Chapter 5
"Didn't I tell you to move your feet?"
"I do."
"No. You just trip yourself on them."
Ceirin scrambled up off the ground, having some difficulty doing this and holding on to the sword she had borrowed from Boromir at the same time without cutting herself on it. She assumed a ready stance, feet spread and small hands awkwardly clutching the hilt.
"Again. I can do this," she told Aragorn with grim determination.
He lunged in with a few blows, adjusting the speed of his movements to Ceirin's inexperience, while she parried them in the way he had shown her. She had to back up and relinquish ground, but moved her feet in an impromptu orderly pattern and this time caught each blow.
"Not bad," he nodded appreciatively, "but that sword is much too heavy for you. We should find you a smaller one to practice with."
"Not to mention that it's Boromir's and he'll need it," she grinned back impishly, feeling rather pleased with herself.
Aragorn stood nonchalantly resting his own sword on the back of his neck, holding it by tip and hilt. "By the way, have you finally spoken to Legolas about teaching you to fire a bow?" he asked.
"No, Aragorn," she replied, sighing heavily. "And I know you understand my reluctance."
"Yes. But I still wish you would simply ask him. He won't bite your head off for it," he said, taking the sword from her hands and swinging both around a few times to compare the weight. "Didn't you say that you weren't afraid to learn useful skills?"
"Yeah yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "But there is a difference between learning something and learning it from an elf."
Aragorn raised his eyebrows at her, turned to call over his shoulder to where the elf was sitting. "Legolas, come over here, please. And bring your bow. Ceirin has something to ask you." He turned back to the fairy, who was sending him scalding looks, to add in a teasing tone: "Be brave. I'm sure you will survive." Then he removed himself from the scene. Three would be a crowd.
When he came back half an hour later to tell them it was time to move on, it was to see Ceirin successfully shooting off an arrow – which is a trick in itself – with Legolas at her back, face beside hers, hands on her arms to guide the motion.
"Time to go," he called.
Ceirin nodded briefly at Legolas, jogged off to retrieve the arrow. "Good job," said Aragorn to the elf as he walked past him to join the others. Legolas made no reply.
They made good time, in spite of some weather trouble, which only increased as they approached the pass of Caradhras.
The harder the wind blew, the better Ceirin's spirits. While all of the Fellowship – aside from Legolas – huddled as deep into their cloaks as they could, the fairy walked straight-backed and beaming. Uncontrollable hair a matted mess, swaying whichever way the wind tossed it in soft peaks, like whisked egg white, if egg white were black.
The elf seemed equally in his element, suffering as little from the harsh weather as Ceirin. Whenever neither of them was busy trying to keep a hobbit on his feet, she tried to entice him into snowball battles. More often than not, he responded to a well-aimed projectile with a scolding look, sometimes to surprise her a little while later with an especially fluffy snowball square against the back of her head. Aragorn had little patience with this tomfoolery, telling them to knock it off.
"Give me a break," she would say. "It never snows in Rivendel."
The going got ever tougher as they scrambled up the steep mountain. It got so bad that the hobbits needed to be carried, sitting blue-lipped and shivering pathetically on the arms of Boromir and Aragorn.
Saruman's magic was strong and compelled them to turn back, in spite of Gandalf's valiant effort to clear them a path. So it was decided they would go through the mines of Moria. Ceirin shivered at the thought.
After the betentacled monster from the lake had sealed off the entrance to Moria behind them, while Gandalf was pondering which way they should go, Ceirin stood eyeing the stone walls which enclosed them, looking both forlorn and depressed.
"Do not be too concerned," said Legolas, touching her lightly on the shoulder which made her jump. "Gandalf will lead us through safely. Have faith in him."
"Oh, I do. It's just... I've always been a bit claustrophobic, you see. And spending half a day and a night inside a mountain's skin didn't help much," she answered, smiling weakly.
"You will be alright."
She was not alright.
As the Fellowship progressed steadily through the halls and winding staircases of Moria, it became clear that something was amiss with the fairy. She had turned quite pale inside the first day and was shivering non-stop by the end of the second.
Gandalf ordered a stop for what they assumed was the night after the third day in a small chamber. None of the Fellowship – except Gimli – seemed to be very fond of this strange deserted underground city. At least in this chamber they could pretend to be simply inside a room in an ordinary house. Ceirin slumped bonelessly to the ground in a corner and curled up around herself. Legolas approached her.
"Are you feeling alright?" he asked carefully.
"Fine," she replied, looking up at him. "I'm just cold. And I can't breathe very well in here. I miss the sun. I miss the sky."
"We all do," he said, a bit too quickly. "But then," he added, kneeling down beside her, "we're not elementals of Air, are we."
She looked at him curiously, propped herself up on an elbow. "Gandalf told you about that?"
"Yes. But he didn't need to. I recognized what you were as soon as I took a close enough look."
She smiled greenly. "Pity. He seemed very pleased at having figured that out for himself."
"Gandalf is a wise man. The wisest I have ever met. But sometimes he relies too much on his wisdom, rather than simply asking what he wants to know."
"Sounds like him..." She closed her eyes a few moments, drew a strained breath.
Legolas was about to move away and leave her to sleep, when her eyes flew open again.
