Chapter 13 – Beauty in Pain

She should have been elated to have finally escaped the claustrophobic caves of Moria. She should have been relishing the feel of the cool, fresh breeze on her skin. She should have been gazing out over the expanse of land before her, glad to once again see natural, uninhibited sunlight. But she felt none of these things.

Instead, she felt sorrow and despair, knelt on one knee, her hands against the rock below her, her head hanging low. The sound of her small companions weeping tore at her heart and cut at her skin until she imagined herself drowning in her own blood as some form of reprieve from the emotional trauma. She had never experienced loss before. It was cutting at her mind, guilt, sorrow, and anger raging in her chest like a battle of beasts. She looked at the blood of her enemies on her hands and her emotions twisted her mind so that it was Gandalf's, and she believed she had let him die.

A hand gripped her shoulder, soft but firm, and she looked at the shadow on the rock to determine who it was. Legolas said nothing to her, too immersed in his own thoughts and emotions to be of any more assistance. But it helped her. She was a part of something much bigger than herself, and it was none of their faults that their beloved wizard had fallen; Gandalf had saved their lives, sacrificing himself for them in the process, and they could not soil that moment of utter selflessness on his behalf by blaming themselves.

But they could mourn, and they would. The great Gandalf the Grey was gone, and they had watched it happen.

Someone's voice rang out, but it seemed to bounce off of Maethoriel, ricocheting off of her grief and despair. Another rang out in reply, harsher and louder, and she found herself flinching away from the sudden noises, intruding on the quiet of their collective anguish. The first voice retaliated against its opposition, insistent and authoritative, slicing through the air of denial built up around the emberling. She lifted her head to look into the pale blue sky, feeling utterly unprepared and out of her depth.

"We must reach the woods of Lothlórien," Aragorn was saying to someone, sheathing his blade. "Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up!"

Maethoriel took a deep breath, feeling drained beyond anything she'd ever experienced, and managed to push herself to her feet. Looking behind her, she watched as Legolas assisted Merry to his feet, while Boromir did the same for Pippin. She avoided eye contact with all of them in the hopes of preventing a relapse into her depressed inertia, and let her gaze instead follow Aragorn, who had finished helping Sam and was now calling out for the last of the hobbits. As Frodo slowly turned to look back at the ranger, and Maethoriel saw the hopelessness and pain in his eyes, she thought of the ever-cheerful Bilbo Baggins, and imagined the sorrow he would suffer at the news of the wizard's passing.

Gimli trudged past her, soon followed by Merry and Legolas, with Boromir not long after. Somewhere in the jumbled mess of her mind, she registered the fact that Pippin had not been with them, and she found him staring at the door they had escaped through mere minutes before. Her feet moved without conscious thought, bringing her over to the hobbit, who looked even smaller than usual when she gazed upon the tear tracks down his dirtied cheeks, the puffy skin around his eyes, the contortion of his forehead from his frown. She rested her hand gently upon his shoulder and squeezed, encouraging him to look away. He glanced at the others who continued on without them before staring up at Maethoriel, his eyes full of remorse.

"The skeleton, and the well," he trailed off, his eyes filling with tears again, his voice breaking. Maethoriel knelt and brought the hobbit into her, holding the back of his head, her fingers pressing softly into his curly hair. His muffled sobs were caught by her shoulder while his hands hung limply at his sides, completely overwhelmed by his guilt. She shushed him, rubbing his back as she had seen mothers do to their children from her father's Starpost.

His sobs quickly lessened as he tried to get a hold of himself, and she pulled back to look him in the eye. "Do not reach for a burden you need not bear, Pippin. The blame falls upon the foul beast that would have devoured us all if not for Gandalf," she said, struggling to keep her own voice steady. "He knew the risks, accepted the possible outcomes, but he tried anyway. Do not let his efforts be in vain. You know he would scold you for even considering yourself as the cause of this." She smiled tiredly at him, and received a weak chuckle in reply. Squeezing his shoulder, she stood to her full height once more and led him on beside her as they followed the rest of the company.

The absence of a pointed, grey hat and a rickety, wooden staff was painfully poignant, but nobody spoke a word.

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"Come, friends, we can rest soon!" Aragorn called as the Fellowship jogged towards the treeline, wishing for the day to come to an end so that they may spend time processing their loss. Maethoriel could scarce remember the path they had taken between their exit of Moria and arrival at the woods, so lost she had been in her mind. She had no grasp of the time that had passed since they had entered the mines, but she felt as though she had not slept in months, despite her innate awkwardness with sleep.

