Chapter Eight:
Rivendell
There's an odd sense of nervousness I feel as we're marched up the steps of the stone palace, flanked either side by Elven guards, tall as willow trees. I marvel at the ivy creeping up the high walls as we are lead to an open terrace, in the middle of which sits two small stone tables surrounded by chairs. We are directed to sit down as Gandalf and Thorin move to a more prestigious table with the Lord of the Elven commune. Shortly a group of Elven women come to greet us, bringing with them food and wine and instruments. A fair young maiden lends me a smile as she places a basket of plaited breads before me, and the warmth of it is so infectious I can't help but beam back at her. The Elven women are the most beautiful things I have ever seen, tall and lean with tiny rosebud mouths and hair flowing down their backs in strands so straight they mimic waterfalls. Their skin is porcelain clear, white as the pretty moonstone necklace I uncovered in the cave...
My hand slips inside my dress; yes, it is still there. I roll my fingers over the cold stone, the silver circlet encasing it, imagining the beauty of it, but keeping it hidden from the others. I take my eyes back to the blonde Elf, unsure of whether I want to be her or be with her, as she takes her seat beside a dark-haired sister and begins plucking away at a golden harp, her slender fingers working magic. No, it's official; I definitely want to be her. The longer I stare at her the longer my admiration turns into jealousy, so I decide to simply look away.
Kíli is suffering no such dilemma; he stares enraptured at the women, utterly taken in. I suddenly feel terribly inadequate and the food before me seems far less appetising. The Dwarves who aren't hypnotised by the beauty of the Elven women stare instead in disgust at the platter before them, which looks like something you might offer to a visiting party of rabbits, or to my mother.
Dwalin, sat beside me, grabs hold of a bowl of lettuce before us and delves his hand into the greenery; he throws the vegetation left and right before growling, "Where's the meat?!"
I've never been a big fan of leafy food- I glaze over the platters of salad and nuts with little interest. There is, however, a bounty of fruit which sets my mouth watering again. I eye the thinly sliced strawberries with eager eyes, not wanting to seem rude by being the first to eat something; the Dwarves do not share my sense of courtesy, throwing oddities down the hatch before spitting them out in disgust.
Ori pokes at the shell of a quail egg with uncertainty.
"Try it," Dori tempts his sibling from across the table, "just a mouthful."
Ori shakes his head uneasily. "I don't like green food... have they got any chips?"
I look across to Kíli, who is still staring at the Elven women in awe. His eyes are locked onto the dark-haired sister of the blonde, the pair of them sat on their driftwood chairs as their lithe fingers dance delicately across their harp. The music is light and pretty, just as they are. The brunette's eyes are as filled with curiosity as Kíli own, and I feel something burning in me, a new kind of jealousy.
Oh hell to the no. Back up, Miss Prissy-perfect, go find your own Dwarf.
She watches Kíli with wide, intrigued eyes, her taffy lips parted gently. I see that Bofur has caught on to the exchange now, and raises his hand as though to wave it in front of Kíli's face; just as he moves to Kíli winks at her, and the flame of jealousy within me burns a little brighter. The fire must reach my eyes because when Kíli looks my way, he reacts with surprise at my expression. His face drops, and he begins to ramble wildly.
"Can't say I fancy Elf-Maids myself," he hurries, fingers plucking through the salad in front of him, though not a morsel of the greenery makes it to his mouth. Dwalin raises his brow, inviting Kíli to go on.
"Well, they're too thin, aren't they? All high cheekbones and creamy skin, not enough facial hair for me."
Another dark-haired Elf passes by behind the pair; Kíli glances up quickly at the native before nudging Bofur.
"Although... that one there's not bad."
A dark grin coils up my cheeks as I nudge Dwalin with a malicious grin. His eyes glaze for a moment over the Elf before he leans towards Kíli with a smirk.
"Look again, Laddie. That's no Elf-Maid."
Kíli's face drops; I find myself grinning as he turns around to see that the Elf he was admiring is certainly not of the maiden variety. Dwalin throws the boy a wink, and Kíli's face contorts in horror.
"Very funny," he chokes as Bofur slaps him on the back, the entire table erupting with laughter. "Very funny."
Bofur bounces a cherry tomato off Kíli's temple. "Oh, lighten up, lad. No surprise you'd mistake the two when they're all hairless as newborns. I suppose the same could be said of us Dwarves, it can be hard to tell who's who will all the beards."
"Yes, but our women have form to them," Gloin interrupts, "meat on the bones! These Elves have the bodies of scrawny young Goblins. I'd take a beard over a bald face any day. There's nothing more attractive on a woman than a good, solid beard."
"Amen," I say, proposing a toast. "To bearded ladies!"
