Chapter 7

A little while later, freshly bathed and dressed in some new clothes – which had given Najathiel some trouble selecting as they didn't have much lying around in her size – to replace her own effectively ruined outfit, she rejoined the Fellowship.

Most of them were reclining on pillows in a sort of joint guest room area. Dishes containing various fruits and assorted delectables stood around in strategic places, or had in any case been moved there by the hobbits from less strategic places.

She saw Legolas walking around. He was dressed in an ivory tunic, possibly borrowed while his own clothes were given a wash. She knew him well enough to know that he would prefer a more sensible color for traveling. Even so, he seemed rather pleased with it for the time being. He kept running his fingers over the material on his chest, but stopped doing this when he noticed what had put an impish little grin on Ceirin's face: that her new tunic was an exact replica of his, aside from the size.

Najathiel had tried to put her in a dress, but she had resisted this scheme with all the force of a cat refusing a bath. The woman's assertions that it was only for the evening, that she would be given more practical clothes for traveling the next day, had been quite futile. Ceirin moved around a bit, bending this way and that, to test the flexibility of the material around the shoulders, elbows and knees. The tunic had an annoying way of bunching up underneath her arms, as if unsure of how to make room for what unimpressive amount of bosom she possessed, which made sense as the garment had been designed for a boy. But the trousers proved very satisfactory. Through some weird coincidence, Najathiel had dug up a pair of almost exactly the same shade as her eyes. A shade Legolas would undoubtedly disapprove of, Ceirin thought with some gratification.

Ceirin's still damp hair had been pulled back in two braids starting at the temples. This was something of a feat, as her hair was actually too short for this arrangement. But she was pleased with and somehow proud of the way it showed off her ears, with one straight lock hanging down by either cheekbone. Ironically, she had never worn her hair in this elvish style back in Rivendell. There, she had been desperate to prove in some small way that she was different, if one didn't also count regular antics and rascally behaviour as ways to prove this. Here, her difference was an established, accepted fact, leaving room for exploring ways in which she might be the same.

Ceirin was about to go and ask Legolas for a word when she heard a song in the air, a lovely elven voice singing about tragedy and sorrow.

"A lament for Gandalf," said Legolas.

"What do they say about him?" Merry asked him.

"I have not the heart to tell you," he replied. "For me the grief is still too near."

Ceirin reconsidered. This might not be the best time to bother Legolas with expressions of gratitude for having saved her life in the mines of Moria and defended her in front of Haldir. If there was ever such a time. She wasn't too certain that she was up to it herself, either. The song seemed to be working directly on her tear glands without bothering to check in with the rest of her nervous system, and she was swallowing and blinking to keep the tears back, not quite sure why she bothered.

Ceirin sighed. Grief was an entirely new thing to her. She'd never lived among men, and elves, being immortal, weren't in the habit of dying left and right. She wanted to mourn Gandalf, but wasn't sure how to go about it. She hadn't known him nearly as long or as well as the others and was worried that showing excessive grief might be taken as a personal offence by some of them. The social conundrum was not her forte. All convenient issues of fairy versus elves aside, Ceirin was essentially a loner, which explained her well-developed climb-up-a-tree-and-throw-things-at-whoever-comes-near-it reflex.

She was contemplating doing exactly this – though finding a tree of climbable proportions might be a problem – when Legolas sidled up to her.

"How are you?" he asked kindly, as if this was the most natural thing for him to be doing, and she supposed that yes, maybe in some universe, it could be. She could in any case get used to it.

"I'm well, thanks," she said, quickly wiping underneath her eyes, just in case. "Clean. I'd forgotten what that was like. And you?"

His eyes glazed over as he fixed the middle distance and repeated what he had just told Merry, that he was unable for the moment to speak of his grief or anything related to it.

Ceirin nodded and shuffled her feet uneasily. "I don't suppose you've often lost someone who was dear to you," she said, scrambling for something to say and hoping that he'd let her get away with such a personal question.

"I lost my mother," he replied, stoically folding his hands behind his back. "Everyone does, eventually. The circle of life will not be cheated, not even by an immortal."

