(no subject)
So I finally got around to typing up my crappyish LotR self-insertion-type fic. It's based off of a dream I had.
"You shall be - The Fellowship of the Ring." Elrond's voice, unnaturally loud, echoed across the patio area of Rivendell wherein sat the Council of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth he had called. The newly declared Fellowship, sensing that they had just rashly made a decision that would change their lives, shifted uneasily.
Suddenly, as though she had taken off the Ruling Ring herself, she materialized in front of the Council. She was wearing a floor-length blue gown with a high mock turtle collar and long flowing bell sleeves. It shimmered different shades of blue as she moved. Her brown hair fell to her waist in almond waves. At first astonished glance, those of the Council mistook her for an elf; however, her ears were too curved, her eyes too round, her stature too haughty to be one of the Eldar. She was obviously of the race of Men - though nowhere near as fair as the Lady Evenstar or the Lady of the Golden Wood, or even of comparable beauty with the Lady Éowyn of the Rohirrim. She was rather plain, by all standards, but her sudden appearance held all those who saw her spellbound and speechless.
Elrond found his voice first. "Who are you?" he demanded. "If you be a servant of the Dark Powers, I-"
He trailed off as she turned a steady gaze on him. "Master Half-Elven," she said calmly, "I am no servant of Sauron, nor either of Saruman the traitor. If I am said to be on anyone's side at all, I am on that of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth."
"Are we to take her merely on her word?" asked Boromir, gesturing at her wildly.
"That is all you have, Boromir son of Denethor. I would suggest that you calm your passions, man of Gondor, for they will get the better of you."
Boromir retreated, sulking.
"So," ventured Pippin in his adorable accent, forcing her to bite back a smile, "Who are you, then?"
"That is a good question, Peregrin Took," she answered, leaning forward to be on semi-eye level with the hobbit. "I could be called," she continued, raising back to level with the majority of the Council, "a seer. I know the future and can tell you of it, should you think it wise."
The Council was silent, digesting this information. Pippin, however, blurted out, "But haven't you a name?"
Gandalf rapped him sharply with the end of his gnarled brown wizard's staff.
"There is no need to punish the halfling, Mithrandir," admonished the young woman. "He has done no wrong, and has asked a quite valid question." To Pippin she said, "You may call me Silme."
"'Light'..." murmured Elrond. "And what is it upon which you cast light?"
"The future, Master Elrond, for those who wish to be enlightened."
The Council dispersed, leaving Silme alone with the members of the Fellowship. They looked uncomfortable.
"What can you tell us of the future, woman?" Boromir asked irritably.
"If you would like to know, Boromir son of Denethor, I could tell you everything. But I shall tell you only as much as you need to know. And my name is Silme, I would suggest that you use it out of courtesy if not out of respect."
"So what will you tell us? And when?" snapped Gimli.
"Should Master Elrond be so kind as to find me a small empty room in this Last Homely House, I will speak to you each in turn. You may take my words as you will."
Silme looked at her surroundings. She was situated in a small room with bright white walls and floors. It was furnished with two ornate mahogany chairs similar to those used by the Council, a small mahogany end table upon which was an exquisite vase full of elanor flowers, and a tall marble statue of a woman with her hand over her heart. Three sides of the room were filled with large wooden "windows" that opened out over the river Bruinen.
"Who shall be first?" Silme murmured to herself, staring out one of the windows with a vague look. "And what shall I say to him?"
She turned at the sound of the door behind her. Elrond entered, followed grudgingly by Gimli. "I trust that these quarters are to your satisfaction, Lady Silme?" Elrond asked, his voice smooth.
"Yes, Master Elrond. There is little more I could ask of you. You have been most kind and generous on only my word," Silme returned.
Gimli eyed her doubtfully as Elrond bowed and left. "Do you not trust my words, Gimli son of Glóin?" she asked him, a hint of a smile on her lips.
"So far you have given me no reason to do so, Lady. The only evidence we have that supports your claim of supernatural seer is your mystical appearance at the Council, which could have been easily accomplished by any magic ring of power."
