A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed so far! I love your comments and opinions; feedback is always welcome! :)

Aiër- Chapter Two

"And the other two?" Shëanon asked curiously, "you think they know nothing?"

She sat shoulder to shoulder with Aragorn, their backs pressed against a large, smooth tree trunk. It was late at night and she had been out on the terrace, leaning against the rail and staring out at her father's realm when she'd felt a light touch to her shoulder. Turning, she had looked up into his face. His expression had been almost indiscernible in the darkness and no words had passed between them, but as he'd turned away down the walk and stepped into the trees, she had known that he meant for her to follow.

Now they were in a small glade, secluded but only steps from the edge of the courtyard behind the house; they could see lights glowing in the windows of the library and hall if they peered through the branches and brush before them. Many times they had rested together in that spot, their elbows on their knees and Aragorn's pipe in his hand. Shëanon had been eight when she'd first come upon him in the little hollow. She had been wandering through the trees, pretending that she was on some great adventure, when she had rounded a large blackberry bush and come face to face with the ranger. She remembered that she had stared at him in dumbfounded surprise, for in her mind it had made absolutely no sense for him to be there. Never would she have found her father, for example, sprawled on the ground in the dirt and leaves.

"Ah, no," he had sighed in pretend, exaggerated despair, "someone has found my hiding place at last."

"Hiding place?" she had asked curiously, scanning the lush green area. The ground rose sharply behind the tree against which Aragorn had leaned, forming what in her young mind had been a tiny, earthy cliff. The rest of the small clearing was shielded by sturdy elms, leafy shrubs, and a great boulder on one side. It was indeed an excellent place to hide, she had thought.

"This is where I come to think," Aragorn had explained as he looked at her.

"Oh," Shëanon had said, flushing. She had felt terrible that day for intruding on him in his place of thought. "I'm sorry," she'd muttered, turning to leave at once and steer clear of the spot forever, but Aragorn had laughed and patted the ground beside him.

"Come and sit, Little Shea," he had chuckled. "I was actually hoping for some company."

Her eight-year-old self had hesitated only for a moment before crossing to his side and sinking down next to him in the soft grass. They had stayed there for a long while, and after that day the little clearing became a place of privacy for the both of them. Whenever Aragorn had something to tell her, or Shëanon had something she needed to speak to him about, he would lead her there and they would sit together under the tree. Sometimes they sat together and said nothing at all, and sometimes when Aragorn was away, Shëanon would go to the glade alone and think of him. The one thing that she never did, however, was seek Aragorn out when he went there without her, for as he had said, it was where he went to think and seek solace.

Now as they leaned into the familiar grooves of the trunk, Aragorn gave her a quiet account of all that had transpired since she had seen him last, from tracking Gollum and finding the hobbits to fleeing from the wraiths.

"If Merry and Pippin know anything, it is only what they have learned from me," Aragorn replied after a moment of thought. "Their presence was a surprise to Gandalf; he had sent only Sam with Frodo."

"It is incredible to me that the One Ring was in the shire for so long," Shëanon said, her voice hushed even in the privacy of the clearing. "I cannot believe that such an evil object was so long in the hands of a creature like Bilbo the Hobbit."

Aragorn shook his head and brought his pipe to his mouth. "It is indeed the last thing that anyone would have expected," he agreed.

Shëanon bit her lip, still mulling it all over.

"Lord Elrond is holding a council," she said slowly. Dry leaves crackled a bit as she shifted on the crisp autumn ground.

"Yes. Riders left here this morning at sunrise," Aragorn confirmed. "They were told to make all haste."

"Do you know who will come here?" she pressed. She picked up a twig and twirled it between her fingers.

"One rode to Minas Tirith and another, I think, to Edoras. Word has also been sent to the Woodland Realm and to the cities of Dale and Erebor."

"Do you think the dwarves will come to this meeting?" she asked curiously. "Adar has said that they do not trust us."

