Aiër Chapter Eight Part 2
Night had fallen in Lothlórien, but the walkways and trees were lit by more of the curious lanterns. Although Shëanon did not know her way around, Haldir had said that her companions would not be far and so she took the first winding staircase she came across and set out through the enormous trees. The group was not hard to find; she could hear their voices in the night and she rounded a bend to find them all laying out bedrolls on cots. They were not completely outside; their camp was set down into the roots of a vast mallorn which acted as walls, and a canvas roof stretched over their heads. The others glanced up as she approached, seeming surprised to see her, and Shëanon bowed her head, blushing, as she descended the few shallow steps and went to sit next to Aragorn. The ranger was on his bedroll, leaning against the bark of the tree, and had just begun to sharpen the blade of his sword as Shëanon reached him. Unlike the others, he seemed to have been expecting her and he moved his pack to make room for her to sit. Suddenly, voices could be heard high up in the trees, singing. The sound was eerie and upsetting to Shëanon, particularly when she discerned what the many voices sang of.
She watched as the hobbits all glanced up at the sound, as well, their drawn faces uneasy as they exchanged a look with one another.
"It is a lament for Gandalf," Legolas told them, seeming to have also noticed their wary expressions. He was standing just at the bottom of the steps, holding a pitcher of water which he then handed to Pippin. Shëanon saw that he, too, had changed his clothes, donning a silver shirt in place of his green tunic.
"What do they say about him?" Merry asked sadly, gazing out at the luminous trees.
"I have not the heart to tell you," Legolas said, turning to face the hobbit with a somber look in his eyes. "For me the grief is still too near."
Shëanon looked away, guiltily. The company was quiet for a very long while, listening to the elves' lament and only whispering softly to one another every so often. The hobbits' beds were all clumped close together, and Pippin held a tray of food that he, Sam, and Merry were occasionally picking from, but Shëanon noticed that Frodo ate nothing. She wondered if everything tasted like ash in his mouth, too. She pulled her legs up onto Aragorn's cot, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. She had been listening to the hiss of his whetstone for a time, preferring the rhythmic sound to the lyrics of the elves, but he had put it away and pulled out his pipe instead. Gimli was already asleep on the cot next to his, and Boromir sat on the one closest to where Shëanon sat, his elbows resting on his knees. Legolas still stood gazing into the night.
"Were your quarters not to your liking, lady?" Boromir asked suddenly, and Shëanon turned to look at him. His face was troubled, and she hesitated, unsure of what to say.
"I did not want to be alone," she told him finally, and it was the truth.
"For that I do not blame you," he said emphatically, casting an anxious glance out at the trees. Shëanon remembered suddenly how he had wept before the Lord and Lady. She considered this for a moment, frowning and wondering what could have incited such a reaction in him. Then again, she thought, her behavior up on the flet had surely been noticed by her companions, as well.
Shëanon leaned back against the tree behind her, worrying not for the first time that night what Galadriel had seen in her thoughts. Could she see only that which Shëanon had been thinking at the time? It had not felt that way to her. Her face had betrayed nothing as she had watched her, but still Shëanon could not chase away the feeling that Galadriel had perceived the very heart of who she was, and it disturbed her.
The night lengthened. The hobbits and Boromir had long since lain down to sleep, though they all tossed and turned. Legolas had eventually lowered himself onto the last remaining cot, and sat fletching arrows for a time.
"Will you not try to sleep?" Aragorn whispered to her as he tucked his pipe back into his pack and slid his legs under the covers of his bed. Shëanon shook her head, exhausted though she was. Frowning, Aragorn leaned forward to look into her face.
"It is several days now since you have slept," he told her, but his voice was gentle and not stern like she might have expected. She said nothing, feeling his eyes on her face and Aragorn sighed when she gave no explanation. "What troubles you, Shea?" he whispered. Shëanon frowned.
"Gandalf is dead," she said, as though it were such an obvious thing, though well she knew that the fact was only half an answer. She waited with bated breath, hoping he would nod and seek his own rest, but she knew in her heart that Aragorn knew her too well for that.
"It is more than just grief that I see in your eyes," he said seriously. To her surprise, he brought his fingers to her face, lifting her chin so that she might meet his gaze. His expression was grim, his brow creased and his eyes troubled.
"It is nothing, Aragorn," she whispered, though her heart constricted as she lied to him. She caught his wrist in her hand and drew his knuckles away from her jawline, and Aragorn allowed the action.
"Always you have confided in me," he told her. "Will you not do so now?"