"I see, Master Dwarf, that there is no way that I can sway your belief. But I ask that you hear what I have to say, and consider it. Do not alter your paths or decisions because of what I tell you, because if you do, my prophecies shall be voided."
The dwarf grunted. Silme took that as an agreement and continued. "You, Gimli son of Glóin, emerge from this quest relatively unscathed. You are one of the lucky ones. Only your axe and your heart shall suffer."
Gimli blinked, it seemed, in surprise. "I shall...consider your words, Lady Silme."
"But do not act as though you are invincible," said Silme kindly.
The dwarf nodded and exited the room. Silme sat down - she had been pacing by the windows - and let out a deep breath she hadn't known that she was holding. She had done it. She had "prophesied," drawing on her extensive knowledge of Middle-earth and its denizens. One down, eight to go.
Legolas entered next. He seemed far more trusting of her words than Gimli had been. After telling the blonde elf the same thing she had told Gimli about not changing his course because of her words, Silme paused slightly, searching for the right words. Legolas himself was slightly distracting. "Legolas son of Thranduil, you, as your companion Gimli the dwarf, emerge comparably unhurt from your journey. You shall long, as your people do, for the sea, and in the end that hunger shall take you."
Legolas looked saddened. "Always the sea! It is the curse of my people - a curse, and a blessing in its own way."
Silme nodded. "I understand - to leave these shores and return to the Undying Lands. The time of the Elves, I am afraid, is nearly over. Your people are such a beautiful race. It is a shame that your grace and beauty shall soon be gone forever."
"You speak the thoughts of many of the Free Peoples, Silme, be they man, elf, or halfling. The dwarves, I think, shall not miss the elves overmuch. Neither race has charitable feelings toward the other - but, of course, you would know of that."
"Do not be too quick to forsake the people of the dwarves. You may find them rather more likable once you get to know them." Silme suppressed a grimace, remembering the opinion about Legolas and Gimli held by so many she knew.
Legolas gave a slight bow. "If you say so, Lady Silme. I trust that you know better than I do - after all, the elves have the gift of sight, but in a different respect than the sight you possess." With that, he gave Silme a kiss of blessing on the forehead and took his leave of her.
"Well, that went better than expected. Far better than I could have hoped for, even," she said aloud, getting up to stare out the window. She was so distracted that she almost did not hear Boromir enter.
"So, Lady," said Boromir, "I have come. What will you tell me? What of my future, and that of my city?"
Silme's breath caught. She had forgotten what sort of news she had for Boromir. What should she tell him? What could she tell him?
"Well?" Boromir asked again, a shade impatiently.
"Should it overcome you," said Silme slowly, "this journey will spell your doom."
"My doom? What do you mean by that?" Boromir asked sharply.
"You know of what I speak, Boromir son of Denethor. And of Minas Tirith? So long as the line of Stewards endures, the White City shall not fall, despite the Dark Lord's best efforts otherwise."
"You speak of my brother Faramir?"
"Yes. Now that you have left the White City, your father expects Faramir to be Boromir in your stead. But he is not you, nor you he. You each go to your own destinies, but which shall be happier I cannot say."
Boromir paused, struggling valiantly to keep emotion from his voice and, if Silme was any judge, tears from his eyes. "These words you give are no comfort, Lady Silme."
She spread her hands in defeat. "Did you believe that I would tell you falsely to please you? I say only that which I know to be the future. Should you alter your current path, you will disprove any and possibly all that I have told you. But I would tell you to fight against that which would ensnare your heart and lead you to your doom. The One Ring is not a weapon to be used, by the brave men of Gondor or anyone else."
Boromir's eyes flashed anger, but he said nothing. He merely bowed and exited the room.
Silme rose and wandered toward the bay windows again. "I wonder how much damage I did with that one. He didn't look like he believed a word of it, and will probably come to a bloody end all shot full of orc arrows anyway. I just wish that there was something I could do."
Her distressed monologue was interrupted by the arrival of Aragorn. Silme explained to him, as she had to the others, that this future was certain if nothing that would occur now was stopped. Aragorn nodded his understanding, then sat, waiting expectantly.