Aragorn turned his head and raised a brow at her. "That is exactly why they will come," he told her arrogantly, though ruefully. Shëanon jabbed at him with her stick and he smiled.

"What of Lothlórien?"

Aragorn shook his head. "The Lord and Lady of Lórien do not need to send a representative to know what will transpire here. They will not want to spare even a single warden."

From somewhere in the distance came the mournful call of a single owl and both turned their head towards the sorrowful, lonely sound. They said nothing for a while after that, reflecting on all that had happened and thinking of what the future would bring.

Shëanon shivered a little in the late October air. Aragorn noticed and wordlessly he moved closer to her, his warm body now touching her much smaller one. Sheepishly, she turned and studied the man beside her. Aragorn had swapped his filthy ranger's garb for a raiment of soft velvet, the new emerald cloth blending just as well into the brush as would his travel-worn cloak and muddy tunic. He was naught but a shadow in the dark of the night, the stars overhead obscured by the leaves and branches above; the glowing embers of his pipe were all that illuminated his strong, fair face, but it was enough for her to see that his eyes were trained ahead of him and his thoughts were distant and wandering.

Shëanon hesitated. She and Aragorn had always been very close. He was as much a brother to her as Elladan and Elrohir, and she loved him very much. Perhaps more than anyone else, Aragorn understood her, for he had also been orphaned and adopted into the Last Homely House and he alone knew the challenges she faced. She was reluctant, however, to speak her mind in that moment, although she did not know why. The silence grew heavy against her ears as she gathered her nerve.

"Aragorn?" she whispered finally into the late evening. He made a low humming sound from beside her, so she continued. "I… I had another vision… the other night," she muttered rather awkwardly. She felt incredibly foolish whenever she spoke of her foresight, like it was a joke.

At her words, Aragorn turned to stare at her, and she could sense the surprise on his face more than she could actually see it; normally she would have told him something like this right away, but this time she had held back. She had never seen anything regarding his future before, and she did not know what he would say. She knew that Lord Elrond looked often into her own fate, and she was not entirely pleased by the notion.

"What did you see?" he asked her when she did not elaborate. Shëanon cringed and picked up a leaf from beside her. She began shredding it between her fingers.

"I saw you," she sighed eventually. "I saw you at Amon Sûl. You were defending the hobbits from the Nazgûl."

Aragorn then was silent for many moments, and Shëanon felt anxiety wash over her. She fidgeted nervously, her eyes on her knees. After several long beats, she finally lifted her gaze to his face. Aragorn was staring at her still. She flushed.

"Did you tell Lord Elrond?" he asked at last.

"Yes," Shëanon whispered, "but no one else."

"Seeing that must have made it even harder for you to have been left behind," he said very compassionately, and Shëanon started. She had not expected him to say anything like that, and she bowed her head, suddenly overcome by emotion. Her eyes burned.

"I was very worried about you," she tried to say, but her voice broke more than once. She could not express how it had been, knowing only glimpses of what was to happen but unable to see more and powerless to stop or change anything—unable to help.

Aragorn brought an arm around her, as he had done so many times before. They stayed like that, huddled together on the ground in the woods, for a long time.

Weeks passed. Frodo Baggins had woken up and was recovering very quickly. Unsurprisingly, he and the other hobbits seemed to like Rivendell very much. Shëanon herself found that her life now was a constant oscillation between merriment and intense worry. Dinnertime was a pleasant affair: the hobbits were a refreshing addition to Lord Elrond's table, for they served as a welcome distraction to everyone. With Gandalf and Aragorn also there in Imladris, meals were more animated than they had ever before been in her memory. She even found herself drawn into the Hall of Fire a few times, though she usually avoided the songs and readings at night.

