"The Balrogs were, during the First Age, corrupted servants of The Enemy," Aragorn explained softly, after looking to the Lord and Lady for leave. "Many perished with his downfall, and indeed I was not aware that any yet remained. I can give you that history in greater detail at a more appropriate time, should you desire."

"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life," Galadriel said gravely, in response to Legolas's statement. "Even those that have followed him knew not his mind and cannot report his full purpose."

There was a silence until, at length, Celeborn spoke again. "I did not know that your plight was so evil," he said. "I am deeply troubled by this news, but I will do what I can to aid you, each according to his need, but especially the little one who bears such a burden."

"Your quest is known to us," said Galadriel, looking to Frodo. "We will not speak of it here so openly, but it is perhaps well that you came to us for aid, as Gandalf himself clearly purposed. There is yet hope remaining, though I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. But this I will say: you Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all, but hope remains while the Company is true." She paused, searching each of them with her gaze, which none save Aragorn and Legolas could long endure.

"But that is enough of the one matter," interjected Lord Celeborn smoothly after a moment. "You have something further to disclose, and I would readily hear it. I perceive that all is not as it seems with this company."

Aragorn stepped forward again, glancing over at the four newer members of their party. "You perceive correctly," he said with a slight nod. "I omitted this from my account because it is a different affair entirely. When we nearly two weeks out of Rivendell, in the foothills of Hollin, we happened across...a phenomenon. A truly remarkable occurence never before recorded in the history of Arda."

"A phenomenon?" Celeborn repeated. "Of what nature?"

"I feel that they themselves could better explain than I. It is...of delicate nature."

Celeborn nodded slowly and motioned for a majority of the elves present to grant them privacy for a moment.

As the last of the elves filed out, all remaining in the chamber looked to the small group of foreigners, who in turn all looked to Barbossa, who in turn wondered when the blazes he had been appointed official spokesman. It was just as well, though, he reflected as he stepped forward slightly and touched his forehead in reverence. One never could tell what those idiots would say next. "My Lord and My Lady," he said politely, then began into a general description of their situation. He easily skipped over details such as exactly what manner of conflict they had been engaged in previous to the explosion, or anything having to do with his and Jack's 'condition,' but made certain to still give a full enough account. He felt at one point a presence in his mind, not unlike something probing for truth, but he resolutely shut it out as best he could and went on with his tale.

By the end, every gaze was fixed on him unblinkingly. "An' so," he concluded, inclining his head, "that brings us here. Gandalf, shortly after learnin' of our plight, mentioned that the Lady o' the Golden Wood was a being of great wisdom and power, and that we might accompany them this far in order to seek your counsel and aid."

Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged a glance, seeming to converse silently for a moment. "Your tale is strange indeed," Celeborn said at length. "Were it not supported by such trustworthy individuals as these, I might dismiss it as madness. But, nonetheless, we will consider your tale further before giving our answer. There is much to be taken into account."

Lady Galadriel smiled kindly at them all. "Go now, and do not let your hearts be troubled," she said. "You are wearied with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you shall sleep in peace, free from worries. We will not discuss your future road for some time."

Pippin hung to the back of the group, happy to let Merry stand in front of him, even happier to let the tall folk do the talking. Lothlorien was like nothing he had ever seen before- to say he was overwhelmed was an understatement. The soft blue glow lent an otherworldly feel to the scene, illuminating the trees, glistening off leaves. Celeborn and Galadriel themselves were silent as they listened to Barbossa’s words, every inch the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien.

His stomach rumbled.

Clamping his hands over his middle, Pippin glanced around apprehensively. If any of the group had heard, they ignored it, thankfully. How long had it been since he had eaten? It must have been an hour, at least, and then only a few bites of dried meat. Hopefully the elves would have some good food ready.

