuckle.
"What is there to be forgiven..." The tall Elven male's eyes sparkled as he stepped toward her. "Unless..." she detected a slight arch in his eyebrows "...You were being untruthful?"
She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. She had to be blushing furiously if even her jaw was aching from it.
How could that have been an untruth? Look at him: A solid build, and strong princely features; Bright red lips that hinted his vigor, and hair of spun gold. Easily the best looking man—...male she had ever had to chance to lay eyes upon.
But of course she couldn't tell him that.
Fortunately, he spared her from having to respond when he chivalrously offered her his arm.
The young woman stared at it, uncomprehending.
"...Has Lord Elrond...summoned for me?" she asked very carefully, already dreading.
Gentle laugh. "I offer you my guidance, my lady..." his voice really was like music itself: Intricate and divine "Seeing you have lost your way once more." Hypnotic, even.
She had already trustingly accepted his arm, then did a double take. "Where are you taking me...?"
He led her leisurely, and answered her much in the same manner, "Lord Elrond had a feast prepared in the Hall of Fire...in honour of a brave young hobbit's return to health."
And...what did that have to do with her? She puzzled. Earlier, she had been informed that if she wished it, food will be brought to her room.
Although...if she followed him...there would be a good chance that his name would pop up eventually.
Because, well, she felt just a tad guilty.
As soon as they arrived in the hall, his appearance was noticed by his kindred.
He was greeted by many in Elvish, who proceeded to make their way to him.
Though she couldn't understand a thing they said, she did catch onto the fact that he was well respected and loved by his kin.
'Glorfindel'. She would make an effort to remember that correctly this time.
As the Elven male lightly started to make way to the others, as well, she gingerly retrieved her arm from his care. She didn't exactly want to be part of the attention.
A questioning gaze assessed her, but all she did was to point at the dining table, and he let her go with a gentle nod.
...Good heavens, this was difficult...
It appeared by that time of evening many have already finished their meal, and were partaking in the merriments around her. She had no trouble finding an open seat—for there were many—in a spot she decided was adequately far from the head of the table to be safe.
Avoiding any curious gazes that would've been cast her way, the young woman helped herself to large servings of whatever she could reach, and whatever the serving ladies brought her way. It had been a while since she had warm and hearty food, so she decided she was to eat as much as she possibly could tonight.
The Dwarves were seated by themselves in another section of the hall, mainly avoided by the Elves; at a plain wooden table and benches fashioned to accommodate their shorter statures. She noticed them for they were loud, currently engaged in a drinking game that churned out uproarious laughter and the occasional belching. Two curious curly-haired hobbits, she noted, were watching from stools at the outskirts of the fray, drinks in hand and cheering for their favourite contesters.
She looked around the hall, wondering if she would be able to recognize other members of the Fellowship.
Boromir wasn't there. So used to his presence by now, she could tell from first glance whether or not the strong Gondorian was present in a room. She felt slightly disheartened to know that the only person she was familiar with wasn't close by.
Glorfindel was still preoccupied by others, surrounded by men and Elves alike.
Gandalf was conversing agitatedly with a Dwarf, while a white-bearded man only listened, the end of his staff hitting on the floor.
Lord Elrond caught her looking at him from across the hall, and slightly raised his chalice to her with an incline of his head.
She looked at the red liquid inside her chalice, and returned his gesture in kind.
Very nearly did she choke on it. 'This stuff is strong.'
The young woman ate slowly, watching as more and more joined in the lively dancing in the center of the hall now that more were arriving. The two hobbits from before pulled each other into the spotlight, causing many an Elven maiden to laugh, as an Elf would nearly have to double over to partner with a hobbit.
And yet they do so with remarkable grace, the young woman thought in awe.
The dancing hobbits beckoned frantically to one side of the hall, to the row of empty seats where one lonely black-curled hobbit sat.
Frodo.
A young hobbit who, as he watched his friends make merry without the slightest care in the world, answered their invitation with a slow shake of his head and a wistful smile.