Like Shëanon, the elves grew anxious as the days elapsed, for they could sense the growing danger and the ever-present shadow that was the One Ring. This nervousness was especially evident among the valley's warriors; those who were not on patrol took to the practice fields each morning, and Shëanon joined them. When the sky was still scarlet with the break of day, she would strap her quiver to her back, her sword to her waist, and silently slip into the dawn. Elladan and Elrohir were always waiting for her, and oftentimes Aragorn was with them. Together they would head down to the field and there they would spar and fight and sometimes have contests of ability. Shëanon was always the last on the field, still shooting long after the others had retired.

It was fifteen days after the ring's arrival to Imladris when a knock sounded on her door as she dressed. Shëanon frowned and glanced at a window. Her eyes still burned with the memory of sleep, but she could see that it was still dark outside. Curious and a little wary, she tugged her tunic hastily over her head and pulled open her door.

"Arwen?" she asked groggily as Arwen stepped past her. "What is it?"

Arwen smiled softly and crossed the room. To Shëanon's surprise, she sank to her knees and began rummaging through her chest of clothes.

"The representatives from the Woodland Realm will be here within the hour," Arwen explained, pulling a pale blue dress from under Shëanon's many pairs of leggings and shirts. She held it up before nodding and placing it on the bed. "Those from Gondor are only half a day behind."

In her sleepy state, it took Shëanon several moments to comprehend Arwen's words. When it finally clicked, she groaned deeply. She was always anxious about meeting new people, and though the thought of so many strangers in her home did intrigue her, she also dreaded the ordeal of being introduced to them. She stood rubbing her eyes as Arwen poured warm water into a bowl and handed her a washcloth.

"This is unnecessary," Shëanon muttered as she quickly washed her face. "I don't see why I should be there."

Arwen turned from the window, her expression disapproving. "Why would you not be?" she asked sternly.

Despite the early hour, Shëanon had the good sense to hold her tongue; she sighed but said nothing. Turning to the bed, pulling off her clothes, and shivering slightly as her skin was assaulted by the cold morning air for the second time since she had risen, she fingered the silky material of the gown that Arwen had selected; it was like woven water between her fingers. Silver embroidery swirled about the neckline and danced down the sleeves. She glanced at Arwen dubiously, but Arwen just raised her eyebrows and waited, a graceful figure framed by the dim light that filtered through the curtains behind her.

"Unnecessary," Shëanon mumbled as she pulled the dress over her head. Her sister came up behind her as the hem fell to the floor, and Shëanon felt her bring a brush to her hair. She smiled in spite of her foul mood. She could not remember the last time Arwen had brushed her hair for her, but she used to beg her to comb through the wild, unruly mop upon her head when she was little, luxuriating in the treatment like a spoiled cat. Now she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the gentle tugging at her scalp as her ferocious curls were twisted into braids. Had she not been standing, she might have fallen back asleep.

When she felt her sister's fingers finally fall from her hair, Shëanon reluctantly opened her eyes. As she had expected, Arwen had procured a small silver circlet. Shëanon looked at it miserably. It managed to glint even in the pale half-light of the room, she noticed with a scowl. She hated the beautiful, intricate elven tiara; she always felt extremely uncomfortable and foolish when it was on her head, for she did not feel that she really had the right to wear it. She was not truly Lord Elrond's daughter, after all, and to bear a symbol of such high rank made her feel presumptuous and false.

"Adar said that you are to wear it," Arwen murmured knowingly. Shëanon grimaced but did not protest as she placed the circlet gingerly on her head, as vaguely surprised as she always was when it sat weightlessly about her temples. She tried to calm herself with the notion that she would hardly be looked at or noticed next to her sister. The Evenstar's beauty had an effect on all, and Shëanon was glad for it.

The two walked together to the main gate at the western side of the city; in the courtyard along the steps stood Lord Elrond and his sons. Elladan and Elrohir wore their formal patrol uniforms, the leather chest plates and gauntlets accompanied by the great swords at their belts, and Elrond donned billowing scarlet robes. Circlets adorned their foreheads as well, Shëanon observed, and they bore them with dignity and righteousness. She looked around nervously as she stepped up beside Elladan. A small crowd had gathered to either side of them; Glorfindel and Erestor stood nearby, but Aragorn and Gandalf were surprisingly absent. Shëanon's heart sank; their presence would have made her feel much less conspicuous.

