Chapter 5,

For a moment, none of them spoke. The soft hiss of the fire filled the room like a whisper of things too sacred to name. Galadriel stepped back, her gaze turning toward the curtained window. "She will wake into war," she said, not coldly but with a weight that made her words fall like stones. "And they will look to her. Not just as mother, or friend, or queen. They will see in her what they need most: hope."

"But she may not be ready," Gandalf said, his voice ragged now. "What's left of her—what survived—may not be enough to carry them again. She deserves more than to wake and be handed the world she already died trying to save."

Galadriel looked over her shoulder, her gaze meeting his. "Then we give her something different," she said. "We give her time. Choice. Love. Not orders. Not burdens. Let her remember who she is before anyone dares ask her to be more."

Gandalf sat gently on the edge of the bed, his knees aching as they did. The crystal remained clenched in his hand, faintly pulsing. He looked down at Elena's still face and, with tender fingers, brushed a strand of hair from her brow. She didn't stir, but her fingers barely moved beneath the blankets.

His throat tightened.

"They're coming," he whispered, speaking to her soul instead of her ears. "Aela. Legolas. The ones who still believe. You don't have to wake for them yet, but they're coming. And when you do… they'll be here. And so will I."

Elrond lingered at the edge of the room, his gaze resting on the still form wrapped in warm linen and firelight. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, not with age, but with thought—a man who had known too many moments like this, who had stood beside too many beds, waiting for someone to return. After a long breath, he turned to Gandalf, voice low but certain. "I will see to it that someone remains here at all times," he said. "A healer. A guardian. Not to intrude, but to ensure she is never alone. If she hears us… If a part of her is still watching behind her eyes… she should know she is safe."

Gandalf nodded slowly, his eyes on Elena, though the firelight now cast her in the softer glow. "Thank you," he said. "She spent too long in silence. If she stirs—even if she can't wake—someone should be there to tell her she isn't in that tower anymore."

Galadriel's hand brushed the doorway's frame as she stepped back, her fingers lingering there as if reluctant to let go. She did not speak, but her eyes held that same ancient ache—the one that understood how delicate the road back from darkness could be. With one last glance at the bed, they turned and left the small house, the door closing behind them with a click that felt too loud in the hush of Rivendell's gardens.

Gandalf paused first—his hand lingering near the doorframe, fingers curling slightly as though part of him could not bear to leave her behind, even for a moment. The crystal rested in his robes like a heartbeat he couldn't separate from his own, still faintly pulsing. The others waited silently beside him, each lost in their quiet grief. No one said aloud that they feared what the morning might bring.

Then soft footsteps echoed across the stone, light but sure, accompanied by the faint hum of a melody nearly forgotten. From beneath the ivy-wrapped archway, Bilbo appeared. He wore a tight wool cloak over his shoulders and clutched his weathered book like a fragile treasure. His hair was thinner, more silver than white now, but his eyes still carried the same spark—gentle, curious, and warm.

When he saw them, his face lit with a smile that chased away the weight in the air, for a moment, at least. "Gandalf!" he called, with a flicker of the joy that once led him into dragons' dens and across wild hills. "Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel—it's been too long since I saw the three of you together. A fine night for stories, isn't it?"

Gandalf turned slowly to face him, summoning a smile, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "Bilbo," he said gently, grounding him in something steadier, even as his heart ached.

But Bilbo's eyes drifted beyond them, to the quiet house and the warm light that spilled from its windows. Something in him stilled. His smile faded—not from confusion, but from knowing. His voice softened. "You've just come from her home, haven't you?"

Gandalf said nothing.

And so Bilbo continued, clutching his book tighter to his chest, his hands trembling slightly. "I miss her too," he whispered. "Every day. I've thought of her more than I've written about myself lately. Foolish, maybe. But… she always stayed in my mind more than the tales ever could." His throat caught, and he blinked hard against the blurred vision. "I wish I weren't so old. I'd revisit her tree. Sit with her, just for a while. She always listened when no one else did."