...She glanced back down at her plate.
...
"Would you mind if I sit here?"
His clear blue eyes glanced up briefly, before giving a small shake of his head and averting her eyes.
"...It's the first time I've seen hobbits before," the young woman said. To which there was no reply.
Then again, she just realized that if she 'hadn't ever seen hobbits' before, how would she have known that was what they were called? She had just made herself sound like a rude human who had just asked about them and had came over to observe them like they were freaks of nature.
She sucked in a breath. "How are you feeling?" she tried to amend.
The sinews in his neck moved as though swallowing, and with some audible reluctance he replied, "Better."
Silence ensued.
What was she doing? Why had she decided to come over here? Surely it wasn't to make him feel even more awkward and out of place.
Wringing her hands nervously, she wondered if there was anything she could do to fix the mess she made. Asking him to dance was out of the question. She couldn't dance, and he most very likely will reject her anyway.
Maybe she should just leave.
"You like rings?"
The question, so casual and innocent, almost had her jumping out of her skin.
"P-Pardon?" she croaked.
His clear blue eyes peered down pointedly at her hands, then up at her.
"...Ah...you mean these?" She held up her hands to give him a full view of her fingers—a plain metal band around each of them except for the thumbs.
What a relief that was what he had meant.
"Boromir's waist is thick as a trunk, you see," the young woman launched into exposition, arms encircling the air demonstratively before her.
Before she realized he didn't seem to know who or what 'Boromir' was.
"Er...Boromir is the man who brought me here. On horseback," she restarted at the beginning. "I didn't know how to ride, you see." Comprehension dawned slowly in his large blue eyes, and she was encouraged to continue.
"He size is quite large, and my arms would get tired easily clinging onto him," she explained with a small smile. "He had noticed this, and had made a stop at a nearby village to get a blacksmith to fashion these bands for me."
Lacing her fingers together, she demonstrated their binding effect. "See this? This way my fingers don't slip apart without meaning to, and I could relax easy. Quite ingenious of him, I'd say."
Frodo unexpectedly returned her smile with an appreciative one of his own. "You're right. I wouldn't have thought of something like that."
He had a nice smile.
They relapsed into silence, though this time slightly less awkward than the one before.
"And what are young, lively people such as yourselves doing here, sitting?"
Gandalf had suddenly sauntered into view, all evidence of his earlier troubles gone from his face.
When neither of them dared to answer, the Grey Wizard extended both hands, sleeves sliding back from his arms. He looked down from her, then to Frodo; one to the other as though inviting them both to dance with him.
"No, I-" she quickly protested with her hands.
Frodo also promptly stood and excused, "I think I best go back and rest, Gandalf. You two dance and enjoy yourselves."
Her jaw slackened at the betrayal, for now the sagely old man looked pointedly at her, hand insistent with the invitation.
"Well, I-..."
What could she do but to stand and accept?
But, an idea came to her. Frodo, who was guiltily averting his gaze, did not see the wry smile that tugged her mouth.
She grasped the hobbit firmly by his shoulders, and pushed him toward Gandalf's awaiting arms.
"Hey-!"
"Hohoho!" She laughed as Gandalf did; the bearded wizard didn't seem to mind who it was as long as it was one of them. He swept the hobbit so jovially and ridiculously through the other dancers that soon enough, Frodo couldn't help but to be taken along by his good mood and laughed with him.
Watching them gave her such a lighthearted feeling. Maybe she would stay a little longer.
Chuckling, she went back to her seat. Who knew that, even in her predicament, she could find a simple scene such as this so entertaining? Was Elven wine a little too strong for her?
She shook her head and sat down, only to bolt upright immediately.
The young woman looked down, horrified, into the deep blue eyes of a very handsome, and, must she say, very surprised blonde Elf.
A/N: Bear with me, readers. I will (attempt to) answer to the apparent plot-holes found in this chapter in due time.
Oh, and if you do have any suggestions of what you would like to see in my fanfic, I should like to hear them.