"You look very pretty this morning, pen tithen," Elladan teased as she gazed uneasily around her. Shëanon craned her neck to glare at him; her head stood not even as tall as his shoulder. Elladan smiled. "Are you excited?"

"I supposed," she answered dryly.

Elladan looked down at her dubiously. His grey eyes, so much like his father's, were alight and Shëanon grew instantly suspicious.

"You suppose? Do not you always grumble about how boring it is to be stuck in Imladris?" he asked.

"I have never said that," Shëanon said defensively. She glanced quickly at her father's profile. His eyes were calm and focused ahead of him, but there was little chance that he wasn't listening. Shëanon cast her brother a dirty look.

"Have not you often expressed an interest to travel? I am sure that I remember you announcing your desire to look upon the Woodland Realm that was once the Greenwood. I am sure these messengers would love to speak with you about their home."

Shëanon blushed and looked away from him. She heard Elrohir laugh quietly from Elrond's other side and she wanted very badly to unsheathe her brother's sword and take a nice slash at them both. Unlike his twin, Elladan had a way of speaking so casually that no one else would know that he was making fun of her if they had heard his words, but Shëanon knew from experience that he employed the light tone of voice when he wanted to downplay his deliberate jabs at her. Elrohir was not usually so subtle. Indeed she did long to journey to the Woodland Realm, and to see the Grey Havens, and to look upon fair Lothlórien, and Elladan knew it well. He also knew, however, that she would never ask a Mirkwood messenger to tell her about his homeland.

Shëanon had always been very shy. She had always scorned attention and liked to keep to herself. She remembered that when she had first learned to shoot a bow as a child, she had refused to do so when her father had been watching. He told her later that he had watched in secret from afar, and after that her seven-year-old self had refused to so much as lift a bow for over a week, bashful to think that he might see. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she'd never had any other children to play with, but Shëanon always preferred to sit quietly by herself, tucked into a corner reading or out in the forest listening to nature. She was like Aragorn in this manner, and in many ways like Lord Elrond himself, but while they needed their solitude to ponder great matters like the many problems of Middle Earth, Shëanon was simply uneasy with too much company. As she had grown, she had become even more reserved, throwing herself into her training and her studies and spending long hours daydreaming about futures out of her reach. Elladan and Elrohir teased her ruthlessly about it.

"Leave the child be," Elrond said sternly to his son. "Our guests approach."

Shëanon looked up in surprise and saw that three riders were crossing the bridge at a gallop. They brought their snorting horses to a prance exactly as they reached the two carven pillars at the bridge's end; the great stone warriors that stood an eternal guard at the entrance to the city seemed to look down at them through their rock-hewn eyes, bidding them enter as they passed into the courtyard. Shëanon stared, entranced by the sight. The elves carried no banners. All of them were clad in plain green traveling cloaks, hoods pulled over what she could see was shining blond hair. Although she knew that they had ridden without rest, Shëanon could see no sign of weariness on their faces or in their posture; they looked as though they could ride forever and not tire. The front elf lowered his hood and dismounted agilely the moment his steed's hooves had come to a rest. He brought a hand to the creature's neck and murmured to it softly, and then he turned to face Lord Elrond. His features were very noble, Shëanon thought, and quite serious, but there was goodwill also in his expression. His shoulders were broad and strong as he approached the Lord of Imladris, a quiver and bow at his back. He stepped with confidence and grace.

A sudden, inexplicable feeling of unease and suspicion flitted across Shëanon's awareness, and she looked quickly at her father. Elrond had stepped forward; there was an unusual look in his eyes.

"Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion," Elrond said, placing his hand on his heart and then extending his arm in welcome.

"My Lord Elrond," Legolas replied with a bow of his head.