<i>All the gems in all the mines in the world couldn’t match her.</i> Gimli stared at the Lady Galadriel, drinking in her beauty. She was so calm and grave as she listened to the Fellowship’s news, saving her words until just the right moment. Such wisdom was in her speech, wisdom learned from those centuries of her life. When she had looked at Gimli, he felt as if she looked straight into his soul, finding out every hidden secret. Somehow, though, he didn’t mind. No, he had welcomed her thoughts in his head.

"Go now, and do not let your hearts be troubled," she said kindly. "You are wearied with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you shall sleep in peace, free from worries. We will not discuss your future road for some time."

As the group turned and started back down the long stairs, Gimli stole a glance back at Galadriel. She was talking with Celeborn, her face turned away from him, golden hair cascading down her back. Turning back, he shook his head and said, “Remarkable woman, that one.”

Lorien's elves slept and lived in their high, graceful flets, surrounded by the golden-green light made by sun through leaves; though where the Fellowship's pavilions were placed, on grass, the ethereal rays that filtered through were tinted silvery blue. The moon was not visible through the ancient trees, but the delicate lights that twined up the soaring stairs to the heights of the great trunks were stars in their own right.

A melody, achingly sad in a manner that only the language of the elves could embody, floated down from somewhere high in the boughs along with the silver-blue light. The grass whispered under Legolas' soft boots. Olórin, who once was...sent by the Lords of the West to guard the lands of the East, went the Elvish words. Their accent was lilting, different from that of Mirkwood's elves. Wisest of all Maiar, what drove you to leave that which you loved?

"Mithrandir," he whispered once, as their voices rose in chorus, and walked on.

Will, seated by the great roots of one of the trees, watched the elf pass. The close proximity of so many of these almost otherwordly beings meant that he could not quite relax. Their eyes were strange and distant, filled with centuries of memories he could not begin to comprehend. The song that settled with the silvery light over Lorien only served of heighten the sensation.

Unexpectedly, Legolas turned as if feeling eyes on him, and their two gazes met - strangely different, yet strangely akin. "A lament for Gandalf," said the elf in response to the man's unasked inquiry, and turned away. Will's gaze strayed momentarily to Elizabeth, then back over the ethereal Lorien. He was quiet.

Sam laid out the bedroll provided, nestling it between two of the great roots, and leaned back to wistfully wonder at the meaning of the Elvish song. Mithrandir, was that? He'd heard the Elves call Gandalf such. What were they singing of the wizard? It didn't do him justice, Sam would wager.

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It was only as they were a settling down for the night that Merry truly felt his own exhaustion. Every muscle seemed to ache - muscles he didn't even know he had. The strangeness of the elves had only begun to sink in as well, especially that one, the lady Galadriel. He wondered again at the images and thoughts that had seemed to come into his mind almost uninvited upon entering Lothlorien, strange and haunting glimpses that were equally disturbing and fascinating.

And then Elizabeth asked the question that had been in many of their minds, softly, not wanting to disturb the ethereal melody. "What do they say about him?"

She knelt, watching the glimpses of them as they passed and their song faded away. The strangeness of this whole situation kept trying to sink in, and she repeatedly blocked it, refusing to trouble over the matter tonight. The fact that she was in the company of only men, and most of them strangers at that, both dazed and slightly amused her. Whatever would her father think if he knew?

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

"I have not the heart to tell you," responded Legolas softly, eyes turned away from the group. Mithrandir, Mithrandir, O Pilgrim Grey...no more will you wander the green fields of this earth. Your journey has ended in darkness. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, as the achingly sad melody died away into nothing.

"I bet they don't mention his fireworks," said Sam to Merry, wistfully. He listened a moment more. "There should be a verse about them."

Standing up, he found his eyes drawn to the heights of the soaring trees. "The finest rockets ever seen...they burst in stars of - of blue, and green. Or after thunder...silver...showers..." he paused, expression mournful. "Came falling...like a rain of flowers. Oh, that doesn't do them justice by a long road."