"This burden I keep for myself," she breathed, aching now with the desire to tell him everything and yet unwilling to see the disgust on his face when she did. Once more she bowed her head, pulling her blanket more closely around herself, but still Aragorn did not move away. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
"What did you see in the mines?" he asked her finally, softly so that none of the others might hear, and the icy wave of dread that spread forth from her where it had settled in her stomach did not cool her burning shame or smoldering regret. Shëanon did not respond, but she knew that her silence spoke for itself. Her throat constricted as she waited for Aragorn to condemn her, but his anger did not come. She heard him sigh softly, and for a moment he rested his hand gently upon the top of her head.
"Eru's will is known but to one," he whispered. "Gandalf's death is a pain we must all bear. Do not take this blame upon yourself as well." He regarded her for a few moments longer, and then his strong hand closed around her arm and he tugged her down beside him, shifting over on the cot as he did. Shëanon had only the briefest moment of hesitation, wondering if maybe it might be inappropriate to lie with him on the bed, for it seemed very different from lying beside each other on the ground, but she found that she did not care if it was. It was the least of her concerns, and Aragorn did not seem to care either.
Blinking away more tears, she curled up beside him on the cot. She felt no less responsible for Gandalf's fate, but she had been so preoccupied by her own doubts that she had forgotten to consider Aragorn's. She knew that there had been great friendship and respect between the ranger and the wizard, that Aragorn felt Gandalf's passing as acutely as she, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth to realize that Aragorn was comforting her while he was grieving himself. In addition to his mourning, Shëanon could sense that he felt a great weight now on his shoulders. Celeborn had said that their quest would fail without Mithrandir, and while Shëanon had been grappling with her culpability, she knew that Aragorn, as the new leader of the company, was wondering how he could possibly accomplish the task laid before him. She glanced at his face, for he lay facing her, and saw again his exhaustion and worry, pinching his features like his concern for her. Her heart was in her throat as she tried to think of something that she could say to him; how relieved she was that he had made it out of the mines—how she would have been beyond all consolation had she lost him as she'd lost Gandalf. She wanted to express just what his presence meant to her, how grateful she was for his companionship and unfaltering affection, but the words would not come. How could she tell him how much she loved him, or how much faith in him she had?
"If there is anyone now who can lead us through this, Aragorn, it is you," she whispered finally, dissatisfied with what she said even as she spoke. Her voice was tight with her emotion, and she hoped that her eyes might convey what her words could not. Aragorn stared at her; she thought maybe he might have been slightly surprised by her declaration, and though he gave no reply she thought that she saw a change in his eyes.
"Try to sleep, Shea," he murmured at last, and so she nodded and closed her eyes just to give him peace of mind.
For a long while, Shëanon lay awake. She had reopened her eyes when she was sure that Aragorn had fallen asleep, which had taken much longer than was usual. Her thoughts were haunted by terrible images, and the few times she dozed off for a moment she found herself lost in vivid nightmares in which Sauron and Gandalf and balrogs and orcs were peering at her through flames all around her, and she would jerk awake and find Aragorn looking at her again, for his sleep for once seemed as troubled as hers. She lay motionless by his side for many hours, trying to take comfort in the rustle of the golden leaves, in the sound of Aragorn's heart beating close to her ear, and of Legolas fletching arrows behind her until the sky grew light.
When dawn was approaching, Shëanon slipped quietly off of Aragorn's bed and crept out from under the canvas roof. The ranger had finally been sound asleep, and he rolled over and tugged the blanket closer to himself as she had left his side. Her mind and body were weary from the troubled night she had passed, but she could not bear to lie there any longer and remember all that had come to pass. She thought for a moment of returning to her talan, but as the city around her was bathed in the pale gold of the sunrise, she felt herself being drawn through the trees. The path that she trod wove around staircases, buildings, fountains, and pools. For some time, she wandered only on the forest floor, but eventually she strayed up into the trees, fascinated by the architecture of the silvan elves. It was a welcome distraction to gaze upon the fairness of Caras Galadhon; the sharp pain from the night was a dull ache in the light of day with the beauty of Lothlórien all around her. Like a wraith she roamed the walkways and bridges; elves had awoken and were passing here and there, and she could see that many were in clothes of mourning for Mithrandir. Some looked at her strangely as they drew near, so Shëanon bowed her head as she walked.
It was late morning when she came upon a small courtyard under a canopy of ivy and golden leaves, surrounded by trees and lined with stone benches. She sank onto one, running a hand through her hair and staring at the cobblestone ground. She had gotten slightly lost—Caras Galadhon was much larger than Imladris—but she did not care to try to find her way back to the others. What was there to be said amongst them, if not to speak about the loss they had suffered or the bleak paths that lay before them?
