Aiër Chapter 13
Shëanon would not soon forget the expressions of those who stood around her in the Golden Hall. Gone were the grim, world-weary countenances that she had first beheld. Instead the men stood tall and straight, looking up at their newly freed king as though they hardly dared believe what had happened. A dark shadow seemed to fall from upon them, their worry and grief cast aside, and in their eyes she saw bright emotion—relief and hope and pride when before their regards had been bleak. Háma stepped forward then, offering to his lord a great sword in a sheath gilt with gold, and slowly Théoden drew the blade before them. It was wide and heavy-looking, glinting in the light of the room, and as he looked upon it it seemed that the memory of great deeds long passed awoke in him. The wasting puppet was no longer; before them stood a King of Men.
Shëanon experienced a powerful wave of emotion as she took in the scene. The sudden splendor was such a contrast to the rugged chaos of but moments before, and of one thing she was certain: at that moment, Rohan ceased to be a place of distrust and ill tidings in her eyes, and became instead a place of honor. She glanced over at Aragorn, and saw that his head was held high. Gandalf was smiling wisely.
The awe and joy, however, did not last long. Even from her vantage point she could see the king's face fill with anger, and he turned with visible fury toward Gríma Wormtongue. The man lay sniveling beneath Gimli's booted foot, but as he caught sight of the king's face, and the death clear upon it, he scrambled to his feet and fled. The next thing Shëanon knew, everyone was chasing the traitor and the king out of the hall and out onto the steps. She hurried through the crowd, staying close on Aragorn's heels, for his broader body parted a way for her to slip between the guards.
"Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" Théoden shouted as she emerged onto the platform outside, but she could not see what was happening over the broad shoulders of the men until at last Aragorn broke through to the front of the gathered onlookers.
"Please, my lord," Wormtongue groveled on his hands and knees on the steps. Shëanon's lip curled to hear his slimy words. "I have only ever served you."
The sword of Théoden flashed as he swung it high in the air, advancing on Gríma with obvious intentions to sever his head from his shoulders, or else to drive the blade straight through his chest. Shëanon gasped and turned her face away, not wanting to watch the bloodshed. It seemed a different thing entirely, to watch a man be killed than to cut down an orc, even if the man was in league with the enemy. Her stomach lurched, and she might even have covered her ears against the cut of the blade and the spatter of blood on the pavement if Aragorn had not suddenly bounded forth.
"No, my Lord!" he cried, staying the king's hand and earning himself an incredulous, reproachful look. "Let him go. Enough blood has been spilled on his account."
The crowd watched tensely as the king wavered, clearly badly wanting to end the man's life. Although Théoden's face was blocked from her view, she could see Aragorn's clearly, and his expression was beseeching yet noble. For a long moment, nothing could be heard but the sound of Gríma Wormtongue's pathetic whines.
"Be gone from my sight," said Théoden at last, and Wormtongue fled, shoving aside the gathered men and women and disappearing down the road. The assembled commonfolk looked upon the king with stunned faces, having seen nothing of what had transpired within the hall, Shëanon realized, while she and her companions stood with the guards behind the king, waiting.
"Hail Théoden King!" someone boldly called, and without hesitation the wide-eyed townspeople got down on their knees. To Shëanon's extreme surprise, Aragorn, too, knelt before him, as though he were not a king himself, lowering himself to the ground before he who had been Saruman's thrall not ten minutes earlier. Shëanon did not really think it fitting, and she glanced hastily at Gandalf to see what he would do. The wizard however remained tall and straight, and what was more Legolas had appeared at her side, and he did not kneel, either. Scarlet-faced to be left standing when only Gandalf the White and the Prince of Mirkwood remained on their feet, she settled for bowing her head, gazing steadily at her toes. The stillness stretched on uncomfortably for much longer than she would have liked, but she could not pinpoint what was off. All she could tell was that the people did not seem as merry as they should have to have their ruler back in his right mind.
"Where is Théodred?" the king suddenly asked. "Where is my son?"
Dread crashed over her.
She knew before anyone spoke, for the silence that fell over the crowd was terrible and absolute. Nearly everyone had averted their eyes, and it was clear that no one wanted to answer. Finally, Háma walked forward, and the king turned to him.
"My Lord," he said quietly. His gruff voice was thick with sorrow. "He is dead."
Shëanon decided that the hours that followed were among the most grievous and uncomfortable of her life. It was true that she had learned much of loss and mourning during the course of their journey, but somehow the grief of losing Gandalf and Boromir, though devastating, did not prepare her for Théodred's burial. After learning of his son's death, Théoden had stood as still as stone on the steps, neither moving nor speaking, but the look in his eyes as he had stared at Háma betrayed him to a pain so profound that Shëanon felt shaken. He looked as though his worst nightmare had come true, and she supposed that it had.
"How long?" whispered the king, his voice so hollow that it sounded inhuman, at odds with the agony on his face.