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, you know what your future holds. You do not need my words. You know of the Kingship of Gondor and your marriage to the Lady Arwen Undómiel."
Aragorn stood to face her, his dark eyes holding her motionless. "But what of before that? I need a reassurance that the path between here and there is not arduous."
Silme's eyes held sorrow as she told him, "That I cannot say. But I can give you several guiding helps. First, when you and the rest of the Fellowship come to the shore of the lake above the Rauros falls, near Amon Hen, a great turning point will be reached. Once this has occurred, do not hesitate to stay on your side of the lake, no matter what you may be chasing to the other side. Second, do not underestimate Gandalf. He shall come again to you and those with you in your greatest need."
"Why can you not tell me that I wish to hear?" Aragorn persisted.
"I would be telling falsehoods. Between now and your assumption of the Kingship, many comrades shall be lost and many battles will be fought, one even at the Black Gate of Mordor."
As Boromir, Aragorn did not look comforted by Silme's words. "My apologies, Elessar, if I have misspoken," Silme whispered, dropping to one knee in front of Aragorn.
"Rise, Silme," said Aragorn gently, "for there is no need of that. Not now. You did not misspeak, in that you did not lie. You simply did not speak the words I wished to hear. However, I would rather know the truth than be deluded into a false sense of security. For this knowledge, I may owe you my kingdom."
Silme gasped. "You exaggerate, Elessar," she stammered, a hint of flush in her cheeks.
Aragorn shook his head, gave her a kiss of blessing as Legolas had done, and exited the room.
Silme sat down, her head a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and feelings. "The entire kingdom of Gondor...owed to me?" she wondered aloud.
There was a tentative knock on the door of the chamber. "Come in!" Silme called. A small, curly-haired hobbit entered, attempting to do his best not to be noticed.
"Master Meriadoc Brandybuck," Silme greeted him. He nodded an acknowledgment. "You want your future told?"
Merry wrung his hands nervously. "Actually," he said quietly, "I really just want to know if Pippin and Frodo and Sam will...be alright, when it all comes down to it."
"Not worried about yourself, Merry? True selflessness, cousin," interrupted a voice from just outside the door. Silme strode to the doorway and pulled Pippin inside.
"You might as well be in here also, Peregrin Took. It's not as though you two shall ever be apart by choice," Silme said.
"Kind of like Sam and Cousin Frodo?" Pippin asked.
"Yes. But now, about your future, the two of you. Your path differs from that of your cousin Frodo. Do not be afraid, and keep your wits about you. Those you meet in positions of power deserve your respect, but require tact as well." With this last, her eyes flickered towards Pippin - Denethor's pyromaniacal madness and subsequent death certainly required tact, as well as other mature qualities she was unsure if Pippin possessed. However, there was no way of imbuing him with these properties, so she knew there was no point in worrying. Merry had just as difficult a path facing him...
"Oh, and the forest is your friend," she added as an afterthought, hiding a grin.
"But what about Cousin Frodo?" asked Merry anxiously.
Silme paused. How could she tell these two darling hobbits that their beloved cousin would be forever scarred and unhappy, even returned to the Shire when the Shadow had been eradicated from Middle-earth? How could she tell them that their good times with their cousin were over?
"As I said," she answered slowly, "your cousin's path is different than yours."
"He's not going to be okay, is he." Pippin asked no questions; it was a statement.
"In a word, no." A sinking feeling welled up in the pit of her stomach. "He'll never be the same. One does not carry a burden of that magnitude and come away unscathed."
Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance that said clearly that they had somehow known.
"I - I'm sorry," Silme stuttered, "I wish there was something I could do."
"It's not as though it's your fault, Silme. I don't think there's any way it could be," Merry said.
"We'll watch out for Cousin Frodo and tell Sam to do the same. Is there any way we could thank you?" Pippin asked.
"You thank me?" asked Silme, taken aback. "For what?"
"For your insight."
"My insight? My insight is yours whenever you want it. I - I'm - hobbits are my favorite of the Free Peoples. You're so trusting and lovable, yet resilient and versatile. And -" she added with a blush, " - you, you two in particular, are adorable."
