Aiër- Chapter One

T.A. 3018 (Fifteen Years Later)

The last of the night's straggling stars had gradually faded into the murky gray that lay over the world just before dawn. Now streaks of purest pink and orange began to stain the horizon as the sky overhead passed slowly into lilac and then into softest blue. The foliage of the Hidden Valley had been an eerie sight during the night, but now the sun's first rays revealed the rich colors of autumn that adorned the trees and bushes. Leaves of bright yellow and red seemed almost translucent where the new day's light filtered through the gaps between strong branches and boughs.

Shëanon stood on one of Rivendell's many stone bridges, watching absently as the October sun's beams sparkled on the surface of the Bruinen. The air was cool and clean in her mouth; there was no breeze, but the familiar smell of the river and the fall trees was in her every breath. Shëanon shifted her weight anxiously as she looked out at the morning. She had been pacing around the edges of the city all the night and all the night before. Now her limbs were heavy as she stood her silent vigil, but she could not bring herself to go to her room to rest.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned, startled. Lord Elrond stood next to her, leaning now as she was on the smooth, carven rail. She scowled half-heartedly as he raised his eyebrows at her, for she knew that he wordlessly acknowledged her inattentiveness; indeed she had been deep in a reverie and she did not hear his approach. She looked down at her hands.

"Good morning, Adar," she muttered wearily. Even without looking at him, she could see the disapproval on his face.

"Standing watch all night and day will not return them any sooner," Elrond said calmly. Shëanon said nothing and listened to her adoptive father sigh. "You need to sleep," he said pointedly.

Shëanon blinked slowly. She knew that her father was right, but no amount of weariness could have brought sleep to her on that morning. Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel were days gone from Imladris, searching for Aragorn. Aragorn himself was out in the wilderness, burdened by four halflings. Wraiths pursued them all.

And Shëanon sat in Imladris like a coward.

"I want to be waiting when they arrive," she said explained a bit stubbornly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. His face held an expression of fatherly concern hidden behind the stern exasperation that she knew so well; she felt a strange pang in her chest at the sight.

"I would be glad for it," Elrond said lowly, "if I knew you had had some rest." His piercing gaze bore into her until finally she felt her will crumble. She bowed her head, pushing away from the railing.

Elrond smiled at her in understanding, an arm coming around his daughter's slumped shoulders, and Shëanon allowed herself to be steered back over the bridge and up the path to the main part of the small city. She could not deny even to herself that her mind was growing muddled and her senses unfocused.

"Your heart is true, hên nín," he murmured kindly as they climbed the smooth stone steps up from the river. His hand was warm against her arm. "Sleep for a while, and then I will let you resume your watch."

Shëanon stiffened slightly but said nothing at her father's gentle teasing. It was ever apparent to her that he still looked at her and saw a little girl, and she knew that her intention to await the return of her family amused him. She was to him like a puppy serving as a guard dog.

The elven settlement was still with the hush of early morning as they approached the elf lord's great dwelling. Shëanon was not fooled by his quiet conversation; Elrond's intentions were clearly to see her all the way to her chambers, lest she sneak back to the bridge and get into some sort of trouble. Her suspicions were confirmed as they reached the arched door to her room. Her father placed both large hands on her shoulders, turning her about to gaze sternly into her face. She looked dully up at him, and the corners of his lips turned up.

"Do you promise me that you will rest?" he asked seriously, but she heard some humor in his voice.

"Yes, Adar," Shëanon sighed, resigned and admittedly exhausted. Elrond smiled knowingly and pulled the door closed behind her as she crossed the threshold to her room.

Shëanon stood still for a moment, listening to her father's fading footsteps, and then she crossed slowly to her bed. With none of the grace of the Eldar, she plopped down on the edge of the soft mattress and looked around her room. Large, tall windows framed by gauzy drapes lined the walls and opened into the trees, making the chamber light, airy, and spacious. A small, intricately carved table next to the bed held a candle, some books, and a pitcher of water. Next to it sat the gilded cedar chest that contained her clothes and a few of her more precious possessions and on the opposite wall, next to the door, was a small mirrored vanity. Her gaze caught on her reflection.