"My Lord, he—he died this morning."
Théoden looked down at the ground, and then slowly, as if with an immense burden laid upon his shoulders, he turned and strode back up the stone steps. Shëanon was stunned as she anxiously moved out of his way. Whatever she had imagined of their coming to Rohan, it was certainly not what she was witnessing.
The guards began murmuring about preparing a tomb and laying the king's son to rest, but she was barely listening. She felt that she had just intruded on something unspeakably private, an unwelcome witness to the king's grief. There were orders given then, some in hushed tones and others in louder voices, and before them men and women began hurrying about. She felt terribly in the way as people began pushing past her, back into the hall. The girl—Éowyn—followed after King Théoden, and it struck Shëanon suddenly that she was probably his kin. Indeed, her face was ghostly as she climbed the steps, her skin pale and her expression forlorn, but her eyes were stern and hard. Before Shëanon had even realized that she was staring, the woman was gone.
Gandalf left them, and for a long while she hovered tensely by her companions, glad that they remained out near the steps instead of entering into the sorrow of the hall. They did not speak much, for it was clear to them all what was happening and it was no time for pleasantries. Sometimes men would walk up to Aragorn and address him in low voices, but Shëanon mostly did not listen. She could not shake Théoden's expression from her mind, that haunting, awful look in his eyes, and she found that the ground was a welcome sight for her. There was a strangeness on the air that she could not quite place, unable to decide if Edoras was busy or hushed, and between Legolas and Gimli she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The dwarf kept making slow, mild observations that seemed significant in the way he said them.
"The wind is harder now," he said knowingly, with a little nod, almost to himself as he peered back and forth at the billowing banners nearby and the haggard faces of the men going past. As he spoke he gently brought the handle of his axe down on the smooth stone, the dull thumping punctuating his words. For some reason the harmless remarks unsettled her, and afterwards they echoed in her head. Every gust of air that blew on her face seemed an affirmation of whatever meaning the dwarf had intended, though she could not have said what that was.
"Should we not be doing something?" she asked finally, growing agitated by the waiting and the eerie calm of her companions.
Aragorn fixed her with a steady gaze.
"What would you suggest?" he asked quietly. His voice indicated that he knew she would have no answer, but it seemed a comfort rather than a mockery. Indeed, his eyes were gentle, if grieved.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Is there no way we can help? What is to be done?"
"We will honor Théodred when the time comes," he assured her, and it appeared that that time was not far off; soon after Gandalf reemerged from within the hall. Shëanon lifted her head as he came to stand before them, but his discerning expression gave nothing away as he glanced steadily into each of their faces. It did not escape her notice that he studied her for a moment longer than he did the others, and she lowered her gaze once more, waiting for him to speak. Instead, however, a bell began to toll low in the morning. It was clear and loud, easily heard over the whistling wind, and though it was far off she somehow felt that the vibrations were within her own chest. The tolls were a few heartbeats apart, each as steady as the last, but it was a much different sound than any bells that she was used to. The peal of the metal was somber and resigned, speaking of loss and sorrow in a way that reminded her of the elven lament that had been sung for Gandalf in Lórien. The plaintive ringing went on and on, reverberating in sonorous requiem, and as the bell tolled men and women began to gather again near the stairs and along the road, their faces bowed and solemn.
Shëanon was not surprised; she knew that it was similar in Imladris, that if an elf was slain or wounded on patrol a bell would be sounded, but it had never happened during the span of her short time in the valley. Still, as she took in the scene before her, she could imagine that it was just as terrible.
A loud sound interrupted her thoughts, cutting across the melancholy rhythm that clanged all around. The two great doors had been hefted wide open, their hinges groaning their protest in such a way that Shëanon wondered how long it had been since last they were opened all the way. Guards in armor marched out and arranged themselves along the steps so that she had to scoot out of their way. More people were arriving, more than she would have initially thought could all fit within the city—in masses they stood pressed together down the hill, filling the surrounding streets, and not until it seemed that every person in Edoras was assembled did the bell finally stop. The ensuing silence was crippling, absolute and reverent for but a moment, and then the procession began.
From within the shadows of the hall more armored men appeared, only these looked less like guards and more like warriors. They wore plumed helms and shining chest plates, and on their shoulders they bore the body of the king's son.
Shëanon might have reacted more powerfully once, before all that she had endured. She might have gasped or cried out, or perhaps she may have retched. Théodred also wore armor, but his was grander than that of those who carried him. Pressed into the leather and etched into the metal were designs of flowers and of suns and of horses, artfully done and incredible to look upon. Even to Shëanon, who was used to the magnificent craftsmanship of the elves, the work was beautiful. It was not, however, why she was so shocked.
Théodred's face was visible to her only in profile, but it was enough. She could see the ghastly color of his skin, so pale that it was grey. She could see his features, and she could tell that he had been both handsome and fair in life, a clear vision of his father. Above all else though, she could see that he was young.