There's a cheer as all glasses are raised, none higher than the embarrassed Kíli's. He finishes his wine with a series of gulps and doesn't dare raise his eyes to the Elves again.
Dori turns to me and proposes, "Perhaps, Lady Lavender, you might try for a beard yourself. I'm sure it would serve only to enhance your beauty."
"Alas, I can not," I muse, "though not for lack of trying."
"Oh, you poor dear. But looks aren't everything, as they say."
Bofur taps my hand from across the table reassuringly. "I think you're as lovely as a flower, beard or no beard."
"Thank you, Bofur. You always say the sweetest things."
" I glance back at the Elf-Maid who is playing the harp- she is very beautiful. I don't know whether to scowl at her in jealousy or give her a wink myself.
"You've got a thing for dark hair, then?" I ask Kíli, my eyes still on the Elf girl. I twiddle the ends of my own hair, staring at them disapprovingly. Kíli hastily swallows back the bread he's been chewing and chokes,
"Yes- I mean, no. I... well, all hair colours are fine, I suppose. Yellows and whites and reds and oranges browns and blacks and... uh... purples."
I smile, thinking of Josie.
"How can you eat that stuff?" Kíli asks as I turn my attention to the fruit platter, smothered with strawberries and prysallis and a strange little fruit I can't recognise.
"Fruit is lovely," I lecture him. "You need your five a day. You'll get scurvy if you don't get enough vitamin C."
"What's a scurvy?'"
"You know, the pirate disease."
"What is a pirate?"
"Well-"
"When is this Fiva Day?"
I smile. "Never mind."
One of the Elven maids begins to play a mournful tune on her flute, and Nori, having just slipped some of the silverware inside his coat pocket, turns to her. "Change the tune, why don't you? I feel like I'm at a funeral!"
Oin squints and adjusts his earpiece. "Wait a moment, did somebody die?"
"Alright, Lads, there's only one thing for it," Bofur reasons, jumping from his seat and springing atop the table, kicking away a bowl of lettuce; the others jeer joyfully, and all goes quiet with expectation. The Elves cease their playing and stare in muted horror as Bofur gestures fondly to the stern-faced, immaculately dressed Lord Elrond and begins to sing to the company, arms outstretched as he dances on the table-top. The others join in, banging their cutlery and bobbing their heads as they sing- well, roar- along.
"There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown that the Man in the Moon himself came down
One night to drink his fill!
The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs his bow, once squeaking high, now purring low,
Now sawing in the middle!
The Man in the Moon was drinking deep and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced, the cow in the garden madly pranced,
and the little dog chased his tail!
The Man in the Moon took another mug and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale 'till in the sky the stars were cold and pale,
and dawn was in the air!
Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat: 'The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits but their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun'll be rising soon!'
So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle, a jig that would wake the dead,
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune and the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
'It's after three!' he said!
The company cheer again, Dwalin smacking my back with fondness hard enough to make me choke. The Dwarves begin throwing food at one another must to the horror of the Elves and all of those present with a shred of table manners, Thorin looking both mortified at their actions but also pleased that it is upsetting the Elves. My fingers dance over the table and I play with the idea of throwing something sticky at the dark-haired Elf girl in the commotion, but decide it a little too mean for my tastes and instead fold my hands into my lap and wait for the madness to recede.
After some time it does, helped perhaps by the arrival of a tray of blood-red goblets filled with a strong-smelling wine. It is filled with a mouthful of bright purple liquid, astringent on the tongue when I gulp it down.
"Aye, Gandalf," Oin calls over to the Wizard, his trumpet screwed into his ear as he sniffs at his own drink, "what's this here, then?"
I might have asked that too before swallowing it, I think, but it's a little too late for that now.
"That, Master Oin, would be evening wine," Gandalf says. "It contains a remedy to help you to good night's sleep."
"They plan on poisoning us!" Gloin yammers; the others rile in agreement, Dwalin throwing his goblet across the room so that it shatters against the arm of Lindir's seat. The slender Elf barely flinches.
"The wine will ease your weary bones and provide you with the best night's sleep you have had in an age," Gandalf corrects the rowdy gang. "Pray, drink quickly now, and then to bed with the lot of you. There is a long journey ahead."
Dwalin is given a new glass, which he clangs sharply against mine before downing the liquid in one gulp.
"It tastes like poison," he mutters, but asks for another glass all the same.
