The Laundry of the Fellowship

At this point… just for fun.

Chapter 4 – A Bleak Departure

We were to set out at dusk (no, not dawn – how many people have been up at that hour?) so I was rather well rested. The world was decent. I was going with them.

Of course, doubts always plague you just after an important event. I was beginning to remember just what lay ahead of me. Mountain climbing – I had always sworn I would never go mountain climbing. My mother was the mountain climber. She'd shown me a few pictures from her miserable trips with fond smiles… and I'd laughed nervously and inwardly winced at descriptions of high altitudes and sixty pound packs. At least I didn't have to pack my own bag – as I really didn't own anything, they'd picked out some good traveling clothes and other such necessities. I noticed that the small paring knife I'd had was still there, but it was now accompanied by a very nice looking bow and some arrows. Which… I couldn't use. A bit of tugging at the string had revealed that I couldn't even pull it back all the way.

I frowned at this, but stowed the bow across my back anyway (which is more uncomfortable than it looks) and stole a glance at Aragorn, across the room.

The man was unhappy about something. Well, no surprise. Arwen had undoubtedly given him an earful for 'trying to gallivant away without so much as a goodbye kiss, thankyouverymuch!'. Just a guess.

I decided very quickly that I didn't want to be around him. Not only was he not entirely happy with me in general, he deserved some time alone to sulk. It's a strange thing to say, but you just can't have a satisfactory unhappy sigh with someone else in the room.

My feet ended up taking me to the pavilion of the council once more. The chairs were still there, the pedestal still standing with a small dent where Gimli's Dwarven axe had lain into it. My finger moved almost of its own accord to trace the crescent indentation.

I shivered, though, as my thoughts turned back to the ring – and therefore, to Frodo. Where could he be now, I wondered. Was he, perhaps, sitting alone, waiting to leave…

I found myself wanting to go see him, though of course, it had nothing to do with the ring that had lain on this pedestal. Nothing at all.

I had nearly left the pavilion to go in search of him when I realized what I was doing.

"No," I muttered aloud. "I'm not traveling that path. Not just yet."

And I stubbornly turned back to the chairs just to show that the ring had not yet won me over, despite the siren's call in my mind. The whispers of power…

"And what did I ever want with power before?" I huffed as I sat down in a chair, crossing my legs. "It's not like my life's dream is to be a dictator or anything. I wonder if the ring could promise me I'd write better?" I joked to myself. The tension in my mind lessened slowly… and faded away. But I felt with a strange certainty I couldn't explain that it would return at the next most inconvenient moment.

I noticed that my hand had had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair. The blood had been cut off from it for a few seconds, and it was even paler than usual (which was saying something, considering I stayed inside like a recluse).

Thus, even as I relaxed, a voice from behind me startled me.

"You are to leave with us?"

It was Boromir's voice. I recognized it easily from the council, that persuasive, pleading voice that asked for something so awfully simple…

"Y-yes," I managed, cutting off that thought. The ring had not quite left my thoughts, as I had hoped.

The man of Gondor sighed heavily and walked through the archway, taking a seat himself. He had laid down his arms somewhere else; if he wore any weapons or armor, I could not see them.

It made him seem… vulnerable, almost. If a warrior could be such a thing.

There was silence for a moment, and I wondered with a sudden fright whether he had heard me talking to myself. I had been talking myself out of doing anything related to the ring. But to a recent observer…

"You should not come," he said abruptly.

I blinked.

"What?"

He'd heard, I was certain. He'd heard, oh lord, he'd heard, and he'd tell the others and they wouldn't let me come-

"You are too young for such a journey," he interrupted my thoughts, banishing them thankfully. "I do not say so out of malice or condescension; but the things that we see on this journey will be gruesome, horrific in nature. I would not go myself, if I did not have a duty to fulfill. And it is a suicide mission."