"My lady?"
Startled, Shëanon looked up. An elf stood before her, one whom she recognized as one of the brothers of the Marchwarden. He was once again wearing the uniform of the wardens of the realm, and he stood tall and fair in the winter's pale light. Remembering herself, Shëanon quickly stood.
"If you are not otherwise occupied, the Lord and Lady wish to speak with you. They have bid me bring you before them," he told her formally.
Shëanon gaped at him, feeling her mouth go dry.
"N-now?" she stammered, taken aback and realizing that she was still in the clothes she had slept in, that she had not brushed her hair.
The ellon bowed his head and offered her his arm, a gesture which only further jarred her nerves. Anxiously, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed herself to be brought back through the city. The elf walked neither quickly nor slowly, but the time seemed to pass very quickly for Shëanon and soon enough she had once again ascended the stairs toward the large talan in the heart of the elven settlement. To her consternation, the elf did not leave her on the flet where she had stood the night before but instead led her up the steps and through the archway at the top. Shëanon found that they stood in a bright chamber with many windows through which the golden leaves and silver branches could be clearly seen. At the far end of the chamber were two high-backed, intricate chairs inlaid with silver and crystals, and upon them sat the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim. Shëanon felt herself falter as she caught sight of them, but once they had entered the room, the warden released her hand, bowed, and strode back down the steps. Shëanon was left in the doorway, uncertain and intimidated by the luminous pair in front of her.
"Come here, child," Celeborn said from his seat beside his wife. The two were attired as they had been the night before—he in silver and she in the purest white. Both were watching her expectantly, their expressions completely unreadable, so Shëanon stepped forward on shaking legs until she stood before them. Reverently, she bowed her head, wondering anxiously why she alone had been summoned. There was a brief silence.
"Welcome, Shëanon of Imladris," Celeborn said finally. "Long have we anticipated your coming here."
At the sound of his voice, Shëanon hesitantly lifted her gaze. Lord Celeborn was appraising her in a way that made her inexplicably nervous, his cool eyes attesting to an unfathomable wisdom and knowledge that set her ill at ease. Unsure whether or not she was meant to make some response, Shëanon remained silent, standing stock still.
"We sent word yesterday to Rivendell; Lord Elrond has been informed of your safe arrival into this realm," he continued, still watching her intently. "I trust that you are well rested?"
Shëanon felt herself blush at this question. Although she had slept less than an hour during the night, she did not want say so and risk seeming ungrateful of their hospitality. She bit her lip, hesitating and casting a wary glace at Galadriel, who had not yet spoken but who Shëanon saw was regarding her with as much interest as her husband. Although the night before Shëanon had been able to feel the Lady's presence in her mind, she was not so sure that Galadriel was not again looking into her thoughts and so she did not want to lie.
"My companions and I were grateful to pass the night within the safety of your borders," she answered after a brief pause. Mercifully, her voice was steady as she spoke and Celeborn seemed satisfied by her response. He nodded his silver head in acknowledgement to her thanks.
"Your companions spoke highly of you this morning," he told her, and at this, Shëanon's eyebrows shot up.
"My Lord?"
"They said that you fought bravely in Moria," he explained, looking into her face; Shëanon had the impression that he was waiting to gauge her reaction.
"We had no choice but to fight to the best of our abilities," she stammered, surprised. Celeborn leaned forward in his seat.
"I can see that the shadow of that place still lies heavily upon you," he commented, and Shëanon stared at him, not knowing what to say. The corners of his mouth turned down into a slight frown, and Shëanon lowered her gaze. What had he meant? Surely, she had been affected by Moria. Hadn't they all?
"We have heard from our son-in-law that you have the gift of foresight."
Shëanon's head snapped up as Lady Galadriel spoke. The Lady was watching her in the same manner she had the night before, and Shëanon nodded reluctantly.
"Dark were your thoughts last night, Shëanon," Galadriel said gravely; her eyes seemed even bluer in the light of day. They seemed bottomless to Shëanon, who resisted the urge to look away and instead held the Lady's gaze. Ashamed though she was, if she was to be judged now for her part in Gandalf's death, she would accept the consequences of her foolishness.
"We did not call you here to convict you, child," Galadriel said suddenly, and Celeborn turned his head to look at his wife. Shëanon flinched as she realized that Galadriel had indeed been in her head again, this time unnoticed by her. "You have done no wrong."
