Sylven drew her finger over the surface of the water, watching the ripples as she disturbed the glassy surface. The pool sent waves of crooked lights around the small room, but she failed to see the beauty. Her throat was raw, her eyes red and swollen. He was gone now – she could feel it. The elf girl had come to see if she had gone, but did not disturb her as she heard the weeping. Her cheeks had dried now, and the emptiness had come.
She rose, and began to wander the house. She found a pile of clothes on one of the chairs, enough to wear for weeks. She found a pair of pants made of some black velvety material and dawned those, along with a white sheer undershirt and a thin robe like jacket of pale sage. It had a pronounced collar, good for warmth. But when she put it on all that came to her was the memory of fur and his smell.
She began to wander Rivendell, desperate to escape the thoughts and regret that plagued her. She went down a set of stairs, into what looked like a small garden with a gazebo of interlocking wooden swirls and arches that made the pale timber look more like lace.
For a while it was enough to simply sit, but her thoughts began to return so she fled them again. She passed buildings both lit and dark, over the stone pathways so flawlessly flat it would have made any human builder weep. She paused as she heard voices ahead, speaking what could only be elvish. She had a sudden realization – she might not be allowed to wander. She had come with the dwarves, and though the elves showed them every courtesy Thorin had insisted they were no allies. So where did that leave her, in the eyes of these impossibly perfect immortals? Was she exempt from suspicion for remaining behind, or did that only make her less trustworthy? Did she even want them to see her, so deep in this sorrow?
She dodged into the nearest building, a large dome with no doors, only open archways. There was no furniture, only a somber statue elevated by stairs and holding a large flat plate with shards of something glistening in the dawn light. Sylven rushed to hide behind the figure as the words drew closer, and held her breath as the chamber amplified the sound of footsteps. Before long, they had passed. She waited until her eyes found balance again, then moved out around the figure to look around. Six of the passages led to a balcony or perhaps several, three back out the paths she'd just left. It seemed excessive, to have nine doorways.
She turned to the statue, standing on its solitary pedestal. She drew closer, placing a hand on the edge of what might have been a stone shield, and began to make out the shapes of a sword – the handle, the tip, pieces of varying length slowly narrowing. They weren't places in a line, but there was no question this had once been a blade. She reached forward, running her fingers over the cross guard. There was something… profoundly powerful about the weapon, a whisper of destiny. It thrilled and frightened her, and she drew her hand away quickly. To feel at all was enough to make her hand itch to grab the hilt.
"Narsil." The voice behind her was sad, and slow, as if the words were weighed down by too much seen and felt. Sylven gasped and turned guiltily, to find before her a blond elf woman, tall and slender and painfully glorious. She wore a draping white dress, with gold about the neck. The woman tilted her head, and smiled as if she were the first person who had ever truly seen Sylven. "You are troubled."
"I'm sorry." Sylven said it unthinkingly, a reaction. She was certain now, that this was not a place the elves had expected her to come to.
The woman wasn't angry, however. She strode forward, though she moved with such a gliding grace she seemed to hardly step at all. She stopped beside Sylven, and lifted a hand to run it over the air above the shattered blade. "The sword that freed the races of Middle Earth."
Sylven should have felt awe, but instead she only felt the vacancy again. The desire to see this weapon puttered out, and she moved down the steps. The elf turned, raising a brow. "Such anguish for one so young…"
It was instinctive, but something knew to her to hide her emotions in an instant. "I don't know what you mean."
"Raised by a king, and never to be one himself." Galadriel considered her carefully. "Most would overlook him for his brother. But you have never struggled to see the hearts of those around you. You see in him… hope."
There was no way to prepare, not way to expect this. Bewilderment – how could this woman know? Resentment – she had no right to speak of him. Desolation – hope had left with him. She could not help the feeling that hung over her, that she had made some fatal error. It had been no more than a few hours, and yet some part of her already knew; she had chosen wrong. She had thought it would be easier, to linger in Rivendell. How foolish she had been.