Shëanon was no fool; she knew that Men aged. However, having known only Elves and Dúnedain rangers for most of her life, she had not made the connection that Théoden's son would have been decades younger than he, and that it meant that Théodred must have been hardly older than she was. In horror, she stared at him. How old? She could not tell. Twenty-five? Thirty? No more than that, she was certain, and yet there he lay, cold and still, never to wake again.
Théoden and Éowyn followed behind, other men and women with them. Their expressions were grieved but full of hard resolve and a dignity that she was sure she could never have managed. In silence they descended the numerous steps with only the distant weeping of village women to penetrate the resounding quiet. The king's subjects bowed their heads as their lord and his fallen son went past.
She felt a light touch upon her shoulder, and turning she saw Aragorn's keen eyes upon her face. He nodded forward, indicating that she should fall into line behind the group of men and women, and so woodenly Shëanon joined the procession. She had no idea how far away their destination was, nor what exactly to expect once they had reached it, but their path from the Golden Hall back through the now crowded streets of Edoras seemed to last a small eternity. Unable to bear the sight of so many bereft faces, she kept her gaze mostly on the ground. A strange kind of detached sorrow had come over her; while she had not known Théodred, gleaning only small fragments of the implications of his death and understanding little of the hardships that the Rohirrim faced, she was still left stricken in the face of death. As they passed through the gates of the city and approached what she determined must have been graves, someone began to wail. The sound was so raw that it filled her chest with a horrible throbbing even though her eyes were thankfully free of tears.
Gandalf walked in front of her, and she focused numbly on his feet, attempting to distance herself from the emotion around her. When the procession came to a stop, however, she looked up. They stood before a great mound risen out of the earth upon which grew thick grass and many white flowers; the ground slanted sharply beneath it and she knew that this place was a tomb. Even as she watched, the guards stepped forth, slowly and ceremoniously carrying the body inside. It seemed that the entire population had followed them there, for the crowd surrounding them had no end. Shëanon saw that some of the faces were stoic and hard, while others were composed but mournful. Others still wept outright.
"Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended..."
The chilling hymn pierced the stillness, and to Shëanon's surprise it was the girl Éowyn who sang the words as she watched her kinsman be lowered into his grave. The lilting syllables seemed to linger for longer than was normal in the air, a haunting tune that raised goosebumps on her skin. Shëanon could not understand the words, for they were in the foreign language of Rohan. Despite this, however, the meaning was not lost on her, and after the first few lines the voices of other women joined in. Some sang so softly that they could barely be heard, whispering or mouthing the words they all clearly knew, but others cried out from deep within until many were chanting together, lamenting their loss and paying homage to he who would have one day been their king. The result was so powerful that she shuddered and averted her gaze once more, desperate for the alien ritual to end. Finally the last notes wavered and the women grew silent, and the sound of something heavy being moved into place told her that the grave was being sealed even as she continued to stare at the grass. Men spoke, and even Théoden said some words, but their voices were toneless and the language was again the Rohirric that she could not understand.
People were throwing more of the little star-shaped flowers on the mound of earth, but then finally it ended, and when the crowd began to disperse Shëanon eagerly followed her companions back towards the hall. Gandalf stayed behind with Théoden, and the last glance she dared cast in the direction of the king showed a man who was utterly lost.
"Should we, ah, pay our respects?" Gimli asked gruffly, referring, she knew, to the flowers that everyone else had strewn about, but the thought of turning back appalled her.
"Let's just go," she said. It came out as a plea, and to her relief the others stayed with her. All too aware of the bitter taste in her mouth and of the men and women still all around, Shëanon quickened her pace. Thankfully, the guards seemed to have meant for them to return to the hall, for they were ushered inside by the same Men who earlier that morning had taken their weapons. Their faces were much sadder than before.
"The king cannot let this cloud his judgment," Aragorn said very lowly as they stood together once more beneath the vaulted ceiling. His voice was thick with regret. "Rohan must make ready for war."
"Perhaps the death of his son has shown him that," Legolas replied quietly, though not without compassion. Shëanon was not quite involved in the conversation, but she was glad to be away from the burial mounds.
"My lords," said a feminine voice, and turning they saw Éowyn again. There was red around her eyes and her face was very pale, but she held her chin high as she steadily addressed them. Her gaze flitted momentarily over Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli. "And lady," she added to Shëanon. "We have chambers prepared for you. The kitchens are making do with what food we have to spare, but surely you would welcome a wash and a rest before eating. I understand you have journeyed far to help us."
