𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ʟᴇᴘᴇɴǫᴜᴇ

Lothlórien was where Robb saw his companions in clean, undamaged clothes not meant for travelling for the first time.

It was, in all honesty, both jarring and enlightening.

The Hobbits and Gimli had not changed much. In the case of the Hobbits, it was most likely because their clothes already resembled clothing meant for being worn in the comfort of one's home. As for Gimli, well, Robb suspected stubbornness. He simply refused to wear most of the garments given to him.

The three others, however, were entirely different.

Legolas, in his shimmering silver tunic, looked like the prince he had revealed himself to be some time ago. Boromir, now no longer weighed down by the shield usually on his back, held himself more regally as well, in spite of whatever was still weighing on him.

Aragorn, however, was the one who stood out most. Freshly washed, shaved and out of his ragged clothes, he looked much less unassuming. On the contrary, Aragorn now had the air of someone with a burden Robb knew very well—that of leadership. Although Robb felt there was more to it than just Gandalf's death and Aragorn's new position as the fellowship's leader, he found himself unable to place just what gave him that impression.

Leaning against the bark of a tree in much lighter clothing himself, Robb contemplated his companion.

The man was currently sharpening his sword. Aragorn was wearing a necklace as well, Robb noted absently, one that, despite its size and obvious contrast to Aragorn's usual clothing, had never caught Robb's eye before. Had Aragorn always had it and just hidden it, or had someone here given it to him? Aragorn had visited this place before, so there had to be someone besides Galadriel who knew him… right?

Robb realized he was staring when Aragorn caught his eye and raised an amused eyebrow. Robb blushed and shook his head. This was probably none of his business.

They both looked up when a haunting song started up in the trees above them. Sam and Merry, who were in the process of preparing their bedrolls just next to Robb, paused.

Just then, Legolas rejoined their small camp at the foot of some trees carrying a pitcher. Seeing their aimless gazes to where the song seemed to be coming from, he paused.

"It's a lament for Gandalf," he murmured.

Robb lowered his head.

Right.

He had not yet thought to truly mourn the man himself, overwhelmed by new places and people, and before that, distracted by the fact that they were being pursued.

Robb had known him only for… two weeks? Perhaps more, perhaps a bit less. He missed Gandalf, but in comparison to all the people around Robb who had known him for years, decades or even centuries, well… his own grief fell painfully short by default.

Thinking back to his own losses, he could empathize with them, nonetheless.

"What do they say about him?" Merry asked quietly after a few seconds of silence.

Legolas looked down at the pitcher in his hands before turning to glance at Merry. "I have not the heart to tell you. For me the grief is still too near."

"Bet they don't mention his fireworks," Sam mumbled. "There should be a verse about them."

Robb tilted his head. He had never seen fireworks before. His eyebrows twitched upward when Sam stood and began reciting a poem.

"The finest rockets ever seen,
they burst in stars of blue and green.
Where after thunder silver showers
came falling like a rain of flowers—
oh, that doesn't do him justice!"