Twenty chapters at last! I truly never thought I'd get this far. This is the most of anything I've ever written! I'd hoped to cover all of the first book/movie by the end of the year, but oh well. I'd also meant for a lot more to be included in this chapter, but I decided to spare y'all from an 8000-word behemoth; the other half should be out in a week or two.

Thank you all so much for your support and reviews; it really motivates me to write faster. Here's to a better 2021—although let's be real, 2020 has set the bar pretty damn low. As usual, hang in there y'all.

Chapter 20: But I Have Promises to Keep

"How about a walking song?" Pippin piped up, his voice small under the dark canopy of trees. We'd been walking in subdued silence for ages, broken only by the occasional muttering between Gimli and Boromir, who both looked immensely unsettled by the forest we found ourselves in. "Well, it's just so quiet," Pippin added defensively, as the others gave him questioning looks.

"Do you know any walking songs, Bee?" Merry asked, turning to me.

I jumped, shaken out of my thoughts, and shook my head. "No, and I can't sing to save my life."

After a moment, Frodo broke in hesitantly. "Bilbo taught me a few walking songs in Rivendell. They're from your home, I think, Bee."

"Really?" I hadn't taught him any songs that I could remember.

Frodo nodded, and after a moment he began to sing softly. "Whose woods these are, I think I know; his house is in the village, though; he will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow."

A smile tugged at my lips as Frodo went on. Bilbo had loved the Robert Frost poems I'd translated with him—he must have set some of them to music and shared them with his nephew. Suddenly, I missed Rivendell so badly that my chest ached; I hadn't thought it was possible to be so homesick for a place that wasn't home.

Frodo reached the final verse, his voice melancholy and quiet. "The woods are lovely, dark, and deep; but I have promises to keep; and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."

"And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep," Pippin chanted under his breath, stomping his foot to the rhythm. Then he frowned. "We haven't got miles to go before we sleep, have we, Strider?"

"I'm afraid so." Strider seemed to have become the Fellowship's leader now that Gandalf was gone, a fact that seemed to make him grimmer than ever.

"Rumors of this forest have reached even my country, Aragorn," Boromir cut in shortly. "If you intend for us to walk this path much longer, I will turn back and find another route. Does an enchantress not live in these woods?"

"An enchantress?" Gimli snorted, puffing out his chest. "I'd like to see her try and enchant me."

"But isn't Bee an enchantress too?" Pippin asked, grinning at me.

"I thought I was a sorceress," I said dryly, turning to Boromir.

He looked disgusted at the thought. "Beatrice is no elven witch," he told Pippin. "Hers is quite a different manner of magic."

"It's not magic—"

"You would do well to speak carefully of the lady of these woods," Strider cut me off, eyeing us sternly. Boromir opened his mouth to respond, but before they could argue further a group of elves had lighted on our path, bows drawn and arrows pointed at our faces. I jumped back in surprise, nearly knocking Gimli over.

"You mortal folk argue so loudly, the Lady herself must already have heard your coming," one of them snapped.

Strider held up his hands in a peaceful gesture and responded to the elves in their own language. Soon they were deep in conversation, Legolas looking thrilled.

"These elves are led by Haldir, the Marchwarden of Lothlorien," he told the rest of us in Westron. "They will escort us to their city presently, where their lord and lady will determine if we might stay."

Gimli and Boromir looked furious at the news, but I beamed, wondering if this Lothlorien would be anything like Rivendell.

The elves led us through the forest, their footsteps quick and silent, their faces grim. They must have been following a trail of some kind, but I couldn't see anything to differentiate our path from the rest of the endless woods—I knew without them, we'd probably get lost in seconds.

"What d'you make of this, then?" Gimli asked me in a gruff undertone, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the guards. "I don't like these sneaking fellows one bit."

I considered them nervously; they were all in deep conversation with Strider and Legolas, speaking elvish in hushed voices. "They do seem different from the elves in Rivendell, don't they?"