"Would a hug suffice, then?" asked Merry, a twinkle in his eye.
Silme accepted, if in a slightly overwhelmed manner. She had, up to this point, played the cool one that nothing could sway. She had been the infallible one who knew everything. But here they were - her hobbits, and they had taken her.
When they had left, she wondered if she had said too much. She hadn't much time to ponder it, since Sam knocked on the door in the shy, awkward way that characterized all he did.
"Come in, Samwise," called Silme.
The hobbit looked flustered at being called by name before announcing himself. "There is nothing to fear, Master Gardener. I cannot read minds."
Somehow, this didn't seem to calm the nervous hobbit. "What will you tell me, miss?" he asked.
"You love your master, Samwise?" Silme asked, aware of the implied meaning of that question that many she knew would be quick to point out.
"Mr. Frodo is my dearest friend in the whole world, miss. I only want to know if his future... If he..."
Silme had nothing to say to this. It broke her heart to see this dear, loyal hobbit so concerned, and broke it even more with the realization that she had no words of reassurance for him.
"This quest will not kill your master, if that is what you mean to ask. But his burden, the Ring, will weigh him down. Even when he is rid of it, it will continue to eat at his soul."
Sam looked stunned. "My poor master! Sometimes a slow death is worse'n a quick one, as my Gaffer would say. Is there - is there anything I can do? Any way I could help him at all?"
"There is no more you can do than what you are doing right now. Follow your master loyally; watch out for him. You are one of the reasons the Ring eventually reaches Mount Doom."
"Me? Sam Gamgee?"
"Samwise the Stouthearted. You are worth more to your master, and this quest, than Middle-earth and all that is in it. The road may seem long and dark, with no hope, but stay with your master. 'Above all shadows rides the sun and stars forever dwell; you should not say the day is done, nor bid the stars farewell.'" With this last, Silme's voice took on a strange melodic lilt. Sam looked confused, but nodded.
The hobbit gave a slight bow of thanks. "I will remember your words, Lady Silme." With that, he departed.
"Who is left?" Silme wondered aloud. "Gandalf, I think, and -"
There was a knock on the door. A dark-haired hobbit head peered around the heavy door. "Frodo Baggins."
"Yes, Lady," the hobbit acknowledged. "I am unsure of why I am here - I know that my doom is to carry this Ring," he held it up, "to Mordor, the Land of Darkness."
"I am fully aware of the etymology of the word Mordor, Frodo son of Drogo. And yes, it is your doom. I canno tell you otherwise. But I can tell you that the entire Fellowship is there to help you bear that doom."
"Your words are some solace, Lady Silme. To know that I am not alone -" Frodo stopped with a choked sound, unable to continue without spilling tears. Rather than cry in front of this powerful seer, Frodo offered a quick bow and fled the room.
Silme sank into the mahogany chair and she herself cried. She cried because she had just seen the end of the beginning, the beginning of the end. She had just seen four brave beings all willing and ready to give their lives for one another, and another four who would do so if the need arose. She cried because it was far more real than she had ever imagined.
A gentle rap on the door brought Silme's head up. Wiping her eyes on her long blue sleeve, she managed, "Just a moment, please."
The door opened slowly, and Gandalf could be seen. "Tears, Silme?" he chided softly. "You know how this venture ends."
"Exactly," she replied with a sniffle. "I know that none of you shall ever be the same, and I cry for that. Why do you come to me, Olórin? Does a Maia not know what a mere mortal might have to reveal? If you want a word of good advice, treasure your friendship with Gwaihir the Eagle."
"Olórin," said Gandalf, "does not need your words, although he does not know everything. I came to find out what you had said to the others. Sometimes the future does not need revealing. However, it looks as though I should be more worried about you than the Fellowship."
"No, no," answered Silme, waving away his inquiries, "I'm fine. I - I allowed myself to get too close to those that I meant to just touch. To meet them was an honor I had never hoped for, but..."
The old wizard smiled. "I think it's time for you to go home."
Silme took a deep breath, nodded, and vanished as quickly as she had arrived. A whisper of her presence could be heard in the room: "I will not say the day is done, nor bid the stars farewell..."