Shëanon's eyes widened in surprise. She gaped, first at Legolas and then at her father and brothers. She thought that she must have heard wrong. No one else seemed at all surprised that the Prince of Mirkwood stood before them, but Shëanon had started in complete shock in hearing his name spoken; never had she imagined that the Elvenking would send his only son as a messenger. Finally remembering her manners, however, she hastily dropped her gaze.

"How was your journey here?" Elrond inquired, and to her astonishment, Shëanon now realized that the look on his face was very much like affection; indeed his wise eyes smiled as he beheld the elven prince.

"We traveled as swiftly as was possible," Legolas said solemnly. "We were fortunate that the weather did not betray us and that we encountered no other delay."

"Fortunate indeed," Elrond agreed.

"I seem to remember riding from Imladris to the Greenwood in six days' time," Elrohir interrupted suddenly. All eyes turned to him. "Tell me, Your Highness, how long did your journey take? Nine days, I think?"

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "Your memory is false, Elrondion, for I know that your journey lasted seven days and nights," he said coldly. "I have traveled for eight days to come here, but do not forget that for many miles the land east of the Hithaeglir slopes downward, and so you rode downhill for more than two days, but I have traveled uphill."

Everyone was quiet and Shëanon's eyes flickered anxiously from her brother's face to that of the proud elf before them, but just as her insides twisted with anxiety, Legolas smiled and her brothers began to laugh as she looked on in astonishment.

"Tell yourself what you must," Elrohir chuckled, and all sense of formality vanished. The other two representatives dismounted their horses and the gathered elves all grinned. Shëanon watched as Arwen went up to the Elvenprince, her porcelain skin gleaming in the early light, her face bathed in radiance. She leaned forward and placed a kiss upon his cheek.

"It is good to see you," she said with a soft smile, which Legolas returned.

"And you," he replied. He tilted his golden head and looked at her face, and then scanned the crowd around them. "And where is the Dúnadan?"

Arwen's smile widened.

"Who says that he is here?" she asked in her tinkling voice.

"Your face gives him away," Legolas said in an undertone. Suddenly he turned to face Shëanon. "Forgive me," he said politely. "I do not believe we have met."

Shëanon started. She opened her mouth to introduce herself, but faltered under his gaze. He looked at her so directly that suddenly she could not remember any word in any of the three languages that she spoke. She felt her face heat up, and the sound of Elladan's and Elrohir's quiet laughter only brought more blood to her face. Her relief was unparalleled as her father intervened.

"This is Shëanon, my daughter," he explained. "Shëanon, this is Legolas, Son of Thranduil, Prince of the Woodland Realm. He comes to us in his father's stead to impart upon our Council his knowledge and opinions on the great matter at hand."

Still unable to speak, Shëanon bowed her head in reverence, but she looked up, surprised, as Legolas stepped forward and grasped her hand in his.

"My lady," he said cordially, and bent his head to kiss her hand. His lips seared her skin where they touched her knuckles. As he released her small fingers, she looked down at the ground. She had never been greeted in such a manner and she prayed that it did not show on her face.

"Come," Elrond said graciously. "I am sure that you are eager for rest, and I would speak with you before any others arrive," he added meaningfully.

The group ascended the smooth stone steps, first Elrond, then Legolas, and then the rest. Shëanon followed behind Arwen, but she slipped away as soon as she felt that it would not be noticed. She made a beeline for her room. On her way, however, she encountered Aragorn and Gandalf conversing quietly outside the kitchens. 'A suspicious place to congregate,' she thought darkly. She rounded on them and they looked over at her in surprise.

"Ah, Shëanon," the wizard greeted her with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She paid him no mind; her embarrassment had driven her into irrational anger. Not only had Aragorn not mentioned that his friend was coming, he had also left her alone and at the mercy of the twins.

"The Mirkwood party has arrived," she said accusatorially.

"Have they, indeed?" Gandalf rumbled, with a look at Aragorn, who did not seem surprised.

