The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Whispers of Lothlórien

The Fellowship tumbled out of the Great Eastern Gate, collapsing onto the grassy hillside that welcomed them into the fading light. The air felt heavy, thick with guilt and loss, a shroud that clung to each member of the company. They lay in disarray, the vibrant green of the grass contrasting sharply with the pallor of their faces, mirroring the sorrow that enveloped them.

Merry and Pippin sprawled on the ground, their sobs mingling with the gentle rustle of the leaves overhead. Sam knelt beside them, shoulders shaking, his heart aching for the loss of their beloved guide. The memory of Gandalf's final command echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of their hurried flight.

"It's not fair, Mr. Frodo!" Sam choked out, the tears streaming down his cheeks. "He was so brave..."

Frodo stood a short distance away, staring blankly at the horizon, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Gandalf's figure reappearing in the distance. The shock of their loss had numbed him; he felt adrift in a sea of despair, the weight of the One Ring heavy against his chest. He had lost so much already, and yet he feared the worst was yet to come.

"Frodo?" Aragorn's voice cut through the fog of grief, urgency creeping into his tone. He turned to Legolas and Gimli, desperation clear in his eyes. "Legolas, get them up!"

"Give them a moment...for pity's sake!" Boromir interjected, his voice rising in protest.

Aragorn shook his head, his brow furrowed with concern. "By nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, get them up. On your feet, Sam."

Frodo remained motionless, lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the frantic exchange around him. The fellowship stood together in a circle of grief, their hearts heavy with the loss of their friend.

"Frodo?" Aragorn called again, softer this time, breaking through the fog of sorrow. The Ringbearer slowly turned, his eyes glassy and distant.

"We must go," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Fellowship began to march on, heavy hearts trailing behind like shadows.

As they stumbled on in the fading light, Aragorn kept a watchful eye ahead, scanning the horizon. The hills rolled like the waves of a dark sea, and in the distance, the shimmering outline of a large forest beckoned them—Lothlórien.

With each step toward the woods, a strange mixture of anticipation and dread swirled in the air. The trees appeared to be alive, their golden leaves shimmering as the last rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting an ethereal glow over the land.

"It's beautiful," Sam breathed, glancing at Frodo, who remained silent beside him.

"Aye," Pippin whispered, wiping his tear-streaked face. "But what if it's not safe?"

Gimli looked around nervously, his brow furrowed. "Stay close, young hobbits. They say a Sorceress lives in these woods. An elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell..."

Frodo hesitated, a strange voice whispering in his mind, seductive and haunting.

"Frodo..." The voice danced through the air, swirling like the breeze, wrapping around him with a familiar warmth.

"And are never seen again!" Gimli continued, his voice a note of anxiety piercing the thickening atmosphere.

"...your coming to us is as the footsteps of doom. You bring great evil here, Ringbearer."

Sam turned to Frodo, his brow knitted with concern. "Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the Ring pulling him down, and he couldn't help but wonder if they were truly safe here.