"You shall be - The Fellowship of the Ring." Elrond's voice, unnaturally loud, echoed across the patio area of Rivendell wherein sat the Council of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth he had called. The newly declared Fellowship, sensing that they had just rashly made a decision that would change their lives, shifted uneasily.
Suddenly, as though she had taken off the Ruling Ring herself, she materialized in front of the Council. She was wearing a floor-length blue gown with a high mock turtle collar and long flowing bell sleeves. It shimmered different shades of blue as she moved. Her brown hair fell to her waist in almond waves. At first astonished glance, those of the Council mistook her for an elf; however, her ears were too curved, her eyes too round, her stature too haughty to be one of the Eldar. She was obviously of the race of Men - though nowhere near as fair as the Lady Evenstar or the Lady of the Golden Wood, or even of comparable beauty with the Lady Éowyn of the Rohirrim. She was rather plain, by all standards, but her sudden appearance held all those who saw her spellbound and speechless.
Elrond found his voice first. "Who are you?" he demanded. "If you be a servant of the Dark Powers, I-"
He trailed off as she turned a steady gaze on him. "Master Half-Elven," she said calmly, "I am no servant of Sauron, nor either of Saruman the traitor. If I am said to be on anyone's side at all, I am on that of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth."
"Are we to take her merely on her word?" asked Boromir, gesturing at her wildly.
"That is all you have, Boromir son of Denethor. I would suggest that you calm your passions, man of Gondor, for they will get the better of you."
Boromir retreated, sulking.
"So," ventured Pippin in his adorable accent, forcing her to bite back a smile, "Who are you, then?"
"That is a good question, Peregrin Took," she answered, leaning forward to be on semi-eye level with the hobbit. "I could be called," she continued, raising back to level with the majority of the Council, "a seer. I know the future and can tell you of it, should you think it wise."
The Council was silent, digesting this information. Pippin, however, blurted out, "But haven't you a name?"
Gandalf rapped him sharply with the end of his gnarled brown wizard's staff.
"There is no need to punish the halfling, Mithrandir," admonished the young woman. "He has done no wrong, and has asked a quite valid question." To Pippin she said, "You may call me Silme."
"'Light'..." murmured Elrond. "And what is it upon which you cast light?"
"The future, Master Elrond, for those who wish to be enlightened."
The Council dispersed, leaving Silme alone with the members of the Fellowship. They looked uncomfortable.
"What can you tell us of the future, woman?" Boromir asked irritably.
"If you would like to know, Boromir son of Denethor, I could tell you everything. But I shall tell you only as much as you need to know. And my name is Silme, I would suggest that you use it out of courtesy if not out of respect."
"So what will you tell us? And when?" snapped Gimli.
"Should Master Elrond be so kind as to find me a small empty room in this Last Homely House, I will speak to you each in turn. You may take my words as you will."
Silme looked at her surroundings. She was situated in a small room with bright white walls and floors. It was furnished with two ornate mahogany chairs similar to those used by the Council, a small mahogany end table upon which was an exquisite vase full of elanor flowers, and a tall marble statue of a woman with her hand over her heart. Three sides of the room were filled with large wooden "windows" that opened out over the river Bruinen.
"Who shall be first?" Silme murmured to herself, staring out one of the windows with a vague look. "And what shall I say to him?"
She turned at the sound of the door behind her. Elrond entered, followed grudgingly by Gimli. "I trust that these quarters are to your satisfaction, Lady Silme?" Elrond asked, his voice smooth.
"Yes, Master Elrond. There is little more I could ask of you. You have been most kind and generous on only my word," Silme returned.
Gimli eyed her doubtfully as Elrond bowed and left. "Do you not trust my words, Gimli son of Glóin?" she asked him, a hint of a smile on her lips.
"So far you have given me no reason to do so, Lady. The only evidence we have that supports your claim of supernatural seer is your mystical appearance at the Council, which could have been easily accomplished by any magic ring of power."