I bit my lip, nervous at the turn the conversation had taken. To be pressed in my decision, which until then had been solid as rock…

My eyes flickered toward the pedestal, at once reminding me that rock could be broken… and that I had already been tempted.

If I was to go on this journey… was I secure in my own weakness? The fact that I would never be able to help them in their goals… I would be worse than useless, most likely, and there was always the possibility that I might not survive…

And there was the ring.

"I have to," I said hopelessly. "I… I have to get back. No one probably believes me, but it's my only hope of seeing my family again. I couldn't live with myself – even in Rivendell – if I never tried…"

Boromir seemed unhappy with my answer. "There are some things worth fighting for, things worth risking your life for. But are you willing to part with your sanity?"

We both knew what he was talking about – I knew even better than he what awful treachery the ring was capable of. But… there was always human decision.

That was what Tolkien had taught us. That we could be strong enough, if we needed to be.

"No," I stated firmly, something strange blossoming in my chest, like a light uncovered. "And that's why I'm not going to."

The man looked at me strangely, not understanding. I smiled brilliantly, though I knew it made me look like a fool. "If I promise myself never to take it in my moment of sanity, now… I can always look back and see that I made the decision intelligently." I was happy with this idea; it had to work. If I didn't trust myself, who could I trust?

Boromir shook his head. "I'm not sure what good such a promise will do. But if it staves off the decay of your willpower, so be it."

A stroke of inspiration hit me then. "So – will you promise me, too?" I asked lightly, as though I was simply trying to reassure myself that I was not the only one in doubt. "Promise yourself and me that you won't try?"

The man chuckled. "As you say; my word is my honor."

I shook his hand on it, though he didn't know what it meant. His bigger hand reminded me that I was powerless – but for these small victories.

I winked. "I'm holding you to that, you know. So don't go gallanting off after any magical rings without my say so."

If it didn't work… then it didn't. But I had to try.

"We're leaving soon," he told me, changing the subject abruptly. "You should pick up anything else you might need."

I instinctively held back the biting words I wanted to say at that point. "You mean the magic sword I found in an anvil outside or the wealth of useful items I was hiding underneath my weird tunic on the way here?"

Instead, being a smarter person than that (or so I hoped), I went back inside, headed for the departure point, got lost for a few hours, then sat down on a bench and waited.

Dusk came. And went.

I became annoyed as the stars began to become visible and I realized that dusk had been the appointed time – not the end all time.

I stared at nothing. I tried (and failed) to play thumb war with myself. I cleaned the tiny stubs that were my fingernails. And finally, lost for anything else, I fell back to the oldest stand-by in the book: I began to hum 'Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall'.

At forty-six bottles left, someone tapped me on the shoulder – I jumped up and screamed like the little girl I still sort of was.

The hand clamped down harder, steadying me, and I turned around to look at the face of Gimli, son of Gloin; it was crinkled in blatant amusement.

"You'll have to find your nerves before long," he said, sitting down heavily on the other side of the bench while I clutched at my chest and hyperventilated back to normal. "You'll not want to scream in a mountain pass, I assure you."

"Oh," I gasped. "Y-yeah." After a few moments of silence, during which time Gimli began inspecting his new axe carefully (it being his second-best) I picked back up where I'd left off, saying the words under my breath.

At thirty-two, Gimli interrupted me again, his axe inspected to his satisfaction.

"Is that a drinking song?" he asked me incredulously.

I shook my head, insulted, before I realized it sort of was one. "Oh," I said, beginning to nod. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Gimli shook his head. "If there were any Dwarven drinking songs in Westron, I'd try to teach you one-"

Just before I could suggest eagerly that he teach me a Dwarven one anyway, another hand came down on my shoulder; I bit back the scream this time, but still jumped up out of my seat.

The elf-prince was standing behind me, aloof-looking, with raised eyebrows. His hand was still in the air where my shoulder had been.

"Don't go scaring the cook like that," Gimli admonished, fingering his axe in a way that made me very much aware of the tension between the two. "We'll be needing her skills soon enough."

