It wasn't right for the sun to be waking now. Not after three days in the Mines of Moria, not after Gandalf was not given the chance to see a new day. It did not feel like a beginning at all – it felt like an end. A death, not a rebirth. Merry was holding back his own sobs to cradle Pippin, who wailed at his feet. Boromir held Gimli's head to his chest, holding him tight to keep him from marching back into the Mines, turning him away from it. Legolas couldn't believe it, and he swayed on his feet, trying to comprehend. Aragorn alone could control the tides of overwhelming sorrow that threatened to drag him under as it had his friends. His cheeks were the only ones dry of tears.

He turned to face his companions, to call out to Legolas to get them on their feet, when the words caught in his throat.

Shiros didn't notice him. The tears stung her eyes, and she cursed the sun above her. It seemed to burn her worse than the Balrog. She dug her hands into her hair and into her scalp, desperate for the thoughts to stop, for the voice screaming at her to stop. A strand of her hair, fallen loose during the battle from the tight braids that had kept it hidden beneath her veil, fell in front of her and brushed against her cheek.

She froze.

She met Aragorn's stare.

"Shiros?" The quiet and uncertain question slipped past his lips unintentionally, and it was enough to rouse the attention of the others.

They all looked to her, and Boromir stopped restraining Gimli.

He charged her in an instance, sword unsheathed and aimed at her neck. Shiros barely delivered herself from an early grave with a lucky dodge. She tried to retreat but tripped over a rock and fell to the ground, forced to scramble back as he approached with another attack. Her arms raised futilely to protect herself from the falling blade, the tip pointed straight at her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The end didn't come.

The sword wavered an inch from her chest, its descent halted by Legolas' hands which were tightly wrapped over Boromir's. His muscles strained, and the sword shook with the power struggle played between Man and Elf. If Legolas loosened his grip just for a second, it would plunge into her chest. He was the only barrier between her and death. Shiros couldn't move, frozen by the battle for her life taking place above her. Aragorn ran to them and pulled the Gondorian back, wrangling the blade from his hands. He dropped it with an angry shout, and Legolas flung it from them. The metal crashed onto stone, the clang like a screech. Shiros heaved, but no air filled her lungs; each gasp was short and broken. The hobbits and Gimli were stricken mute, and Boromir's curses were the sole sounds filling the air.

"Why?" he yelled at Aragorn and Legolas. "Why did you stop me? She is an eldmer! She must be in league with Sauron. If she hadn't, Gandalf—" He cut himself off with angry tears and hateful abuses toward her. He blamed her for the Crebain, for the Pass, for the Mines, for Gandalf's death.

Aragorn grabbed him by the shoulders. "You cannot kill her," he told Boromir firmly, trying to keep his own feelings below.

"She is an eldmer!"

"She is part of the Fellowship!"

"I will have nothing to do with that monster! She deceived us! You led the Balrog to us, didn't you? You found it when you were sneaking in the dark," he yelled over Aragorn's shoulder.

"BOROMIR!" Aragorn shook him harshly. "Stop!"

The struggle subsided, but the burning hatred did not. Instead, it spread like wildfire. The Gondorian was not alone in glaring at her with disgust and malice, like she was an abomination akin to the orcs and goblins they'd killed.

"Drazûk," Gimli spat. He hefted up his axe.

Poor Pippin was so confused and scared. "What's going on?" he asked helplessly.

"She is one of them," Boromir hissed. "Behold, a true eldmer, an agent of Sauron," he jeered spitefully.

Legolas had yet to say anything, and Shiros looked to him. There were too many emotions shifting in and out of his fair features, contorting them until it settled on betrayal. His stare snapped away from her, and he left her side. Legolas picked up Boromir's sword and handed it to the man. However, he issued a quiet but baleful caution against rushing Shiros again.

"We must go if we are to reach Lothlórein before nightfall, and our enemies will not be far behind us," Aragorn warned them. "Legolas, get them up and lead them away."

The elf gathered the hobbits and the dwarf without another sound and guided them towards the woods. He refused to look back, but he could feel her staring right at him.

Boromir had not moved. "And what of the eldmer?"

Aragorn met Shiros' eyes, searched them intensely, and felt the sting of guilt. He could not see the taint of the Enemy, only pain and fear. There was so much fear. He closed his eyes. "She will not come with us."

Boromir's knuckles were white beneath his gloves, and he threw out a hand in her direction. "And you would leave her be? So she can lead them to our trail?"

"She cannot tell them anything they do not already know. Boromir, we must go. Now. Orcs will be swarming these hills by nightfall."

With one last venomous glare and a promise to kill her if she followed, Boromir left to rejoin the Fellowship. Aragorn stayed behind, although he did not approach her.