Thorin and Gandalf disappear with the Lord of Rivendell, and the rest of us are shown to our quarters, which turns out to be a dormitory with a host of separate rooms and an expansive balcony where we're brought food more to the Dwarves' liking (sausages, cheeses and the like), given herbal compacts and bandages for the minor cuts and grazes we received during the day's skirmishes and are left to entertain ourselves. As I rub salve on my grazed forearms Bofur gives us a rendition of his song from earlier played on his harmonica, Bombur has a competition with Fíli to see how many sausages he can eat in one sitting (and promptly wins) and we talk over the day's events, able to laugh at the madness now that we're no longer in threat of immediate peril. The medicines given to us by the Elves work wonders, and already I'm hardly noticing what was an uncommonly sharp pain. Dwalin hacks up a rather elegant chair with one of his axes and we use the wood to make a fire, and soon a warm red fire is burning in the heart of the company.
"We could have just asked for firewood," I note, though it's obviously too late for the ornate seat.
"Ah, all this Elvish craftsmanship is better off as firewood," Dwalin says, "no pride taken in their work."
I stare at the intricately carved legs of the chair crackling away in the burning pile and think otherwise.
"Sloppy work, worthless."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Nori quips, stuffing the tapestries from the walls into his saddlebag, "these would pay a pretty price in some circles, I'd wager."
Dwalin takes to sharpening his axes, telling me their story as I sit beside him; they are named Ukhlat and Umraz, "The Grasper" and "The Keeper." He claims they've taken the lives and limbs of more men that I've ever met in my lifetime.
"Ulkhat grasps your soul, and Umraz keeps it," he tells me. "I'll not have the scratches and notches worked out; each one is the scar of the death of an enemy."
"Charmed," I grimace, and move away quickly. Bifur roasts a cabbage on the fire absent-mindedly, the glow of the flame glinting on the axe embedded in his forehead. Ori scribbles in his book, perhaps recording the day's events, and I take a seat beside Bofur, who is watching his ginger brother closely. Bombur sits on a creaking table which is clearly insufficient for his immense weight. Bofur throws him the last of the sausages; as the ginger Dwarf catches it the tiny increase in weight is enough to bring the table down. The wood splinters with a thud, sending the colossal Dwarf to the floor with a surprised yelp. We all laugh thunderously, Bofur actually rolling out of his seat before taking the initiative and gathering up the broken wood to be used for the fire later.
I hear my name- my fake name- being called from the archway behind us and turn to see Gandalf stood there in his grey robes, beckoning me forwards.
"Lavender," he tells me, "there is someone who I would like you to meet."
I get to my feet and follow after him, walking awkwardly alongside his tall frame as he leads me to who knows where, half-answering my questions with muttered responses. There's a glint in his eye as he weaves around my questions and through the night landscape, leading us up narrow stairways and pathways drenched in moonlight. We stop at an archway and he directs me through it.
"The lady of Lórien waits for you."
He says nothing more, only smiles and continues to gesture down the path. I give him a nervous salute and begin to wander down it, checking back over my shoulder every few steps nervously. He waves me on with that same smile, and soon I come to a corner and can see him no longer.
The lights are dimmer here. I take in the beauty of the ivory walls as I meander down the path, which opens up into a pillared courtyard bathed in white light. The stars are bright and clear, twinkling above me, though I barely pay them any attention; the figure stood out in the courtyard is far more beautiful than a myriad stars.
The woman is tall, ethereal, with a river of silver-gold hair dancing down her back. She stands in a dress of pale grey velvet, fastened with a silver brooch with a matching circlet adorning her blonde head. She smiles and her pale eyes crinkle at their corners, her teeth white and shining.
"Alice," she says warmly, her voice surprisingly deep, though not unpleasantly so. The Elf-woman is cold and shimmering and beautiful, and somehow, she knows my real name.
I ask her how and she smiles again, the sight is as welcome as fire on a cold night.
I see so much, she tells me, but this time the words do not come from her perfect mouth; they come, instead, from within my own head. And yet, here I understand very little. You have travelled far.
All I can do is stare, open-mouthed.
"Do not be afraid," she says in her warm voice, aloud this time. "I am the lady Galadriel." She extends a pale hand. "Come."
I do as I am told. She, in turn, drifts closer to me, her silver head bowed to accommodate my shortened height.
"The Wizard has told me much about you. He was wise to bring you to this place."
"You know, then," I say carefully, "about my... travelling?"
She nods, every motion full of grace. "Your condition is most peculiar."
"Condition?" I say, attempting a wispy laugh, "you make it sound like an affliction."
Galadriel turns her face up to the moonlight. "I have not yet decided whether it is to be a gift or a curse. Regardless, you must learn to control it, to focus your mind."
I exhale somewhat rudely. "How could I control it?"
Her eyes go to my side, and I realise I have my hand buried deep in my pocket.
"Show me," she says. I find that I very much don't want to."
"It's nothing."