Gandalf looked down, not from shame, but from sorrow so thick it nearly suffocated him. He couldn't bring himself to speak. The truth sat on his tongue like a shard of glass—too sharp to offer, too fragile to discard.

Beside him, Galadriel's gaze lingered on Bilbo's face—kind, earnest, and full of undimmed love. Her expression didn't shift, but she turned to Gandalf and gave him the most minor nods. It wasn't a command. It was an invitation. Perhaps not yet, but soon… possibly Bilbo could help. Maybe he was one of the few voices that might reach her—not with power, but with memory.

"She was brave," Bilbo murmured. "Braver than I'll ever be. And kind. I think that's what I miss most." His voice dropped to a hush. "Kindness like hers doesn't come back. It leaves a quiet when it's gone."

Gandalf swallowed around the knot in his throat, eyes lifting slowly. "Sometimes… sometimes it does," he said.

Elrond and Galadriel stood still for a long moment, their gazes following the path Bilbo had taken before slowly turning toward one another. No words passed between them, but something did—a weight, a knowing, a quiet agreement that did not need language. Elrond offered the faintest inclination of his head, and Galadriel returned it with a grace that lingered. Then, without a sound, the two stepped away into the night, their cloaks sweeping softly over the marble path as they vanished down the curve of the garden, leaving Gandalf and Bilbo standing together in the stillness.

The quiet stretched, long and gentle, filled only by the low murmur of water from a nearby stream and the slow turning of leaves in the night wind. Gandalf glanced sidelong at Bilbo, the lines of his face softening just a little. He looked older than he had the day before—not from time, but from everything he'd carried up the tower and down again.

Bilbo stood there with his book still hugged to his chest, blinking up at him with that familiar mixture of curiosity and caution. "What is it, Gandalf?" he asked after a moment. "You look like you've got something rattling around in your head but no words to push it free."

Gandalf's lips curled faintly into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He turned slightly to face the house they had just left, where only the glow of the hearth still moved behind the window. "I do," he said quietly. "And it's not easy. But not hard either. At least, not for someone like you."

Bilbo tilted his head, brows rising. "Oh?" he said cautiously. "That sounds suspiciously like a favor."

"It is," Gandalf replied. "A small one, perhaps. But it may prove important. To her. To the world. I'm not sure yet."

Bilbo blinked slowly, the lines around his eyes creasing with age and something close to worry. "You're not making much sense, you know."

"I'm aware," Gandalf said, his voice softer now, touched by something gentler than mystery. "But you've always understood more than most, even when we were too busy with war or wisdom to listen properly."

Bilbo gave a faint, flustered huff, looking down at the book in his arms as if it might somehow explain all this for him. "Well… all right, then. If I can help, you know I will."

Gandalf turned his gaze back toward the little house, the firelight glowing like a memory behind the glass. His hand moved toward the door, fingers brushing the wood with a reverence that spoke of all he had fought for. "Good," he murmured. "That's all I needed to hear."

And with that, he stepped inside, the door whispering shut behind him, leaving Bilbo alone beneath the stars, confused but faithful, ready, as always, to walk into something far bigger than himself, simply because someone he cared for asked him to.

The stars wheeled overhead, uncaring and eternal, as Gandalf guided Bilbo down the quiet garden path. Neither of them spoke now. The hush of Rivendell wrapped around them like a tapestry of old songs—soft wind in the ivy, the echo of falling water, the faint creak of wood swelling in the night air. As they reached the small house, Gandalf slowed, his fingers brushing the edge of the door, and paused like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.

Bilbo tilted his head, his mouth opening to ask, but Gandalf raised one hand—not in silence, but in reverence. "What you're about to see," he murmured, "was never meant to happen. Not by fate. Not by the Valar. This is the work of dark magic, of sorrow deep enough to call back what was already at rest."