"Aragorn?" His name was barely audible, a plea, but the Dúnedan made no move to help her. She was still on the stone, propped up on her elbows, from her fall.

"Continue east to Rhûn – it is the safest place for you," he told her. "They will kill you if you follow, and I cannot stop them."

"You said an eldmer saved you once. You know I am not an agent of Sauron. You know I am not with him. Aragorn, please. Don't leave me here."

The eldmer lived long lives, and she was likely older than all but Legolas; but Aragorn knew they matured slowly. She had the experience but not the mind for it until recently. She was not on the cusp between juvenility and adulthood – the last remnants of childhood had long since faded, by force or by time – but she was not old by any means according to her race's standards. It seemed obvious now: why she had that old look in her eye but a youthful look to her face. The veil, the diet, the lack of need for sleep, the keen sense of smell – all signs pointing to a blood not shared with Men. They had been blind, and she cloaked in a good disguise.

She could not come with them. If it could be different, he would choose it to be so. But it could not. For her sake, they must leave her.

"There is nothing I can do. Go. Before the orcs come."

She was left on the stones, alone and battered, while Aragorn reunited with the other seven. What had begun as ten was down to eight.

Aragorn pushed the thought aside, buried it deep where the other feelings of shame and sorrow rested. Twice now had he abandoned people who had placed their trust with him. His hand found its way to the Evenstar beneath his clothes, and he let regret for Shiros and longing for Arwen flow through him. Once the minute to feel was over, Aragorn steeled himself to become the leader the Fellowship needed him to be. He did not speak of Shiros and coldly silenced their questions. He sternly prompted them forward; they had wasted enough time, and they must reach the Golden Wood before sunset. He pressed onward, scouting ahead so he did not have to hear the hobbits defend Shiros. He was convinced of her goodness for he had never sensed malicious intent, but there was too much at stake. The Fellowship was already beginning to break, and it would shatter if she remained with them. It was better for her to be alone than dead at their hands.

Frodo was too lost in grief and Sam was too distracted as his guide, but Merry and Pippin were persistent. Their protests and pleas to go back could not be quietened. Legolas moved nearer to Aragorn. He did not want to listen to them.

"You do not understand, young hobbits, but they are terrible things," Gimli told them gruffly.

"Shiros told us—"

"Shiros was deceitful," Boromir snapped. "The stories she told of the eldmer were lies. There is no goodness in them."

"But Aragorn was saved by one."

"He must have been mistaken. I do not wish to speak ill of him, but if he had been struck with delirium, he must have misremembered. He said the sun had been in his eyes. It must have been a trick of the light. The eldmer are murderers. Vicious and cruel. Before the War, they took our women and our children and killed them. We were scared to leave our borders, confined to our cities."

"No." Pippin adamantly shook his head. "No, she wouldn't do that. She'd never hurt us."

Gimli pitied the naïve hobbits. "Aye, she would have had she gotten the chance to be alone with you. They took our women and children in the night, too, if they strayed too far away. We rarely found their remains." The stain of the drazûk on the dwarves was deep and ugly.

What being could be so cruel? "Why?"

"They are parasites. They survive on it."

"…It?" The question was nothing more than a whisper.

"Us," Boromir stressed, desperate for them to see sense. "Free Folk. They feed on us."

Pippin's stomach turned, and his face was ashen. "No, no. Shiros ate Sam's dinners."

"But only the meat. She could not pursue her true desires with us there. It was no doubt a farce, an act."

"Gandalf and Lord Elrond—!"

"Enough, Pippin!" Merry opened his mouth to defend his cousin, but Boromir did not let him. "Any kindness she spared you, any care you think she held for any of us was not genuine. She would have led us to our doom. You'd do best to cast her from your mind and pray you never meet another one."

The hobbits did not bother Boromir with any more questions. He did not mean to be harsh with them, but they did not know; they were sheltered. His ancestors had faced the threat of the eldmer and suffered. His own family had experienced great tragedy, losing a daughter and two sons to the eldmer when they had been most fearsome at their peak. For as much as Gondor hated the kingdoms of the East and South, nothing compared to the rage they had for the eldmer. The stories were awful and made even a veteran shudder. (The Ring cackled with glee at the hatred overflowing Boromir. Frodo grabbed at it through his clothes like it had burned him).

Legolas, many paces ahead, could not stop himself from listening despite his attempts. He knew of the déllyth as well. They had plagued Mirkwood along with the territories of Men and of Dwarves. But unlike Gimli and Boromir, he was actually old enough to have experienced the aftermaths of the attacks and remember them. The wailing of mothers when their elflings did not come back from their ventures near the edge of the woods would never leave his memory. For the elves of the Woodland Realm, the déllyth's attacks did not subside with the end of the War of the Last Alliance. Instead, they were renewed with a fervor in coincidence with the rise of the Necromancer in Amon Lanc, furthering the black shadow threatening to corrupt the forest. They were part of that plaguing evil for two or three hundred years before their numbers mysteriously declined. The elves did not wonder why the déllyth grew fewer or why those who still lived retreated back to the East and Southlands, but they did not seek the answer. One does not question a miracle.

