They travelled for days with little sign of improvement in Frodo, despite the best efforts of the Ranger. He had boiled the leaves of the athelas plant to apply to the wound, and nursed him in order to sustain his life for at least a while longer, yet the hobbit lingered on the furthermost edge of death, and he spoke not a word other than to answer a question from Pippin regarding the gold of some trolls. He had wondered, as was his inquisitive nature, how much there remained to be of their treasure, when it had been taken by a relative of Frodo's, Bilbo, many years ago.
"None at all. Bilbo gave it all away. He told me he did not feel it was really his, as it came from robbers."
Maude had wanted to ask more about this Bilbo character, whose name had arisen in conversation many times since the arrival of the hobbits. But alas, she did not think she could follow much of what she assumed would be a descriptive tale.
Until the early hours of the evening they continued along the road, when their ears were met with the conspicuous sound of hooves. The panic was brief, as Frodo spoke again in his hushed voice, "That does not sound like a Black Rider's horse!"
Strider rushed ahead of them then, hurtling toward a man with golden hair and wearing a finely sewn cloak. For a second, Maude believed that Strider would attack this absurdly beautiful man, but he was instead greeted as an old friend.
"Ai na vedui, Dúnadan! Mae govannen!"
When the rider reached them, her breath hitched in her throat, and she had to cast her look away from him. He was a creature of literature, of classical tales from centuries long passed; there was not one man she could compare him to, neither in beauty nor presence. She felt truly ridiculous in front of him, in a dirty cloak after days of weary travel, and it was all she could do not to look at his face, for the fear that their gaze would meet and a familiar shade of pink would flush to her cheeks. And so, she stared at the ground, digging her heels into the soil. You never thanked Strider for collecting your shoes, she reminded herself idly, for the sake of having something else to think about. Any further into her own thoughts, and she would have missed that the rider and Strider were engaging in a different chatter than she had grown accustomed to. Of course he would be multilingual in everything but English, wouldn't he?
"This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond," he said to the hobbits.
"Hail, and well met at last! I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road."
"Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?"
"No," Glorindel answered Frodo. "He had not when I departed; but that was nine days ago."
As he spoke, Maude turned her attention to Frodo, who began to sway as the conversation furthered. Around them, the evening was settling to a darker hour, and she imagined that night would shortly befall them.
"My master is sick and wounded," said Sam, when Frodo had needed to take hold of his arm to keep his balance. "He can't go on riding after nightfall. He needs rest."
The hobbit began to slip to the ground, but found himself in the arms of the new arrival, whose perturbed eyes searched his face. Glorfindel listened to Strider's tale of the happenings at Weathertop, and insisted that Frodo continue to Rivendell on his own horse. Though he at first refused, the hobbit eventually relented, and allowed himself to be carried by the grand steed slightly ahead of the others, whilst Glorfindel led the rest of the group on.
If Maude had ever struggled with Strider's pace, she was certainly struggling with his. But the Ranger himself walked ahead with him, discussing in hushed tones the circumstances of her affiliation with the journey. She watched them curiously, wondering which conclusion they would arrive at, both regarding her situation and what it was that they planned to do with her once they arrived at their destination. Perhaps they would be distrustful, and command her leave; or otherwise compassionate, and assist her in her plight to return back to London.
Eventually, they settled down for the night, though not for too long. Maude felt that it was no sooner had she fallen asleep was Strider shaking her gently by the shoulders, and motioning for her to join the rest of them to continue on. Still, Glorfindel offered them a draught to give them strength, and they ate what food was available as they walked. It was not a diet that Maude was particularly unaccustomed to, but she found herself longing for that night by the fire with Strider's cooked rabbit, for anything with even the slightest taste.
They continued like this for a number of days, during which time Maude discovered an odd revelation. Her nails had not grown at all since she had arrived in this foreign land; nor had her hair, or her brows. But the strangest thing was that she had never once found herself needing to relieve herself. How she had failed to notice until after so long had passed, she was unsure. She was even more unsure of how she would communicate these notions to Strider, or if she even wanted to. She could leave out any bathroom-related business, but it seemed a good idea to tell him about her non-changing physical state, as it would probably be of some interest to him.