"Yes," she spat, glowering at the ranger. Noticing her animosity, Aragorn's eyes widened with a bewilderment that angered Shëanon even more. "The Elvenking has sent his son to represent him," she growled venomously. "Your absence was noted."

With that, Shëanon turned and continued on her way, leaving the two standing in stunned silence. As she reached the end of the corridor, she heard Gandalf's voice behind her.

"She seemed angry," he stated lightly. Shëanon scoffed and turned a corner.

When she finally reached her chambers, she paced restlessly across the open space. No one had mentioned anything to her about Legolas; during the two weeks that they had spent awaiting his arrival, no one had so much as hinted that the Prince himself would be representing Mirkwood. If she had known, if she had been prepared, then she would not have made such a fool out of herself—she had been blindsided by his presence and it had caused her to embarrass herself. Shëanon huffed. She continued pacing for several moments, her gown dragging across the carpet, before she finally calmed down.

'I am overreacting,' she thought when her cheeks had stopped burning and her heart had stopped hammering. She sank onto the cushioned bench before the sill of one of her many windows and covered her face with her hands. Was it really so surprising that Thranduil had sent Legolas to speak for him at the council? Would not the king trust his son above any other to make important decisions in his stead? Shëanon knew that she was being ridiculous. How could she not have realized that the prince would be among the party? Who had she expected? Servants? The event had not been so terrible, she admitted to herself after a while, but it was enough to make her cringe to remember it. She had never been so taken aback as she had been there in the courtyard, and she had found it very disconcerting.

She sighed deeply. She knew that her speechlessness before the prince had not been the true source of her frustration. In her heart she knew that she had felt very out of place just then. This is my daughter, Shëanon, Elrond had said. She had grimaced in her mind, knowing that it was not the truth, knowing that the elves of Mirkwood had known that it was not, could not be the truth- that she was not his daughter. She had felt very self-conscious and awkward with the knowledge that she stood to welcome guests to Imladris, but she was even more of an outsider than they. Her chest tightened. She raised her head.

Arwen had told her that the representatives from Gondor would soon be arriving as well, and she would surely be required to be there when they did. She hardened her resolve. Much as she wanted to, she could not change into something more comfortable and take to the forest or practice field until after she had greeted the next group of envoys, and greet them she would. Frowning, Shëanon ran a fingertip over the delicate rim of her circlet. A single sapphire glittered against her forehead—to match her eyes, as her father had told her.

She wondered now what Lord Elrond and Legolas needed to discuss; her father had made it clear that he wanted the conversation to be held before there could stand a chance of being overheard by Men. Mirkwood was plagued by much evil, she knew. She wondered if there was some pressing matter in regards to that. Not for the first time did Shëanon feel a great appreciation for the safety and peace that was the haven of Imladris. She had once known what it was to fear for her life, but although she often begged her father to send her out with the patrol, she could not conceptualize the danger and dread that was a home under siege, a nation at war. With a start, she realized that she might very soon be able to conceptualize it all too well. She rose from her seat. There may be a time to dwell on such petty matters as her own feelings of inadequacy, but just then was not it.

She went in search of her brothers and sister.

Shëanon was surprised to find that the 'party' from Gondor was but a single Man. He arrived some hours before nightfall in fine but travel-worn clothes. Emblazoned upon his chest was a white tree surrounded by stars, and Shëanon saw a strange horn hung at his hip. He looked about him with interest.

"Welcome Boromir, son of Denethor," Elrond said when the man came forth. "It is very well that you have come."

Boromir bowed graciously. "The Kingdom of Gondor shall bear witness to this council," he declared.