When they finally broke the treeline, they slowed to a walk, half-heartedly admiring the beauty of the woods around them. Maethoriel's very bones felt sore, and upon entering this unfamiliar realm, she felt a strange sense of uneasiness, yet also comfort, wash over her. She wondered when she would next feel truly at peace again, or in fact if she ever would.

As Aragorn wound his way through the trunks, gently running his hands over the bark, the company followed him, listening as Gimli spoke up. "Stay close, young hobbits," he whispered urgently. "They say that a great sorceress lives in these woods. An Elf-witch," he paused dramatically, "Of terrible power. All who look upon her, fall under her spell, and are never seen again." Legolas' head turned ever so slightly to the side, catching Maethoriel's gaze as she weakly smiled in amusement. Legolas did not share her humour, instead seeming more cautious and wary. "Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily," Gimli declared, prideful as ever. Maethoriel's neck tinged, and she frowned, wondering at the immensely faint sound she had happened upon. "I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox."

Within the blink of an eye, Legolas had his bow and an arrow drawn in retaliation towards the numbers of elves that had appeared out of nowhere around them. Maethoriel's dagger was half out of its sheath when one elf in particular walked towards Aragorn, speaking calmly. "The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark." Her head tilted, taking in his lack of a drawn weapon and the dry humour in his tone. She let go of her dagger and listened to the quiet noise it made as it slipped back into its sheath. "Come with us," the elf said, turning and leading the way as his companions lowered their weapons but remained surrounding the Fellowship as an unspoken threat.

Maethoriel followed behind Legolas again, staring at his back while trying to ignore the glances she was receiving from their new company. She felt slightly uncomfortable, though not endangered. Nonetheless, she slowed her pace until she was walking next to the grumbling Gimli, grateful that she was not the only creature to be such a shock in this realm. "It's a complete lack of respect," the dwarf was muttering, eyeing the tall, fair elves walking alongside him.

"As if an Elf would be gladly received in Dwarven lands," Maethoriel whispered to him, smiling. He glowered up at her, reducing his mutterings to mere grunts to avoid further embarrassment.

The Elven company lead the Fellowship through the woods to an unknown destination, their feet moving along the ground as silent as a whisper. Maethoriel had always been fascinated by the grace of the Elven race; few things could compete with the fluidity and beauty of their speech and movements. Even as the woods around them began to grow dark – she could only assume it was because of the passing time, but there was no way to know, the trees were that dense – and the skin of the Elves took on an ethereal glow, she continued to marvel at them. Legolas, too, looked as though his features were softer, somehow.

Eventually they stood upon a platform amongst the trees, waiting to hear of their fate in this realm. Every so often an elf would stand out amongst the trunks and watch them from another platform. It was obvious they were unused to visitors, especially of the nature of the Fellowship. Speaking in Elvish, the apparent leader of their escort stood to the side of Legolas, one of only three people in their group who could understand him. Maethoriel looked around at the rest of her friends and saw that they did not even have it in them to be irritated or offended. Today, they only had room for grief.

"Welcome, Legolas, son of Thranduil," the leader said.

"Our Fellowship stands in your debt," Legolas replied.

"Ah, Aragorn of the Dunedain… you are known to us." The unfamiliar elf made a gesture of greeting and respect to Aragorn, who politely returned it.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves," Gimli complained bitterly, "Speak words we can all understand!"

The elf leader turned on him coldly. "We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days."

"And you know what this Dwarf says to that?" Gimli challenged, before gritting out a foul insult in his native tongue. Maethoriel watched the elves closely, praying none would take as much offence as to attack the bearded lump of anger.

Aragorn turned to Gimli, irritated. "That was not so courteous."

The elf leader lifted his chin and moved to the side of Aragorn, looking into the group upon Frodo and Sam. The latter shifted defensively as the other members of the Fellowship felt themselves bristling slightly, prepared to defend their Ring Bearer. "You bring great evil with you," the elf said. "You can go no further."

Maethoriel felt her fists clench. If this elf could detect what burden Frodo suffered, surely he would lend whatever aid he could towards their quest – why was he hindering them? Aragorn gestured to the Fellowship to wait as he hurried after the retreating elf, his face promising to make things better. Pippin was the first to take a seat, but soon the majority of the company followed, realising that it could take a while for Aragorn to convince the elf. They had been too long without a rest, after all.

