Aiër Chapter 16
Shëanon woke the next morning to the sound of loud voices. Sleepily she opened her eyes and peered blearily through the dim morning light; Legolas was crouching beside her, strapping on his quiver and knives, but he smiled softly when he caught her gaze.
"You can afford five more minutes, I think," he whispered. "Then you must get up."
With a sigh, Shëanon shifted under her blanket. The hard earth somehow felt terribly comfortable beneath her, and she had a very vague memory of waking for just a moment when it was still dark to find herself very warm and content against Legolas's side. She wondered how he had managed to rise without waking her. Just when she was beginning to think that she might pleasantly doze off again for a few more minutes, Aragorn's voice carried from not very far away. He was speaking animatedly with someone, and though his words sounded garbled to her barely conscious mind, the urgency of his tone was unmistakable. She sat up immediately, groaning and rubbing her eyes.
"If you had listened to me when first I told you to sleep, you would not be so tired now," Legolas murmured.
As exhausted as she was, however, she could tell that he was kidding. Thankful for his humor, which was as subtle as ever but which combatted any awkward feelings she might have had, she offered him a shy smile. Surprisingly, she wasn't experiencing much discomfort; the heady peace of sleep still lingered in her mind and in her heavy limbs as she clumsily redid her braid.
"I'm glad I didn't listen to you," she admitted in a groggy whisper, reluctantly slipping out of her blanket in order to fold it up. She cast a sidelong glance at him as she did so and found that he was watching her intently; his appraisal made her blush, and she felt suddenly anxious to have told him that, but his eyes shone as he helped her to her feet.
"I am, as well," he said confidentially. Then Shëanon did feel awkward. Awkward but pleased.
"Yes, well, we should, um…" she muttered, clearing her throat and gesturing vaguely over her shoulder towards the sound of Aragorn's voice. Legolas raised an eyebrow at her. The light that had been in his eyes right when she had woken up was not extinguished, however, and she smiled again as together they made their way over to Aragorn and Gimli.
The ranger and the dwarf were conversing with Háma, who was apparently relaying some message from the king. Both of them glanced over and caught sight of Shëanon and Legolas at the same time, and she felt her stomach lurch as the two exchanged significant looks with each other. Aragorn turned back to her first, appearing more exasperated than anything else, and it was only when it didn't come that Shëanon realized she had been expecting the same angry reaction he had had in Edoras.
Háma bowed and departed just as she and Legolas reached their companions, and Aragorn brought a hand to her shoulder.
"The scouts last night found warg prints about a mile ahead," he said without preamble. "Legolas?"
"Yes, I saw them yesterday," Legolas confirmed. "They looked to be about a week old, but that means little. I have no doubt that the beasts—and their riders—linger nearby."
Shëanon glanced up at him, startled. He had mentioned nothing of wargs to her the night before, but then again, Shëanon had not asked.
"I will take Arod ahead," the elf continued, "but all was quiet during the night. I do not think we will meet any trouble today."
Aragorn nodded his consent, his hand still upon Shëanon's shoulder.
"I will return tonight if all is well," Legolas said, glancing briefly at Shëanon before turning and striding gracefully towards where their horses were tethered. Flushed, she watched him walk away and then swing easily into the saddle, his back straight and his shoulders broad and powerful as he caught hold of the reins and urged Arod into a trot.
"Shea."
Lightly something tapped her cheek, and Shëanon turned, dazed, to find Aragorn watching her warily.
"Did you just flick me?" she asked in confusion. The ranger raised his eyebrows at her.
"I need you on your guard today," he said quietly. "Legolas will be ahead, but we cannot take him for granted. Théoden means to send guards as well, but I think you would hear anything amiss long before they managed to catch sight of a threat." He paused meaningfully. "An attack this far from the keep could mean slaughter."
His serious voice took her slightly aback, and, abashed, she placed her hand over her heart and bowed her head. It was the first time she had ever shown him respect in such a manner, and she could see that he was startled.
"I will do my best," she vowed, humbled that he would place such faith in her as she lifted her head once more.
Aragorn was staring at her, and she blushed in the brisk morning breeze.
"What?" she asked nervously. He shook his head, saying nothing, and, still looking at her strangely, he lifted his hand and lightly ruffled her hair. Her eyes widened in surprise, not even protesting as the action messed up the braid that she had just done; suddenly she felt like she was ten years old again. The last time he had done that was when he'd arrived in Rivendell with the hobbits. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Clearly having expected a more animated response from her, Aragorn frowned and smoothed down what she assumed were the more tousled pieces of her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.
"Go get your pack," he said with a sigh, pulling his hand away and gruffly rubbing the back of his neck, and, strangely touched, Shëanon turned to do as he bid her.
She had only taken a few steps, however, when he called her name. His expression was indecipherable when she looked back at him, and for a moment she stood expectantly, waiting for him to speak.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked at last.
Shëanon stared blankly at him, her mouth opening to respond before she hesitated, not at all understanding why he would have called her back to ask such an unimportant question. Then she caught the look on his face—expectant and roguish, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth—and, realizing in an instant, her face drained of blood. Scowling, Shëanon whipped around and strode quickly away from him to retrieve her pack and her bow and quiver. She could hear him chuckling behind her at her expense, and she blushed furiously.