"Aye, and those were bad enough, if you ask me. The least these folk might do is speak a tongue we all understand!"

At that, one of the elves turned and glared sharply at Gimli, before returning to his conversation with the others. "Very rude," I agreed. The dwarf hmphed and patted me on the back fondly.

After what felt like miles, we paused, the elves gesturing grandly to the trees ahead. Legolas turned and translated for the rest of us again: "Ahead lies Caras Galadhon, the city of the Golden Wood of Lothlorien, home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel."

It was nothing like Rivendell after all, unlike any city I'd ever seen—I wasn't sure the word city even applied. The elves' homes seemed to be built into the trees themselves, their roads extensions of the branches and trunks, some raised hundreds of feet into the air and twining through the forest canopy like rivers. Stunned, we were led through the meandering buildings, then at last up a slender staircase built into the trunk of the largest tree I'd ever seen. I was certain it would dwarf even the giant sequoias back in the United States, and I wondered what it would look like in the spring and summer, with gold leaves decorating the white branches.

The elves spoke again before departing. "We are to speak with the Lady of the Golden Wood," Legolas told us, looking awed. "She will deem whether it is safe for us to stay in Lothlorien."

Safe? I hesitated. Not only was Frodo carrying the Ring, but I had a pistol and flare gun in my bag—somehow I wasn't sure this Lady would find us very safe.

My worries were cut short as two elves approached us, both stunningly beautiful. One of them—Lord Celeborn, I assumed—was pale and handsome, wearing flowing silver robes and a distant expression. But the other—my breath caught in my throat. Lady Galadriel was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen: intimidatingly tall, with a glimmering white dress and long golden hair that made me think of beams of sunlight streaming through tree branches, and her eyes—

I flinched and looked away. Every elf I'd met, from Elrond to Amarien, had striking, ageless eyes, as though they were gazing at something in the distant past, far beyond my sight. But Galadriel's eyes were the most intense by far—I couldn't bear to meet her gaze at all, and as I glanced at my companions, I saw that most of them couldn't either.

Welcome to Lothlorien, Beatrice Smith.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. What was that? An absurd thought crossed my mind, though somehow I knew it was true: was that her? I dared a peek at her face, but Galadriel was busy speaking with Strider and Haldir, discussing our journey so far, the evil we'd encountered in Moria, where we had been and where we intended to go next—

And where will you go next?

I stared at her, wild-eyed, but she gave no sign that she had contacted me. Glancing around again, I saw that the others looked similarly jumpy. Lady Galadriel? How are you…is this magic? I thought, then winced, feeling foolish. Of course it was magic, what else could it be?

Where will you go next? The voice repeated itself, as though I hadn't tried to interrupt. Will you follow the Man of Gondor to Minas Tirith, allowing the Ring to pass from your reach? Will you honor your oath to protect the Ringbearer?

Oh, God, did she know? Could she tell what I'd planned to do, what I'd almost done? Hot shame flooded my mouth, and I choked. Of course I will. I don't want anything to do with the Ring!

The thought was instinctive, a knee-jerk reaction to her words, but as it solidified in my mind, I was relieved to find that it was the truth: I didn't want it. A feeling of freedom washed over me like clear water, though it left disgust bare in its wake. It wasn't much to be proud of, after all, not if it had taken a battle, a demon, and the loss of Gandalf just to shake me out of the Ring's grasp.

God, I'm sorry I ever wanted it—I'm ashamed of myself, I admitted. But it's passed, truly. I don't want the Ring now, I promise, not even if it could get me home!

What if you did not need the Ring to find your way home?

It took a moment for the words to sink in. What do you mean?

You once asked Lord Elrond if he possessed the power to send you home. Likewise did you seek help from the Gray Wizard, and the Brown. Would you not ask the same of me? If I were to offer you a path home, would you take it?

I inhaled sharply. Could you…do that?

Would you ask it of me? Her voice sounded almost sinister, and the challenge echoed in my mind for a long moment. The others would not know. You might return home in peace, this very night, perhaps—if only you ask it of me.