A girl of twenty looked back at her through strange blue eyes. Hair that couldn't seem to decide whether it was red or brown hung in curling tendrils past her shoulders, the front pulled back off her face. She was small, especially small for an elleth, but she had met no human women to compare herself to. Her skin was pale and clear, her features fair but unremarkable. She tore her eyes away from the mirror, looking instead at the items in the corner. From pegs on the wall hung her bow, quiver, and sheathed sword. Several knives rested on a delicate shelf above, and next to them were polish and arrowheads and small leather pouches.

Shëanon laughed bitterly to herself as she pulled off her boots and reclined against the silky, embroidered bed linens. She was no less skilled than Arwen with blade or bow, but when Mithrandir had arrived in Imladris the day before, speaking words of danger and Nazgûl and impending doom, Shëanon had been forbidden from accompanying her sister and brothers on their frantic search for the travelers. Lord Elrond had given no explanation with the command, but Shëanon did not need one. To the immortal Eldar, those who had passed hundreds if not thousands of years upon the earth, she was alarmingly young and terribly naïve. It was her curse as Peredhil. Among the race of men, she would be fully grown. Elves were not considered completely mature until they had lived one hundred years, at least. Shëanon was trapped in a no man's land that few, if any, had ever before endured. Her own father, Elrond Half-Elven, for example, had aged for the most part in the typical elven way, despite his human blood.

Shëanon rolled onto her side, her back to the door, feeling isolated and incredibly frustrated. She lay atop the bedcovers, still in her tunic and leggings, and tried to rest her body. Her tired mind, however, raced. Nearly all of her loved ones were out in harm's way. The suspense, the not knowing plagued her thoughts and left her feeling unbearably helpless. Thoughts flashed across her consciousness, of Aragorn and Arwen and the twins, lying sprawled and motionless on the forest floor with Morgul blades in their chests. Shëanon knew that her fears were a very real possibility and that for that same fear her father had kept her in Imladris. She could not make him understand that she was willing to risk such dangers for her friends and family, nor that she knew her capabilities and limitations and was able to decide such matters for herself. Her protests went always disregarded.

Shëanon fidgeted anxiously. By now the morning sunlight had begun to creep in through her open windows, shafts of light falling on the floor. A week ago she had run to find her father in his study, for once bursting through the door without pausing to knock. His bemused expression had very quickly changed to one of sorrow and remorse as she hurriedly told him what she had seen: Aragorn, alone in a place of ruins, brandishing fire against terrible, dark creatures; Mithrandir's body falling from a great black tower; small creatures crying out in fright, running through the forest. She had stood before him, breathless and trembling as he rested his elbows upon his parchment-covered desk, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. After a small eternity, he had finally looked at her. His voice was grave and grim as he told her that there was truth to what she'd seen, for he had seen it as well.

Shëanon closed her eyes against the memory. She had been carrying a vase of flowers to the hall when the vision had come upon her. It had slipped from her hands as her consciousness was pulled out of her control. She had staggered and fallen, landing on her knees upon the jagged shards of glass. Her kneecaps still bore the stitches, the skin aching a bit even as she lay there.

Until that moment in her father's study, she had not truly believed that she possessed the gift of foresight. As a child she found herself frequently startled and confused to find that she knew something was going to happen before it actually did. The first vision had come a few years earlier. Elrond had not seemed at all surprised when she'd approached him in the hall late at night to tearfully explain that she had seen the orc raid on the village of men in her own mind days before the patrol had arrived to report it. He told her then that the Valar had gifted her, and she was made nervous by the pity in his eyes, but it had not seemed real. Perhaps not until she lay on her bed just then, reflecting, did she truly accept that it was so. Mithrandir's arrival the day before had brought with it the confirmation that her vision was the truth. Her mind became more troubled with this realization.

'Some gift,' she thought angrily as she turned onto her other side. She had no control over what she saw, for it was a skill that took centuries to master; once again she was a victim of her youth. Until she learned control, Elrond had explained, she saw only what the Valar wanted her to see. The knowledge that her mind was at the mercy of others had disturbed Shëanon greatly, and she shivered then in the autumn morning.

A few hours passed, and Shëanon wondered how long her father expected her to rest. She rather doubted that he would deem two sleepless hours acceptable, but her nerves grew with each passing minute. The thought of someone not returning, lost to the shadow world, was too terrible for her to bear and she had the sudden urge to go down to the practice field, to pull back on her bow string and shoot something—anything. The pent up anxiety had become too much for her and she was just sitting up and tugging on her boots when she heard the sounds of commotion in the distance.