"Thank you, my lady," Aragorn murmured, inclining his head. The young woman gestured for them to follow her, and she led them through a door at the back of the hall. With each step, Shëanon felt an unpleasant twinge inside her; surely a group of strangers should not be of concern during such a dark time for Edoras, yet it was clear that the guests were being made a priority. She felt both guilty and humbled at the thought. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were shown to a large chamber just inside the corridor, but Éowyn led her further into the building. The room they came to was small and sparsely furnished, but Shëanon could see that what little there was inside was of a fine quality. To one side there was a neatly made bed beneath the room's only window and a small table beside it bearing some candles. On another wall she saw a chest of drawers with a pitcher of water and a facecloth, and there was a fireplace as well. The floor was stone, but a large fur rug had been laid down before the hearth and Shëanon decided that it all suited her just fine.
"I hope that these accommodations will be to your liking," Éowyn said stiffly. "Surely you are used to greater comforts than these, but with each day we have seen more refugees and even in this Hall rooms have become scarce."
Standing just inside the doorway, Shëanon studied the woman warily. Distantly she was aware that Éowyn was both the first woman she had ever spoken to and also probably the closest person to her own age that she had ever met, but as she looked upon the lady of Rohan she felt no kinship or warmth. The woman's voice held no emotion, a stark contrast to the care she'd shown to the king and the tears she'd shed for his son, but her countenance was cold and defiant as she stood in what was to be the threshold of Shëanon's room.
"We have been traveling for many weeks and sleeping on the ground," she replied carefully, studying the woman's glinting eyes. To her consternation she noted that the woman stood a few inches taller than she did. "It is a luxury to simply have a bed for the evening, so I thank you."
Appearing slightly mollified, she bowed her head. "I hope that you will be comfortable. Please ask if there is anything you need."
"What was he to you?" Shëanon asked abruptly just as the girl had turned to leave. She knew that it might have been insensitive to ask, but she simply could not shake the image of the lady standing by the prince's grave, her black dress billowing around her and her pale hair braided like a crown about her head. She strove to reconcile that hurting woman with the severe lady that stood before her. "The king's son…?"
She had thought only to understand just exactly to whom she was speaking, but Shëanon realized at once that she should simply have asked Gandalf later. Rather than softening, Éowyn's expression only hardened further, until Shëanon felt that she stood before carven stone.
"Théodred was my cousin," she said quietly, and Shëanon looked away.
"Forgive me," she murmured. "I shouldn't keep you."
With a rustle of skirts and the snap of the door, Éowyn was gone.
Exhausted and contrite, Shëanon turned back towards the room. There were shutters on the window, but the fire gave some light, and looking to the bed she saw that her weapons had been returned to her. Numbly she picked up each item, not really expecting there to be any damage but compelled to inspect them nonetheless. Her bow was intact, her arrows in perfect condition. Her dagger sat in its sheath untouched beside her sword, which automatically she drew from its scabbard. Vaguely she realized that it did not have a name, but she was not sure if the blade yet deserved one. Last she reached into her boot and withdrew the knife. She had wiped it clean of blood earlier in the day, and the mithril gleamed so purely that she could hardly believe that she had marred it with the scarlet stain of bloodshed. For one long moment she held it clasped before her, gazing contemplatively at the startlingly beautiful design of the handle, and then she set it down on the bed and began to strip off her clothes.
It was the first time she had truly had any privacy since they'd left Lothlórien. She had of course realized that this was why she kept receiving her own chambers, and she had to admit that certain matters had made for an embarrassing hassle while they'd traveled that she would not have been faced with if she hadn't been the only female in a group of males. Still, even Éowyn had said that Edoras was full of refugees and Meduseld was crowded; how absurd that she of all people was getting her own room.
Another thing that suddenly struck her was just how filthy she was. Her clothes were appalling and her body wasn't much better. Once they'd resolved to rescue Merry and Pippin, washing and changing clothes had ceased to be a priority. Shëanon grimaced as she made use of the washcloth. It was a wonder that they hadn't been barred from seeing the king strictly due to their horrendous appearances. Such a thing wouldn't have normally bothered her, but as she sponged the grime from her skin she blushingly recalled, for the hundredth time, being with Legolas in the forest. She was certain that he wasn't even half as dirty as she, and they had been so close, he had held her against him… and she was covered head to toe in grass stains and dirt and dust. She scrubbed harder, and then did her best to comb out her hair. A bath, she knew, was probably out of the question and she would never have been so presumptuous to request one when the people around her had so much else to worry about. Still, she longed for a tub of hot water.
When she was clean and dressed, she sat for a while on the edge of the bed, pushing her weapons out of the way. The day had been so strange—the past several days even worse—and she lowered her head into her hands.