Was she serious? Could I really return home so quickly? I took a deep breath, hesitating, but the choice was easier than I'd thought it would be. I would have asked you without a second thought, before we passed through Moria. But now…My gaze turned to my companions, my friends—people who had talked and laughed with me, who had risked their lives for me, who had already lost so much and might need my help before long. I swore an oath to protect Frodo. I'm the only one who knows anything about Saruman's weapons. And I'm the only one who knows—who knows that Boromir might die soon. I can't go home now.

Then you will remain in Middle Earth? The voice cut me off, and I faltered.

Remain? The word sounded so final, so permanent, that my heart twisted. Not forever, I thought anxiously. But for now…how can I abandon them, in the middle of a war? I need to see them through this, I just have to. Besides, I said I'd see Amarien again before I left. I can't just leave her without saying goodbye; she's one of the best friends I've ever had.

Very well, was her only answer.

As confident as I was in my choice, a new thought formed in my mind, almost of its own accord. I twisted my hands nervously. But who can say how long the war will go on? Who can say if they'll make it through this at all? What if it takes years before I can even start looking for a way home?

Do not despair, Beatrice. Remain at your Company's side, and you shall not lose hope. For the first time, the voice sounded gentle, and I dared another glance at Galadriel. She met my eyes at last and smiled, radiant as sunlight on water. I nodded faintly. If I had managed to overcome the Ring's influence, maybe I could hold out hope for the future, too. I had to try.

"Now that was a fair bit of magic, and no mistake," Sam muttered to Frodo as Galadriel dismissed us. My head was still spinning with the alien sensation of having someone else's voice in it, and I blinked several times to clear my thoughts as we began to file back down the gleaming silver steps built into the enormous tree. Boromir took up the rear, his face bloodless and clammy.

"Are you alright?" I asked, falling into step beside him.

Like me, it took him a moment to regain his senses, and I was startled to see tears in his eyes. "That enchantress had no business entering our minds," he snarled, his voice shaking. "And she dared ask me—no, I will not speak of it. But she presumed too much, far too much, to even suggest…"

I hesitated. It had been uncomfortable to have Galadriel enter my mind and challenge me like that, but treating her behavior as rude just felt pointless, like berating the tides for changing or a tree for losing its leaves in the fall. "She asked me some difficult questions too," I admitted. "It felt like…like she was testing me."

"Yes, exactly." Boromir nodded, looking relieved that he hadn't been alone in the experience.

I could only assume that whatever Galadriel had seen in Boromir's mind, she had given him a passing grade. Still, I'd seen the stares he sent Frodo's way when he thought no one was looking, the tension in his jaw when anyone so much as mentioned going to Mordor—and I knew the Ring was trying to take hold of him. Galadriel must have seen it too—she'd seen it in my mind, after all.

"I…well, I just hope I passed whatever test it was," I said with difficulty.

"Hmph. You need not vie for her good opinion," Boromir snorted.

"But she reminds me of Gandalf, somehow," I protested. "You know, larger-than-life, like a character from a fairy tale, and so—well, so magical. I…" I hesitated, but the others had walked out of earshot, Boromir's steps having slowed to match mine. "I didn't have Gandalf's good opinion, when he died," I admitted quietly. "I'd like for Galadriel, at least, to think well of me."

Boromir shook his head. "That is nonsense," he said gently. "Of course he thought well of you, else he would not have recommended to Lord Elrond that you accompany us."

"No, no. We had a…disagreement, in Moria. I said some cruel things. And now I can't take them back."

Hesitantly, he rested a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry," he said. "But I am certain he forgave you, whatever the offense. Mithrandir was not without understanding, nor compassion."

I didn't answer, my mind lingering on the things I'd said to Gandalf, the hate and rage boiling in my veins as I'd glared at him in the dark…I wasn't sure anyone's compassion extended far enough to forgive me for that.