He sat down, and Legolas, who had paused to listen, turned back to look out at Lorien with those unreadable eyes.

Will stood, hands in his pockets, to walk to the place where the Fellowship sheltered against a tree trunk. The clothes he now wore, given to them by Lorien's elves, were unfamiliar, and he shrugged a little to shift the tunic as he leaned on the broad tree. "Master Gandalf would have liked that verse, I'll wager," he said quietly to Sam.

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Frodo smiled at Sam's speech. "Tis a good verse, Sam," he commented quietly. "My mind has been on verses as well. I think....I think Gandalf would've wanted something of the Shire in his song. He did love to come. It was like coming home." His voice trailed off as he looked out into the ethereal woods. Slowly, yet with growing strength, he began to sing.

"When evening in the Shire was grey his footsteps on the hill were heard; before the dawn he went away on journey long without a word." The others nearby turned as he went on. "A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bend beneath its load; a trumpet-voice, a burning brand, a weary pilgrim on the road." His voice started to brake, and he drew a deep breath. After an encouraging look, he finished it off. "He stood upon the bridge alone and Fire and Shadow both defied....his staff was broken..on the stone....In Khazad-dum his wisdom...died." The final word seemed to hang in the air, resonating and growing with the silence. Placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, Frodo stood. "I think I shall leave the verses to you Sam. I...can't talk of it anymore."

He wandered along the edge of the lawn and stood by the fountain for a while, lost in thought. While still holding a heavy heart, Frodo began to feel lighter. The beauty of the elves, combined with the healing power of the Golden Wood, washed away his hurts, sorrows, and cares for the time being.

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going on a journey through my old claims

Aragorn leaned against the smooth trunk of the tree with a quiet sigh. It was an immense relief to be in Lothlorien at last, to not have to worry about what dangers might be lurking just out of sight. However, for all that he urged the others to relax while they could, he was not entirely at ease himself. The absence of certain thoughts only allowed those previously suppressed to rise to the surface.

Gandalf was dead. Their leader - his mentor, his friend - was gone. Dead. And he had entrusted Aragorn with the success of the journey.

The Lady herself had said it: their quest stood on the edge of a knife. Aragorn did not underestimate his own ability to lead, but neither was he inclined toward overconfidence. It was not so much a matter of knowing how to lead as it was of knowing to where he would be leading them. Mordor, obviously, was the ultimate destination, but how best to arrive there had never been firmly established after the incident at Caradhras. They had determined that it would suffice for the time being to make it as far as Lothlorien. Once there, they would be able to discuss their route in greater detail.

Only now, that decision rested entirely upon Aragorn, and to be frankly honest, he didn't know. Danger awaited them upon every road, he was certain. Orcs from Moria would most likely still be running rampant in nearby lands, and he sincerely doubted that Saruman had been sitting idle since Caradhras. And then there was the matter of their recent companions....


"'M bloody starving," Jack muttered under his breath, dropping his 'normal' clothing (which had already been rescued once from an she-elf intent on burning it) onto the ground in a heap. He tugged yet again at the new garb, which he had already seen fit to 'modify' through creative interpretation of each piece and most of his standard accoutrements.

Barbossa grunted noncommittally from where he was resting against the tree with his eyes closed. His loaned clothing was sitting untouched at the foot of his cot. "Serves you right. Ye never were one for heedin' the consequences of your actions."

"Says who?"

"Says I. Ye knew full well what could happen, an' you did it anyway. I'd have lifted th' curse long ago if it weren't for your incessant meddling."

"Pot. Kettle. Black," Jack retorted. "The curse wouldn't've lasted a month with me in charge, 'cause I knew the full legend from the start. Return th' gold, spill some blood, an' there you have it: you an' me living like kings to the end of our days with no undesirable side effects whatsoever. Was you who had t'go an' mutiny an' get Bootstrap's integrity all worked up an' send 'im over the edge before findin' out the full story. If it'd been me in charge, we all would've been better off."