"I see, Master Dwarf, that there is no way that I can sway your belief. But I ask that you hear what I have to say, and consider it. Do not alter your paths or decisions because of what I tell you, because if you do, my prophecies shall be voided."
The dwarf grunted. Silme took that as an agreement and continued. "You, Gimli son of Glóin, emerge from this quest relatively unscathed. You are one of the lucky ones. Only your axe and your heart shall suffer."
Gimli blinked, it seemed, in surprise. "I shall...consider your words, Lady Silme."
"But do not act as though you are invincible," said Silme kindly.
The dwarf nodded and exited the room. Silme sat down - she had been pacing by the windows - and let out a deep breath she hadn't known that she was holding. She had done it. She had "prophesied," drawing on her extensive knowledge of Middle-earth and its denizens. One down, eight to go.
Legolas entered next. He seemed far more trusting of her words than Gimli had been. After telling the blonde elf the same thing she had told Gimli about not changing his course because of her words, Silme paused slightly, searching for the right words. Legolas himself was slightly distracting. "Legolas son of Thranduil, you, as your companion Gimli the dwarf, emerge comparably unhurt from your journey. You shall long, as your people do, for the sea, and in the end that hunger shall take you."
Legolas looked saddened. "Always the sea! It is the curse of my people - a curse, and a blessing in its own way."
Silme nodded. "I understand - to leave these shores and return to the Undying Lands. The time of the Elves, I am afraid, is nearly over. Your people are such a beautiful race. It is a shame that your grace and beauty shall soon be gone forever."
"You speak the thoughts of many of the Free Peoples, Silme, be they man, elf, or halfling. The dwarves, I think, shall not miss the elves overmuch. Neither race has charitable feelings toward the other - but, of course, you would know of that."
"Do not be too quick to forsake the people of the dwarves. You may find them rather more likable once you get to know them." Silme suppressed a grimace, remembering the opinion about Legolas and Gimli held by so many she knew.
Legolas gave a slight bow. "If you say so, Lady Silme. I trust that you know better than I do - after all, the elves have the gift of sight, but in a different respect than the sight you possess." With that, he gave Silme a kiss of blessing on the forehead and took his leave of her.
"Well, that went better than expected. Far better than I could have hoped for, even," she said aloud, getting up to stare out the window. She was so distracted that she almost did not hear Boromir enter.
"So, Lady," said Boromir, "I have come. What will you tell me? What of my future, and that of my city?"
Silme's breath caught. She had forgotten what sort of news she had for Boromir. What should she tell him? What could she tell him?
"Well?" Boromir asked again, a shade impatiently.
"Should it overcome you," said Silme slowly, "this journey will spell your doom."
"My doom? What do you mean by that?" Boromir asked sharply.
"You know of what I speak, Boromir son of Denethor. And of Minas Tirith? So long as the line of Stewards endures, the White City shall not fall, despite the Dark Lord's best efforts otherwise."
"You speak of my brother Faramir?"
"Yes. Now that you have left the White City, your father expects Faramir to be Boromir in your stead. But he is not you, nor you he. You each go to your own destinies, but which shall be happier I cannot say."
Boromir paused, struggling valiantly to keep emotion from his voice and, if Silme was any judge, tears from his eyes. "These words you give are no comfort, Lady Silme."
She spread her hands in defeat. "Did you believe that I would tell you falsely to please you? I say only that which I know to be the future. Should you alter your current path, you will disprove any and possibly all that I have told you. But I would tell you to fight against that which would ensnare your heart and lead you to your doom. The One Ring is not a weapon to be used, by the brave men of Gondor or anyone else."
Boromir's eyes flashed anger, but he said nothing. He merely bowed and exited the room.
Silme rose and wandered toward the bay windows again. "I wonder how much damage I did with that one. He didn't look like he believed a word of it, and will probably come to a bloody end all shot full of orc arrows anyway. I just wish that there was something I could do."
Her distressed monologue was interrupted by the arrival of Aragorn. Silme explained to him, as she had to the others, that this future was certain if nothing that would occur now was stopped. Aragorn nodded his understanding, then sat, waiting expectantly.
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, you know what your future holds. You do not need my words. You know of the Kingship of Gondor and your marriage to the Lady Arwen Undómiel."