Confusion flickered across Bilbo's face, his brow furrowing beneath snowy curls. "Gandalf, if this is some kind of riddle—"

"It isn't," the wizard said quietly. "It's true. And it will hurt."

He turned the handle and stepped inside, blocking the view at first. Warmth poured from the hearth within, golden and soft, curling around them like memory. Bilbo hesitated at the threshold, the familiar scent of lavender and woodsmoke making his heart ache in ways he hadn't expected. He had visited this house only once since her death, years ago, unable to bear the way it echoed without her voice. And now, without knowing why, his chest felt tight, breath catching like something unseen had reached inside and twisted.

Gandalf moved aside.

And the door opened.

The light from the fire caught in the strands of dark hair splayed over the pillow. The shape beneath the quilt was unmistakable—elegant, scarred, powerful even in stillness. Her brow, smooth now, bore the shadow of old lines and battles etched deep by time and magic. The faintest silver shimmer glinted through her lashes. Her hands rested unmoving over her chest, fingers slightly curled as though they had only just unclenched from a blade.

Bilbo froze. His book slipped from his arms and struck the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the silence. His jaw fell open, but no words came. For a moment, his body forgot how to breathe.

"No…" The word cracked from his throat, broken like something dropped. "No. That's not— That can't be her."

His feet moved without his permission, a step forward, then another, until he stood inside the room, staring with wide eyes. His gaze swept her face, desperate to find a flaw in the illusion, a reason to believe it wasn't real. But there was none. Her face hadn't changed. It was her—so unmistakably her that it felt like his soul had been torn open.

"She's…" His voice broke again, and he turned to Gandalf with tears trembling at the edges of his eyes. "Gandalf, she's dead. She—she died. I saw the grave. We buried her."

Gandalf stepped in slowly, his tone low and heavy with the kind of grief that never truly fades. "She did die, Bilbo. But she wasn't allowed to rest. She was pulled from the peace she'd earned… by a hand with no right to touch her soul."

Bilbo turned back to her, his shoulders shaking. "But how? Why? Why would anyone do that to her?"

Gandalf's gaze fell to the bed, to the stillness that radiated both presence and absence. "Because even in death, she frightened them. Because they knew what she was. What she could still be."

The old hobbit reached out, slowly, fingers trembling in the air just above her arm, but not quite daring to touch. He was crying openly now, tears trailing down the lines of his face, his breath shaking with the weight of memory.

"She was the brightest soul I ever knew," he whispered. "She made the world feel wide and warm, even when I was small and scared. I loved her, you know… not like the others did. But I did. She was my friend."

Gandalf placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

"She still is."

Bilbo's legs buckled beneath him as he stumbled toward the bedside, the overwhelming tide of emotion finally dragging him under. He caught the edge of the mattress with shaking hands, lowering himself slowly onto the chair as though afraid his weight might disturb the stillness. She was right there—so close that he could see her chest's faint rise and fall beneath the blanket, so still that she could have been carved from marble. But she wasn't stone. She was Elena. And somehow, impossibly, she was breathing.

His eyes raked across her face, drinking in every familiar line and shadow as if trying to memorize her again. "Gandalf…" he choked, unable to tear his gaze away. "Why doesn't she look… touched? Why does she still look like her?" His voice cracked in the middle, breaking around the raw edge of disbelief. "It's as if death… never reached her."

Gandalf moved slowly to his side, his old knees protesting as he lowered himself to one knee near the bed. "I've wondered the same," he admitted. "There are no signs of decay, no markings of death. No wound remains to mark her end. Her skin is warm. Her lips are still pink. She looks… waiting." He paused, glancing toward her with eyes full of quiet awe. "I believe that her blood—her soul—burned too brightly to be claimed by death alone. Dragon-born, marked by wolf and war, shaped by fate and flame. There was too much in her for death to undo."

Bilbo's breath hitched as he listened, his fingers ghosting above Elena's motionless hand. He could still remember how those fingers once curled around a mug in the cold morning air, or tapped the table when she was thinking too hard. This… this wasn't the sleep of peace. It was something else. A stillness too perfect, too careful.