The Fellowship passed the hours with wretched and grim thoughts. The visions and images Legolas' mind conjured were appalling. They did not let the memory of Shiros leave him and instead showed him awful fates awaiting her. He blamed the Ring, but deep inside, he knew it was nothing more than his own guilty conscience that tortured him. He reminisced on the time he'd spent with her. All those times she trusted him enough to let him help her sleep, his songs to stave off the nightmares. All those times she took watch with them and they talked of their lives. He'd never sensed dishonesty in her words. Reluctance, yes, but never deception. With a great stab to his heart, he realized they would never hear the tale of Oriph the Stag she'd promised to tell Merry and Pippin. He doubted their paths would cross again even if they both survived this. Survival. Life or death. Thoughts of orcs or wargs or worse finding her flooded his mind, and he swallowed his revulsion. But…would she find a better fate with them? The orcs became Boromir, and he felt sick. Aragorn rested a hand on his shoulder, sensing his mounting distress.

"Peace, mellon nin. We are nearly upon Lórein."

"Was it right?" Legolas despaired. "Lord Elrond and Gandalf are wise – they must have known of her true nature. I cannot in my heart believe it was all false."

"Nor can I, but it is safer for her if she does not come. I do not know what Boromir would do. He is too blinded by his anger. The injustice done to Gondor weighs heavily on him."

"Where will she go? It is not safe to travel alone."

"I told her to return to Rhûn. If there were any among of us to be trusted to travel alone, it would be she. Shiros is clever and resourceful, and she has lived as a wanderer for many years, more years than any of us except you. I must believe she will survive."

"And if she doesn't? What if she has passed already?"

Aragorn exhaled slowly. "Then I will accept that her blood is on my hands. Come now, we are here."

The Fellowship arrived at the Golden Wood right as the sun began to wane. Its amber glow created dancing shadows on the falling leaves and the trees. It was ethereal, but their hearts were too heavy to fully appreciate the beauty. Legolas and Aragorn, no stranger to the forest, trespassed lightly, but Gimli warned the hobbits of the great and terrible elf-witch who could spell any who looked upon her. He hid his sorrow, worry, and betrayal behind a layer of callousness and cockiness. To divert from his real emotions, he renewed his distaste and distrust for elves.

"Here's one dwarf she will not snare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox—" His boasting was abruptly ended by an arrow in his face as the Galadhrim patrol surrounded them. Legolas instinctually cocked his own bow.

"The dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him in the dark." The Marchwarden stepped forward.

"Haldir of Lórein. We come here for help. We need your protection," Aragorn implored.

They were taken to a flet in the trees to evade orcs and other unwanted watchers following close behind. But Haldir would not bring them further into the Golden Wood; the evil they carried was too great. Legolas and Aragorn argued with him for hours. However, it was only at the behest of the Lady of the Wood that the Marchwarden guided them through the twisty and winding trees. The longer they spent in the peaceful and entrancing nature of the woods, the more they were able to forget their grief and worry – a necessary but temporary respite. They laid eyes on Caras Galadhon at half-light the following day, but it was well into night when they finally reached the heart of Lothlórein and were brought before the Lady of Light.

Galadriel, with Celeborn by her side, both clad in wholly white, looked down upon each and every one of them. While Celeborn asked of the fall in numbers and of Gandalf, she took up residence amongst the whispers of their souls and became privy to things even their owners did not know. She travelled upwards with the whisps that did escape their locked away confines and met Aragorn's eyes.

Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land, Galadriel's voice swept through their minds like a gentle breeze. And neither has Shiros, but this was only to Aragorn, whose gaze briefly flickered to the ground.

"He has fallen into shadow," she whispered aloud. Celeborn slowly faced his wife

"He was taken by both shadow and flame. A Balrog of Morgoth." Legolas suppressed the tremor that threatened to overtake him. He did not think he would ever forget the Balrog – its flames, its eyes. He had never been more terrified. "For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life," Galadriel reproached firmly but not unkindly. "We do not yet know his full purpose."

To Gimli, son of Glóin, she told him to rest his heart; for the world is full of peril and there would not be found any love unentwined with grief in all the lands. To Boromir, she turned and within her eyes, eyes imprinted with starlight, he found the object of his greatest temptation and his greatest doom: the Ring. Even as the Ring called to him, she spoke silently of the fall of his father and of Gondor. She bid him have hope. Hope? He could not see any hope. He could bear to hold her stare no longer.

