Shiros heard the clash through the trees, heard the rough, awkward shuffling steps characteristic of orcs. Her teeth grit, and she unsheathed her sword without hesitation, cutting down stragglers she found. The last orc died with an abruptly ended squeal, and Shiros yanked her sword from its body. The sounds of fighting ahead grew dimmer until the forest was uneasily quiet except for faint whispers. The orcs were retreating, but the dread in Shiros only grew. When the tree line finally gave way, Shiros stumbled upon a devastating sight.
The dorchir cried out Boromir's name and ran to his body, falling to one knee beside him. Her hands hovered over him uselessly as she took in all his injuries. 'No. Valar, why?' she despaired. She hadn't been fast enough to outrun her dream, and just like that, Legolas' futile promise was broken. Legolas and Aragorn quickly grabbed onto Gimli and held him back from rushing her. They could do nothing, however, to prevent the curses the dwarf hurled at her and his shouts directed toward them. Shiros ignored the dwarf entirely and smoothed Boromir's hair away from his face tenderly, tracing his features. The last time she had seen him, all those weeks ago, he had looked upon her with so much anger and hate. But now, lying cold on a bed of leaves, he looked so vulnerable, peaceful even. Unburdened. He would never know what happened to Shiros. He would never know her true nature. Every possibility for amends and conversation was snuffed out alongside his life, and their last interaction would forever be his attempt to murder her. It made her sick. He may have wanted her to die, but she'd never wished this fate upon him. She glanced at the arrows and remembered the pain of being shot herself. It was a horrible way to go, drowning in agony, grief, fear, and regret—a truly terrible way to die. Shiros bowed her head and recited a Dorchic mourning prayer and hoped for him to find peace in the heavens before pressing a light kiss to his brow to finish the blessing.
"Tarya min naith lurn, arra brelda honn cora."
The forest had quieted when she had begun her prayer, and Gimli had subsided in his struggles as he truly saw what was before him, the cloudy veil of fear and hate pulled back at the sheer intensity of her sorrow. He quietly watched her show nothing but care for their fallen member, no animosity or savage intent. There was a moment of silence after she had finished where no one spoke. The wind didn't rustle the trees, and no woodland creature sounded. Shiros finally looked up at the three, eyes wet though no tears fell. Slowly, she rose to her feet and crossed the forest floor to them. Before Gimli, who had been let free, she kneeled and bowed her head. Legolas' breath caught, and he made to step forward and raise her when Aragorn placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Instead, the elf and the Man took a step back from the dorchir and the dwarf.
"I cannot change my blood," Shiros started stoically, her voice strong and clear. "I cannot be anything but a dorchir anymore than you cannot be anything but a dwarf."
She raised her head and looked him in the eye. "But blood does not rule the contents of the heart, where good and evil are decided. Am I your enemy for who I am or what I am? Judge me on what is in my power to control, what I have done of my own volition. Judge me on my actions, not my ancestors'. If you can find but one occasion where I have shown intent to harm any of the Fellowship, let your axe fall upon me."
Gimli was still as he deliberated, looking her over intensely. He saw no deception in her words or in her eyes. What he saw was a young woman putting her life in his hands despite knowing he could easily kill her, despite knowing that his initial reaction was to kill her. Shiros was willingly giving him permission to do just that should he find her guilty, but in all his memories, there had been no such instance. He sighed heavily and told her to stand. He would rather die than let his axe fall upon an innocent being. Legolas let out a controlled exhale in relief, and even Aragorn relaxed, his unknowingly tightening grip on Legolas' shoulder falling loose. Shiros stood, leaves clinging to her clothes, trying to hide the tremor in her hands and the frantic beating of her heart. She glanced at Boromir's body and turned her head away sharply, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"How will we tell the hobbits? They'll be devastated." The three males shifted; Legolas stared at the woods to his left, and Gimli dropped his gaze to the forest floor. Only Aragorn looked at her. Her hand twitched involuntarily, the shaking growing worse. "They're at the beach, are they not?" There was a hitch in her voice at the end of the question, and her throat felt tight. Her entire body was doused in cold fear. The longer their silence dragged on, the worse her horror grew until she nearly felt like retching from visceral panic. Aragorn laid a hand on her shoulder to ground her, to dubious success.
"Shiros," Aragorn began solemnly. "The Fellowship is broken."