"My Lady," Shëanon said despairingly, abandoning all pretense. "If I had spoken—"
"I know what it is you saw," Galadriel said gently, holding up a hand. "And I know how you have interpreted it, but I know also some things that you do not."
Shëanon remained silent, realizing to her embarrassment that she had to wipe her eyes.
"The evil that had been awoken in the darkness of Moria was not unknown to Mithrandir, Shëanon. He knew the flame and shadow that lingered there, and still he chose to walk that path."
Miserably, Shëanon shook her head. "But we might not have disturbed the balrog had I not kept silent," she cried, fighting hard to keep her composure.
"It is not the way of the Valar to lay such burdens upon such young shoulders," the Lady answered compassionately. "You think that they had intended you to prevent that which you foresaw. Do you not think that they might have shown Mithrandir his own fate if they had wanted to change it?"
"Why else would I have seen it, if not to act upon it?" Shëanon asked in a wavering voice. She was trembling as she spoke.
"That, I cannot say," Galadriel answered, a slight crease in her brow and again Shëanon felt that her gaze bored into her soul. "Perhaps they sought to give you hope that you would come back into the light, or else to prepare you for what was to come. One thing that is certain is that nothing that comes to pass is without purpose and consequence. The hardship of foresight is often not in trying to change the future, but in accepting that which cannot be changed. I do not believe that you could have prevented this."
Shëanon sniffled, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing.
"Many trials lie before you, Shëanon Peredhel. Unburden your heart of this guilt," she told her, her voice both tender and stern in Shëanon's ears. She nodded, blinking back the last of her tears. When she had gotten a hold of herself, Celeborn and Galadriel were appraising her once more.
"There is something that you wish to ask me," Galadriel said at last, and Shëanon blushed scarlet, knowing at once to what she referred. Galadriel waited expectantly, and Shëanon understood that even if the Lady knew what her question would be, she would not give an answer unless Shea herself gave voice to the query. She gathered her courage.
"My Lady, I—I wondered…" she swallowed nervously, clenching her hands into fists. "I wondered if you might know who my parents were, or… or anything else about my past," she whispered, her heart pounding. Part of her was full of some wild hope, but the other half of her greatly feared an answer. Galadriel tilted her head contemplatively.
"More than once have I sought the answers to such questions, but not even my mirror has revealed them to me," she answered regretfully, and Shëanon felt a wave of icy disappointment wash over her. She had suspected as much, for she knew that Lady Galadriel would surely have told her father if she had known anything, but it still cut her to hear it confirmed. Would she never know where she came from?
"Do not be discouraged," Galadriel said, seeming again to respond to Shëanon's thoughts. "All things come to light in due course."
She looked down at her feet, feeling downtrodden, and wondering what else the Lord and Lady could possibly have to say to her, for she had been profoundly affected by the entire conversation and she did not know how much more she could handle. Celeborn and Galadriel were both silent again, and Shëanon rather hoped that they would dismiss her. She could not shake the feeling that the two were considering all that she had said and done since being brought before them and she rather suspected that she had made a poor impression. Lord Celeborn spoke once more.
"I understand that our son-in-law has taken you not as a ward but as his daughter, and that our grandchildren call you sister," he said pensively, and Shëanon felt every muscle in her body tense. Never had she imagined that this subject would be so openly discussed and she thought she might be sick as she waited to see what judgment he would pass on this truth. Celeborn regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "It would seem, then, that it is within our right to name you granddaughter," he finished calmly. His expression did not change as he said it and his eyes did not leave her face, and Shëanon could do nothing but stare at him, bewildered. Her eyes flitted between him and Galadriel, but both remained unmoving.
"I take it that this was not the reception you had anticipated," Celeborn observed with raised eyebrows.
"My Lord, I—I was not sure if…" her voice trailed off awkwardly as she floundered for words that would not offend, tears falling again despite her best efforts, and then to her astonishment, Celeborn rose to his feet and strode toward her. She stood, frozen, as he closed the distance between them and brought his hands to her cheeks. He brushed away a tear with his thumb.
"You may be sure now," he said firmly, looking searchingly into her face before dropping his hands and stepping away from her. "I cannot say what the future will bring, but know always that you are welcome here."
Galadriel stepped up after him, placing her hands on Shëanon's shoulders and leaning down to lay a kiss upon her brow, and when finally Shëanon returned to her talan, she was almost more overwhelmed than before.
Later that night, well after the moon had risen in the sky, Shëanon sat on the floor leaning against her bed. She had cleaned, sharpened, and polished her sword, seen to her other weapons, stitched the tears in her clothes, and cleaned her boots. Silùen had returned the blood-soaked, dirt-covered garments, which were again clean and soft, and Shëanon had been glad to be in her familiar leggings once more.