"What else do you know about fairies?" she asked with some urgency in her voice.
He looked down upon her small form in its dark little corner. Only her eyes reflected enough light from Gandalf's staff – which was with Gandalf at the other side of the chamber – to be seen properly. They glowed up like cat's eyes in the dark. Peculiar eyes, long, slit and too slanted to be called beautiful, beneath thick eyebrows and a dusty mop of hair. "Not much more than you do, I imagine," he replied after a moment's consideration.
"Does Elrond know about different types of fairies," she asked, frowning.
"Of course."
"Great clouds, you all know more about my own folk than I do. And when was I to be told about this?" she added accusingly.
"When you were old enough, I assume," he shrugged.
"I'm twenty!"
"Exactly. Now go to sleep," he said when he saw her shivering again. "Here, you may borrow my cloak." He removed it from his own shoulders, seemed to consider wrapping it around her, but settled on handing it over.
"Thank you," she replied, too worn out and chilled to the bone to object to his being without a cloak in the cold and damp of Moria. She rolled up in it and stayed as she lay, out like a light.
It was also Legolas who came to wake her some hours later. He stood looking down at her in the shifting shadows caused by Gandalf walking about in the chamber, hesitant to disturb her sleep, but also rather anxious to get his cloak back. Her hands were balled into childlike fists, fingers curled loosely around thumbs, and her mouth hung open a little. He bent down and nudged her gently, got no reaction. As he kneeled to shake her more thoroughly, which still did not succeed in waking her, he noticed how shallow and strained her breath had become.
"Gandalf!" he called to the wizard.
"What is the matter," said he, approaching. The staff in his hand shed more light on her face, which was frighteningly pale. Her eyes had become ghostly hollow, and the tightly closed lids seemed almost translucent.
"Ceirin!" said the wizard. He bent down to grasp her by the shoulder and shake her as Legolas had done, still not waking her.
"She will not wake up," the elf stated the obvious.
"You'll never find a dwarf putting on airs like that for lacking a bit of sunlight," Gimli put in, having strolled over to see what was going on.
"Be quiet, Gimli," said Legolas.
"No, he's right," said the wizard. "Air and sunlight. That must be it. She suffers without them. I fear our fairy will soon be at the end of her tether if she does not see the sky." He reached down and shook her again.
Ceirin's eyes cracked open a fraction. She smacked her dry lips, swallowed with difficulty.
"Wake up, little fairy. This will not do. Get up, for your own sake. The sooner we reach the other end of these blasted mines, the better for you," Gandalf told her.
Gimli looked a bit offended at hearing the pride of his people referred to as 'these blasted mines' but thought better of saying something, pushed Legolas out of the way to start hoisting the fairy to a sitting position. "Bring us some food and water, here," he called to the hobbits, who had been reluctantly chewing on dry bread for lack of firewood and ventilation to cook anything.
Sam scurried over with the requested bread and water. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, handing them to Gimli.
"Nothing that some food in her belly and a quick exit from this place won't cure," replied Gimli as he fed her bits of bread and sips of water.
The fairy turned her head away from the bread, but the water did seem to perk her up a little.
"Will you be able to walk?" Legolas asked when she had shakily gained her feet.
"Damned if I don't try," she said curtly, holding on to the wall with one hand.
He moved to support her, but she shoved him away, almost toppling herself.
"Let me try," she insisted.
He did, but stayed close behind her as the Fellowship assumed the rest of their journey through the mines. They had not been walking ten minutes when Ceirin, ahead of Legolas on a narrow staircase next to a gaping abyss, suddenly stopped, staggered precariously, and then slumped like a dead weight. The elf caught her just in time before she toppled sideways into the chasm.
He set her down on one of the steps, propped up against the wall, called to Gimli and Gandalf who walked ahead of them to stop. He gently cupped her cheek and spoke her name, beseeching her to wake up.
Ceirin's eyes slowly opened. She suddenly started wretching and vomited, brought up all the water that Gimli had force-fed her. It soaked the sleeve of the elf's tunic on the arm with which he was holding her up, but he did not move away even though the faintly sour smell made him a bit queasy. She grimaced as her body cramped up, then fell limp as she lost consciousness.
The rest of the trip through Moria, along with the violent fight and the tragic events at its end, were a blank for the fairy. She rode it all out on either Boromir's or Aragorn's shoulder. Neither man asked Legolas to take a turn carrying her and he didn't offer, for reasons he himself couldn't name.
Ceirin awoke to the glorious feeling of sunlight streaming down on her, filling every vein with scintillating warmth. The air seemed crisper, fresher and thicker with life than she had ever known it. She stayed motionless, breathing as deeply as her lungs would allow, relishing the feeling with every fibre of her being. It hurt deep inside, but even the pain was welcome, for it was more proof that she was still alive.
When the aching subsided, she became aware of sobbing noises close by. She opened her eyes, finding it difficult to wrench her lids apart, tried to sit up and winced when she felt bruises here and there which indicated she must have been handled rather roughly.
Frodo was sitting a few metres from her side, the image of a broken hobbit.
"What is the matter?" she asked him, voice raw and hoarse.
He looked up with swollen eyes. "Gandalf is dead."