Aiër Chapter Twelve Part 2
The sounds of battle echoed terribly around her; the night was dark and full of screams, of clashing metal and dying men, and then a blast like thunder rent the air, and she went hurtling… A dull clanking of chains could be heard; she saw a dark room, a fire burning low in the furnace… Another crash, with screaming… She was lifted from the ground, strong arms around her… And then all of it all over again, over and over… Battle sounds, deafening bangs, chains, fire, she was lifted up, and so much blood again and again, as though it would never stop and she would be caught in the cycle for all of eternity, whisked away and drowning in it forever, until, finally, white light, blinding, hurting her eyes, and then…
Shëanon opened her eyes, her head spinning. She blinked rapidly to clear her sleep-blurred vision, until at last the world came slowly into focus. It was light. Or rather, it was not pitch black, and she could see moss and leaves and twisting, gnarled roots before her. Her limbs were stiff and sore, her ribs slightly aching as she became aware of a rummaging sound somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. With a groan, she sat up. It took her a moment to make sense of her surroundings, but then her brain was able to register the forest of Fangorn, green and brown in the few rays of morning light that managed to penetrate the dense foliage above. Aragorn knelt beside her, taking a swig of water from the waterskin that she had filled for him during the night. She grimaced, glancing past the ranger to where Legolas was rousing Gimli. Quickly she averted her gaze.
"Did you sleep well?" Aragorn asked quietly when she began buckling her pack and quiver back on. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy with sleep still, fumbling with the straps.
Shëanon bit her lip, mulling over what she'd seen while she'd slept and casting her eyes once more over to Legolas and Gimli, who were speaking together in low voices.
"Well enough," she muttered, accepting Aragorn's hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. "But not exactly peacefully."
She watched Aragorn's eyebrows rise, immediately understanding her meaning, and she held his gaze as he stepped closer to her. In the dull light of the forest, his expression looked severe, his face haggard, though Shëanon knew his thoughts were not so stern.
"What did you see?" he asked in a whisper. The words had hardly left his mouth when Legolas appeared beside him, calm and stoic as ever. His light eyes flitted analytically between the two of them, but Aragorn barely glanced at him. His attention was still fixed on her, and to her consternation he appeared to still expect an answer despite the elf's presence. Shëanon had to work hard to keep her annoyance off her face.
"Never mind," she mumbled, turning away from them both to look into the forest around them. Despite the hour, the shadows between the thick trees were deep and mysterious, and the creaking boughs still groaned in the close air. She could hear the others saying that they needed to get a move on if they wanted to find Merry and Pippin, who were probably (and hopefully) still wandering about, and it was in a very distracted state of mind that Shëanon followed her companions deeper still into the heart of Fangorn.
She had a prickling desire to tell Aragorn about what she'd dreamt, but, playing the images over and over in her mind, she decided that nothing of what she'd seen was of imminent importance. No matter what Galadriel had said, the guilt and grief of losing Gandalf to a danger that she could have prevented was still fresh in her heart, and it was not without much consideration that she had been keeping her visions to herself afterwards. Not since leaving Lothlórien and looking into the Lady's mirror had she spoken of anything to Aragorn. Mostly it was because she had not had a private opportunity to do so. More and more, she had been wondering if she should simply tell Legolas and Gimli of her foresight. It would certainly have eased the anxiety that gnawed constantly at her stomach, the fear that she was withholding information that needed to be shared, but she balked at the idea of it.
As they wound through the wood in search of the hobbits, she found herself absently skimming her fingers over the bark of the trees they passed, momentarily hearing their words and blushingly recalling the night before. It had seemed so wild and all-of-a-sudden, that desire that had coursed through her, but she knew that it had not been. Why could she not speak to him when first they'd met? Why did she get so nervous around him? Why did she care so deeply what he thought of her? She knew it was because she had been attracted to him all along, and she felt a distinct pang of self-loathing as she recalled her various moments of ridiculous behavior. The worst part, however, was that if it had started out as some naïve, girlish attraction, it certainly was not so any longer. Yes, she had thought him handsome when first they'd met, and she'd certainly been intimidated by his title, but they had become companions and they'd fought together, side-by-side under the crushing stone of Moria and on the blood-stained hill of Amon Hen, and he had held her while she'd slept and listened to her thoughts and tended to her wounded skin and wounded spirit alike, and they'd jested and talked in the night and he'd saved her life and—Shëanon bit her lip, suddenly feeling incredibly hot and nauseous. Discreetly, she peeked at him from beneath her eyelashes. He walked in front of her, behind Gimli, his back straight and his shoulders broad and his hair like pale gold, or perhaps twilit silver. She scowled.
The white wizard…
Shëanon stopped dead in her tracks. Startled, she looked around for a moment in confusion, unable to figure out why the words had come into her head. For one anxious heartbeat, she wondered if it might have had something to do with her foresight, but then the tree beside her groaned and she realized with a start that it had been the tree. Hurriedly, she pressed her palm against the trunk once more, and the branches overhead creaked and swayed.
—many visitors do we have in our home. So many creatures on two legs walking about. Children of Elves and of Men, and the White Wizard passes beneath our boughs and branches. Long ago he was here before, but he is changed. Have you seen him, child of Elves? He seeks for you…
She blinked in horror for a moment before she finally came to her senses. The White Wizard! Saruman! In the forest and seeking for them?!