"Rest assured that the Lady Galadriel saw your remorse as well," Boromir added kindly, before turning a narrowed eye back the way we'd come. "Indeed, it seems there was nothing in our minds she did not see fit to scrutinize."

I didn't know what to say to that, so we caught up to the rest of the Fellowship in silence. Several maidservants in gray gowns led us to a row of rooms among the trees (on the ground floor, much to the hobbits' relief), tiny and sparsely furnished but so elegantly made that I didn't mind in the slightest. The walls and ceiling of my little room were made of living wood, the tree's trunk and branches somehow seamlessly bent to accommodate it.

I stood there for a long moment, breathing deeply. I was safe here. Safe from the Balrog, the goblins, the wild wolves. Safe from Saruman. After spending so long in the wilderness, the thought overwhelmed me. Still struggling to relax, I took a long-overdue bath, combed the dirt and dust out of my hair, and put lotion on my chapped, sunburned face. A white nightgown had been folded on my bed, but I was too tired to slip it on, instead burrowing under the covers like a naked mole rat and succumbing, at last, to exhaustion.

I didn't emerge from my pile of blankets until well after noon. A maidservant appeared soon after to wash my disgusting travel clothes and provide me with a new dress to wear—I wondered guiltily if she'd been waiting for me to wake up. My thanks fell on deaf ears, as she seemed barely able to speak Westron at all. After a good deal of miming and pointing, we finally exchanged names, and I managed to ask Ressil for some parchment and writing supplies—her mannerisms had reminded me of Amarien, and I was suddenly desperate to write to my friends again. Ressil clapped her hands in celebration at finally understanding me, and dashed off with a rustle of skirts.

Since it didn't look like we were going to leave Lothlorien anytime soon, I took the opportunity to explore, wandering around under the trees and enjoying the feeling of wearing a clean dress. The day passed quietly—or, looking back, perhaps it was several days. I couldn't explain it, but time seemed to flow strangely in Lothlorien, and I couldn't say how long I spent walking under the canopy of trees. Over everything there was a faint golden light, like an overexposed photograph. That was how I felt walking through the trees—as though I'd wandered into a still photo, an image frozen from the distant past, and we had left the movement of time behind us at the borders of the woods.

"Lady Bee!" Ressil called, jolting me out of my thoughts. She curtseyed and presented me with a stack of parchment, several ink bottles, and a long white feather quill.

"Thank you," I said eagerly. "But please, there's no need to curtsey."

She blinked at me, confused, and thus began an awkward game of charades in which I kept miming a curtsey to tell her I didn't want her to curtsey, and she eventually huffed in exasperation, rolled her eyes, and left—but not before curtseying again, extra deeply.

I sighed, gathering up the writing supplies she'd brought me.

Ever since we left Moria, I'd felt horribly guilty for forgoing my letters to my friends and family. Back in the mountains, I'd tried to write to them, but for some reason the words just wouldn't come—I was certain, now, that it was due to the Ring. Try as I might, I hadn't been able to imagine anyone actually receiving my letters; it had felt hopeless, useless—and the Ring had fed on that despair.

But I would change all that, I thought determinedly, settling into the grass with my writing supplies among the roots of one of the pale golden trees.

Dear Bilbo,

I figured out that riddle of yours—'now that you are given one, you're either left with two or none.' Only took me three months or so to get it. Did you ask me that on purpose? Was it some kind of warning, about making the right choice?

My hand shook, and several droplets of ink splattered onto the parchment. It was hard, so hard, to reference the Ring even in passing like this, but I took a deep breath and went on. If anyone would understand, it was Bilbo. I remembered his panic, his fear, when I'd brought up memories of his riddle game with Gollum. He'd still felt a pull to the Ring, even after all those years. How would it have altered me, what would I have become, if I'd taken it?

It'd be like you, wouldn't it, to try to slip me some life lesson in your riddles. I thought I didn't have a choice, that I had to get home however I could, but I was wrong. I had two choices: get home the wrong way, or get home the right way.