Gandalf's hand slipped into his robe. He slowly unwrapped the dark cloth, revealing the black crystal within its folds. Its glow was faint but steady, like the heartbeat of something unnatural. Its pulse sent a cold ripple through the air. "This," Gandalf said gravely, "is why she cannot move. Cannot wake. It was forged, twisted by Saruman to leash her soul. He ripped her from death, anchored her to this, and forced her to obey. Every breath, every step she took afterward was because he commanded it. Even now… even rest must be permitted."

Bilbo stared at the crystal like it might come alive in Gandalf's hand. Horror etched itself across his face, his fingers tightening around Elena's. "She's aware, isn't she?" he whispered. "In there… she's still in there."

"Somewhere," Gandalf replied, his voice low. "She spoke a word to me once. Moved a finger. Enough to let me know she's still fighting. But it's quiet… and growing dim. She needs something familiar. Something… beloved."

He turned to Bilbo now, eyes filled with something rare and aching. "I believe she might hear you, if anyone. Not because of magic. But because she trusted you. Loved you. If anything can guide her back, it might be the sound of your voice."

Bilbo nodded once, unable to speak. Then, slowly, he reached forward and took her hand in both of his, gently curling his fingers around hers. Her skin was soft and warm, not cold like he had feared. He blinked hard against the tears, then leaned forward slightly, his voice barely above a breath.

"All right," he whispered, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. "You always hated it when I told this one wrong… so try not to judge me too harshly." He swallowed, chuckled once, wet with sorrow. "Once, there were three idiotic trolls—and you know the ones I mean—who had a taste for stew and no sense for manners…"

And he began to speak. His voice shook, but it grew steadier with each word. The fire crackled beside them, the night deepening, the crystal dimming slightly in the cradle of Gandalf's hands.

And if one listened closely…

There was the faintest twitch in her fingers.

The dining hall flickered with soft firelight and the rustle of evening air drifting in from the carved windows, but no one at the long table paid it much mind. The meal had been simple—herbed rice, roasted root vegetables, a warm broth meant to comfort more than impress—but the food might as well have been stone for all the joy it brought. Elena sat at Gandalf's right, upright as a marble statue, her back rigid, her movements so precise they seemed rehearsed. Each bite she took was the same: fork lifted, mouth opened, chew exactly five times, swallow. Repeat.

Gandalf watched her with quiet guilt etched into the corners of his eyes. He had spoken the words she needed—"Eat, Elena."—and she had obeyed with the same grace and emptiness she'd shown since her return. Her body moved, but her soul remained shuttered somewhere deep behind those pale lashes. Every perfect movement she made only deepened the hollow inside him.

Sitting across the table, Bilbo was chewing with far less elegance and far more judgment.

He watched her with an increasingly exaggerated frown, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "Well," he said aloud, "this is horrifying."

Gandalf blinked at him. Elrond raised one silver brow. Seated in quiet serenity, Galadriel only tilted her head slightly, watching.

Bilbo ignored them all, narrowing his eyes at Elena. "Look at you. Eating like you've been trained to dine in front of an orc king." He leaned forward on his elbows, his voice loud enough to fill the room. "I've seen goblins with more table personality. Honestly, Elena, you used to devour roast chicken like it had personally insulted your ancestors."

Her fork lifted again, without falter, but Bilbo wasn't finished.

"Do you remember that dinner in Dale?" he asked, stabbing a carrot on his plate. "You snuck three honey cakes under the table while lecturing a prince about foreign trade. You had powdered sugar in your eyebrows, Elena. We laughed so hard, Galadriel nearly spilled her wine."

At that, the Lady of Lothlórien arched a golden brow. "I did not spill my wine."

"You almost did," Bilbo said matter-of-factly, waving his spoon. "And don't think I didn't see you snort when Elena tried to explain herself with crumbs falling out of her mouth."

The fork in Elena's hand paused mid-air.