Shëanon reached the main gateway just in time to see Arwen, still astride her horse, place a small body into Lord Elrond's outstretched arms. She dismounted then and hurried up the front stair after her father and an ashen-faced Mithrandir, and then she was gone from sight. Shëanon stood for a moment in the midst of the small crowd of elves who had come running when Arwen had arrived. Only when someone finally led the great white horse away did the murmuring ellyn begin to disperse. Rather than follow in the wake of her father and sister, however, Shëanon turned away from the stairs and stepped onto a steep, rocky path that lead to the bank of the river. If Arwen had just come, then surely the others must not be far behind, and though she was relieved that her sister was safe, Shëanon could not breathe easily until she saw with her own eyes that the rest of her family had made it back to Rivendell unscathed.

She walked along the base of the rocky perch upon which sat her father's settlement, heading in the direction from whence she knew Arwen had come. She stepped carefully, for she saw that the river was turbulent and lapped high upon the shore. 'A bad omen,' she thought with dread.

After a very short while, she stopped and dropped down onto a large boulder. She sat staring out at the opposite bank, her eyes scanning the trees for approaching figures, her ears straining to discern any voices on the air. The rushing water calmed and the charge in the air dissipated as the sun climbed higher in the sky; the new serenity of the day prodded at Shëanon's nerves and she felt agitated and anxious. Surely if something had happened, if someone was hurt, she would have been able to see it on Arwen's face? Surely someone would have rushed to her, to tell her at once?

'But what if Arwen didn't know?' She thought uneasily. The halfling that Arwen carried with her had been gravely injured and instinct told her that the hobbit had been wounded at the terrible hands of the Nazgûl. A wave of nausea rolled over her at the thought, but still she waited.

Hours passed. The Bruinen trickled innocently over the small stones at its bed and a bird chirped somewhere to her left. Squirrels scampered from branch to branch in the large trees across the water. Shëanon balled her hands into fists, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. Her worry growing by the minute and her patience stretched thin, she forced herself to stay still.

Finally, she saw movement in the trees before her and she jumped to her feet. Her heart was racing and she felt sick. She did not know what she would do if the worst had happened. She wanted to pace but she could not bring herself to look away from the tree line. Just then, a branch was pushed aside and Elladan emerged from the shade, leading his large black stallion. A hobbit sat upon the beast, wearing an expression of worry and fatigue. Shëanon let out a shuddering breath. As the horse's front hooves stepped into the water with a quiet plunk, Elrohir stepped out behind his brother, a halfling upon his steed as well. Shëanon watched in tense silence as Glorfindel and then Aragorn came out of the brush, and then her heart swelled with such relief that she nearly wept there upon the bank. As the unusual procession waded across the ford, she stepped up to the very edge of the water.

"Look, Elrohir," Elladan called over his shoulder when they were halfway across the river. "A fair maiden eagerly awaits our return!"

"Little sister," he said when he finally reached her side. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You look distressed."

Shëanon scowled as Elrohir bent next to press his lips to her other cheek.

"Our little shadow is upset that she was left behind," he said with a wide smile that did not fool Shëanon at all. Under their teasing smiles and lighthearted words, she could see that their eyes were dark with hatred and disgust and she knew that they had indeed encountered the wraiths. She opened her mouth to speak but the twins were already leading their horses up the path.

Glorfindel stepped up next, his back straight and his steps sure. His face was not the least bit disturbed, his expression completely calm and his countenance relaxed, but his eyes flashed like steel.

"Penneth," he said warmly, bowing his head and bringing a great hand over his heart as he walked past her. She smiled weakly; the hobbit astride Asfaloth seemed nervous indeed, and Shëanon suspected that he had borne witness to the Balrog Slayer's fury. She shuddered at the thought, and watched him lead his mighty horse in the twin's wake. She turned again.

Aragorn stepped at last out of the water, leading a rather sad looking pony. His clothing was soaked to the knees and unlike the three elves before him, his shoulders were slumped and his footfalls heavy. Dirt and mud were thick upon his clothes and hands, but more uncommon were the shadows under his eyes. His expression was very grim, but Shëanon could also see his relief. The Last Homely House was a very welcome sight, she knew.