As their quiet, insistent voices danced over the wind, Maethoriel watched several members of the Fellowship cast glances towards Frodo, who was clearly feeling guilty and anxious. Frowning sympathetically, the emberling made her way over to the hobbit and sat down in front of him so that he could only see her and Boromir. She met his reluctant gaze and gave him a small smile to let him know that she was there for him.

"Gandalf's death was not in vain," Boromir spoke up softly, "Nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don't carry the weight of the dead."

Maethoriel looked upon the man whom she was harbouring caution and dread towards, and felt hope blossom in her chest. Boromir was a good man, the weaknesses of his species were not his fault. Perhaps he could resist the power of the Ring; perhaps he could prove her and Aragorn wrong.

Suddenly Frodo looked up over Maethoriel's head, as the leader of the elf-group spoke up behind her. "You will follow me," he said, allowing no room for questions.

And so the company followed him, through trees and over hills, for what seemed like hours upon hours. Perhaps an entire night had passed by them, as sunlight was now trickling through the canopy and lifting their spirits. They were still quiet with grief, but small comments of wonder and praise were becoming more frequent as they drew closer to their destination. Eventually, they topped the peak of another hill and halted, coming up around the elf-leader, Legolas, and Aragorn as they looked out over the magnificent expanse before them. The hill they stood upon quickly declined into a valley of forestry, with one single peak in the middle, lifting aloft some of the tallest trees Maethoriel had ever seen.

"Caras Galadhon," the elf-leader breathed, "the heart of Elvendom on earth. Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light."

Maethoriel was lost for words. She had seen it many times from her father's Starpost; but again she found herself completely in awe, as if seeing it for the first time, as it was an utterly different experience being down on the world. Every time she had a moment like this, her resolve to protect Middle Earth strengthened. She was determined not to fail her father, or Middle Earth, or herself.

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It was magnificent, the way the elves had built into and around the forestry. Steps carved out of earth and stone, paths snaking between trunks like roots, covered staircases hugging the trees as they rose up and up into an unknown world; the only word Maethoriel could use for it was magical. She was flummoxed by how a world with such terrible evil in it could also be home to beauties unlike any other she had ever laid eyes upon – it just did not seem possible. And yet, here she was, slowly forgetting just how disgustingly gruesome the orcs had looked, their faces fading from memory as the breeze brushed against her skin.

The company climbed a staircase around a particularly thick trunk, the world around them changing from a warm, golden glow to a pale blue. Once again, her sense of time was slipping from her grasp, but, while it was uncomfortable, it was far less miserable than how she felt in the mines. Here felt foreign to her, as foreign as the Dwarven city, and it put her a fraction on edge, but at the same time she felt so very comfortable and safe. She had half a mind to leave soon, and half a mind to stay forever.

They were led to a small platform at the bottom of another set of stairs, this one leading away from the trunk. Over their heads hung a roof-like structure, though it was not connected to any walls. It was made of wood, beautifully and intricately carved in wondrous detail. The floor below their feet was painted with leaves and flower heads, and felt so much softer to stand on than anything Maethoriel had felt before.

She looked up from her feet as a bright light gradually descended upon the group, and her eyes met the figures of two elves elegantly coming down towards them. The light somehow both emanated from them and from the world around them, touching them from all angles, softening every line on their frames until they seemed to blend in to the air itself. They both had hair of silken gold, the woman's cascading in soft waves down her torso like a river. They held hands delicately, looking on the company with sharp eyes, eternal in their wisdom, pure radiance and beauty.

When they halted a few steps above the company, the man spoke. "The enemy knows you have entered here." His voice was deep and smooth, the words floating from his mouth as his tongue caressed them into being. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone." He looked over them briefly. "Eight there are here, yet nine there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him."

And just like that, the beauty around them seemed to fade as their grief clawed back into their hearts. The woman looked at them side-on, her eyes alert and calculating.

"I can no longer see him from afar," Celeborn mused.

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land," Galadriel whispered. "He has fallen into shadow."

"He was taken by both shadow and flame," Legolas confirmed, his voice seemingly softer now in this new land. "A Balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria." Maethoriel lowered her head at that, hoping Gimli was not now taking any blame.

"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life," Galadriel replied. "We do not yet know his full purpose." She looked to Gimli then. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril, and in all lands, love is now mingled with grief." She looked at Boromir sharply, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Maethoriel could hear his sharp intakes of breath, and felt a spark of defensiveness ignite in her chest.