Legolas turned his gaze away from him, much to my surprise, and let it settle on me.

"Elrond is sending rations with us," he said quietly, his eyes staring into my own in a way that made me shudder slightly. "I highly doubt she will be in need within the next two weeks – if at all."

I had the sudden, distinct feeling that he didn't want me to come. And for different reasons than Boromir's.

"What can I say?" I said with an easiness I didn't feel in the least. "I'll do my best to make things more palatable."

Legolas ignored me quite easily for someone staring straight at me. "Can you be trusted?" he asked bluntly, surprising me.

"I – yes!" I sputtered, too surprised to say anything else.

I was somewhat aware of Gimli standing, ready to say something, when Legolas continued relentlessly. "Can your will be trusted? Can you add anything of value to us, can you die, if need be?"

Gimli was snarling. "That's hardly a question to ask-"

"It is a question to ask, though," Legolas interrupted. "It is the most important question to ask." His eyes never wavered from mine. "Well?" he demanded.

I swallowed. Would I really have to hash this out with every single member of this stupid fellowship?

Yes, came an inner voice. If need be, you will. They need to know it, because it's more than just this group on the line.

"Yes," I replied before I could stop myself. "There are things worth dying for." Boromir was right.

Legolas still didn't look quite convinced, and I knew it would take more than words to convince him – but before he could say anything else, the hobbits appeared as one group, chattering cheerfully about the road ahead.

"So," Gimli interrupted briskly, before Legolas could remember where he'd left off, "How about that drinking song, young one?"

I gladly took the out, despite the frigid look Legolas shot him for it. And by the time the rest of the Fellowship had arrived, I was stumbling over a bunch of words I didn't quite understand in a voice a couple octaves higher than the song was meant to be sung in. Gimli told me somewhat jokingly that I sounded like I was whining it out.

I privately decided I would practice until I got the hang of it – languages had always fascinated me, and Dwarven was no exception.

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Our group was strangely silent as we departed. The darkness was almost oppressive, a novel concept for a night in Rivendell. Many, if not most, of our eyes were cast to the ground. Aragorn led the way, having grown up in this land, and Gandalf went behind him, occasionally consulting with him about their journey and the possible paths they had undoubtedly already discussed a hundred times over. The old man was smoking his pipe as they went – I could only tell because of the stench that lingered in my nostrils. I frowned, covered my nose, and said nothing. If a Maia wants to smoke, you just don't tell him no.

To clarify things, I was walking near the back with Gimli. His presence was possibly the most comforting thing I could have hoped for – a solid, silent kind of guarantee in the dark. A shiver went down my spine as I remembered the screams of pursuing Nazgûl; I imagined the sound would plague me forever in my worst nightmares.

Legolas, who was bringing up the back with his keen eyesight, looked over at me sharply as though I had begun to speak in tongues. I wanted to glare at him, or perhaps to say something along the lines of 'Did I not just shiver quietly enough for you?' but I'd long since learned to keep my big mouth firmly closed and my cynical emotions from my face. Instead, I arranged my features into a vaguely puzzled expression that probably didn't fool him in the least.

After a few moments, he turned to look behind him quickly, breaking eye contact for the short time it took me to look back at Gimli.

"Don't mind the elf," Gimli said quietly, but certainly loud enough for Legolas to pick up (which I suspected he knew). "They're all a bit high-strung. It comes of eating nothing but leaves."

The hiss of angrily expelled breath came from behind him, and I resisted the urge to turn around and hush the elf. While I certainly appreciated the support (and the humor), it wasn't going to help anyone get along better. Besides which, I knew that Gimli, no matter how well intentioned he thought he was, was just taking my side in this matter to rankle the elf.

A frigid breeze cut easily through my heavy coat at that moment, though, and I soon had to concentrate on keeping myself warm. The air from the eastern mountains was apparently following us on our way.