I was being selfish. More selfish than I ever thought I was capable of being. But you'll be glad to know I'm taking the second choice—I'm staying in Middle Earth for now. I'll figure out a way home soon enough—the right way this time. Frodo is still safe, and I promise, I'll look after him as best I can.

"May I join you?"

I gave a start at the sound of Boromir's voice. I hadn't seen him in several days—or was it a week already? "Sure," I said, motioning for him to sit in the grass next to me. "What's up?"

"Up?" he repeated, sitting near me in the grass, his back to a tree trunk.

"I mean, what'd you want to talk to me about?"

Boromir frowned, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Nothing, I suppose. I have merely grown tired of the company of elves, and wished to be among others of my own kind." There was no need to explain why he didn't want to spend time with Strider instead. "Though I shall leave you in peace, if you prefer it," he added.

"No, not at all," I said quickly, surprised but pleased that he'd wanted to spend time with me. With a sigh, he leaned back against the tree and tilted his head up to the canopy of branches, clearly in no hurry to talk. Still, he had a point—I'd spent so long around elves now that it was pretty refreshing just to be around another human again.

I studied him sidelong. Boromir was handsome, I thought belatedly—almost startlingly so, with his long hair, broad shoulders, and medieval-looking clothing, so different from any men I'd ever seen back home. It wasn't that I hadn't noticed his good looks before, but it was especially apparent now that he'd had a chance to bathe and rest.

Unlike most of the Fellowship, he'd continued to wear his traveling clothes (though freshly washed), rather than something borrowed from the elves. Stifling a sudden laugh, I wondered if it was because of his obvious mistrust of Lothlorien, or if it was just that the slender elven clothes hadn't been able to fit over his broad frame. His dark hair was newly combed and gleamed like burnished copper, and he had trimmed his beard close against his square jaw. And his eyes—I'd seen gray eyes before, of course, but they always appeared blue or green in the right light. But his seemed to be gray through and through, as though they were distilled from the pages of a book, ink and paper brought to life.

Suddenly those gray eyes turned to me. "How closely you study me," Boromir observed idly, a grin tugging at his lips. "Are my features to your liking?"

I jumped. "Oh, no," I said quickly. "I mean, yes—that is—I was just lost in thought, sorry." I felt my ears burn.

He laughed and waved away my words. "Forgive me, I was in jest. What is it you write there, if I may ask?" he said, gesturing to the parchment scattered in the grass at my feet.

"Letters for Bilbo and my friend Amarien in Rivendell. And then these are for my mom and my friends back home. Oh!" I added, "and before I forget, these are for you." I handed him a stack of parchment. "You're probably almost out of writing supplies by now."

"Thank you, Beatrice," he replied, frowning down at the parchment. "But in truth, I have not written to my brother for some time now. I cannot account for it, but it has been…difficult to put quill to parchment of late."

I recognized the strain in his voice, and my heart sank. The Ring. I was right. "You should try writing to Faramir again. I bet he'd be interested in all this," I told him gently, gesturing around us.

"That he would be." Boromir looked around, taking in the elven forest as though trying to see it with his brother's eyes. "Have you any other family besides your mother?" he asked after a while. "Siblings, a husband, a father?"

"No. I'm an only child, single, and my dad died when I was ten. It was cancer," I added in explanation. "I'm sure y'all have the same disease here, although you might call it by a different name."

"I am sorry to hear it," he said softly. "What was his profession? You were not part of the gentry, I take it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, we don't have nobility or anything back home, but that's right. My dad was a high school teacher, and my mom is a lawyer."

"Your mother practices law?" Boromir exclaimed. "Forgive me," he added quickly, seeing the warning glare on my face. "You have told me before of your people's customs; I should not have been surprised." He laughed. "I should have suspected, in any case, that you were raised by an unusually commanding mother, bold as you are."

"Bold?" I repeated blankly. No one had ever called me anything like that before; my friends back in Texas had made fun of my shyness at every opportunity.