Although he came alone from Gondor, Boromir was not the last man to arrive for the council. Others came over the next few days, and elves from the Grey Havens to the west, and finally, on the day before the meeting was to be held, there came the dwarves of Erebor. Shëanon had been intrigued, for never had she seen a dwarf before, and she was unsure what to make of them. She noticed that they were friendly with the hobbits and Gandalf, and one spoke cordially with her father, but the others were distant and suspicious of the elves and of her. Dinner that night was a very strange thing; Shëanon thought idly that the hobbits and dwarves would eat them out of house and home, but greater things occupied her for most of the evening. She was not to attend the council in the morning, and though she longed to hear the tidings of the many strangers in her home and know the wisdom of her father, she did not this time scorn that she was to be excluded. The matter of the One Ring was beyond her, and she was not so small-minded that she believed otherwise.

Shëanon stayed in the Hall of Fire later than she ordinarily would have; the cavernous chamber had seen more activity in those recent weeks than ever before in the years that she had lived in Imladris. Finally, when all the hobbits had fallen asleep and only some minstrels and some lingering elves remained before the shining flames of the hearth, Shëanon retired.

The long corridors of the house were dark and quiet as she made her way to her room; the air was still and the torches extinguished, but Shëanon could sense that few in the valley were asleep. The time for rest was almost past and on the morrow the future of Middle Earth was to be decided. The council had been a daunting weight in her chest that only grew as the days had elapsed. Would there be a battle? A war? Aragorn would almost certainly be lost to her again, and Elladan and Elrohir, too. The thought made her stomach turn, for she knew that they were already caught up in the Ring's fate. Her father also, the Lord of Imladris and bearer of the ring Vilya, was a formidable warrior of immense strength and terrible wrath, mighty among both Elves and Men. Indeed, peoples of all races were in Rivendell at that very moment to seek his advice; he was certainly at the heart of the matter. Would he leave his realm? Would he lead his people, his sons, into almost certain doom? It seemed frighteningly likely to her—a history repeating itself. The Herald of Gil-galad had marched before against the armies of Mordor. Could there be any other way this time?

Shëanon did not know, and she tried not to think about it. She was half-surprised to find herself before her bedroom door, so lost in thought she had been. She stepped inside silently and closed the door behind her. Without bothering to light a candle, she cast aside her gown and pulled on her nightclothes: a long, loose-fitting shirt and warm leggings of the softest material. The familiar fabrics against her body were comforting as she climbed into her bed. There was no moon on that night, but she could just make out the tiny pinpricks of stars through the sheer drapes that stretched across the windows, veils between her and the night.

She had not been tired as she left the hall, but Shëanon suddenly found that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her lids were heavy, her limbs like lead upon the soft, down mattress. A fog filled her mind, blurring her vision, and there was a rushing in her ears, but even so she perceived shadows in the night. Soon, she was overcome by exhaustion. She closed her eyes.

Shëanon knew only darkness. She was cold and alone and she knew not where she was. She tried to call out, but she found she had no voice.

"You are afraid," a voice whispered in her mind. "Who are you? Who are you?"

Shëanon did not answer, but indeed her fear was like ice in her blood.

"Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?" the voice asked, a caress against her consciousness.

"Where is what? What do you want?" she cried, blind and terrified.

"You know what I want," the voice breathed. "Where is it?"

Again Shëanon did not answer, her heart full of horror. Suddenly the darkness was gone and instead there was a bright, terrible light. Instead of coldness, her body burned, her flesh blistered with a long-forgotten pain. Fire, fire everywhere. The flames were all around her. They licked at her arms and legs, her face. She felt that they sought to consume her.

"WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT?"

She was screaming, thrashing, fighting uselessly. The fire was in her very mind; she burned from the inside out…

Shëanon jolted awake, screaming still, the sound ringing in her ears. She was tangled in her bed sheets, flailing but unable to break free, her entire body soaked in sweat. Her door burst open just as she was finally able to sit up, a light falling across her face.

Her father had come in, she realized. She saw his face before her and heard his frantic voice, and the voices of others, but the words were lost to her. She leaned over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor. Her body trembled still.

Translations:

Hithaeglir- Misty Mountains (Mountains of Mist)

Mae Govannen- Well met/ Welcome