"Aragorn!" she called, finally looking away from the tree. The others were several paces ahead, and Aragorn had stooped down to peer at some print in the damp floor. He glanced back at her, seeming surprised to find that she was not directly behind him, but she did not wait for his answer. "The trees speak of the White Wizard. They say that he is here in the forest, looking for us!" she told him in alarm.
The ranger stared at her, looking utterly bewildered, before looking up at Legolas, who had frowned at her words and was gazing into the leaves above.
"Legolas?" Aragorn asked, and Shëanon watched anxiously as the elf squinted up into the shadows.
"Yes, they speak of the White Wizard," he said at last, his eyes still directed skywards. "They say that he has passed this way."
"I have seen no trail other than the one we have been following," Aragorn said tensely, and, feeling rather unnerved, Shëanon scuttled to his side.
"What would Saruman be doing in the woods?" Gimli demanded, but chills were up and down Shëanon's arms and back. He seeks for you…
"Perhaps he knows the hobbits are here," Aragorn said grimly, with a worried glance down at the hobbit print in the moss. "His servants never returned to Isengard."
"Not the hobbits," Legolas said with a shake of his head. "It is of Shëanon that the trees speak."
"Only of me?" she asked, taken aback, and for the first time since the night before, Legolas looked into her face.
"They say the White Wizard knows you are here, and seeks for you."
"Well, he's not going to find her," Gimli growled menacingly, lifting his axe and turning to and fro, but Shëanon recalled with dread in her stomach the last thing she'd seen in her sleep, the blinding white light, and instinctively, she understood…
"Yes, he will," she said, turning to Aragorn and trying to convey with her eyes what she was unwilling to speak aloud.
Aragorn blinked at her, and then his jaw tensed, his shoulders squared.
"Let us worry about that when we must. Perhaps we can find the hobbits soon, and take our leave of Fangorn without any trouble," he said firmly, although Shëanon wasn't sure if he was as confident as he sounded. Quickening their pace, the companions plowed deeper into the forest, hot on Merry and Pippin's trail. Aragorn told them that the tracks were but a day old, and the four of them were heartened and walked all the more swiftly. Though Shëanon kept pace with the ranger, her attention was on their surroundings rather than on the forest floor. She did not know what she found more unsettling: Saruman's presence in the forest, or the fact that he sought her specifically. She kept her bow held tightly in her hand; she knew that she would need it.
Sure enough, late in the morning, Aragorn halted abruptly, crouching down and running his hands over the damp earth.
"These are strange tracks," he murmured, almost to himself. Shëanon peered over his shoulder to see what had him sounding so suddenly wary, and frowned as well as she looked down at the print; it was enormous and deep, and yet it bore no resemblance at all to any foot or paw that she'd ever seen. If there had not been several more of the same indentations staggered in a long line, she would have dismissed it as no more than a hole dug by some animal. An unsettling thought occurred to her.
"Aragorn," she said uneasily as his focus moved from the ground to her face, "you don't think—"
Suddenly a violent groaning filled the air, so loud that Shëanon jumped, and everyone looked up into the branches.
"Gimli," Aragorn hissed. "Lower your axe."
She turned to see Gimli hastily lower the weapon. By his sheepish expression she knew that he had taken out the blade when she and Aragorn had started speaking so anxiously, but even as he stowed the axe, the warning on the air did not fade. She felt her skin prickling with acute awareness as she and Aragorn exchanged a cautious glance.
"Aragorn, nad no ennas."
The sharp call of Legolas's voice was the unwelcome sound she had been dreading all morning, for she knew without a doubt what he was about to say. Shëanon grit her teeth, casting about for her courage. Aragorn had hurried to Legolas's side as he strode furiously into the shadows, but she did not move.
"Man cenich?" he asked urgently, and the elf's reply tightened the knot in the pit of her stomach. The moment had come.
"The White Wizard approaches," he hissed, the dangerous words rousing her muscles so that she darted quickly over to where they stood, Gimli at her side.
"Do not let him speak," Aragorn commanded hurriedly as his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. Chills raced down her back as she heard the faint hiss of the metal blade being unsheathed. "He will put a spell on us."
His eyes locked with hers and Shëanon reciprocated the forcefulness of his gaze. For all they knew, Saruman had already apprehended Merry and Pippin; for all they knew, the hobbits were already dead. And if they were not, they would surely not last long alone in the forest. No, Saruman the White would not best them, Shëanon resolved ferociously. Unbidden, images of Merry and Pippin's screaming faces in the glaring sun, of Boromir with the arrows in his chest, and of the horrendous uruks' sneering leers flickered through her mind. She snarled. Could a human kill a wizard? She was not sure, but she would do her best. Adrenaline spiked through her bloodstream as she drew an arrow silently from her quiver, bringing it to the string of her bow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gimli raising his axes, Legolas knocking an arrow of his own, and from behind her she could sense more than hear the footsteps that drew near. It seemed unnatural, how quickly and silently he came upon them. Saruman was close.