Finally he lifted his head and met her gaze. Shëanon wanted very badly to throw her arms around him, for she had not seen him for many months and she had worried for him greatly over the past few days especially, but she fought the urge. Instead she crossed her arms over herself and smiled at him anxiously. To her great relief, he grinned, if wearily, and shook his head.

"How long have you been waiting?" he asked lowly, tugging the exhausted pony along.

Shëanon smiled ruefully as she turned to walk beside him to the stables. "Not very long," she assured him.

Aragorn looked down at her skeptically. "You look almost as tired as I," he said in a knowing voice.

Shëanon blushed and averted her gaze. He knew her too well.

"Ah, Shea," Aragorn chuckled and placed a hand on her head, ruffling her hair slightly like he had done when she was little.

Shëanon smiled despite herself, pleased by the affectionate gesture. She realized that she had been shaking slightly when the group had returned, and now she finally felt her tense muscles relax; everyone was truly safe. They walked in silence for a moment.

"What happened, Aragorn?" she asked at last. She wanted to know before they were descended upon by her father and Mithrandir and the others. They might not tell her the whole truth, although much of it she had already guessed.

Aragorn sent her a sideways glance as they came up onto the main walkway. Shëanon looked at him pleadingly, and she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

"Later," he said solemnly.

Several hours later, Shëanon stood in the darkness, listening. The house had been hectic all day. Apparently, the hobbit Frodo had been stabbed by a Morgul blade, the wound so serious that her father had only just been able to save him from the terrible fate of passing into the shadows. The other three hobbits naturally had been sick with worry, but Bilbo Baggins—now old and frail with age—had been nothing short of frantic. Mithrandir now sat with him by his nephew's bedside, and Shëanon suspected they would remain there until the morning. Elrond and Glorfindel had gone into the lord's study at around midday, shutting the door behind them, and despite his promise to explain everything to her, Aragorn too had disappeared soon after he'd learned that Frodo would recover. Though she still longed to know what had happened out in the wilderness, Shëanon dared not seek him out; she knew that he was with Arwen somewhere in the night and she blushed slightly at the thought.

It had been very clear to her throughout the day that everyone was working very hard to keep her ignorant of the events of the past week or so. Several times she had gone to look for Elladan and Elrohir only to find them speaking lowly to each other or to various patrol officers, and after exchanging a look, one of them would head her off with a charming smile and artfully lead her away.

"Ah, tithen lum," Elrohir had said in his musical voice when she had found them in the library with Erestor, "I believe Lindir has requested your presence in the hall. Come, I will accompany you."

After two more similar incidents, Shëanon had given up and gone to the archery field, furious and more hurt than she cared to admit. She had been so worried about them that she had not slept in days, and her adoptive brothers would not even speak to her. She fired arrow after arrow, in desperate need of an outlet for her pent up emotions. The twang of her bow string and the feel of the smooth wood under her fingers were as soothing as the physical strain was satisfying, but the activity was a poor distraction; for hours her frustration simmered in her heart. Through dusk and into the night she shot at the many practice targets, and only when the stars were fully risen over her head and her muscles ached from relentless exertion did she finally retrieve her arrows, the sound of crickets loud in her ears.

Now she stood in the unlit corridor just outside her father's study, trying to hear the conversation taking place on the other side of the closed door. It was Elrond, his sons, and Glorfindel in there, she knew; Elrond and Mithrandir had spoken earlier in the day, and then the elf-lord had sought Erestor's counsel. She knew it was no accident that they had conversed while she had been out on the practice field. As quietly as she could, she inched away from the pillar that she was pressed against, out of the shadows and closer to the door. Did they think she was so stupid that she didn't know what was happening? Shëanon knew that Frodo Baggins had brought the One Ring to Imladris. She knew that the wraiths had pursued the travelers for that reason and it infuriated her that her family was trying to keep her in the dark. Inside the study, the elves were speaking just quietly enough that her half-human ears could not hear their words, only the seriousness of their voices.

She wanted to yell. Was she so untrustworthy? She should not need to stand lurking in the dark to eavesdrop on her father and brothers. The ring was there in her very home—did not the matter concern her? Should not she know what was happening, what was being decided, so that she was not taken by surprise if the armies of Mordor stormed the valley? Her thoughts turned to the moment a few days before, when Arwen had been securing her sword to her waist and swinging onto her horse and Elrond had stood behind Shëanon with his hands on her shoulders so that she could not follow even if she had tried.