She didn't remember falling to the floor, but that is where she found herself. The woman moved over to her, kneeling and touching her head the way a mother would when her daughter comes seeking refuge. She found herself confessing it, all of it. How she'd made the choice to stay herself, and shoved the blame on Thorin. Her weakness in the face of hardship and peril. Her greed in indulging in loving Kili, her certainty that she was beneath him in every sense of character. She said all the thoughts that came to her, and the blond woman sat and listened with that ancient wisdom. At last, when Sylven was out of confessions, she spoke.
"Do you know me?"
She did not.
"I am Galadriel, Lady of Lórien. And if it is your wish… I will share with you what may come."
Sylven didn't understand, but agreed all the same. Galadriel stood, helping Sylven to her feet. Then she moved away, beginning to walk the room.
"If you remain in Imladris, you will learn more than you ever dreamed of the healing arts. You will grow fond of these walls, and those who surround you. You will wait, hiding in books and behind your herbs and poultices. In time, you will grow to understand something has prevented his return. And one day, men will come for you from your home, and you will return to the world you knew. One of these men will find in you his joy, and you will bear him sons and daughters. You will have moments of exuberant bliss, when the world feels most full."
Sylven heard herself press the woman, "Will I be happy?"
Galadriel's smile faded. "Yes. But you will never feel whole again. Regret has already found you – and it never leaves without a prize."
"So you think I should go?" Sylven took a step forward before she remembered herself and stumbled out, "My – lady."
"There is no right path, Sylven Bonemender. There is only the path you will take, and the one you will not."
"But if I go after them, this emptiness will go?"
Galadriel was silent for a long time then. She moved passed Sylven, going out onto the balcony. Sylven hurried after her, watching intently as the other woman looked out over the beauty and wonder the new day had brought, to which Sylven was so blind. "For a time. You will know joy, and pain, and love. You will rise when you are needed most, become all that others see in you. But if you travel to Erebor," Galadriel turned to face her, "you will suffer greater tragedy than you have ever known. And you will never see these walls again."
Sylven stood, stupefied as her brain flew through the words. She turned away, gripping the smooth rail and shutting away the world, savouring the darkness one more time.
"Yours has never been a life of contentment." Galadriel whispered. "For you the scales live in constant sway. You feel deeper and truer – it is why you have never brought yourself to extinguish life. Your tragedy will desolate you… but when the scales swing back again, you will find the things that tether you… and you will know love once more. Do not dwell on that which has not yet come to pass. Live, and trust what you know to be true. Only then will you decide which path you will lead."
Sylven opened her eyes, and was quite alone. She sighed, looking out over Rivendell. Figures had begun to rise, sun drawing them away from the arms of their dreams. It was a city to call home – mystic, glorious, calm. She tried to picture children, running in the field below her. But they all hair deep rich brown hair, and were smaller than they should have been. She saw a boy and a girl, running to catch each other with braids flying about their faces, shrieking with delight.
She could stay, and find a life of comfort.
But what was it she knew to be true?
It came to her with no effort at all.
She would never love another man but him.
"Well, I really thought you'd be packed by now."
Sylven jumped and Gandalf spoke. He stood in one of the archways leading out of the home of Narsil, his hat on an staff in hand. He watched her, seeming puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you aren't staying here of course."
Sylven approached cautiously. "Why?"
"Come now." He grew gruff. "When we first spoke, I agreed you would be left someone safe and likeable. How do you find Imladris?"
"It's… well it's very nice."
"And?"
"Uh…" She scrambled for a word, trying to understand what the wizard wanted from her. "Pastoral?"
"Indeed." He nodded stiffly. "I think you would find it rather dull in little time at all. Soon you would be so anxious to find a little excitement that you'd go blundering right back into trouble where we found you. No, Imladris will not do."
It was like having Kili's spirit beside her, gripping her hand. A maelstrom of undiluted jubilation. It was devious – devious and perfect. "You could not be more correct. In fact, it is not to my liking at all."