Was that what it meant to be mortal—to bear the death of one so dear and respected with such resignation and sorrow? To wear such bleak expressions and have old women throw flowers on one's grave? The idea did not sit well in her stomach. That was Aragorn's fate, she realized suddenly. She had always known, but she had always convinced herself that it would be an event so far away, so distant and uncertain that perhaps she could pretend it would never happen at all. After witnessing Théodred's funeral, however, mortal death was more apparent to her than ever. Not even sending Boromir's fallen body over the falls of Rauros had had such an effect on her. Was that misery so ingrained in them? Was that what Arwen's future held? She would watch Aragorn be borne into a tomb, gone from the world forever, his spirit not even in the Halls of Mandos but somewhere far away and lost. Shëanon felt sick, and sicker still to recall Éowyn's severe tone of voice. She stayed there with her head in her hands for a long time, and when at last she rose, she slid the glinting knife back into her boot before sliding back out the door.
The atmosphere in the building was a strange combination of somber and chaotic; the king's retaken autonomy had clearly lit a spark in the Golden Hall, as, she was sure, had the arrival of their company; many servants and guards hurried this way and that down the stone corridor. Théodred's burial cast a shadow about the place, of equal weight as that which had enveloped the city upon their arrival, but of a different nature than the weight of Théoden's thralldom. Still feeling guilty for creating more work for everyone while they were still in mourning, she kept her head down as she navigated her way back into the grand hall. To her consternation, however, her companions were nowhere in sight. In fact, she didn't recognize anyone around her. A woman with a very forlorn expression was slowly wiping down a long wooden table off to one side of the hall, and a group of men bearing long swords and solemn eyes stood together talking lowly. They glanced up as Shëanon passed, and she felt their eyes follow her as she went by. Internally she grimaced, but she did her best not to let her discomfort show on her face or in her steps until she was at last out in the fresh air once more. The breeze was cool and fair against her skin and in her hair, strands of which escaped her braid and were blown about. She went in search of Aragorn and the others. Gandalf, she assumed, would still be with the king, but she hoped that she might be able to find everyone else somewhere nearby.
She didn't have to look far. There against the low stone wall stood Legolas, alone and with his back to her. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should turn and keep looking for Aragorn and Gimli instead, but she dismissed the thought almost at once. For one thing, she knew that he had probably already heard her and knew she was approaching, and more than that, she refused to be a coward. She was capable of behaving normally, was she not? She would not let her moment of folly in Fangorn keep her from speaking with him. He was her… What was he? Her companion? Well yes, but Gimli was also her companion, and her relationship with Legolas seemed something else entirely from that which she shared with the dwarf. Her friend? That didn't seem right, either. She rather doubted that he saw her as a friend as he saw Aragorn. She frowned, but put the matter from her mind as she stepped up beside him.
"Aiër," he acknowledged as she reached his side. His gaze had been over the sprawling grasses of the landscape, but he spared her a glance as he spoke. It did not escape her that he appeared as at ease as always, calm and sure while Shëanon still felt the wary regret of the morning.
"Where is everyone?" she asked tiredly. There were many people about, but she could not spot ranger or dwarf anywhere.
"I expect that Gimli has gone in search of food," Legolas said with a faint smile. "And Aragorn speaks with Háma and Gamling."
"Gandalf?"
"I believe he remains with Théoden."
"Do you not think that the king might want to be alone in his grief?" she asked hesitantly, carefully watching the elf's face. To her surprise, Legolas only gently smiled in what struck her was a very knowing way.
"Gandalf will leave him if he desires solitude," he assured her, his eyes roving over her face. "How are you? You were ill at ease this morning."
Shëanon looked down at the wall.
"I was just unprepared. I hadn't expected anything like that to happen."
"Death is still new to you."
To this she gave no reply, deciding not to divulge how deeply she had been affected by the burial. Out there with all the Rohirrim mulling around was not the right place for such talk.
"What do we do now?" she asked instead. "We have warned the king. Will we stay and help Rohan? Aragorn's desire has long been to make for Gondor."
"Yes," he agreed steadily. "Minas Tirith will be our destination eventually." He turned to her again, although she was now gazing as he had been over the plains of the land. From their vantage point high upon the hill, she could see far into the distance. The sun was dwindling low in the west, and the tall grasses rippled in the wind. It was a fairer sight than she might have expected. "Are you so eager to leave here? We have journeyed for many days, and your ribs are not yet healed."
"They are mending quickly," she said at once, but she knew that he was as aware as she that her bones could not possibly have been much better. After all, she was only half-Elven, and even for one of the Eldar it would take more than a few days for bones to heal. Instead, Legolas only cast her a rather skeptical look and turned back towards the horizon.
"Perhaps," he conceded.
Shëanon sighed.
"The Men stare at me," she confessed, in answer to his original question. She looked over her shoulder to a group of guards who stood not very far away, and indeed they were watching her intently, though to their credit they averted their gazes when she caught them. It made her feel unwelcome. Irrationally she feared that they could sense her mortal origins and scorned her as an intruder or an imposter.
"Yes, I noticed," Legolas said flatly in Sindarin, and she saw that he had followed her gaze. She watched his eyes narrow as he glared at the men, but he said nothing else.