"We must be quick," Aragorn warned, the words hardly a whisper in the static air. It crackled on her skin as they stood, tensed for attack, waiting. The trees were more raucous than ever, creaking and crying out, and Shëanon did not need to lay her hand against their bark to discern their words. The White Wizard was coming, coming…
With a cry, Aragorn turned to attack their enemy, and Shëanon reacted instantly, whirling and lifting her bow in one fluid motion. At once, she was blinded by a dazzling white light; it was so bright that she could hardly keep her eyes open against the glare, and even as she felt the strange sensation of recognition, having seen the image but hours before in her sleep, she drew back her bowstring and loosed her arrow with a sharp stab of resentment. The whistle of air from beside her told her that Legolas had done the same, but to her dismay, both arrows were deflected. Nearby, she heard the sound of Gimli's axes hitting the ground, and Aragorn let out a cry of pain and dropped his sword. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, but try though she did to draw another arrow and fire again, Shëanon suddenly found that she could not move. Her mind called out for her to keep fighting, but her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. Had it happened already? Was she under some spell? She did not know, but her companions made no moves either. It was all she could do to lift her hands before her and squint through her blindness.
The light before them completely obscured the face of Saruman, but she could see his white staff and booted feet. While her body hummed with distrust and anger, however, in her stomach she felt the unwelcome weight of trepidation. Somehow she felt it was attributed to the bright light, which was making her eyes water. It was as bright as the light of many stars, and felt just as clean and pure, and not at all cold, but what troubled her the most was that it was startlingly familiar. The back of her neck prickled in the ensuing stillness as she and her companions stood shielding their eyes.
"Hello, my friends," said a voice at last from behind the light—the voice of the White Wizard. It incited a panic in Shëanon that she had not expected and could not explain. Had she heard this voice before? On the pass of Caradhras she had heard the voice of Saruman, and she could not see why she should feel so startled to hear it again. It was as if her heart had realized something that her mind had yet to understand, and her distrust grew with each passing moment. Still, she was rooted to the spot, and no one answered the calmly given greeting. The wizard continued.
"I have been expecting you, though I now wonder if I might have found you faster had I simply let you come to me."
Again, no one spoke. Shëanon's voice had completely left her, and she still could not draw an arrow. Something was preventing her, abating her will. An enchantment, surely, she thought furiously, but she was doubting even her own thoughts as she looked still into the white aura before her.
"Or perhaps not," the voice said thoughtfully. Shëanon could feel his keen regard on her face like a cool breeze or the warmth of a kindled fire, acute and steady. "You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits."
"Where are they, you murdering traitor!" Gimli suddenly burst out, and indeed the mention of the hobbits jarred her, as well. Had Saruman laid hold of them?
"They passed this way the day before yesterday," the wizard said carefully, but his voice sounded pleasant in a way that set off bells in Shëanon's head. Her hands clenched into fists. She was squinting, her eyes watering due to her strain not to look away from the danger in their midst, but then a shadow fell over her. At Saruman's word's, Aragorn moved in front of her, blocking the overwhelming light, and she suddenly remembered that the White Wizard was supposedly in the forest to seek for her and her alone. It was enough to finally waken her entranced body, and she swiftly drew another arrow.
"They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"
"Who are you?" Aragorn demanded, a question that for some reason had her heart beating double-time. She might have shot her arrow, but to her frustration she could not move again and what was more, Aragorn had reached back and grabbed the handle of her sword.
"It's Saruman!" Gimli cried ferociously, exasperatedly, advancing a bit before the luminous figure. He was appealing to her and to Legolas to take aim and fire, but Shëanon did not have a clean shot with Aragorn before her, though she knew that even if her path had been clear she still would not have loosed another arrow. Gimli's words had struck her, and she was suddenly, terrifyingly certain that the being before whom they stood was not Saruman at all, and in distress she watched as Legolas tossed his bow down at his feet, bearing an expression of amazement whilst again Aragorn commanded that the wizard reveal his identity.
"Show yourself!" he ordered, at last drawing the sword at Shëanon's waist from its sheath and taking a step forward. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light was diminished, their sight was restored, and the face of the stranger was revealed. He stepped out of the shadows, into a ray of light—a rare beam of sunlight managing to break through the leafy roof overhead—his blue eyes twinkling at them with the knowledge of ages and the smile of an old friend.
Shëanon staggered. Her breath caught in her chest, her entire body going rigid with shock.
"It cannot be," she heard Aragorn whisper in disbelief, but the words came to her ears as if from a very great distance, or from the other side of a stone wall, for in her mind were echoing the screams of the hobbits in Moria, crying out in horror as Gandalf fell down deep into the bottomless blackness of Khazad-dûm. "You fell."
"Yes," Gandalf said gravely, his ancient face set in a frown, but though stern, his voice was again that of the Grey Pilgrim that she knew so well. "Yes, I fell. I fell and I fought. Up the Endless Stair I climbed, pursuing my enemy. On the highest peak we battled, from down in the darkest places of the world where time passes not, until at last I smote his ruin upon the mountain side."
"Gandalf!" Gimli exclaimed with reverent joy, evidently unable to contain his relief any longer. He bowed low before their friend and leader, and even Legolas knelt before him, but Shëanon was frozen save for her trembling hands.
"Rise, Master Dwarf!" Gandalf said jovially, stepping closer to all of them.
"Forgive me, Mithrandir," Legolas murmured. He alone seemed recovered from the initial shock of the wizard's reappearance, for Aragorn had not spoken again and Gimli kept shaking his head as though he feared Gandalf was an apparition. "I mistook you for Saruman."
"Yes, I thought you might," Gandalf smiled wisely. "By the eagle Gwaihir I was taken to Lothlórien, and there clad in white. Gandalf the White I am now, and you might say that indeed I am Saruman—or rather, Saruman has he should have been."