Shëanon sighed. She had had much to think about over the preceding several hours. On some accounts she felt great relief, for the Lord and Lady had acknowledged her as family and denied any fault of hers in Gandalf's fall, but the tremendous up-and-downs of the past several days—all of the unimaginable events and intense emotions—left her reeling and confused. She wondered if she could trust her own intuition and control, and she wondered if she would ever succeed in putting Moria behind her.
Her eyes were burning. With a rueful, bitter laugh she realized that she had gotten little sleep since the night that Legolas had put her under, and the reason why shamed her: she was afraid. She had resolved earlier in the day to leave Aragorn alone so that his sleep might be undisturbed (he had had to wake her several times the night before), but lying alone in her own bed had reaped ill results; the elven mattress was mercifully soft beneath her exhausted body, but when she had finally relinquished her tight grip on consciousness and allowed herself to rest her weary mind, she found herself back in Moria with the orcs' drums pounding in her ears and the heat of the balrog's breath burning her skin. What was worse was that even when Shëanon realized that she was dreaming, she was so tired that she could not force herself to wake and so she found herself screaming inside her head, trying desperately to rouse herself for what seemed like an eternity until at last her eyes opened and she was back in Lothlórien, panting and shaking beneath the bed sheets. Two times had this happened, and the second dream had felt so real that, covered in a cold sweat, Shëanon had crawled off the bed and onto the cold, hard floor in order to keep from falling asleep again. That was when she had feverishly seen to her weapons and mended her clothes—anything to keep awake. Now the night was half-over and Shëanon knew that she had pushed her body to its limit. She had never been so tired in her entire life. The fellowship would remain in the Golden Wood for only a few more days before taking their leave, and she knew that she would regret it dearly if she did not seize the opportunity to sleep while she had a warm bed and guaranteed safety through the night.
Shëanon pushed herself to her feet, feeling the ache in her still throbbing knee. Perhaps she could just lie with Aragorn for a little while…
Feeling childish and guilty but desperately tired, she crossed to the door and followed the same path down to the camp she had taken the night before. The cold night air helped wake her a bit and the wind was refreshing on her clammy skin as she walked silently to the pavilion where the company slept, not wanting to wake anyone or startle them in the dark. As she neared the small camp, however, she saw immediately that Aragorn was not there. In fact, half of her companions were not on their cots. Boromir, Legolas, and Frodo were also absent. Frowning, Shëanon strained her ears, wondering where everyone might be. She could hear hushed voices on the icy breeze, and she crept around the enormous mallorn trunk to find Aragorn and Boromir deep in conversation. Both wore troubled expressions, and she thought that Boromir actually looked tormented as he spoke. Unseen where she stood in the shadows, she quickly turned and left them. Her heart had sunk. The two men had been talking animatedly, and she could tell that they would not soon seek their beds. Shëanon hesitated only for a moment near the camp before deciding that it would be useless to wait for Aragorn; she was far too tired and she would be better off having her nightmares in her talan where she would not wake the hobbits and Gimli with her restlessness.
Wearily, she ascended the steps back to her chambers, feeling dizzy as the stairs ran round and round the massive tree trunk. Steadying herself with a hand on the cold railing, Shëanon stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes. As she opened them again it was just in time to see the dark body that she walked right into.
"Goheno nin," she gasped, stumbling backwards down a few steps despite her grip on the rail and the hands that had closed around her arms.
"Aiër?"
Shëanon blinked, startled to find that it was Legolas she had collided with.
"I'm sorry," she said again, standing aside to let him pass, but he stood unmoving on the step above her.
"Are you alright?" he asked her, looking past her to the bottom of the stairs and then gazing searchingly into her face.
"Yes," she said, surprised by the intensity of his question, but he seemed perplexed by her answer.
"The hour is very late," he said, still looking at her with interest. His voice was quiet in the night air, his brow furrowed and half of his face in shadow. Finally, Shëanon understood the train of his thoughts, blushing slightly and casting a glance over her shoulder.
"I could not sleep," she explained, leaning against the railing now. "I am going back to my room now."
She watched his brows rise a bit on his forehead and he stepped down a stair so that they were standing on the same one, although he still stood much taller than she.
"Where is Aragorn?" he asked neutrally, but Shëanon could not help but flush. It was clear that Legolas had immediately understood her intentions, and she remembered with a grimace that he had borne witness to her lying in the ranger's arms the night before.
"He is speaking with Boromir," she muttered, and Legolas did not seem at all surprised by her words.