Their quest and the fate of Middle-Earth stood on the edge of a knife, supported by eight or broken by one.

Galadriel left them to ponder and to properly grieve. There was made no mention of Shiros, a fact Aragorn was very aware of, but perhaps it was for the best.

They were given lodgings, clothed in the garb of elves, and fed. But the lodgings were too contained, the garb too soft, and the food, rich and savory, tasted bland. The pleasures of the world were dulled.

The sweet night air was filled with a lament for Gandalf. Gimli retired early for hearing the song was too much. It was the most beautiful sound the hobbits had ever heard, and the sheer emotion and the waves of unleashed sorrow threatened to overwhelm them. Merry and Pippin retreated in on themselves. Sam composed a brief poem about Gandalf's fireworks, but he did not believe they did the firework displays justice. And, disheartened, he fell into an uneasy slumber. Once Gimli and the hobbits were asleep, Aragorn rose and joined the Gondorian, who sat a distance away. Legolas strayed from the group, having no desire for company. He drifted through the land aimlessly, pursuing his grief. He gasped as that breeze washed over him again, and he heard her voice calling him.

Galadriel beckoned him to her, pulling him from his mourning and lament. He followed her guidance to a path. It gave way to an ethereal but empty courtyard with the exception of a tall, empty basin in the middle. He scanned the architecture and foliage for the Lady but found only the moonlight shining through the canopy. Legolas approached the basin and looked at its dry base. He could feel magic from it but could not find from where or from what. It felt wrong, an uncomfortable itch beneath his skin. He startled when Galadriel's voice echoed through the courtyard.

"Will you look into the Mirror?" Galadriel carried a silver pitcher to the basin and poured water into it. In the moonbeams, it looked like melted starlight. The Lady of Light always looked otherworldly but there in the courtyard, she was almost devastating to look upon. Too beautiful and too terrifying.

"My lady?"

"Will you look into the Mirror?" she repeated, tilting her head to catch his eye. He could not hold her stare and ducked away, fixating on the basin.

In his heart, Legolas knew he did not want to gaze into the Mirror. He was afraid of what he might see but nevertheless stepped up to the basin and peered into its waters. It showed him many things from his past – Mirkwood in its prime, news of the délloth attack, Thorin's company of dwarves, the Council of Elrond. Shiros. It showed him the conversation with Shiros in the forest, how at ease and peaceful she had been. His heart clenched uncomfortably, and he wanted to divert his eyes, but a voice in his head bid him to stay.

The Mirror was kind when it showed him those memories from his past, even as conflicted as they were, because the ones that followed shook his faith. He saw a bloody battlefield littered with the bodies of elves, Men, and orcs; the black wood of Shiros' arrow sinking into a man's chest; himself hunched over a corpse and sobbing freely; Aragorn kneeling at his bedside, holding his hand to his chest.

The last vision was of Shiros lying just within the boundaries of Lothlorein. Her face was lifted to the stars, but there was no light in them. Her skin was too pale, her lips cracked and dry. Blood stiffened her clothing from above her hip to her knees. She did not move.

Legolas jerked back from the Mirror, pressing a hand to his heart to still it. His head snapped toward Galadriel.

"She's dead?" His voice broke.

Galadriel turned to face the Mallorn trees. "Not yet, but she fades. Go."

Legolas flew through the trees, ignoring the protests from the Galadhrim he narrowly avoided. Haldir made to follow him, but the Lady must have stopped him. In Legolas' mind, Galadriel guided him through the woods and promised to send two of the best healers behind him. It took hours – hours he did not know if Shiros had – to reach the borders. He eventually spotted her through the last few trees, but he knew it was her instantly; that unmistakable hair tangled in the grass acting like a beacon. He dropped by her side, shaking hands hovering over her.

Was he too late?


General Notes:

- I do not exactly known the timeline of Dol Guldur and when Sauron rose and started messing with things - it's based on a quick read of the wiki page. I also did my own take on what Galadriel's doing in the meeting scene.

- I hope Boromir didn't seem too OOC - with the combination of the Ring, his previous dislike of Shiros, and his hatred of the eldmer, I think it's pretty reasonable for him to be unreasonable, illogical, and driven almost entirely by spite to the point where he ignores/distorts reality and facts, but I wrote the scene so... Gimli is in a similar state but on a lesser degree.

- I debated putting a TW for non-graphic mentions of semi-cannibalism and (child) murder, but I didn't think it necessary. If you disagree with me, please let me know and I'll add them

Language Notes:

Each character uses their native language's terms for Shiros' race:

- Westron: (s/pl) eldmer

- Sindarin: (s) délloth/(pl) déllyth

- Khuzdul: (s/pl) drazûk

- Shiros' language: ?