"Merry and Pippin," Aragorn said suddenly, seeming to remember himself. "What has become of them?"
"Our young hobbits are with Treebeard and the Ents," Gandalf explained. "Your course has not been in vain, my friends. For just in time, Merry and Pippin have come to Fangorn, and their coming will be like the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains. And now here we meet again who might not have met ere it was too late."
Aragorn grinned suddenly, kneeling to retrieve his sword from the ground and replace it at his hip.
"Indeed you are Gandalf," he said. "For you still speak in riddles."
"Riddles?" the wizard asked, appearing genuinely surprised. "Not at all. Thanks to our hobbits, something is going to happen that has not happened for an age. The Ents, you see, are going to wake up… and find that they are strong."
Aragorn only smiled and shook his head. "Êl síla bo ammen sen'arad," he murmured and held out Shëanon's sword for her to take. She had heard the conversation as if in a dream, and still was half certain that she was asleep, for it was too good to be true. Back from the dead… She took back her blade in a daze, her wide eyes never once leaving Gandalf's familiar face—a face which she'd thought never to see again—and once Aragorn released his hold on the weapon her arm fell limply by her side, the point of the sword grazing the moss beneath her. Her companions turned to her then, and Gandalf smiled gently.
"And from you, my dear Shëanon, I have had neither word nor greeting," he said softly, but the knowing was in his eyes once more. His regard was the same as it had been in Moria, after she'd foreseen the circumstances of his death, after she'd said nothing and he had so unsettled her. Aghast, she retreated back a few steps, shaking her head and struggling to speak; her throat was constricted with unshed tears.
"How is this possible?" she choked at last. "You passed even out of the sight of the Lady! I do not understand."
Though the flicker was still in Gandalf's eyes and his voice was again grave, his expression remained kind. "Indeed, darkness took me. I strayed out of thought and time, but I have been sent back," he explained, "until my task is complete. I come back to you now at the turn of the tide."
Hastily she tried to blink her vision clear, but she knew that her tears were apparent to the others, as were her ragged breaths. The fire was back in her chest, the flame of grief and guilt and shame.
"Gandalf," she cried. At last, she, too, fell to her knees before him. "Please forgive me. It was my fault. You asked me if I had anything to tell you, and I lied to you because I was foolish and frightened. I saw what was to come, and I said nothing. If I had not kept my silence, then you might not have fallen, and you may not have toiled through the fire and darkness from whence you have come."
"There are some fates, my dear, that cannot be undone," Gandalf told her calmly. "Some courses that cannot be altered, and forces at work greater yet than any of us. If there is anything of which you are guilty, it is only of devastating compassion and perhaps a willful sense of responsibility too great for your young shoulders. My fate was to fall, and fallen I have. And look at the good that has come of it: you, my companions, escaped unscathed from the darkness of Khazad-dûm, my opponent lies smoldering and defeated, and I am returned to you now greater than I was before."
Shëanon bit her lip against the sob that rose in her throat, sitting back on her heels and gazing tremulously up at him. Good had come of it? She had felt only sorrow and despair, and could hardly believe what she was hearing. How terribly she had missed him, how she had blamed herself, and now he was standing before her telling her that it was not her fault, and that it had been for the best! It was all too much. She felt like she was looking at a ghost, but the ghost was smiling at her.
"Now, on your feet and lament no more," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Our jobs are not done, and I shall have need of you yet."
Still reeling, Shëanon obeyed, rising and re-sheathing her sword. Then, before she could help herself, she bounded forward and flung her arms around her old friend. He was as solid as ever, which for some reason made her feel so much better; she realized she had half-expected him to be no more substantial than a heavy mist, no more than a phantom in the night. He still smelled the same, as well, like pipe-weed and a clear morning, and Shëanon finally allowed herself a watery smile as the wizard chuckled and returned her embrace.
"That's better," he murmured warmly, patting her on the back as she drew away from him. "Now, come. We have work to do."
Shëanon nodded and blinked away the last of her tears as, with surprising vigor and energy, Gandalf strode off through the trees. They all hurried after him and Shëanon fell into step beside her companions, now walking back the way they had come. She took a deep breath, still amazed by what was happening. Never in a thousand years would she have dreamt that Gandalf would come back to them, but then with a start she'd realized that she quite literally had dreamt it—she'd foreseen it, not once but twice, only she hadn't known what it was. Was she supposed to have understood that the bright white light from her vision was Gandalf encountering them in the forest? Had the Valar intended her to know? She frowned, feeling that that would be quite unhelpful and unfair if it were the case, but she decided not to dwell on it, focusing on her happiness instead. As the five of them passed beneath the leafy eaves, her heart was lighter than it had been in a very long while.
Suddenly, she felt a light touch at her back, and she looked up, expecting to see Aragorn's gentle expression. Instead, however, it was Legolas who stood beside her, and as she glanced up at him he met her gaze with eyes bright and piercing in the dim forest, and Shëanon felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, undeniably comforted by his touch even though it incited a nervous flutter low in her stomach. She had not considered how her emotional outburst would appear to the others; she had been too overwhelmed by seeing Gandalf, but Legolas's face did not betray him if he'd been surprised by what she'd said. She smiled at him warily, expecting him to withdraw his hand, but instead he slid his fingers around to her hip, wordlessly drawing her closer to his side as they followed Mithrandir through the wood. He gazed straight ahead, listening as Gandalf began to speak, and, bewildered, Shëanon bowed her head and tried not to remember the previous night's incident.