She sidled next to he and Glorfindel, whose fleeting glance she successfully evaded, and tapped Strider on the shoulder. Once she had his attention, she pointed at the trees which surrounded the area, and spoke the name aloud in Westron.
"She does speak some Westron, then?" Glorfindel enquired, and Strider shook his head.
"This is the hobbits' doing. Several words are the extent of her vocabulary."
She tapped him again. "This isn't a joke, Strider."
"How strange!" exclaimed Glorfindel, peering as though he had only just seen her. "And this is no tongue of Men, or of Elves or Dwarves?"
Her cheeks grew warm under the assessment of Glorfindel, and she tapped at Strider's shoulder once more, pointing again at the trees, and moving her hand from around her knees to far above her head.
"I believe that she is simulating growth, my friend," said Glorfindel, sounding amused. When she began to tug at her own hair, and point at each of her fingers with the opposite hand in turn and with a shake of her head, he added, "Or lack thereof."
Strider took hold of her left hand, then, and raised it to his own eyes, before proclaiming, "She's quite right. Her fingernails have not in the slightest grown since I discovered her." He released her hand and faced her more fully, frowning. "Her forehead has not healed."
"That can be treated," said Glorfindel. "She will need to be examined, however. A woman who cannot heal is a woman in danger."
Maude wanted desperately to know what they were saying, but Glorfindel suddenly sprang forward and cried out. She spun on her toes, catching a glimpse of foul, shrouded figures on dark horses in the trees; there were five of them, as there had been at Weathertop. They brought an evil with them in the atmosphere, as mist swept around the trees and across the ground, enveloping the greenery in a grey vice.
Despite Glorfindel's orders, Frodo hesitated. The Elf commanded the horse when the hobbit lingered, and the steed raced ahead with a strength and speed unparalleled by any that Maude herself had witnessed. The muscles of its legs rippled as it ran, and it had disappeared at a distance in a matter of seconds. This could only impress her for so long, however, as from the Riders there came a cry: piercing, painful, and every bit as awful as she had remembered. But the cry had been more than that-it had been a call, and it was not left unanswered. Four other Riders emerged from the thick of the forest, and two immediately set upon him, whilst the others made to cut off any escape toward the Ford.
Glorfindel pursued them at the front, once they had disappeared from sight, with Strider and Maude in pace behind him, and the remaining three hobbits behind them.
There was no way to be sure of how long they ran, and Maude had not the heart to ask, but her legs and her lungs were aching when they arrived in Rivendell; so overcome by the sensation was she that the beauty of the place nearly escaped her attention.
The elves all observed the newcomers with great intrigue, with some coming forward to greet their kinsman and Strider. One or two rushed to tend to the hobbits, but she had been unexpected company, and was therefore less welcome. They stared, distrusting, until one finally approached from the throng, having exchanged brief words with Strider, and scrutinised her.
He was every bit as lovely as Glorfindel, and far more intimidating. His hands were before him, clasped tightly in a way that commanded authority, and he spoke to her in that still unfamiliar tongue that Glorfindel had to Strider in their closed conversations. Maude was beginning to wonder why they even bothered, any more. When she said nothing, he turned to Strider and spoke again, "I would have words with the wizard. There must be an incantation or charm for a matter such as this. I cannot wholly trust a stranger in Imladris, more so in these dark times. But at least we may rest well in the knowledge that she was in presence of the Ring, and had many opportunities to take it from the halfling, and she did not. Lle anta est, mellonea. Khila amin."
They were each of them escorted to separate rooms, then, and offered sleeping draughts to accommodate for any missed rest.
"Ridiculous," Maude muttered to herself, once she had taken the draught willingly and clambered into the bed, "that I feel the need to rest. Physical exertion aside, I should be as fit and well as I was at the gala."
Nevertheless, she drifted into a sound and dreamless sleep the moment she had shut her eyes, and did not awaken again until the following afternoon.
There were clothes prepared for her, for which she was grateful, and through a screen door there was a bath for her. It seemed to her that the elves had anticipated the length of time she had slept for, and busied themselves around the room as she slumbered. In spite of the intrusion, she didn't mind, and felt rather cheery as she slipped into the steaming water, and bathed for the first time in days.