"I feel like we are intruding," she continued, perturbed when the explanation she had expected did not come. "Their prince is dead and we are outsiders—not even Men, save for Aragorn."
"We came when we had to," he answered calmly. Her brow furrowed as she studied his profile.
"Perhaps they have never seen elves before," she pressed anxiously.
At these words Legolas blinked and looked down at her, appearing surprised, almost as though he had just realized she was there. It was a startled expression she was not sure she had yet seen on his face, though she could not guess why what she felt was a natural progression of their conversation would have him looking at her so oddly. She blinked back, equally bemused by his reaction as he was by what she'd said, but before she could question him, he grinned at her and looked away.
"What?" she asked in astonishment. Already he was back to his usual neutral demeanor.
"You surprise me, aiër, that is all," he told her, unsmiling, but his eyes betrayed the amusement that he had wiped from his face.
Shëanon remained silent, waiting for him to elaborate, but once again he simply surveyed the land with a peaceful, aware set of his face.
"That was a reasonable thing to say!" she finally said. She was baffled by the look in his eyes.
"It was," he murmured. "And you are right. These people have not seen our kind before."
"Then what's so funny?" she demanded, piqued. She tried to keep her voice even, both because she didn't want to draw more attention to them and also because of Legolas's own steady tone. Still, as annoyed as she might have been that he was laughing at her expense, there was still some little thrill in her stomach to have him smile at her in such a way, to have him say that she'd surprised him.
"Nothing is funny."
"If that were true, you would not smirk like that," she pointed out, the thrill turning slowly to unease as she noted with disbelief the way the corner of his mouth turned up.
"Smirking, am I?" he asked wryly. Still his eyes were trained ahead, but he kept affording her sidelong glances that only contributed to her suspicion. Again she waited for him to explain his behavior, but after a few moments it became clear to her that he was perfectly content to leave her in suspense.
"Fine," she grumbled, "keep your secret."
"There is no secret, Shëanon," he said calmly. "I only forgot for a moment how little you know of the world."
"Excuse me?" she gasped, stepping away from the wall. "There are ellith who have never left the places where they were born. Most of the Elves in Caras Galadhon have never left the Golden Wood. They told me so themselves. Surely I have come to know much more of the world than they after everything that has happened since we left Imladris."
The longer she protested, the broader his grin became, until at last she was pink with indignation and confusion and he had turned once more to face her head on.
"You misunderstand me, aiër," he said gently. "We have indeed endured many hardships."
"Then what are you talking about?" she asked again, leaning against the hewn stone and gazing resolutely into his face. Was he mocking her? She didn't think so, but she could not follow his train of thought at all and it was bothering her.
"I meant that you are innocent."
"Innocent?" she repeated blankly. "I am not innocent."
"It was not an insult," he said patiently. His eyes, which were deep blue in the deepening twilight, flitted down to her hands, and she looked down to find that she had unconsciously curled her fingers into fists.
"In case you hadn't noticed, I almost slit a man's throat this morning," she told him in a tight voice, making no effort to relax her hands into a less volatile position. She did however find that meeting his gaze had become difficult again. "That isn't exactly innocent behavior."
"I saw what you did," he frowned, all traces of humor gone. "Worry not, aiër. You acted to protect your companions and your cause, and you did not take his life."
"I shed his blood," she said scathingly, laying her palms once more upon the wall and turning to look down at the edge. She was suddenly glad for the men and women that passed by, if only because they filled the silence that may have followed. Legolas was studying her profile, as she had been studying his moments before, but she had the feeling that she was much more affected by his scrutiny than he had been by hers.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked after a pause.
Shëanon lifted her head, taken aback.
"Shedding his blood? No," she said with disgust. "I hated it."
"You did not kill him, and you had no intentions to do so. You did what you had to do and without pleasure. I stand by what I said."
Her only answer was a shrug, but in truth he had assuaged some of her fears.
"You judge yourself too sternly, aiër. You are too much like Aragorn in that regard."
Shëanon looked at him in surprise, although she knew his words to be true. His features however were not as admonishing as she had expected, and seeing her stricken face he smiled again, softly.
"I speak not to criticize," he said quietly, looking directly into her face.
Her mind whirring, she met his gaze. They had not looked at each other in such a way since she had all but fled from him in Fangorn Forest, and she was momentarily entranced by the sight of him backlit against the pink sky. His gaze was intense, but that strange smile was on his lips once more, as though he found her amusing again in some sort of vague, subtle way.
"I knew you weren't criticizing me," she frowned, remembering herself.
"Is that so?" he asked lowly, with a tilt of his head. "I am not sure I believe you. You have a spirit of fire, aiër, and when you're angry the flames show in your eyes."
She opened her mouth to respond, but then she realized with a start that he was teasing her.
"If that's the case, then you should be more careful," she flatly replied. "Or else you might get burned."
"I will take the risk," he said easily. "I've found I like the heat."