"One stage of your journey is over; another begins," Gandalf told them as he wound his way beneath the towering branches. "Saruman has betrayed his master, as I'm sure you have already guessed. We must journey to Edoras with all haste, for he will set his sights soon on Rohan. He knows that the Rohirrim have slain his servants, and he thinks also that they have slain the hobbits. He fears that they may have found and taken the Ring, and he will not risk the chance that they might discover its power. He will wage war on the country, and we must be ready when he does."
"For some time now his sights have been set on Rohan," Aragorn cut in. "We have had words with the Rohirrim. They say it goes ill with the king."
"Yes," Gandalf agreed. "Saruman has many spies in this land, and he has managed to lay hold of Théoden's mind and keep it firmly in his grasp. He decays beneath the enchantment, a slave to Saruman's will, and Rohan is all but leaderless. If we cannot put an end to Saruman's control over the king, then his people will be faced with utter destruction. We have not a moment to lose."
He quickened his pace, tapping here and there at the trunks of the trees with his staff, and to Shëanon's astonishment, she realized that the trees seemed to be moving out of the way. Certainly they were walking a path far too straight and easy to be a natural part of the forest, and she was sure that as Gandalf tapped at the wood she could see branches and bushes leaning and swaying out of the way up ahead. It jogged her memory.
"Were you looking for me, Gandalf?" she asked as the trees creaked and shifted. She was certain that they were moving at the wizard's command.
"Hmm?"
"The trees," she explained, remembering their words from the morning. "We heard them speaking earlier. They said that the White Wizard was in the forest, and that he was looking for me."
"Ah, yes," Gandalf said pleasantly. "I had just sent Merry and Pippin off with Treebeard, and they believed that you were on their trail, as their captors spoke of being pursued. I went in search of the four of you, unsure if you had entered the forest or not, when I heard the trees speaking of a young elleth that had spoken to them. Apparently you made a good impression, because word spread through the wood. I thought it quite safe to assume that it was you, and that you were not alone, so I asked around. Unfortunately, however, while many of the trees were eager to talk about you, very few of them had actually seen you."
"Oh," Shëanon said with a frown. She blushed deeply, remembering standing with Legolas before the tree with his hand over hers and his mouth near her ear. He no longer had his arm around her, but every now and then she felt his fingers against her elbow. "Well, that is why we thought you were Saruman. Or, partly why, at least."
To her surprise, Gandalf stopped walking at once, turning to her with an expression of alarm.
"What do you mean?" he asked gravely. "You have reason to believe that Saruman the White would seek you out, before your companions?"
The severity of his gaze took her aback, and she looked uncertainly at Aragorn as he came up beside her.
"The Uruk-hai that captured Merry and Pippin had orders to take Shëanon as well," he said stiffly, and she watched him exchange a dark look with the elf on her other side. Gandalf frowned deeply, surveying the four of them.
"I had no knowledge of this," he said at last. "And it troubles me greatly. The enemy knows that the Ring is borne by a hobbit; the errand of Sauron's servants has been to capture the hobbits since before they left the Shire. In Orthanc and in Barad-dûr they know our number and our kind, but not our purpose or our identities. How Saruman knew that you were among us, Shëanon, I cannot have guessed, and for what end he desires you, I cannot say. My only thought of yet is that he might have sought power over Lord Elrond with you as his prisoner, but my heart tells me that such was not his only intent."
"What I would like to know," Aragorn said lowly, "is who else seeks to lay hands on her. The uruk-hai were not alone at Amon Hen; there were orcs from Mordor among them."
"The creatures I shot down bore the white hand of Saruman," Legolas said flatly.
"Saruman's servants got to her first," Aragorn protested. "But the others may also have had orders."
Shëanon kept her head bowed, feigning a sudden interest in her toes. Such thoughts had been swimming around in her head for several days, but she did not at all like to hear Aragorn confirm them and she rather regretted bringing up the subject.
"We should keep going," she said quietly. "You said we had no time to waste."
Gandalf frowned deeper still, but nodded and set off again.
"In any case, I have messages for you," he told them. "From the Lady Galadriel. She watches your progress and your fates in her mirror. At our parting, she gave me words for each of you. To Aragorn she says, 'The hour draws near when the Dúnedain must come forth and walk the paths of the Dead.'"
In her peripheral vision, Shëanon saw Aragorn raise his eyebrows.
"To Legolas, 'Beware the call of the sea, for with the cry of the gull you will lose your heart to the West.' And to Shëanon she bid me to say, 'Trust your sight and in your need remember that destruction which fire wreaks.'"
Shëanon blinked, furrowing her eyebrows. What on earth was that supposed to mean? She could feel faint stabs of uneasiness creeping up her spine; the Lady's messages had been incredibly ominous and frustratingly vague. The paths of the dead? The destruction of fire? She repeated the messages over and over in her head, determined to remember them word for word. The message to Legolas was the clearest, but also, in her opinion, the saddest, and with a peek up at him she could see that his mouth was set in a hard line.
"The Lady sent no message to me?" came a deep sigh from the back of the group, and Shëanon looked over her shoulder to see Gimli looking rather dejected as he trotted along behind them.
"Consider yourself lucky," she muttered, but the dwarf only slumped his shoulders.