"But where are they?!" she cried, knocking his hand off her and taking a step back. She frantically scanned the forest as if it was a trick, and the hobbits were hiding behind the trees. "Are they—?"
"No," Aragorn cut her off firmly. "They are not dead. Frodo and Sam head to Mordor, and it is no longer our path to accompany them. Merry and Pippin were taken by the orcs."
"Then let us find them!" She glanced at Boromir again, and her tone lowered to something sorrowful but adamant. "We cannot waste time on the dead when time for the living is running out."
Gimli jerked, angered at her seeming disregard for the fallen member. He burst into argument, ridiculing her and cursing her, but Aragorn was swift to end it. She was right, he conceded, though he would not leave his brethren to be ravaged by wild animals. He carried Boromir to the river and laid him gently in a boat. The arrows were broken and carefully pulled from his body. He would not be defiled by the Enemy's weapons at his final resting. His shield was placed above his head, and his hands were folded over his sword, which had served him well until the end. From his arms, Aragorn untied the bracers and put them on his own being. They weighed heavy on his arms and his heart, a reminder of his failure and a reminder to see it through the end in the place of those who couldn't.
The others watched on silently as Aragorn waded into the water and guided the boat to its course, Boromir's belt of gold leaves glinting beautifully in the sun. Each prayed for him in their own language. Aragorn waited for the boat to pass over the waterfall before he returned to shore, a haunted air to him. As the leader of the Fellowship in all but anointed name, the weight of their failure was greatest on him, and Galadriel's words returned to torment him. Could he ever rise to Elendil's grace, with this tragedy on him? Legolas nudged his friend forward to break him from his spiraling thoughts. Shiros was already many feet ahead, wasting no time and rushing through the trees, with Gimli, being stouter, trailing a little way behind her. The elf and the Man ran to join them, and thus began a new journey.
They ran tirelessly for hours, only taking enough time to sustain themselves but forsaking sleep. The weariness took its toll on Gimli and Shiros, the former due to being a natural sprinter versus long distance runner and the latter due to refraining from eating the appetite-suppressing herb so her nose could help trace the orcs. But nonetheless they pushed on. The fire of vengeance fueled her heart and body forward, fading the pain into the background.
During one of their rare breaks, Shiros' body's protests won, and she flopped on the ground, breast heaving and limbs limp. The strain of their pace was clear on her face. Legolas helped sit her up, though she retracted from him immediately after. When he met her stare, he felt burned by the anger in them. It cooled into bitter disappointment before she turned her head.
"I told you not to do it," sneered Shiros, voice small and lacking true venom. "It was a fool's promise."
Legolas bowed his head and sat near her but maintained a distance away. He kept quiet; he had no right to defense. She said no more but looked over her shoulder, grief contorting her features. He had continued the pattern so cruelly of those cursed words.
"Did you truly believe it?" she asked barely above a whisper.
"…I do not know. I think I had hoped for it," he admitted.
"I nearly did." A shaky breath pushed past her lips. "I know you meant well. I know you tried your best. But I warned you. I told you not to assure things you cannot know. Boromir is dead, Pippin and Merry are hostages to orcs, Frodo and Sam journey to Mordor alone, and the Fellowship is more than broken; it is gone.
"How much innocence should suffer until it ends?"
"Shiros…"
"I will not lose heart, but it is wounded. How can it not be?"
And he had no reply for her. Their break, hardly more than a few minutes, ended, and they were off to the plains of Rohan. The sun and moon rose three times, and still they persisted. A gnawing ache ate away at her stomach, and the world was too scented, giving her headache a dizzying sensation. Her mouth salivated at the memory of Sam's rabbit (which intruded into her mind when the hunger seemed depthless) only for her to subsequently taste ash when she remembered where the hobbit and the ringbearer were.
On the fourth morning, they looked to a rising red sun and knew something had changed. They had been steadily gaining on the orcs and would have reached them by nightfall at the latest, but with the rising of the sun, their prey was undetectable.
"A red sun. Blood has been spilled this night," Legolas said.
The wind altered course and blew upwind, and Shiros cringed and held the back of her wrist to her nose as a torrent of ugly smells hit her. She retrieved her veil from her pack, fixing it securely over her hair until its red hue was smothered, and told her companions what she smelled. "Burning flesh. Horses. Their riders." She nodded grimly toward Legolas, "And blood. Either someone has killed our prey for us…"
"Or our prey has killed again," Legolas finished. Shiros glared at the plains. The first option was more favorable, but she would have preferred the privilege of killing them herself. She would have shown them no mercy if she found a single hair on the hobbits' heads disturbed.