"What now becomes of this Fellowship?" Celeborn asked. "Without Gandalf, hope is lost."

"The quest stands upon the edge of a knife," Galadriel observed. "Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains, while the company is true," she smiled softly. "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight, you will sleep in peace."

"Haldir," Celeborn greeted the elf who had led them through the forests to the platform they stood on, "Show the Fellowship to their sleeping quarters. Ensure they will not want for anything." He then looked to Legolas. "Come, Legolas, we have much to discuss."

As Legolas followed Celeborn up the stairs again, the rest of the company waited for Haldir to show them the way. Maethoriel was about to take position behind Merry and Pippin at the back, when a soft but powerful voice stopped her.

"It is rare to meet an entity older still than myself."

Merry and Pippin glanced up at her as Maethoriel turned with a smile to Galadriel, who had descended the last few steps to stand on the platform with her.

The Lady of Lothlórien looked upon the hobbits kindly. "Do not fear, I will ensure your emberling's return to you," she smiled. When they followed after the rest of the fellowship, Galadriel turned back to Maethoriel.

"I may be older," the emberling said, "But I am certainly far less wise than you, Lady Galadriel."

That seemed to please her. "Come, death lingers on your clothes. We shall wash them for you, and give you something more comfortable until the death is gone."

"You are too kind," Maethoriel replied. "I do not wish to be treated any differently from my friends."

Galadriel merely smiled at her, and led her in the opposite direction from the fellowship. They joined a staircase on a different trunk and started to climb, Galadriel's bare footsteps silent against the wood. Maethoriel felt a little awkward, being in the presence of such royalty.

"I cannot describe how beautiful your land is, Lady Galadriel," the emberling said regretfully. "However, I have a feeling I need not put it into words for you to understand."

"We all have our talents," the elf replied mysteriously. "Yours, however, seem so hidden within you I fear they will not be discovered in this life."

"Emberlings are no more talented than you world-walkers, despite what your songs say," Maethoriel countered, trying to be sensitive towards the elven literature and myth. "Though, I can tell you, the songs certainly inflated a few egos in the Night Sky."

Galadriel chuckled softly, the sound gracing Maethoriel's ears like music. "You have much to discover of yourself yet, emberling." She stopped and turned to look at Maethoriel, her eyes narrowing. "It will come to you, soon." She resumed descending the steps again, elves gazing upon her as though it was the first time they'd seen her as she passed by. Maethoriel admired their respect and loyalty for their Lord and Lady.

They walked through the tree roots and trunks, the world around them soft as a dream, towards a small hut. "You may change here," Galadriel said, sweeping her hand out as a guide. "Leave your clothes and they will be tended to."

Noticing a lack of new clothes, Maethoriel assumed they would be waiting for her in the hut. She smiled gratefully at Lady Galadriel and entered the hut, softly closing the door behind her. She looked down at herself, at her dirtied tomahawk and dagger, at the bowstring secured around her torso, at her upturned palms she swore were still stained red with blood. She felt filthy – far too filthy to be surrounded by such beauty. She was in awe, but she felt as though she did not belong here.

Hanging on the wall of the hut was a gown of silver, that slowly transferred into forest green lace at the bottom of the gown and the cuffs. The lace wound its way up the body in thin tendrils like the veins on a leaf, to a neckline that plunged elegantly. When Maethoriel reached out to touch it, she wondered if this was what it was like to touch beauty itself.

Maethoriel left her clothes and weapons in the hut as instructed, and remerged feeling anew. She had let her hair out of its bands, allowing it to fall over her shoulder in controlled waves. The gown felt like clouds on her skin, light as a feather, and wonderfully soft; but it made her feel a little uncomfortable, considering Gandalf had perished not so long ago.

Galadriel held her hands out as if to grasp Maethoriel's, but the elf did not let their skin touch. She held her hands so close to Maethoriel's that there could only have been a hair strand's width between them, and looked deep into Maethoriel's eyes, reaching straight to her soul.

"So strange and unfamiliar," Galadriel whispered. The hairs on the back of Maethoriel's neck stood up. "I've never felt anything like it."

Maethoriel felt embarrassment and guilt. "Forgive me, Lady Galadriel. What are you referring to?"

Galadriel's head lowered ever so slightly, suddenly dark eyes peering up from underneath light eyelashes.

"Power," she hissed.