"Forgive me, Gimli," Gandalf said apologetically. "To you Lady Galadriel sends her greeting and her thoughts, and tells you to take care when laying your axe to a tree."
Gimli's huff of embarrassed pleasure made the wizard chuckle, but Shëanon could hardly manage a quick grin, so lost in thought was she. So many things had happened in the day, and it was only just past noon. Soon, they stood once more beneath the sun on the plains of Rohan, stepping out from under the shadow of the forest and into the fresher air. Shëanon barely had time to wonder whether they would be able to find the horses, when Gandalf gave a loud, piercing whistle. It echoed on the breeze, carrying, she knew, impossibly far, and to her amazement there came an answer from somewhere in the distance. It was the call of a horse, whinnying its greeting, and the sound of hooves could be heard from across the plains. Galloping over the grass toward them were three horses. Two she could see were Hasufel and Arod, the steeds given to them by the Rohirrim, and the third was a horse of a kind she had never seen before. It was all of white, almost silver, its mane so bright that it glowed in the light of the afternoon, and Shëanon could tell by the majesty and power of its body that it was no mere stallion that approached. She gazed upon the beast in wonder.
"That is one of the Mearas," Legolas murmured beside her. She was pleased to hear that he sounded as awed as she felt. "Unless my eyes are cheated by some spell."
"It is Shadowfax," Gandalf told them as the horse pranced to a stop before him, white steed before the White Wizard. "He is the lord of all horses, and he has been my friend through many dangers."
Shadowfax bowed his shining head, and Gandalf stroked his neck before leaping agilely onto his back. The others followed suit as their own horses stopped before them. Shëanon clasped Aragorn's hand as he pulled her once more up behind him, astride Hasufel, and as they waited for Gimli to clamber up behind Legolas, she realized that she had not felt so optimistic since before there ascent up Caradhras. While she believed what Gandalf had said about having much work ahead of them, there were also so many cares that had been lifted from their shoulders. Merry and Pippin were safe, and they had made it unscathed out of Fangorn, and the weight of hurting was gone from her heart, for Gandalf was returned to them. Even the disturbing images of her visions were momentarily forgotten as the breeze played in her hair.
"Why do you always get the front?" she asked Aragorn with a grin, and he glanced over his shoulder at her.
"Because you let me get on first," he answered roguishly, and then Hasufel shot forward beneath them as the ranger urged him into a run. The three horses ran like the wind over the land, climbing the sloping hills as eventually the sun began its descent in the west. They rode for many miles, stopping only for a few hours during the darkest part of the night. Early in the morning of the next day they finally reached their destination. Gandalf and Shadowfax halted, and Aragorn guided Hasufel over to them, Legolas and Gimli stopping on their other side.
"Edoras," Gandalf told them, gesturing ahead. "And the Golden Hall of Meduseld."
Shëanon followed his gaze, peering around Aragorn, and saw in the distance a small city built on a steep hill. Perched at the top, she could see a grand building that was clearly the hall of which Gandalf spoke.
"There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan. His mind is overthrown. Saruman's hold over him has grown very strong. Be careful what you say," Gandalf warned them. "And do not look for welcome here. Not in these dark days."
They rode on, and at last Shëanon felt the pull of nerves that she had been expecting. She held tighter to Aragorn, for never before had she been among Men; or rather, she had never been among only Men. There were Men on occasion at Rivendell. Some had come for the council, and before that some of the Dúnedain rangers had come to speak to her father or else rest from their patrols, but she had never been in a place that was under Men's dominion. Riding toward Edoras felt very different from entering Lothlórien, and not just because of the business with Saruman. Shëanon found herself holding her breath as they approached the tall, wooden gate. The city was completely surrounded by a high fence, which for some reason surprised her, although she knew it should not have. Imladris and Lothlórien had no need of such constructions, as both realms had the benefit of natural geographical barriers for protection. Edoras had no such advantage, so she knew that of course they would build a gate to protect themselves. Still, as they passed into the city, she had the unsettling sensation that they were walking into a cage, and the door would be shut behind them. It was not as acute as the profound claustrophobia that she'd experienced in Moria, but it was there nonetheless.
The guards at the gate looked at them in what appeared to be suspicious astonishment as Gandalf nodded to them. They wore leather armor, and their faces were bearded and haggard, and Shëanon averted her gaze as they looked at her.
"You'd find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli said lowly as they followed the winding dirt path through the city. It twisted between the thatched houses, higher and higher up the hill toward the hall at its peak. Shëanon had the impression that the sight might once have been one of splendor and dignity; however a shadow seemed to lie over the entire city, as though it and everyone in it had fallen into despair. She stared at her surroundings. Everything was alien and strange to her: the style of architecture, the houses, the array of the buildings. It was the people, however, that seemed the strangest. She was shocked as she drank in the sight of them. The vast majority of seemed old, grey and weathered like Gandalf, but without the spark of life and knowledge in their eyes, and with none of the vigor. They stood bowed and bent in doorways and along the road, their expressions of distrust or else of surprise, but Shëanon saw that their mouths were set in hard lines and their bodies spoke of long years of toil on the earth, of a weariness that she had never before seen, which confused her because elves lived for so much longer than did they. An old woman glared at her as they rode past, and Shëanon felt her eyes widen in surprise, for she had never before seen a woman. All her life she had been preoccupied with how different she was from the Elves who had raised her, but the race of Men seemed as strange and unrelated to her in that moment as did dwarves or hobbits, despite the fact that the blood of Men ran diluted through her veins.