There was hardly any time at all spent on packing, since she found her work was already half done when she returned home. Sylven wasn't sure what to make of the bag set out on her bed, made of dark green material thick and hearty. The buckles were shaped like leaves, made of a shiny copper she couldn't help but run a hand over. It was beautiful. She looked through the clothes she'd been given quickly, taking the white underdresses which she could later rip into strips for bandaging wounds. Food had been parcelled for her in thick waxy leaves wrapped in string, along with a small knife who's sheath was so intricate Sylven felt embarrassed to take it with her. It had to be worth a small fortune.
Along with the knife and bread came a bedroll, blanket, a hooded cloak, a comb meant to hold back her hair, a pair of gloves, and a waterskin.
Sitting at the foot of her bed were a pair of silvery grey boots, made of supple leather. When she slid them on they traveled up just past her knee, hugging her thigh like a second skin. She circled the room a few times, testing the flexible souls which looked so thin yet protected to well. They were a mighty gift.
She braided her hair, then pulled it up into a roll at the back of her head, sliding the comb it. It was silver, showing a swan who's unfurling wing turned into the teeth of the comb. She was surprised how well it held.
And with that, it was time. She slung the pack onto her back, and slipped out the door. She couldn't help rushing down the path, taking the steps two at a time down to the entrance of the Homely House. Gandalf was waiting, carrying nothing with him but sword and staff as always. She was surprised to find Elrond there also, a holding with him a small box.
Gandalf seemed amused by her excitement. "You are ready? "
"I am." She couldn't help glancing at Elrond. The dwarves had left in secret for a reason – someone, the elves she had though, did not want them going on this journey.
Elrond sensed her uncertainty, and held out the box to her. Hesitantly, she took it, pushing back the cover to peek in. She couldn't help the noise that escaped her. She could smell them, those plants the breathed life into those who were fading. Inside the box, which was so impossible thin, were an array of plants. Patches of moss, sprigs of herbs, leaves of very size. On the right side of the kit were a series of tiny wooden round boxes, labelled with the names of the ointments within. Perhaps it was the rawness of her emotions at the time, but she felt her eyes stinging with the tears she thought she'd used up. There was only one thing more precious to her in all the world – he had given her all he could. She had nothing of her own, now. All she was hinged upon the kindness of these two men before her. It was a humbling realization.
"My Lord… I'm…" She tried uselessly to reign in the liquid already gathering at the corners of her eyes. She closed the lid, holding the box close. "You have shown me more compassion than I am worthy of. I'm…"
"I have known Lucile Bonemender more years than you have yet lived." Elrond explained gently. "She would not take an apprentice lightly. There is something within you, something you have not yet come to realize. It is my honor, to do what I can to aid you. You will always be welcome, within these walls."
He pressed his hand to his chest and drew it across in farewell, and clumsily she did the same. Elrond gripped Gandalf's shoulder. "I would recommend haste, my friend. Thorin Oakenshield will not wait long, now the road before him is clear. I fear he rushes to his own destruction, without guidance."
Gandalf nodded, and the ancients separated. Sylven and Gandalf moved alongside each other as they made their way back across the bridge, then up the pass the dwarves had taken. When they had come to the very highest point, the trail bent to the left hugging the mountain. Sylven turned, looking over Rivendell. The sun had unleashed it's might upon the city, and the falls shone like currents of crystal. The buildings looked like ruins of some great kingdom, like buildings out of time. She heard Galadriel's voice, echoing and deep, like ripples of water in some distant cave.
If you travel to Erebor, you will suffer greater tragedy than you have ever known. And you will never see these walls again.
Deep sadness, spreading through her like frost.
"Lord Elrond is right, we must not linger." Gandalf called in warning, from further down the trail.
Frosts could always be melted, when summer came. She put the security of seeing home again behind her, and strode across the final stretch, passing into the only path there had ever been.