"Alice," she says, and her tone is a little deeper, something in there a little frightening. I pull the chain from my pocket and show her the necklace, lying flat in the palm of my hand. She does not try to take it, which puts my mind a little at ease.
"I found it out on the road," I fumble, embarrassed, "in a Troll hoarde we came across. I thought it was pretty so I just took it, it's not really stealing if it's stealing from the thieves and the Trolls were all dead anyway-"
"What you have there is more than just pretty," Galadriel says, the shine of the moonstone reflecting in her grey eyes. "It is magical."
"What, like, Wizard-magical?"
She extends an elegant hand. "May I?"
I cling to it for a reluctant moment before handing it to her. She pushes gently on the moonstone and to my horror it falls out; she allows it to roll out onto the floor, and I stoop down to pick it up. When I stand I see that she is examining the silver circlet which held the stone in place.
"Mithril," she says fondly, feeling runes along the inside of the hoop. "This is a ring, of Elvish make. Tell me, were you drawn to it?"
"Indeed. There were many of these rings forged in the days of old, a craft taught to the Elves by one we once thought a friend. Throughout the years they have been scattered and lost, stolen in battles or sold in times of hardship, though most have found their way home. Each carries a small amount of magic, each with its own abilities. "
I look at the stone in my hands. "So that's the magic, not the moonstone?"
She smiles. "What you hold is just a pretty rock. What I hold... well, that remains to be seen."
There's an offputting lust in her eyes. Perhaps she catches that feeling in herself, because she quickly glances at the ring one more time before pressing it back into my hand.
"These things are near useless now; trinkets, really. Still, you may find it of some help on your journey. An aid against poor weather or simple defence charms are not uncommon. I entrust it back into your care. With the Wizard to guide you, we can be sure that whatever power it has left in it will not go unchecked."
"I can't control it," I try to tell her, pocketing the ring and the moonstone, "it just... happens. I don't know why or how or-"
"Does it scare you?"
Her words throw me. I look into her eyes for a long while, and finally, I am honest.
"Yes."
"You are a wise girl. Tell me, if you will, of everything you have experienced so far."
I do so without question, and the two of us talk for a long time. When I am finished, she considers for a moment before saying,
"Part of you is still disconnected from this world." She touches the space below my neck with an open palm. "From this body. Part of you still does not recognise this world as being true, nor its dangers. You speak of these events as though they were happening to somebody else, as though they were a story."
frown. I've never thought of this thing as a real danger before, though I've already been in danger plenty of times since this began. The realisation hits that is not the 'other world' anymore. It's another world, one which I am very much a part of now. I could have died here. I might still die here. The thought is more terrifying than anything we've faced so far on this journey.
"If I die here," I ask, "will I go home? Could I go back, to my other body?"
It's so strange to even think, never mind say out loud. Galadriel does not judge, however, only answers me with honesty.
"I do not know."
"Could I... could I stop it?"
She blinks slowly. "Would you want to?"
There's a long pause as I realise I don't know the answer. She takes the liberty of providing a solution.
"There is a power surrounding you that neither of us can understand at this moment. The Wizard brought you here that you might receive some answers, and those I can not yet offer you; perhaps with time they will come, and I can guarantee you protection. Your time here need not be so perilous, Alice. I would suggest you trade in Orcs and Dragon fire for a stay here at Rivendell; you will be safe within these walls. My daughter's husband is a righteous man. Lord Elrond would not hesitate to keep you as our guest."
Keep you, I note. I don't much like the sound of that. My stomach ties in tighter knots. It is a beautiful place, and they are beautiful people, but stay here with them?
She touches her graceful fingers to my cheek. "I sense in you that your heart will not allow it. It would be better for you to remain here, but we won't keep you prisoner. If you wish to go, I will not stop you... you have found a home amongst those marauding Dwarves, have you not? You find their brashness endearing, and our reserved demeanour intimidating."
Is she reading my mind? "I'm sorry, I don't mean to-"
"Your truth is not an offence, Alice. You must listen to your heart, always. Your mind will deceive you, but the heart speaks true. Alas, if you choose this path I fear it will not be a safe one, and there is no telling where it might take you. Still, with the Wizard at your side, you have a little less to feel worry for, I think."
I'm unsure of what to say to that. Luckily she fills the silence.
"I shall have had a satchel readied for you as a gift of good faith. Perhaps it will help you along your journey." Again she touches my cheek, and her skin feels like cashmere. "Keep the ring safe. Or let it drift away in a river, be buried on some small hill, be forgotten as its creator long has been. Do as you see fit, Alice, and take care."
I close my eyes, lost in the comforting feeling. When her feather-light touch leaves my face, I open my eyes to find that Lady Galadriel is gone.