Aragorn stood to face her, his dark eyes holding her motionless. "But what of before that? I need a reassurance that the path between here and there is not arduous."
Silme's eyes held sorrow as she told him, "That I cannot say. But I can give you several guiding helps. First, when you and the rest of the Fellowship come to the shore of the lake above the Rauros falls, near Amon Hen, a great turning point will be reached. Once this has occurred, do not hesitate to stay on your side of the lake, no matter what you may be chasing to the other side. Second, do not underestimate Gandalf. He shall come again to you and those with you in your greatest need."
"Why can you not tell me that I wish to hear?" Aragorn persisted.
"I would be telling falsehoods. Between now and your assumption of the Kingship, many comrades shall be lost and many battles will be fought, one even at the Black Gate of Mordor."
As Boromir, Aragorn did not look comforted by Silme's words. "My apologies, Elessar, if I have misspoken," Silme whispered, dropping to one knee in front of Aragorn.
"Rise, Silme," said Aragorn gently, "for there is no need of that. Not now. You did not misspeak, in that you did not lie. You simply did not speak the words I wished to hear. However, I would rather know the truth than be deluded into a false sense of security. For this knowledge, I may owe you my kingdom."
Silme gasped. "You exaggerate, Elessar," she stammered, a hint of flush in her cheeks.
Aragorn shook his head, gave her a kiss of blessing as Legolas had done, and exited the room.
Silme sat down, her head a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and feelings. "The entire kingdom of Gondor...owed to me?" she wondered aloud.
There was a tentative knock on the door of the chamber. "Come in!" Silme called. A small, curly-haired hobbit entered, attempting to do his best not to be noticed.
"Master Meriadoc Brandybuck," Silme greeted him. He nodded an acknowledgment. "You want your future told?"
Merry wrung his hands nervously. "Actually," he said quietly, "I really just want to know if Pippin and Frodo and Sam will...be alright, when it all comes down to it."
"Not worried about yourself, Merry? True selflessness, cousin," interrupted a voice from just outside the door. Silme strode to the doorway and pulled Pippin inside.
"You might as well be in here also, Peregrin Took. It's not as though you two shall ever be apart by choice," Silme said.
"Kind of like Sam and Cousin Frodo?" Pippin asked.
"Yes. But now, about your future, the two of you. Your path differs from that of your cousin Frodo. Do not be afraid, and keep your wits about you. Those you meet in positions of power deserve your respect, but require tact as well." With this last, her eyes flickered towards Pippin - Denethor's pyromaniacal madness and subsequent death certainly required tact, as well as other mature qualities she was unsure if Pippin possessed. However, there was no way of imbuing him with these properties, so she knew there was no point in worrying. Merry had just as difficult a path facing him...
"Oh, and the forest is your friend," she added as an afterthought, hiding a grin.
"But what about Cousin Frodo?" asked Merry anxiously.
Silme paused. How could she tell these two darling hobbits that their beloved cousin would be forever scarred and unhappy, even returned to the Shire when the Shadow had been eradicated from Middle-earth? How could she tell them that their good times with their cousin were over?
"As I said," she answered slowly, "your cousin's path is different than yours."
"He's not going to be okay, is he." Pippin asked no questions; it was a statement.
"In a word, no." A sinking feeling welled up in the pit of her stomach. "He'll never be the same. One does not carry a burden of that magnitude and come away unscathed."
Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance that said clearly that they had somehow known.
"I - I'm sorry," Silme stuttered, "I wish there was something I could do."
"It's not as though it's your fault, Silme. I don't think there's any way it could be," Merry said.
"We'll watch out for Cousin Frodo and tell Sam to do the same. Is there any way we could thank you?" Pippin asked.
"You thank me?" asked Silme, taken aback. "For what?"
"For your insight."
"My insight? My insight is yours whenever you want it. I - I'm - hobbits are my favorite of the Free Peoples. You're so trusting and lovable, yet resilient and versatile. And -" she added with a blush, " - you, you two in particular, are adorable."
"Would a hug suffice, then?" asked Merry, a twinkle in his eye.