"Perhaps he will not be long," he murmured. Shëanon shook her head.
"It is late and he will be tired when he is through with Boromir," she explained in a very low voice, wanting very badly now to continue up the stairs but not knowing how to flee from the conversation without being rude. Still Legolas was staring at her.
"You should probably rest, as well," she stammered.
Legolas's eyebrows shot up at this. "That is where I was going before I was assailed by a careless elleth on the stairs."
Shëanon's expression must have turned to one of horror, for Legolas tilted his head and looked at her with concern.
"I think perhaps you are too tired to recognize humor," he said with a small smile that must have been only for her benefit, for it did not match the seriousness of his voice or eyes.
Shëanon laughed nervously, looking down at her feet. She could feel his eyes on her again, and there was a very awkward silence for a moment.
"I will walk you to your talan," he said at last, placing one booted foot on the next stair and waiting for her to follow his lead and fall into step beside him. Dazed, she began to climb, startled to find his hand at the small of her back and unsure what she had done to earn an escort. The warmth of his fingers seemed to burn through the cloth of her tunic, and the feeling of his touch distracted her already weary mind so much that she almost missed a step.
"I can see that I was wise in my decision," Legolas observed dryly as she regained her footing, but this time she could tell that he was teasing her and she glared at him. His hand left her as they reached the top of the stairs and they walked in silence side by side until they stood before her talan. Gallantly, he opened the door for her and stood back to let her pass, but she hesitated in the doorway and turned to him.
"I have actually been meaning to speak with you," she whispered to him, her weariness momentarily forgotten as she remembered.
"Have you?" Legolas asked, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. Shëanon nodded, and he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her to continue. The warm light of the candles she'd lit earlier spilled from the room and illuminated his face, but behind him the cool light of the winter moon shone on his hair and shoulders, which seemed very broad in the doorway. He was watching her expectantly, and Shëanon cleared her throat.
"I wanted to apologize," she explained quietly, referring to their argument over the blindfolds the day before. "It was wrong of me to speak to you as I did yesterday. It was not my place to intervene, and I disrespected both you and Aragorn with my willfulness. I should have apologized to you last night; please forgive me for my rudeness."
Legolas's face remained impassive, regarding her silently as she spoke, and even when she was finished he said nothing for a moment. Finally, he shifted away from the frame of the door to stand straight before her again, resting one hand on the doorknob.
"I appreciate your apology, aiër," he began, "but it is unnecessary. We were all under the strain of grief, and your intentions were without fault. It is I who should apologize to you. Already I have apologized to Gimli. Had I accepted the blindfold willingly, our companions would not have had to walk blindly."
Shëanon stared at him, surprised by this response.
"You apologized to Gimli?" she asked in bewilderment, and Legolas offered her a small smile.
"I can see you doubt my character," he said wryly, and Shëanon could not help but smile sheepishly. Just then, a cold wind blew into the room; the candles by the bed flickered and Shëanon shivered in the winter air. Legolas frowned, turning to look behind him.
"The night is cold," he murmured, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind him. Shëanon was momentarily taken aback by this turn of events, but Legolas pulled one of the chairs away from the small table and she found herself sitting down as he lowered himself into the one opposite her.
"I hope the hobbits are not cold," Shëanon said nervously, giving voice to her thoughts without really meaning to, and Legolas gave her another gentle smile.
"There are lamps to keep them warm," he assured her. Shëanon realized with a jolt that it felt very strange to sit across from him, so used was she to sitting side by side. On the stairs, Legolas's eyes had been grey in the light of the moon, but they were deep blue in the light of the candles and Shëanon found herself diverting her gaze to the table.
"When did you do this?" he asked suddenly, reaching for her hand and turning it palm side up on the small table. She followed his gaze to the cut there, wincing as he slowly touched the skin with his fingers.
"I do not remember," she admitted. "I suppose it was when the orcs…"
Legolas's eyes returned to her face, contemplating her for a moment, and then he released her hand.
"I will bandage that for you in the morning," he said solemnly as she reluctantly drew her hand into her lap. Shëanon blushed.
"I'm sure it will be fine," she murmured, but he shook his head.
"It will heal faster if I bind it, and you need the use of that hand."
"Alright," Shëanon conceded, feeling her exhaustion begin to return. "Thank you."
"You are lucky that it was not poisoned," he said seriously. He regarded her for a moment with a frown on his face. "Was that your first time in battle?"
"Yes."
"You fought very well," he commented, but Shëanon looked away from him.