Slowly they wound their way to the top of the path, until before them they found shallow stone stairs that led to the stone platform upon which stood the Golden Hall. There they dismounted, and Aragorn leaned down close by her ear as he helped her down from their horse.
"Speak not of your father or of Rivendell in these halls. I know not how deep Saruman's hold is on Théoden, nor whether it is to Saruman or to Théoden we are about to speak."
Frowning, Shëanon met his eyes and nodded, and they followed the others up the steps. She was just wondering why they had not yet been confronted when suddenly the two enormous wooden doors of the hall burst open, and several armed guards came forth. They were grim-faced but hale. Their bodies were broader and stockier than those of Aragorn or Boromir, or any other men that she had yet seen, and unlike the guards at the gate, they wore long shirts of mail and bore long swords at their belts.
"I cannot allow you before the king so armed, Gandalf Grayhame," said one of the guards, stepping forth. Shëanon wondered if he had met Gandalf before, for he did not appear at all surprised to see him there. His eyes were keen as he beheld them. "You must leave your weapons here at the door."
"Of course," Gandalf said calmly, nodding at the four of them to disarm. Shëanon watched with incredible uneasiness as he unbuckled Glamdring from his waist and handed the sword to the guard, who passed it to one of the other men for holding. More guards stepped forward, standing expectantly in front of each of them. The man before Shëanon held out his hand, his brows raised, as though he were daring her to protest. She had half a mind to do so; the idea of walking into the hall with no protection did not sit well with her at all. However, beside her Aragorn was drawing his bow and quiver off of his back, and unstrapping his many daggers and blades. She could hear the whistle in the air as Legolas unsheathed his long-knives and handed them over, and only she and Gimli were hesitating. She bit her lip. She would trust her companions' judgment, and reluctantly she gave her bow, arrows, sword, and the dagger at her waist to the guard, whose expression became smug. He could clearly sense that she was wary of relinquishing her weapons, and she scowled at him.
Finally, Gimli gave up his axes, and Gandalf smiled serenely at the guards, making to enter the hall. Again the guard stopped him.
"Your staff," the man said in a surprisingly apologetic tone that nonetheless caused her to tense.
"Oh," Gandalf said in dismay. "Swords and axes are one matter, but surely you would not part an old man from his walking stick."
"I have had orders," said the guard, "from Gríma Wormtongue."
"Well, Háma, Door Ward of Théoden," Gandalf bristled, "my business is not with Gríma Wormtongue, but with the King of the Mark. If he wishes my staff to be laid aside, then he may hobble out here and tell me so himself."
To Shëanon's surprise, Háma's only response was a low bow, and he stood aside to let them pass despite the murmuring that went through the other guards. The doors creaked open once more, and they stepped finally over the threshold and into the Golden Hall of Meduseld.
It was dim inside; thick cloths had been drawn across the windows, and those that were not blocked were shuttered. The hall was long and wide, with a vaulted ceiling. Thick, wooden pillars supported dense beams overhead, and there were long shadows about the room. At the very end of the long chamber, a golden chair was set upon a dais, and upon it sat a man who Shëanon could only assume was King Théoden. His face was gaunt and his eyes shrouded, and she could see that on his lap his hands were gnarled and limp. He looked nothing like what she pictured a king to be. If Aragorn was the embodiment of that image she held, then this man was an embodiment of decay, his eyes watching them unseeingly as they entered. Shëanon swallowed uneasily and walked closely beside Aragorn as they began to breach the long distance between themselves and the feeble king. Gandalf made a show of leaning heavily on his staff, but Shëanon hardly noticed. Her gaze instead flitted back and forth to either side of the room, where in the deep shadows she could see men rising from their seats and skulking between the pillars. Their lurking movements were the only reaction they'd gotten to their arrival, for at the head of the hall the king still did not speak or greet them.
"Hail Théoden, son of Thengel!" Gandalf said in a clear, ringing voice that echoed in the large space, breaking the heavy silence. As Shëanon watched, a sallow, greasy looking man stepped from the shadows and knelt beside the throne of the king.
"It is Gandalf the Grey, my Lord," she could hear him whisper at the other end of the hall. "He is not welcome."
At long last, the king appeared to stir.
"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" he asked in a pitiful, wavering voice, sagging back against his throne as though the effort of speaking had completely drained him of energy. Suddenly she remembered the disdain of Éomer and his men, and she felt sympathy stir in her heart. The pale man beside Théoden nodded in approval.
"A just question!" he exclaimed in his dark voice. He rose and addressed them, as well as the other men in the hall, who, Shëanon was certain, were waiting for the word to attack. One man was even cracking his knuckles. "Why indeed should we welcome you? Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear!" he said with relish. "This herald of woe, this picker of bones, is followed by trouble like crows. Even now he comes with four ragged wanderers at his feet, even while he is the most ragged beggar of the lot! Làthspell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest."
Gandalf stopped about twenty paces away from the king. He was regarding the man whom Shëanon guessed was Gríma Wormtongue with distaste, and she could not help but feel indignant to be called ragged by a man who looked as though he bathed in horse sweat. Rather grimly, she smiled to herself with the knowledge that the man would not think Gandalf so ragged once he had revealed himself, for Gandalf the Grey he was no longer. Even so, there was a steep tension in the room, and she was heavily mourning the loss of her weapons. The men on the sides of the room were looming closer, but unlike Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli, Shëanon was at an extreme disadvantage. The men were hulking and huge and sinister, and while she did not fear them, she worried that they might easily overpower her. She glanced discreetly at Aragorn, who simply nodded.