And if it was the second option…when they inevitably reached the orcs, she would make their suffering great.
The four ran even faster down the hill, despite the protests of their lungs and calves and especially their hearts, which pounded too hard in their chests. They did not get far before Shiros gestured for them to duck between two large stones. Not a moment later, a horse whinnied nearby, and the company of riders she had smelled stormed past. Shiros took a shuddering breath to quell the urge to leap at one of the horses.
Aragorn glanced at them before jumping out from behind the rock once the last of the horses had passed. Shiros moved to pull him back with a hushed curse, but he had already called out to the Riders of Rohan. Quickly standing, Shiros, Legolas, and Gimli joined his side—better together than alone—and they were completely encircled by the horsemen, their lances lowered at the level of their necks.
One horse broke through the circle, the man astride it bright and commanding. "What business does an elf, a Man, a dwarf, and a woman have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!" he demanded.
"Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," Gimli challenged, earning him an exasperated and pleading glance from both Aragorn and Shiros. The rider slipped from the saddle and approached them on foot. Aragorn pressed a hand to Gimli's shoulder.
"I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," he sneered.
Legolas drew an arrow and had it aimed at the rider before another word could be spoken. "You would die before your stroke fell."
"Legolas! Cett!" Shiros pushed down his bow and, in a softer tone, added, "Ethnadal. You will only make things worse," she finished in Sindarin. The horse-master looked at her sharply, but she did not take her eyes off Legolas.
Aragorn stepped between Legolas and the rider and introduced them. For Shiros, he kept her title simple and vague, Shiros the Traveller, nothing more, though the rider continued to eye her. "We are friends of Rohan and of Theoden, your king."
"Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe." The horse-master removed his helmet, revealing long, blond hair and a face bearing resemblance to the ruling Rohirric family. "Not even his own kin." The other rides finally withdrew their lances and spears, and Shiros' hand, which had wavering around the handle of her sword, dropped as well. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished." As the rider continued, he looked each of them in the eye. First Aragorn, then Gimli, then Legolas, and lastly, Shiros. "The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets."
"We are no spies," Aragorn said. "We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."
Shiros stepped around Legolas to stand in front of the rider. "There is the smell of smoke in the air. Do you know of its origins?"
"The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night," the rider nodded at Shiros, "and burned them."
"But there were two hobbits. Did you see two hobbits with them?" Gimli asked, desperation making his voice higher and strained at the end.
"They would be small. Only children to your eyes," Aragorn elaborated.
The rider looked at the ground and was silent for a second. "We left none alive. When we burned them, we piled the carcasses together." He pointed to a plume of thick, white smoke in the distance.
"But you cannot remember if you placed the body of seemingly two children into the flames?" Shiros asked in disbelief. Surely, they would've known.
"I am sorry," was all he could offer. Shiros took a step backward, bumping into Legolas' chest. His hands landed on her shoulders, and she felt them shaking. The rider whistled and called out three names, and soon they were presented with three horses' reins.
"May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell." The rider replaced his helmet and returned to his beast. "Look for your friends but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands." The rider called his company, and as one, they left Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and Shiros in greater sorrow and fear than they had let themselves feel before. Shiros immediately climbed atop a horse, her hunger completely vanquished by the news they'd just been given. Her eyes were fixed only on the white smoke, and she was flying towards it without a second wasted. By the time the other three caught up to her, she had already dismounted and was standing still in front of the impaled head of an orc. The smell was unbearable, but still, she did not move away.
Gimli searched through the smoldering bodies with his axe and pulled out a damning belt of Lothlórein. Shiros jerked at the sight and stormed away, cursing tearfully in Dorchic while Legolas whispered in Sindarin. Aragorn kicked a helmet and screamed in anguish, collapsing to his knees. The sound tore through Shiros' already ribboned heart.
"Nuch brelda rir firrich. Nuch brelda rir firrich," she said over and over, hands pushed up under her veil to grip at her head as she paced. The ground under her boot squelched, and she crouched to touch the pool of blood. Dipping a finger lightly in it, she brought it to her nose and recoiled. "Orc," she spat and started roughly wiping her hand off on the grass. Yet, she paused and sniffed the blood again. It was only orc blood. Her head shot up, and it seemed that, at the same time, Aragorn was seeing tracks on the ground, tracks that only a tussle, and one done by a small creature, could make.