"It was different from how I'd imagined," she said quietly. She had not anticipated the impact that the encounter had left on her; she understood why her father had been so adamant about forbidding her from patrolling with her brothers.
"Taking life is no small matter," Legolas told her, "no matter the creature."
Shëanon stared sullenly at the table, feeling confused and longing to lie down but somehow unwilling to end their conversation.
"Was it of orcs that you dreamt last night, aiër?" Legolas asked, and Shëanon glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes. She felt heat creep up her neck, but she couldn't decide if it was a result of his steady gaze or the acknowledgment that he had seen her the night before.
"Among other things," she told him bitterly. She pulled one leg up onto her chair, resting her elbow on her knee and her head on her hand.
"That is to be expected," he said sympathetically, leaning toward her over the table. "But I regret your place in this. It is not right for one so young to experience such violence."
Shëanon bit her lip.
"I am not so terribly young," she whispered, very aware of every flicker in his eyes. To her surprise, the corner of his mouth turned up.
"You have lived not half a century," he reminded her.
"Had I been taken in by Men instead of Elves, I would probably have a husband and children already," she reasoned. She could tell at once that he had not liked what she'd said, for his expression had lost all traces of gentle humor. His eyes bore into hers as he seemed to consider this.
"I think that there is a reason that that was not your fate, young one," he said after a long pause. His tone of voice raised goosebumps along her skin.
"How many arrows did you fletch last night?" she asked, eager to change the subject. Legolas smiled ruefully, understanding her meaning.
"Far too many. I shall have to give you some," he murmured, glancing over at where her empty quiver lay in the corner before looking back at her and speaking seriously again. "It seems that neither of us slept well last night."
Shëanon shuffled uncomfortably on her seat, knowing that Legolas was also grieving but having no idea what to say to him. She had a sudden urge to take his hand as he so often took hers, but she found she did not quite have the courage and the strange desire had startled her.
"I am sorry," she breathed, and his brow creased.
"You are weary," he said with a frown, and she wondered what he had seen in her face that had suddenly reminded him. "I should let you rest."
Shëanon was surprised by how badly she did not want him to go. "I am not ready to sleep yet," she told him honestly.
"You could hardly walk up the stairs, aiër," he said with a shake of his head.
"Maybe I just tripped," she muttered, and Legolas grinned at the reference. They sat in silence for a long moment. Shëanon expected him to rise and bid her goodnight, but he did not move, watching her as her fingers twirled the end of her braid.
"Why did you ask the Marchwarden to lie yesterday?" Shëanon asked suddenly. Her hushed voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the small talan. "I know that there were enough blindfolds."
"Do you not know?" Legolas asked in surprise. Shëanon shook her head and watched as he rested his elbows on the table. "You become… anxious when you cannot see," he said steadily.
"What?" Shëanon asked in astonishment.
"Was that not what frightened you in Moria when we were without the light of Gandalf's staff? Being unable to see?" he asked knowingly, and Shëanon knew that she was staring at him. "You were unflinching before an army of orcs and yet you panicked to lose your eyes. I did not want you to have to walk blindly."
She sat still for a moment, blindsided.
"Oh," she said at last. Having assumed that he had acted out of pride, this revelation disconcerted her, and she was not unaffected by the memories his words had stirred of whirling around in the pitch blackness, unable to see five feet in front of her. "Thank you."
Legolas bowed his head. His sharp jawline and strong features were thrown into relief by the candle light and his hair was the color of gold as he looked at her.
"You should sleep," he whispered. "For three nights now you have not done so."
"You have not slept since before we entered the mines," Shëanon pointed out, but she really did long to lie down.
"I have gone longer than that without rest."
"That last night in Moria," she said quietly, "you said that you took away my fear so that I could sleep."
"I did," Legolas replied cautiously, seeming to wonder where her thoughts were headed. His eyes were the color of a night lit by stars as he beheld her, and Shëanon wondered if she dared continue.
"You said," Shëanon whispered, somehow having the will to look into his face, "that you would not do it again if I did not wish it."
Legolas's regard was solemn, and before his gaze she wanted to take back her words and bid him goodnight, but she remembered her nightmares earlier in the evening and the peaceful rest she'd had against his warm body on the ground in the dark of the mines.
"Yes. And I hold to my word," he said with conviction, but she felt that he was scrutinizing her. Shëanon took a deep breath, looking down at her hands as she spoke lest he see what she felt in her eyes.
"What if I did wish it?" she asked softly, her face and neck burning. He did not answer for a moment, and tremulously Shëanon glanced up at him. He was staring at her in a way that made her feel like he could see directly into her, and it both frightened her and set her ablaze.