"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King," Gandalf observed dryly.
"You dare to speak of courtesy? What aid have ever you brought, Stormcrow?" Gríma Wormtongue spat. "You bring evils worse than before."
At these words, Gandalf at last seemed to lose his patience.
"Be silent," he barked, his eyes flashing. Everyone in the hall stood on edge, looking between Gandalf and Wormtongue and the king, and the change in the atmosphere was palpable. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm."
He held his staff aloft.
Whatever color there was in Gríma Wormtongue's face faded. "His staff!" he cried. "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"
This was evidently some signal that all the men had been waiting for, because the words had hardly left the despicable man's mouth when the brigands in the shadows sprung forward. For a moment Shëanon balked, but then one of the men was upon her and she reacted instinctively. Ducking the arms that made to grab her, she spun and elbowed him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, and she shoved him aside as another man advanced. She caught hold of his wrist as he moved to seize her, grabbing his arm and palm and whirling around behind him. She brought his arm around with her, twisting it behind him until he let out a howl of pain, unable to move lest she dislocate his shoulder.
"Théoden!" she could hear Gandalf calling, while around her, her companions delivered blows to their assailants. The scene was one of chaos. "Son of Thengel! Too long have you sat in the shadows."
Suddenly Shëanon was grabbed from behind, causing her to lose her grip on the man whom she had practically on the floor, and he rose. Scowling, she brought her arms around the head of the thug who held her, using his massive body as leverage to leap off the ground and kick the other man hard in the face before he could get to Gandalf. He fell to the floor, blood bursting from his nose as she rammed her skull back against the one behind her, and his grip about her ribs slackened.
Aragorn and Legolas were making short work of the men, taking them out as effectively with their fists as they could have with their weapons, prohibiting any from standing in Gandalf's way as he approached the king, and Gimli's hollers were all that could be heard as he took out one ruffian after another. Shëanon stood panting for but a second. She had barely a moment to breathe when a flash of metal caught her eye; her heart leapt into her throat as she saw that one of the men had drawn crude blade and was moving toward the others, who had their backs turned. She bounded forth, seizing him by his dank hair and yanking his head back as her other hand flew into her boot and closed around the handle of the Lady's knife. Like lightning she drew the blade and brought the edge of the dagger against his throat, knowing that it bit into his flesh.
"Drop it," she snarled in his ear, and with a loud clang the weapon hit the stone floor. Shëanon watched it clatter, sensing that the battle around her was dwindling, and she shoved the man aside, kicking his short sword across the chamber. With wide eyes she looked down at her own knife, finding that the edge was red with blood. For a moment she stood gazing at it in vague horror, until the sound of cruel, mocking laughter drew her attention.
In his chair, Théoden was cackling as Gandalf stood before him with his staff.
"You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey," the king sneered.
The brightness of Gandalf's raiment was almost staggering as he cast aside his grey cloak, revealing the white clothes beneath.
"I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," he growled. Shëanon watched in amazement as the king writhed and twisted in his seat, fighting against the force of Gandalf's staff.
"If I go," said a voice from the king's mouth, though she knew it to be the voice of Saruman, "Théoden dies."
"You did not kill me," Gandalf fiercely protested. It seemed that thunder rent the air. "You will not kill him!"
"Rohan is mine!" the voice cried, and suddenly Théoden's body lunged forward, as if to tackle Gandalf to the ground, but with one last burst of light the king was thrown back, and Shëanon knew that Saruman was expelled.
There was silence in the hall. The door guards had come in, she realized, Háma and his men, and all waited with bated breath to see what would happen. Then the king slumped in his seat and collapsed forward. In alarm, Shëanon thought that he would crumple lifeless to the ground, but a girl dashed forward and caught his shoulders, lowering him to his knees. Shëanon could do little else but watch the scene with trepidation. She had not seen the girl enter, but Aragorn appeared to have been restraining her. Had she participated in the brawl as one of Gríma Wormtongue's henchmen? She decided at once that it was not so, for it was clear that the young woman had much care for the king.
Anxiously, Shëanon inched closer to Gandalf, staring as the king groaned on the ground. She wondered nervously if he was hurt, or else left with some horrible, lasting effect from having been so long under Saruman's control, but then before them his eyes seemed to grow clear and the age melted from his face. He gazed around at them all, appearing to see more with each passing moment, until his gaze fell upon the girl before him. Shëanon could see tears in her eyes.
"I know your face," he whispered; his voice was raspy, but no longer feeble or frail. "Éowyn."
"Breathe the free air, my friend," Gandalf said, striding forward once more. The king looked at him in astonishment.
"Gandalf?" he asked, his eyes growing clearer still. The wizard nodded, and then, at last, the king stood.
Shëanon could hardly believe that the man before her was the same decrepit wretch who had sat withered and unseeing upon the throne. His legs were steady as he stood, his eyes blue and piercing, and as he regarded the hall it seemed that the covers on the windows had fallen away, for there was light shining upon his face.
"Dark have been my dreams of late," he announced. "But I feel as one new-awakened."