He's found he likes…? Shëanon stared at him, her cheeks growing hot. All of a sudden she had the feeling that their playful words were not so playful anymore, the glint in Legolas's eyes belying the casual expression on his face. He continued to look down at her while she forced herself not to look away.
"The Rohirrim stare because you are beautiful, aiër," he said. "Their thoughts are clear in their eyes."
Her eyes widened. Of everything he could have said, of any answer she might have ever imagined, Shëanon never would have expected that. In fact, she was certain that she hadn't heard him right. She couldn't have heard him correctly. She stared at him, bewildered and floundering for a response, but before she could answer they were interrupted.
"There you are," Gimli huffed, oblivious to Shëanon's shock. "There's food inside. Come on. You, too, lassie. You need some meat on your bones."
Legolas did not spare her another glance, and belatedly she realized that he had known Gimli was headed their way when he'd spoken. Her legs propelled her after them on their own, which was fortunate because Shëanon was still trying to understand what exactly had just happened. Not until they were inside and seated did she finally snap out of it a little bit, but she still felt profoundly disconcerted. I've found I like the heat. The Rohirrim stare because you are beautiful. By the Valar, had he said those things on purpose? Aragorn came to the table, and Háma and some guards were there as well, but Théoden and Gandalf were absent still. Shëanon mutely sank onto the bench beside Aragorn and for some reason she wanted to scowl when Legolas sat across from her. The wooden table was set off to one side in the hall, long and clearly worn, but not many people seemed to have been invited to eat. As a result there was a heavy silence as they ate the simple but hot food—thick stew and fresh bread with butter—and Shea was lost in thought as she served herself.
"You are quiet," Aragorn murmured between mouthfuls of broth.
"I am always quiet," she said tensely, trying and audibly failing to sound nonchalant. She was all too aware of Legolas in front of her, and she had to resist the urge to elbow Aragorn beneath the table.
"Quieter than usual," he said dryly, buttering another piece of bread and then putting it on her plate, as though it would fix whatever troubling matter was on her mind. Suddenly remembering the awful fragility of his mortal life, Shëanon felt her eyes burn, disproportionately touched by the subtle gesture. She swallowed hard.
"No one else was speaking," she pointed out, but this time her voice was gentle in a way that it seldom was. "And I was eating."
"Let the lass eat in peace," Gimli agreed. He alone seemed to be in fair spirits. Aragorn glared at him, but Shëanon was glad for the reprieve and the quiet meal continued as before. Gimli was too preoccupied with the food and drink for conversation, none of the guards seemed in the mood to socialize, and of course Legolas was as calm and at ease as ever. Vaguely Shëanon wondered if it would have been acceptable to go back to her room, and was just wondering when Gandalf would return when a commotion arose outside. She turned in time to see the guards at the door jump aside for wizard and king to pass by, each with burdens in their arms.
"Send for my niece," Théoden commanded as he stormed into the room. Before she had even realized what was happening, the king deposited his bundle in her lap and hurried across the hall, and to her astonishment Shëanon realized that it was a child he had carried. Bewildered, she stared at the little girl who sat sobbing before her, and almost at once the child looked up at her and fixed her with a gaze that was equally astounded.
"Who are you?" the little girl demanded, hiccupping through her tears. It took a moment for Shëanon to speak. A child! How could she have been in Edoras all day long without seeing any children? Frantically she wracked her brain, trying to remember if there had been children at the prince's burial, but Shëanon had kept her eyes on the ground for most of the procession.
She had never seen a child before. She had never met anyone younger than she was; elves did not often have children, and with the growing shadow of Mordor in the east, none of the inhabitants of Rivendell had deemed it a fitting time for reproduction. Shëanon had been the only child in Imladris for many years. The size of the girl on her lap shocked her. She was so small! Shëanon of course knew that people started off as babies and then grew; she could remember being little herself, but still the unexpected appearance of the young human girl caught her off guard.
"My name is Shëanon," she answered at last, studying the girl with wide eyes. She was clearly of Rohan, with tanned skin and fair hair, but she was dirty and her face was ruddy from her tears. As Shëanon spoke the little girl only cried harder, and Shëanon floundered helplessly for a moment, staggered by the realization that she had no idea what to do. Why had this creature been given to her, of all people? Had Théoden assumed that as the only female at the table, she would be best at comforting the weeping child? He had certainly been mistaken. She looked to Aragorn for help, but he had left his seat and was kneeling on the floor beside another child—a boy who appeared to have fallen unconscious.
"What is your name?" she asked desperately, if only to distract the little girl from her crying.
"Freda," she sobbed, but she wiped her eyes for a moment to look into Shëanon's face. Her eyes were green, she saw, and very big.
"How—How old are you?" she asked in what she hoped was a calm, pleasant tone of voice. In truth, the question was for her own benefit as much for the sake of distracting the girl, for she had no idea how old the child might be.