Aragorn drifted across the ground, tracing an imaginary fight. "They crawled. Their hands were bound." He pulled up a sliced rope from beneath the brush. "Their bonds were cut. They ran over there…" He choregraphed the hobbits' moves, leading them through the hobbits' struggles until they stopped before Fangorn Forest.
"Fangorn?" Gimli repeated. "What madness drove them in there?"
"Assurity of death should they have stayed." Shiros' hand squeezed the hilt of her blade. She started into the forest. "C'mon."
Gimli startled. "You can't mean to go in there!"
"If Pippin and Merry are in there, we must find them. And I smell orc blood, however faint, which means they were followed."
"Shiros is right," Aragorn said. He entered the forest with her, Legolas following at their heels, while Gimli tottered behind, wary.
Fangorn Forest was eerily quiet in ways of natural sound, remining Shiros too much of the forest after Boromir's death. Likewise to then, the birds did not sing, the squirrels did not scurry, and hardly did the wind whistle hard enough to move the moss dangling from the twisty branches overhead. The forest was old, ancient. It far surpassed the dorchir's age and as well as the elf's. But with time comes memory, heartache, and anger, and that was conveyed in the little sound the forest contained, which were the groans and creaks of the trees. Gimli lifted his axe, and the tree noises grew louder.
"The trees are speaking to each other," Legolas said, as a particularly loud sound came from the giant tree behind Gimli.
"Gimli!" Aragorn half-yelled, half-whispered. "Lower your axe."
Gimli did as commanded with a short 'oh'.
"The trees have feelings, my friend. The elves began it—waking up the trees, teaching them to speak," Legolas explained.
"What do trees have to talk about, hm?" Gimli grumbled. "Except the consistency of squirrel droppings."
"I suspect a great many things," Shiros countered. "The taste of the wind, the music it brings, the refreshingness of rain. Perhaps even—"
Legolas interrupted, speaking lowly and quickly in Sindarin, rushing forward and reaching back toward his quiver. "Something's out there."
Aragorn and Shiros chased after him. "What do you see?" Aragorn asked.
"The White Wizard approaches."
The whole company felt a terrible fear and anger overcome their hearts.
"Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us." Aragorn pulled out his sword.
Shiros dashed to a tree, whispering an Elvish apology to it, and climbed it until she was perched and hidden on a thick branch. An element of surprise, a different direction of offense…it wouldn't bode to have them all clustered together. Shiros unshouldered her bow and notched an arrow. Controlled exhales and inhales ruled her body as she aimed at the approaching figure, but just before she released it and as the others yelled with their attacks, the wizard let out a great light, blinding her. Her arrow flew errantly and was harmlessly struck to the ground. The second arrow followed the same course. Suddenly, the string of her bow snapped, whipping a sharp line across her face. Hissing, she dropped it to the forest floor and unsheathed her sword, aiming to swing down upon the wizard from above, but the metal burned her hands. Her sword joined her bow on the leaves below.
The White Wizard's voice was deep and rich, filling the silence of the forest completely when he spoke. "You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits."
"Where are they?!" Aragorn asked.
"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"
"Who are you? Show yourself!"
The glow around the White Wizard dimmed, and Shiros nearly slipped from the tree. She jumped down immediately, staring at Gandalf in awe and horror.
"This is a trick," she denied, yet her hands did not stray to pick up her fallen weapons.
Legolas kneeled, eyes wet. "Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman."
"Legolas, no. It's a trick," Shiros weakly protested.
"It is no trick, Shiros. I assure you. I am Saruman. Or rather, Saruman as he should have been." Shiros staggered back. It couldn't be, it couldn't. Alive and well before her, and imbued with greater power, greater brilliance than before.
"Gandalf? Yes. That was what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. That was my name."
"And Mithrandir and Ilrothir," Shiros said, in a daze. "The Grey Pilgrim and—"
"The Grey One. Now, I am Solrothir for I am Gandalf the White. And I come back to you now at the turn of the tide."
Language Notes:
- Tarya min naith lurn, arra brelda honn cora: I forgive you, and I am sorry.
- Nuch brelda rir firrich: It cannot be true.
- Ilrothir: quite literally means Grey One/Grey Being (ilroth means 'silver' and -ir is the suffix indicating 'being')
- Solrothir: White One (solroth is 'white' and -ir means 'being')