"I know," said Ceirin. "People are born, people grow up, soldier on with it and eventually die, regardless of who is or isn't there to watch it happen." She tried to look grown up and wise, aware that the delivery of any statement is a big factor in how it will be received. "But it's a good thing to be watched, for it means that you will be remembered. That's a way of cheating, depending on how you look at it. Gandalf will live on in our thoughts. And maybe..." She stopped, stared vaguely ahead.

"Maybe what?" Legolas prompted.

She shook her head and started twisting a lock of damp hair around her finger to hide her embarrassment. "Nothing," she said softly. "It wouldn't make any sense."

"You were going to say that maybe he will live on in some other way as well, weren't you?" Legolas offered.

Ceirin gaped at him. "Did you just read that out of my mind?" she asked sharply, sounding rather offended at the notion, as she would be.

Legolas gave a little smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. "You know I wouldn't, Ceirin. Your thoughts are your own. I respect that."

She closed her mouth and nodded firmly, taking on a wider stance. "Appreciated. You have no idea how much. It can be quite daunting, living around telepaths. But if you didn't read my mind, how did you know?"

The elf gave this some thought. "It's quite normal to be in denial about such things, I suppose, and to wish for some kind of magical continuation of that which you cannot let go of. I can scarcely believe that Gandalf is gone, myself, and I was there, watching. I know it, but I can hardly believe it, even though the image is forever engraved in my mind. For you, who were no witness, it must be even harder to accept."

The circumstance that, despite what he'd said, he was now speaking of his grief – even if only indirectly, as a point of comparison – quite escaped Ceirin's notice. "I guess," she mumbled, unable to withstand the logic of millennia-old knowledge of souls, even if her heart told her a different story.

"Do not let your dreams be troubled tonight, as I know mine will be," Legolas said, briefly putting his thumb to her cheekbone, like a butterfly kissing away an imaginary tear. "You are too young to be distressed by mourning. Take some food and rest. It has been a long day." Seemingly oblivious to the irony of being the one to offer consolation, he walked away, looking unusually relaxed about the shoulders as if a proverbial weight had been lifted.

Ceirin watched him ensconce himself among some pillows and his private thoughts, and suddenly realized that she'd forgotten to thank him after all. She smiled to herself and decided to leave it. Some things were best left unsaid.

Not much later, when she'd taken a seat not far from Legolas but was politely ignoring him, Frodo came to return the ribbon she had loaned him.

"My chain has been mended," he pointed out, pulling it out of his collar for her to see. The Ring dangled alluringly at convenient grabbing distance from his body. He held his breath as Ceirin reached out, and released it when her hand closed, without doubting, on the ribbon he proffered.

"Thanks for remembering to give this back," she said, grinning self-depreciatingly. "I know it doesn't look like much, this silly bit of ribbon, but it means a lot to me." She pulled it between her fingers and caressed it fondly. Now an unhealthy shade of grey, it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally.

"Why is that?" asked Frodo.

He was kneeling in front of her. Ceirin decided that he looked bad, with dark circles underneath his eyes. Despite having had a bath, he reminded her in some ways of her favorite cat in Rivendell, an ugly one-eared creature that invariably looked as though it had narrowly escaped from a nasty encounter with a fox. Frodo had the same haunted look in his eyes as that cat.

She had to clear her throat before speaking. "Well, when the elves found me as a baby, I was wrapped in a blanket," she explained, "and it was tied together with this ribbon. I still have the blanket somewhere in my room, but I've had this ribbon with me every day of my life for as long as I can remember. In my hair, around my neck or my wrist. I don't know why I keep it with me. I just do."

"It's one of those things you don't need to have a reason for, I suppose," said Frodo, aware that this was a bit of a platitude.

"Look," said Ceirin suddenly, fixing a point over his right shoulder. "It's Galadriel. I wonder what she wants."

The Lady of Light was looking at Frodo. Their eyes met, and she turned and walked away, though really it looked more like floating, incidentally at floor altitude. Frodo got to his feet and followed her.