"You ask for my help?" he asked after a brief pause that had stretched like eternity in Shëanon's exhausted mind, and she nodded. She could not have described how she felt as she sat before him. Desperate, perhaps, and nervous and hopeful and shocked by what she had asked of him. She knew only that she did not want him to leave her, for she was frightened of what else her sleep might bring and she did not want to be alone and he could relieve her of her terrified exhaustion, but also—maybe more importantly in that moment—she could not deny to herself that she wanted to stay near him, that his presence incited something in her that washed over her like the warmth of a fire.
Shëanon hardly recognized herself for the feelings coursing through her, recalling how she had so determinedly avoided him at first, how uneasy he used to make her feel. In the dark of the night, however, and after being beside him through the shadow of Khazad-dûm, the unease had changed into something different and she felt bizarrely close to him. When had she come to trust him so implicitly, that she would make a request so bold? Shëanon did not know, but she was so tired and so emotionally spent that she did not care.
"Are you so afraid?" He asked at last. From another, the question might have shamed her, but she could hear in his voice that Legolas passed no judgment on her fear. He had leaned back slightly, drawing his elbows off the tabletop. His brow was furrowed, and he was looking at her more intensely than he had ever before. His silent deliberation as he studied her features made her suddenly very aware of the thousands of years of his life, of his knowledge and wisdom. She looked away, scarlet-faced.
"Perhaps I am a child after all," she said sadly.
"I am not so sure of that," Legolas said seriously, and she watched with wide eyes as he rose from his seat and came to stand before her, extending his hand.
Shëanon had only a moment of hesitation before she placed her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Legolas drew her around him and over to the bed, where she suffered a moment of severe trepidation. Lingering there uncertainly, she looked up at him and found that he was gazing down at her with an expression of patient expectation, but there was still that intensity that cut straight through her. Nervously, she kicked off her boots and crawled onto the mattress. Her heart was thundering as she watched him gracefully lower himself onto the edge of the bed. The candles had burned low, the light in the room flickering, and Shëanon almost regretted asking him to do this as she sat frozen beside him.
Wordlessly, Legolas brought his hands to her elbows and drew her down beside him, he on his back and she curled on her side. The softness of the mattress beneath her aching limbs was blissful, but Shëanon's muscles were tense, her back rigid at the sight of Legolas's head on her pillow. His body seemed so broad on the narrow bed, and Shëanon realized for the first time just how much smaller she was than him. He took hold of her trembling hand and laid it on his chest, his fingers clasping her wrist as if to keep it in place. She could feel the beating of his heart against the cut on her palm, and she blushed to know that he could probably feel that her pulse was racing while his was steady and sure.
"Of what shall I speak, aiër?" he asked her quietly, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the back of her hand.
"Would you speak of Imladris?" she whispered, a pang in her chest as she uttered the words, and although she could not see his face with hers resting near his shoulder, she felt him turn to look at the top of her head.
He seemed to think for a moment, and then Legolas began to describe the hidden valley, his voice hardly more than a whisper that sent chills down her back, but despite her anxiousness and the tremendous closeness of their bodies, it took less than a few sentences for her eyes to close. She felt the tension leaving her as images of what he described floated through her mind, of the Bruinen under the sun and of the winding paths of her home. The backs of his fingers brushed up and down along her forearm, leaving warmth in their wake, and the clean smell of his skin and clothes was in her every breath. The relaxation that stole over her as a result of his voice and presence beside her was so heady and powerful that it was not long until she was fast asleep.
Translations:
Goheno nin: I'm sorry
A/N: Alright, so I know that Lothlorien was like 60% angst and 40% dialogue, but hopefully it wasn't too hard to get through? The past few chapters will definitely have been among the darkest times for Shea on her journey, what with passing through Moria and having to cope with losing Gandalf. Things will pick up from here; I intended Lorien to be mostly a emotional/mental milestone for her, as far as her relationships with other characters and dealing with her own feelings. I'm sorry if it was too heavy or if you wanted to slap her haha. I had midterms last week, but this coming week will be devoted to the next chapter :) As always, thank you so so much for reviewing. I also really appreciate those of you that review consistently :') I see your icons and I'm like "Oh it's them! :'D " Anyways, let me know what you think! Next one will be up soon, I pinky promise!
PS: Remember when I said I wouldn't spend like 40 pages on the mallorn trees? Oops.
PPS: Anyone want to toss out any guesses concerning Shea's parentage? I've thrown in some very subtle hints so far and things will start getting more obvious as the story goes on; I promise you'll find out eventually!