"If it'd been you in charge, we'd be-"


Clear singing nearby - rustic, simple, but poignantly heartfelt - drew everyone's attention suddenly toward the two hobbits standing in their midst. The ethereal elven lament in the background provided an eerie contrast, especially for those familiar with both languages. The elves mourned Gandalf's passing as one mourned for a great leader, or a mighty warrior - sorrowful, sincere, but only out of respect, rather than personal loss.

Yet as these Halflings sang their simple ballads of fireworks and wandering, Aragorn could not help but imagine that this was how Gandalf would have much preferred to be remembered. Something of the Shire, indeed. For all of the wizard's wisdom and power, his heart had always belonged to the Shirefolk.

Aragorn reached over to hit Gimli, who had begun to not-so-discreetly snore, despite having been awake not two seconds ago. As Frodo's song came to a faltering close, Aragorn smiled sadly and rose to his feet. He needed to stretch, to walk, to be doing something.

As he wandered through their camp, listening to the distant singing that still hung softly upon the air, he spotted Boromir sitting some distance from the rest. "Take some rest," he advised conversationally, coming to a stop next to the Gondorian and turning to look out at the immense wood. "These borders are well protected."

Boromir's gaze lifted briefly to Aragorn as he approached, and then his eyes fell once again. His words tumbled out in a tense exhale, "I will find no rest here."

Images of what Galadriel had shown him entered his mind unbidden. He breathed again, trying to reign the emotion in his voice.

"I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father... and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, 'Even now there is hope left.'" His pulse was racing even as he spoke, more images flashing before his eyes like they had when he'd first heard her voice. His father, his brother, their people. Gondor. "But I cannot see it," he breathed, despair edging his tones. He caught Aragorn's gaze for a moment and held it. "It is long since we had any hope."

Aragorn had moved closer and sat behind him, when Boromir continued again... his confidence and trust rising towards Aragorn. Were they not on this mission together, and were they both not men of Gondor? "My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our... <i>our</i> people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it..." His voice cracked slightly, and he struggled to keep his emotions in control, but thememories of what Denethor had requested of him, and the way he'd requested it of him, with pride and absolute confidence in Boromir's strength, troubled him deeply.

"I would see the glory of Gondor restored." He smiled slightly, a happier picture now in his mind. "Have you soon it Aragorn," he asked, the smile still lingering in his eyes, "Have you seen the White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, it's banners caught high in the morning breeze? Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?" The pleasant memory faded, and he turned to this man, this Ranger in whom he longed to trust.

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Aragorn merely nodded absently at first, his mind still elsewhere. He had lived in Minas Tirith for many years in his youth as Captain Thorongil.

Ecthelion had been a valued friend. His son Denethor had been a trustworthy, if distant, colleague, only a year older than Aragorn himself. Indeed, Aragorn could even recall hearing news of Finduilas bearing Denethor a healthy new son, and the congratulations that had ensued for many weeks after. He had left some time before Denethor's ascension to Stewardship, and had never seen young Boromir grow past anyone's knee, but the family was nonetheless nearly as dear to him as the kingdom itself.

Minas Tirith had been his home, the men his brothers. He had fought for that city many times, shed blood for her safety. He had come to know the white city nearly as well as he did Imladris, though the latter still prevailed over the former in his heart. He was grieved, though not entirely surprised, to hear of Denethor's - Gondor's - plight. The kingdom had been in decline even before he had left.

Yes, he knew Minas Tirith.

"I have seen the White City," he said at length, his distant gaze returning to Boromir. "Long ago."

"One day," he replied earnestly, "Our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard shall take up a call, 'The lords of Gondor have returned!'"

Boromir smiled again, faintly, and rose wordlessly. He looked once more at Aragorn, wondering if everything he'd heard of this man was true. His heart was still troubled because of Galadriel, and what she had shown him, but he felt some reassurance at this moment with Aragorn.


