Title: O Pilgrim Grey!
Theme: Set #2, Theme #12, “Tears”
Genre (s): Angst
Pairing (s): N/A
Rating: G
Notes:

Summary: The Company mourns Gandalf in Lothlórien

O PILGRIM GREY!

“ ‘The finest rockets ever seen
they burst in stars of blue and green
or after thunder, golden showers
come falling like a rain of flowers.

Though that doesn’t do them justice by a long road.’ *

‘No, I’ll leave that to you, Sam. Or perhaps to Bilbo. But--well, I can’t talk of it anymore. I can’t bear to think of bringing the news to him.’ “

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I glance over at them. Sam, red to the tips of his ears, sits down abruptly, looking as though he will burst into tears at any instant. Frodo sits pensively with his chin on his knees, looking every bit exactly like what he is--a person with the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. Merry is sitting next to him, and casting covert glances in Frodo’s direction, although his arm is around Pippin, huddled miserably next to him with eyes and nose red from weeping though he is dry-eyed now. I fear the youngest hobbit still blames himself for Gandalf’s loss, though all of us who are more experienced in the ways of Orcs have explained to him that it was more likely than not that we had been discovered *long* before that stone was dropped.

Boromir is sitting quietly by the fire, his unease apparent in his posture. He has been difficult to talk to since we entered Lothlórien. I fear that Denethor, ever a difficult and distrustful man, has instilled in his elder son a fear and suspicion of Elves, and of the Lady Galadriel in particular, I know not how or why. He, too mourns Gandalf. One of the few things he has said since we came here was how hard it was going to be to bear the news of the wizard’s death to his younger brother. He says nothing of his father. There was no love lost between Denethor and Gandalf.

Gimli is also sitting by the fire, honing his axe again. I believe that he has honed every weapon he carries a dozen times or more. I do not even begin to know what he is thinking--whether he is mourning Gandalf or dreaming of the Lady Galadriel, either way he keeps his own counsel.

Legolas as well has been tight-lipped. He knew what the laments were saying, as did I, but it’s true, with grief so near it is hard to think of translating those sad songs for our companions. They say too little, as is: in the common tongue their feeling is lost. He stands pensively at the edge of our pavilion, listening to the sad singing, drinking it in.

Of all the things that could have gone wrong, even with all the fears and premonitions I had of danger to Gandalf when we entered Moria, I do not think I believed that we would actually lose him, or that I would be left with the leadership of this small Company. It is not a burden I wanted--and Gandalf had kept his plans close to his own heart--I do not even know if he meant for us to come through the Golden Wood, though after Moria, it was the only logical destination.

We will rest here for some time I think; the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood are gracious hosts, but they are also canny. They will make sure of their borders before they allow us to venture forth from them. But I think the Lady also knows we need time to mend our grief as best we may.

The silence is broken by a sudden sob, this time, Merry, who I think was the only one of the hobbits *not* to weep since we entered this place. He has been trying so hard to be strong for the others. He bites his hand and shakes his head, as if to deny his grief, but the other three hobbits are around him in an instant, and now all of them are weeping together.

Merry sniffed. Frodo is holding him, as Merry yet holds Pippin, while Sam has placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I just--” Merry stopped, and then went on haltingly “ I just was remembering *him* when he was just *our* Gandalf, you know, always growling at us, but he had that twinkle in his eye. He put up with so much nonsense in the Shire. We never knew how great he was--we never appreciated him.”

Pippin, who is forgetting his own misery, in his effort to comfort his older cousin, shakes his head. “No, but we loved him. And he loved us.”

And I feel my own tears now. I see them sparkling in Gimli’s eyes, and Boromir’s. They run unchecked down Legolas’ cheeks as well.

We grieve, we mourn together. Perhaps that is the beginning of our healing.
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*From The Fellowship of the Ring Book II, Chapter VI, “Lothlórien”