Silme accepted, if in a slightly overwhelmed manner. She had, up to this point, played the cool one that nothing could sway. She had been the infallible one who knew everything. But here they were - her hobbits, and they had taken her.
When they had left, she wondered if she had said too much. She hadn't much time to ponder it, since Sam knocked on the door in the shy, awkward way that characterized all he did.
"Come in, Samwise," called Silme.
The hobbit looked flustered at being called by name before announcing himself. "There is nothing to fear, Master Gardener. I cannot read minds."
Somehow, this didn't seem to calm the nervous hobbit. "What will you tell me, miss?" he asked.
"You love your master, Samwise?" Silme asked, aware of the implied meaning of that question that many she knew would be quick to point out.
"Mr. Frodo is my dearest friend in the whole world, miss. I only want to know if his future... If he..."
Silme had nothing to say to this. It broke her heart to see this dear, loyal hobbit so concerned, and broke it even more with the realization that she had no words of reassurance for him.
"This quest will not kill your master, if that is what you mean to ask. But his burden, the Ring, will weigh him down. Even when he is rid of it, it will continue to eat at his soul."
Sam looked stunned. "My poor master! Sometimes a slow death is worse'n a quick one, as my Gaffer would say. Is there - is there anything I can do? Any way I could help him at all?"
"There is no more you can do than what you are doing right now. Follow your master loyally; watch out for him. You are one of the reasons the Ring eventually reaches Mount Doom."
"Me? Sam Gamgee?"
"Samwise the Stouthearted. You are worth more to your master, and this quest, than Middle-earth and all that is in it. The road may seem long and dark, with no hope, but stay with your master. 'Above all shadows rides the sun and stars forever dwell; you should not say the day is done, nor bid the stars farewell.'" With this last, Silme's voice took on a strange melodic lilt. Sam looked confused, but nodded.
The hobbit gave a slight bow of thanks. "I will remember your words, Lady Silme." With that, he departed.
"Who is left?" Silme wondered aloud. "Gandalf, I think, and -"
There was a knock on the door. A dark-haired hobbit head peered around the heavy door. "Frodo Baggins."
"Yes, Lady," the hobbit acknowledged. "I am unsure of why I am here - I know that my doom is to carry this Ring," he held it up, "to Mordor, the Land of Darkness."
"I am fully aware of the etymology of the word Mordor, Frodo son of Drogo. And yes, it is your doom. I canno tell you otherwise. But I can tell you that the entire Fellowship is there to help you bear that doom."
"Your words are some solace, Lady Silme. To know that I am not alone -" Frodo stopped with a choked sound, unable to continue without spilling tears. Rather than cry in front of this powerful seer, Frodo offered a quick bow and fled the room.
Silme sank into the mahogany chair and she herself cried. She cried because she had just seen the end of the beginning, the beginning of the end. She had just seen four brave beings all willing and ready to give their lives for one another, and another four who would do so if the need arose. She cried because it was far more real than she had ever imagined.
A gentle rap on the door brought Silme's head up. Wiping her eyes on her long blue sleeve, she managed, "Just a moment, please."
The door opened slowly, and Gandalf could be seen. "Tears, Silme?" he chided softly. "You know how this venture ends."
"Exactly," she replied with a sniffle. "I know that none of you shall ever be the same, and I cry for that. Why do you come to me, Olórin? Does a Maia not know what a mere mortal might have to reveal? If you want a word of good advice, treasure your friendship with Gwaihir the Eagle."
"Olórin," said Gandalf, "does not need your words, although he does not know everything. I came to find out what you had said to the others. Sometimes the future does not need revealing. However, it looks as though I should be more worried about you than the Fellowship."
"No, no," answered Silme, waving away his inquiries, "I'm fine. I - I allowed myself to get too close to those that I meant to just touch. To meet them was an honor I had never hoped for, but..."
The old wizard smiled. "I think it's time for you to go home."
Silme took a deep breath, nodded, and vanished as quickly as she had arrived. A whisper of her presence could be heard in the room: "I will not say the day is done, nor bid the stars farewell..."