When Merry awoke the next morning, he felt disoriented, stiff, and completely peaceful. The light of a new dawn glittered in his half-raised eyelids, and he rolled over sleepily. Then it dawned on him where they were, and who they were with, and he scrambled out of bed in a hurry, right over the top of Gimli in his haste. "Pippin!" he shook his cousin roughly by the shoulder.

Elizabeth was stretching, and marveling at the beauty of this enchanted place they were in. If the woods looked ethereal in the dusk, they looked absolutely glorious as the light filtered through the branches and refracted from the dewdrops clinging upon the branches. Almost unconsciously her eyes were drawn to were Legolas had rested the night before, but he was already up and gone. Among other things, elves were apparently light sleepers.

The elven garments that she had already donned (her own rough appearel not at all having been suited to the harsh conditions they'd traveled through, had worn down quickly) fell about her lightly, as if they weighed nothing and yet had strength in them she had never before felt in a fabric. She fingered them unconsciously as she stepped up and approached Aragorn, nodding a good morning. Croaching beside him silently, she wondered when and how the many questions that were pressing in all of their minds could be addressed...

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

"Mmph." Pippin swatted irritably at Merry's hand on his shoulder, still half-asleep. He had been having a beautiful dream involving the Shire, and wasn't ready to wake up. Merry kept shaking his shoulder, though, and the younger Hobbit consented to crack open one eye. Seeing sunlight filtering down through those strangely-shaped leaves, he sat up suddenly, remembering where he was. "Morning, Merry." Standing, he stretched and yawned. "D'you think we could find any breakfast around here? I'm starved."

Gimli, having been woken by Merry, rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, but it wasn't any good. Sunlight crept in around the edges of his blanket quite persistently until he finally stood up, grumbling about how bright it was.

"I've been informed that several ellith will be arriving shortly with breakfast," Aragorn said, looking up from the stick that he had been idly carving. "I imagine there will be food enough to satisfy even a certain young hobbit." Smiling slightly at the hobbit's obvious delight, he turned his attention back to the wood. Today, he had already determined, was going to be a day for rest. No debates, no discussions, no decisions. They were all exhausted - both physically and emotionally - and had been pushing hard enough for the past few weeks to warrant a day or two of recovery.

Barbossa, who had been awake for some time already, finally decided to venture over to where the others were beginning to congregate. He sat down silently on the other side of Aragorn and watched him carve for a minute before speaking. "Aragorn, how long-"

"Not today," Aragorn cut him off. "We will hear no answer today, I am certain. Even if your tale is entirely truthful, there is much for them to consider before answering."

"'Even if'?" Barbossa repeated dryly. "I'd rather received the impression that you believed us already."

Aragorn still did not look up. "I never said that I did not. Only that it is difficult to conceive. If you are telling the truth - or if you are not - many factors must be taken into account. When they know whether or not they may help you, you will be summoned. Until then, you can only wait."

"An' if they cannot?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not wish to discuss this today. Speculation at this point serves no purpose, and we all could use a reprieve. Take rest while you may; it will be addressed soon enough."

"And I, for one, think a day of rest sounds <i>perfect</i>," Merry said quietly, leaning back against a tree as he spoke. He soon bounced up again though, spotting several graceful elven maidens approaching, their arms laden with basket and trays of food and drink.

Boromir smiled, but watched the elves cautiously. He took one of the bowls of fruit with a softly murmured thanks, and crouched near the group. The hospitality of Lothlorien appeared to be no less than that which was shown to him in Rivendell, but different somehow. The hobbits were already poking in every dish they could find, laughing among themselves over a strange aroma or a foreign dish.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had just tasted the contents of a flask handed to her. "Wine!" she exclaimed, a bit surprised at the familiarity of it. "I hadn't expected the elves to treat their guests so nobly."

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."