Shadow Hunter-LegolasxOC

19: In Darkness They Fell (Edited)

"Say, Varilerin, are we lost?" Pippin asked, glancing at Gandalf. Varilerin raised her brows—how could the Hobbits stay cheerful amidst the desperate situation? Just now Pippin complained to Merry that he was hungry, and then Sam sang a folk song with Frodo, as if they were in Shire. She sent him a 'what do you think?' look at him, busying herself by crafting more arrows from the stray ones she found along the way. Gandalf had forgotten the routes of Moria—if he had explored the entirety of it in the first place. He sat alone, mumbling by himself, and the rest were left to have a break.

"Can't you help him or something?" Merry jumped in. "You said you have travelled for hundreds of years. You must have ventured these halls before!"

Varilerin inserted her new arrow into her quiver. "Elves and Dwarfs did not meddle with each other in the past," she explained. "And I despise caves and mines like these the most. I have not dared to enter over the past a thousand year." She pointed another arrow, which she took from the corpse of a Goblin, towards Merry. "Moria, Mr. Hobbit, is full of foul creatures. None wise has taken the choice to live here, except for the Dwarfs."

"I see," Pippin said, before he spaced out upon a sudden realisation. "A thousand years?" he exclaimed. Merry shushed him and Varilerin raised a brow. Pippin stammered, before his voice became softer. "I know you are an Elf or a half-Elf, but I did not expect you to be that old!"

Legolas let out a small laughter, lifting their spirits slightly. Varilerin glared at him, but his laughter merely grew laughter. She couldn't believe that he was older, for she could have easily berated him for his childishness. "Lord Elrond was diligent enough to keep the counting of the years in Middle Earth, and he has told me that I was brought to Rivendell in the year 241, the Third Age. That makes me 2778 years old this year, as old as Lady Arwen is," Varilerin explained, amused by the Hobbits' bafflement. "But I am not the oldest here, right, Legolas?" she continued without looking at him.

The Hobbits stared at him agape, and Legolas once again chuckled. "According to my father, I was born in the year 87, Third Age," he gleefully informed them, shaking his head. Varilerin scoffed, finishing up another arrow.

Pippin counted with his fingers. "That means you are... Two thousand nine hundred and thirty-two years old!" he exclaimed, and this time Gandalf silenced him. But Legolas and Varilerin knew that Gandalf was older, perhaps even older than Middle Earth itself.

Sam shifted, curious of the conversation. "Varilerin, what do you mean 'brought' to Rivendell?" he asked. "You were not born there?"

Legolas looked at Varilerin, whose visage darkened so significantly they knew they had raised a forbidden topic. Should she tell them about her past? She had never dared to divulge her story to anyone except Gandalf, as she deemed it unnecessary. But before these people, the comrades and friends she had been travelling with for weeks, spent nights sleeping side by side, and shared days together...

For the first time, she wanted to be heard.

"I was brought there, by mother," she answered. "She escaped from her homeland, I believe."

Merry scuttled closer. "Then why did you leave? Leave Rivendell, I mean."

This one stole her breath away. Legolas' heart sank, though he did not know what to say to correct the Hobbits. Until they knew, they wouldn't understand why she had refrained from telling them for so long.

Varilerin pondered for a long moment which felt like hours. She laid down her quiver and fixated her gaze at all of her comrades—Boromir, Legolas, the Hobbits, and even Gimli. She hesitated. She didn't want those memories, those flashes of nightmares, to return again.