"Seven."
"And is that boy your brother?"
Even before she had finished, Shëanon realized that she had made a mistake. She cursed silently, a knot forming in her stomach. Clearly the state of the young boy had caused Freda's tears, and the little girl sobbed again at once.
"Is he dead?" she cried. "Is he going to die?"
Discreetly Shëanon peaked over her shoulder, and to her enormous relief she saw that the boy's eyes were open and that Aragorn and Gandalf were helping him to sit up. She let out a breath, unsure how she could have possibly been able to handle informing the child that her brother did indeed lie dying.
"No, he's alright. He is sitting up now, do you see?" she said hastily, leaning back so that Freda could see for herself. A few more tears rolled down her cheeks, but the raw dread left her eyes.
"Éothain!" she called, and the boy glanced over at them. His face was pale beneath the dirt on his skin, but he looked otherwise intact.
"'M alright, Freda," he mumbled, weakly lifting a hand in his sister's direction. At that moment Éowyn arrived, sweeping purposefully into the room and making a beeline for the little girl, who had started crying for her mother. Shëanon was tentatively patting her on the back, unsure what to say. Freda was insisting that her mother had sworn to meet them in Edoras, but Shëanon had no idea who this woman was or if she was there, and she was grateful when Éowyn knelt before the child and began gently asking her questions and comforting her in a soft voice that was altogether unrecognizable with the stern tone she had applied with Shëanon earlier in the day. She took Freda's hand and sat her on the bench, sliding a bowl of stew before her, and not long after that her brother, Éothain, was sitting across from her and shoveling food into his mouth as well. It was revealed that the children's village had been sacked by Saruman's forces; their mother had sent the two to Edoras to raise the alarm and wait for her there, and the boy had collapsed from hunger and exhaustion outside the city's gate.
The king listened to Éothain's story and Gandalf's beseeching words with an expression of disbelief, and then slowly, wearily, he turned and sank onto his throne.
"Théoden had no knowledge of his people's suffering," Aragorn whispered in her ear as he sat down again beside her. "Saruman's control over him was deep. He is just now understanding the truth of Gandalf's warnings."
Her head still spinning from the sudden turn of events, Shëanon anxiously regarded the two eating children. Were they now orphans? The idea made her stomach turn. What would have happened if she and her companions had not gone to Edoras, if Gandalf had not freed the king? Would these children have arrived to get help, only to be met by Gríma Wormtongue's poison? Her hands curled into fists under the table.
"This is but a taste of what Saruman will unleash," the wizard was saying adamantly. She saw that the king had laid his hand over his eyes, but Gandalf paid this no heed. "Ride out and meet him head on. Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight."
"If what you say is true, Edoras has not the strength to combat Saruman's forces alone," said Théoden. "Gríma it seems has made sure of that."
"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak," Aragorn cut in. "Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return to fight for their king."
"They will be three hundred leagues from here by now!" Théoden said irritably, turning away. Shëanon remembered with a start how bitter the horse lord's voice had been as he had spoken of his banishment, and the contempt he had had when describing Saruman's power. She had instantly disliked Éomer, the way he had spoken to her and the possibility that he had killed Merry and Pippin, but now she mostly felt sympathy. Hadn't the man said that Théoden was his kin? How terrible, to witness one's ruler deteriorate and know that all the while villages were being attacked and people were dying. "Éomer cannot help us."
Suddenly the king turned to face them once more.
"I know what it is you want from me," he said with hostility, his eyes flashing, "but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war."
"Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not," Aragorn admonished. At some time during the day he had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but despite his travel-worn appearance, his bearing as he spoke was as noble as it had ever been, and his words brought a silence to the hall.
"When last I looked," Théoden said angrily, drawing himself up to his full height. "Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan."
The undisguised disdain in his voice reminded Shëanon of so long ago in Imladris when Boromir had spoken so similarly. And what would a ranger know of this matter? Jaw clenched, Shëanon almost rose, wondering if she ought to remind Théoden that Aragorn was rightfully the King of the West. Her temper had only just flared, however, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Legolas stood behind her. He did not meet her gaze as she looked up at him, his eyes fixed on Théoden, but his fingers squeezed a bit as the tense pause continued and Shëanon looked down at the table, defensive and yet knowing that it was not her place to speak up.
"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf asked calmly, diffusing the awkwardness and calling everyone's attention back to the matter at hand.
Théoden hesitated, his face drawn in concentration; Shëanon watched his eyes flit to his guards, to her companions, and to the two children still in the room. Everyone was still, waiting for his answer. Even Gimli, who had been relatively calm throughout the conversation, had abandoned his food and pipe, and Éowyn stood rigidly in the shadows.
"We will not go forth to battle," the king said at last. "Neither will we linger here until Saruman has pillaged for all we are worth…. Gamling," he called, his voice grave, "make ready the people. We make for Helm's Deep at first light."