Gandalf looked up sharply, startled.

Elrond leaned slightly forward.

Bilbo leaned across the table, smiling like a hobbit who knew precisely what he was doing. "And what about the peach pie, hmm? You remember that one? You said if anyone touched it before you, you'd set the drapes on fire." He grinned wider. "And I believed you."

Elena's fingers twitched—barely—but it was enough.

Bilbo's eyes softened, and he dropped his voice as he sat back. "That's better. Just a little rebellion in your grip. That's the woman I know."

Gandalf took a long breath, his chest rising slowly, some tension unwinding from his shoulders. "You may be the only person alive who can get away with mocking her while she's trapped by magic."

"She'd haunt me if I didn't," Bilbo said, glancing at her again with aching affection. "I'd deserve it, too."

Galadriel reached for her goblet, her voice quiet but clear. "Continue, Master Baggins. I believe she is listening."

And Bilbo did.

With his voice steady and his words lined with all the mischief, heart, and stubborn friendship that had carried him across mountains and back again, he filled the room with stories. Stories of her—not the warrior, queen, but the woman who used to sing to the horses and couldn't remember the names of flowers but loved them all the same.

And on the other side of the table, one dragon-scarred hand trembled again, just enough to make hope catch in the throats of all who saw.

She lay perfectly still, her body the picture of rest—yet there was no rest within her. Beneath the calm mask of sleep, her mind was alive, awake, churning like a storm behind silent eyes. Each breath came because it was allowed. Each twitch of her hand, each blink of her eyes, happened only when the magic that held her deemed it necessary. But her thoughts were hers alone, and they raged like wildfire behind the unmoving facade.

She heard them all: every day, every hour. Bilbo's voice rang the clearest—bright, irreverent, infuriating in the way only someone who loved her deeply could manage. He teased her, poked fun at her posture, at the unnatural stillness in her limbs. Called her a ceremonial fork. Said she looked like a bored noble at a dry feast. And she wanted, more than anything, to grab the nearest dish and throw it at his head. A peach pie. One with extra syrup. Right between the eyes. That would shut him up—or make him laugh harder.

But underneath his humor was warmth. Hope. Faith.

And it reached her.

She couldn't show it. Couldn't smile or laugh or scowl at him like she used to. But inside, she held onto his voice like a tether. Every story he told, every ridiculous comment about her food or how she chewed brought her back to herself. Bit by bit. He remembered her not as the weapon others saw, not as the warrior or the queen, but as the woman who once scolded a spider for being in her boots and couldn't walk past a peach tree without climbing it.

She wanted to thank him. Truly. She tried to reach out and place her hand over his or look him in the eye and say it. But her body would not obey. The most she could manage was a faint twitch, a shiver beneath the layers of spell-wrought control. And it wasn't enough. Not yet.

Still, she knew she wasn't alone. Gandalf spoke to her sometimes—quietly, with care, like a man afraid to say too much. He gave the commands she hated but needed to survive and told her to eat, rest, and breathe. And though every word burned in her ears, though part of her screamed against the helplessness, she knew he did it out of love. Out of desperation. Because without his voice, she would have faded completely.

Galadriel watched her in silence, but there was a gentleness to the Lady's gaze—a knowing. Elena could feel her magic brushing against the edges of the spell that held her, trying not to break it, but to understand. And Elrond… his presence was quieter, more guarded, but still there. He saw her as more than a relic. He saw her as a soul, still fighting.

But no matter how comfortable she found herself in their presence, her thoughts always drifted to the faces that lived in the deepest part of her heart.

Her children.

Aela, wild and fierce, too clever for her good. Legolas, quiet, steady, sharp as a blade of sunlight through the trees. She missed them with an ache that went beyond words, beyond tears. What would they think, seeing her like this? Would they understand that she was still here, even if her body betrayed her? Would they believe in her voice, even if they could not hear it?

And then, as always, came the memory that never left- the one that haunted her even in sleep.