For over an hour, she scrubbed the dirt from her body and from underneath her fingernails, and washed the grease from her hair. She lost count of the fragrant products she used whilst in there, only taking the time to bask in the myriad of scents before finally climbing from the wooden tub and reaching for a towel.
The towels were almost too soft for her, having been so used to the rough materials that had served almost as a brillo-pad back in her London flat. Though the feeling was unfamiliar, she found it to be not altogether unpleasant.
When she returned to the room to examine the clothing, she discovered that she had been left with several pairs of shoes, one of which closely resembled those of her old ballet slippers, thin leather soles and all. She smiled at them fondly, before drawing the leggings up to her waist, and pulling the dress over her head.
The dress itself was a pale green, and had an embroidered neckline. Its sleeves were close-fitting up until the elbow, where they billowed out and met the hem of the dress on the floor. When she caught sight of herself in the room's mirror, she twisted her face. There was something wrong with the reflection, yet she couldn't pinpoint the exact problem. In the end, she sighed, and went out onto the balcony to wring some more water from her hair.
"You're not one of them. That's the problem."
The view from the balcony was stunning; wooden buildings with pale towers, enclosed in a space of trees and heathers, where water fell from the mountain-tops in several streams. Every wall belonged to a monument worthy of the richest fairy-tales, and there was not one shade the sun had ignored. Light and loveliness were panoramic, and Maude could have grown and passed in its beauty; for the life of the place to feed on what had once been her own seemed a pleasant dream of sorts. It was a shame to think that it would instead be the cold creatures of England's earth to do so. There was so little dignity in the death of a mortal.
"It would seem that our friend is awake, Lord Elrond," said a voice from the doorway, and Maude jumped in fright at the sudden sound. The man who had spoken was elderly to the point where she could not so much as hazard a guess at his true age, as though he wore some thinly veiled disguise she could not push through with any blade of human deduction. His robes were worn and grey, as was the tall hat atop his head, curling at its point. He was a wizard to behold if there ever was one. "You are quite certain that she speaks no language beknownst to Elves or Men?"
"So I've been told. She did not grace us with her voice when she arrived yesterday; but I have it on good word from both Estel and Glorfindel."
"Very well!" said the wizard, approaching Maude with a quiet incantation on his tongue.
Within a moment, her head felt cool, and her ears as though they had been covered by cling film. Sounds became muffled, and an overwhelming vertigo took hold of her mind, prompting her to stumble forward. She steadied herself on a small table, and each sensation drifted away, leaving a pleasant warmth in their wake.
"Now! Let us see what the young woman has to say for herself ..."
Only Maude still did not understand. She stared at him blankly, blinking once or twice.
"Well! Out with it!"
Sensing the wizard's impatience, Maude stuttered a few apologies and began to shake her head vigorously.
"She still does not understand."
"No ... it would appear not." The wizard removed his hat and scratched at his head, muttering a string of phrases under his breath. "Impossible ... simply impossible ... that ought to have worked ..."
"Then why did it not?"
"I have only one explanation," he replied. "Though it is an absurd one; one I am sure you will struggle to believe."
"You are no liar, Mithrandir. Nor are you a fool."
"You may feel differently, after what I am about to ask you." The wizard faced the Elf-lord with a grave expression, setting his hat back on his head. "What do you know of other worlds, my Lord Elrond?"
Ai na vedui, Dúnadan! Mae govannen! - Ah, at last, Westman! Well met!
Lle anta est, mellonea. Khila amin. - You need to rest, friends. Follow me.
A/N: I was torn between Arwen and Glorfindel for the rescue. Whilst I was glad that Arwen had more of a presence in the films than she did in the books, I resented the fact the Glorfindel all but disappeared.
Antheila: Welcome to my citadel of poorly executed fiction! But thank you so much for the feedback. And I completely see what you mean about reviews being slow-going in the LotR fandom. I, myself, have a habit of sticking to the stories with more than 40,000 words and happen to be updated regularly, so I entirely understand why the people who read it choose not to review. Thank you again for yours, though!
smore9: That sounds like a good idea, actually! I can't imagine a person being able to cope without their livelihood, so it would make sense for her to get some practice in when she can.