"Do you doubt my praise, troll-slayer?" he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

Heat rose to my face, and I busied myself with ripping up handfuls of grass at my feet. "Legolas killed that troll, Boromir, not me. I just—helped out a bit. Any of y'all with a gun could've done a whole lot better."

He shrugged. "As you say. Yet you performed admirably in combat."

"I was petrified the whole time," I protested uncomfortably—him calling me bold was, ironically, quite unnerving. "And I wasn't able to kill a single goblin without help!"

"It was your first battle. From what little I saw of your work, you parried your opponents' blades quite well. You need only learn to press your advantage." At my doubtful look, he leaned forward impatiently, resting an elbow on his knee and meeting my eyes squarely. "I have trained many men, Beatrice. I would not exaggerate your skill; to do so would be deadly."

"Thank you," I said at last, forcing myself to accept his words. Boromir was so bluntly honest that it took some getting used to. "I'm just not sure how to press my advantage," I admitted after a moment. "Could you teach me how to go on the offensive like that?"

"Of course. We shall likely stay in this strange forest for several more days at least," Boromir said. "We shall have ample time to practice."

"Great!" I said, brightening. "You know, I'm surprised Strider hasn't been making me and the hobbits keep up with our daily swordplay since we got here," I added dryly. "He made us practice out in the snow, in the dark, when we were bone-tired—and now he's giving us a break?"

Boromir's lip curled into a sneer. "Aragorn spends all his time among the elves now, it seems. One would think he has abandoned his own people in their favor." I shrugged uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. "I fear he shall not wish to go to Minas Tirith at all," he went on, fists clenched. "But to do otherwise is madness! I cannot account for his thinking." He turned to me. "What say you, then? You would not have them go on to the Land of Shadow, not without first having a chance to rest and gather strength in my city."

"I don't know," I said carefully, recognizing his tone; it sounded just the same as my feverish thoughts weeks ago. "This plan was never about strength, it's about secrecy. And time is of the essence, isn't it? It's probably better to destroy th—to get rid of it as quickly as possible." I stumbled over the words—it was difficult for me, even now, just to talk about the Ring.

"Yes, time is of the essence," Boromir repeated impatiently. "Time that must be spent well! What use is the little time we have remaining if it is squandered away on a fool's errand?"

"It's not a fool's errand!" I exclaimed. "It will work."

Boromir seemed to have realized that he'd said too much, and he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I had heard the elves in Rivendell speak of your foresight, but such a declaration cannot be within your knowledge."

Tell him, I snapped to myself. Tell him that you wanted the Ring, that you understand, that you know what he's going through. It might act as a warning, it might help him understand, it might snap him out of it.

"Look," I began, clenching my fists in my lap. I hesitated. I didn't think I could bear those gray eyes turning to me with mistrust, disgust, anger, as they certainly would if he knew what I'd almost done. "I know it's hard to have faith in this plan, believe me, I know, but we have to hold out hope. It…it feeds on despair," I added desperately, my throat convulsing on the words before I could say more.

He frowned, studying me with confusion, but I looked away, unable to offer an explanation. He was wrong about me, I thought blackly. I wasn't bold. I was too much of a coward to bring up the Ring at all.

"I should go," I said abruptly. "I don't know how mail works here, but I've been meaning to ask about sending a courier to Rivendell with my letters."

"Very well," Boromir replied, still studying me as I gathered up my letters and dusted the bits of grass off my dress. "Bring your sword and meet me here tomorrow, if you will. We shall make a warrior of you yet," he added, offering me a smile.

"Alright. And you should write to your brother," I added impulsively. "Promise me you'll try."

He looked down at the stack of parchment I'd given him, unease written across his face. "Then I will try, Beatrice."

The poem Frodo sings in this chapter is 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost. Every time I read it I think of those LOTR walking songs they sing so often in the books, and I think Bilbo would have no trouble at all putting the poem to song given the catchy rhyme scheme and repeating last line.

See y'all in 2021!