"You are staying here," he had said severely, cutting across her imploring words. She had felt so foolish, so angry as she watched the other elves ride over the bridge and into the world, a world she had been kept from. She had trained constantly, ruthlessly; for more than ten years she had pushed herself out in the field until her body hurt so badly that she wept in the night, and for what had seemed the hundredth time, she was held back, reprimanded and then consoled like an overreaching child. It had become too much for her. Her mind reeled and her temper flared.

Impulsively, she made a sound of frustration and threw out her arm, her fist pounding against the cool wood of the closed door before her; the sound echoed in the quiet, dark hallway and the voices inside the study fell instantly silent. She stood still for a moment, frozen. Part of her was still seething with the righteous indignation of one who had been treated unjustly. The other part of her, however, the part that heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, wanted to turn on her heel and run to her room as fast as her feet could carry her. Shëanon silenced that part of her as the door swung open and she squinted slightly as the bright light fell across her face, her eyes taking a moment to adjust.

She blinked and saw Elrond standing in the doorway, looking down at her with his eyebrows raised. With his great body an almost-silhouette in the light of the fire, his stern face half in darkness, Shëanon found her father very intimidating. Determined not to show it, however, she lifted her chin and looked back at him rebelliously.

"You knocked?" Elrond asked sardonically after a moment, and the twins chuckled from inside the room. Shëanon scowled.

"Yes," she said as defiantly as she dared.

"Then by all means, enter," Elrond said imperiously, standing aside. "It must have grown tiresome trying to listen in the hall." More laughter. Of course they had all known she was there.

Shëanon felt her face burn scarlet as her father shot her a look of reproach, but she sensed that he was also teasing. Now slightly reluctant, she stepped past him into the study. Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel stood crowded around the fireplace. As she approached them, Elrond procured a small wooden chair, the back high and straight, and placed it close to the hearth.

"Sit down, iell nín," he said neutrally, though she could tell that he was not entirely pleased. Shëanon sank onto it hesitantly; she did not like to sit while everyone else stood but she felt it would have been unwise to argue now.

"You surprise me, little sister," Elrohir said mischievously, his arms across his chest. "I thought you would knock much sooner."

Elladan grinned lazily from where he leaned against the mantle. "I did not think you would knock at all," he said.

"I am surprised that the child has gone all these years without raising her bow and shooting either of you," Glorfindel said with apparent disinterest, though his otherworldly eyes glittered in the light of the dancing flames.

Shëanon glanced at him, appreciative; he at least did not seem to be teasing her. She looked then up into her father's face. He stood gazing pensively into the fire, one strong hand gripping the back of her chair.

"Adar?" she asked tentatively. Her anger had faded, and with it had gone her nerve. Elrond said nothing for a moment, but eventually he looked at her. She bit her lip, wanting so badly to ask what they had been discussing, but suddenly very afraid of having to hear him say that he would not tell her. She looked down at her hands, curled in her lap.

Lord Elrond sighed deeply, the sound full of resignation.

"We are trying to decide what to do," he explained. Something in his deep voice—wisdom maybe, or caution—suddenly reminded Shëanon that he was thousands of years old. She looked at him again. There was such knowledge in his ancient eyes.

"About what?" she asked. To her relief, her voice had not revealed her sudden anxiety.

Lord Elrond looked at her shrewdly.

"You already know the answer to that."

Shëanon's heart pounded, for although she had been thinking about it for several days, it had seemed a distant, inconsequential matter. To speak it aloud and have it confirmed would make it all too true.

"The One Ring has been found," she said finally. The grim expressions in the eyes of those around her told her that it was so.

"Yes," Lord Elrond said, with much finality and, unless Shëanon was mistaken, with dread. She experienced a pang of fear and shifted nervously in her seat. She did not care that her fear was perceived by all those in the room, for their expressions now revealed that they too were worried.

"What will we do?" she asked after several moments of tense silence.

Elrond looked at her for a moment, considering.

"I am calling for a council," he told her. His voice had taken on an edge and his grey eyes glinted with determination. "Messengers will be sent at dawn to the leaders of Elves and Men and Dwarves."

Translations:

Hên nín- my child

Iell nín- my daughter