"I'd have thrown something at you if it were me," she heard Gimli say flatly as she pulled her pack onto her shoulders, and, deciding that that was an excellent idea, she snatched up the first rock she saw and pelted it at the ranger's back. It hit him squarely between his shoulders, and he spun around with a look of amazement.
"Shea," he scolded, disapproval written all over his face, but Shëanon merely proceeded to strap on her sword.
"It slipped," she deadpanned, as up ahead the king's men were signaling that it was time to move on, riders galloping past to call out orders to the long line of Rohirrim.
"Just get on your horse," Aragorn ordered, with another shake of his head as Gimli laughed merrily and clapped him on the arm. Shëanon laughed a bit as well, despite her embarrassment, for she could see that despite his admonishing tone, the ranger was fighting a smile.
The sky was growing light, grey turning swiftly to pink and gold, and as they swung onto their mounts and started off at the same slow pace as the days before, the sun crested over the hills.
In spite of their lightheartedness in the morning, Shëanon had taken Aragorn's words to heart. She kept her ears focused intently for any signs of danger, but as the day progressed, no troubling sounds came. Instead she heard the babble of children and the chatter of many men and women, the creaking of wagons and the commands of the guards. If she strained, she could hear the hoof beats of Théoden's soldiers in the distance, scouting the road.
By then she had grown accustomed to riding astride Hasufel with Gimli to one side and Aragorn to the other, so she was a bit disconcerted when Éowyn appeared and even more disconcerted when both she and Aragorn dismounted and walked side by side, leading their horses.
Frowning, she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Every now and then Gimli would make an observation and she would reply, but mostly her thoughts strayed to the events of the night before: her conversation with Legolas and what had followed. An unpleasantly persistent sensation settled itself in her stomach as she analyzed what they'd said to each other, the way he'd looked at her, the things he'd implied. She found that her palms had grown sweaty around her reins and she kept having to wipe them on her leggings throughout the afternoon. Listening to Gimli became more and more difficult as she recalled the warmth of the elf's body and the intensity of his gaze as he'd almost, almost kissed her.
'He wasn't going to kiss you,' she told herself again in again. She repeated it over and over in her mind, a kind of desperate mantra, as the sun passed overhead. By late afternoon she was consumed by both wretchedness and yearning, and she was entirely confused. She was just about to ask Aragorn if she could ride ahead a short ways, feeling restless in the saddle, when she caught some of his conversation with the king's niece.
"Where is she," she heard Éowyn ask, "the woman who gave you that jewel?"
Shëanon's brow furrowed as she realized that they were talking about Arwen's necklace, and somehow she felt that she should not have been listening to their words. Éowyn's bemusing behavior of the day before was suddenly clear to her, and she turned to engage Gimli in conversation when she heard Aragorn respond.
"She is sailing to the Undying Lands," he murmured in a quiet, hard voice. "With all that is left of her kin."
Sailing…?
Shëanon froze.
If she hadn't been sitting on a horse, she certainly would have stopped dead in her tracks. A vague sense of horror seeping through her, she looked down at Aragorn, sure that she had heard wrong. His grim expression, however—the distant, haunted look in his eyes—spoke for itself.
"What did you just say?" she asked. Even though she could have sworn the words had come out as a whisper, both Aragorn and Éowyn turned as though she'd shouted. Aragorn looked startled, like he'd forgotten she was there, and Shëanon realized that he probably had; she had not spoken to him for a few hours at least. With dawning comprehension, she watched Aragorn's eyes close, his jaw clench.
"Shea—" he began in a very careful, quiet voice, opening his eyes to look at her beseechingly, but she cut him off.
"What did you just say?" she repeated more loudly. Her hands had curled into fists; her heart was hammering against her ribs. She knew that Éowyn was staring at her and that heads had begun to turn in her direction, but she did not care.
Aragorn's eyes flashed in warning.
"Not now, Shëanon," he murmured. She stared at him in disbelief.
"Yes now," she demanded. To her fury, he turned his gaze away from her, staring resolutely straight ahead and lifting his chin. She wanted to hit him. "Aragorn!"
"Lassie," Gimli grunted on her other side, but Shëanon ignored him. Driven by both panic and anger, she tugged hard on the reins. Hasufel whipped around, whinnying in agitation as she forced him in front of Aragorn, blocking his path.
"Where is Arwen?" she hissed, asking only because she needed to hear him say it—to hear it confirmed by his own words—but his initial reaction had been answer enough.
"Shëanon. Calm down."
"Where is my sister?" she shouted, her stomach roiling. A cold sweat had broken out on her skin, and in that moment she thought she hated Aragorn: hated the way he was looking at her with both pity and disapproval, hated that he was not answering her, hated that when he spoke, she knew his words would cut her. "Tell me!"
Aragorn grit his teeth; she thought at first that he would refuse to answer again, but finally he replied.
"Valinor," he said in an undertone. His voice was hard and unremorseful, and only his eyes betrayed his true feelings. "She is in Valinor. I will explain later—"
She did not wait for him to finish. Shëanon had Hasufel around in an instant, her heels digging into his flanks, urging him into a sprint. The horse bolted, dutifully obeying her command, but somehow she felt that Hasufel understood some of how she was feeling, too, for when she was satisfied with the distance she had put between herself and the caravan and reined him back into a trot, the horse stamped and tossed his head. Shëanon let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. She felt so much that she thought she would burst with it, and yet at the same time she felt nothingness, empty and numb and bereft. She was still within sight of the Rohirrim; she knew that Aragorn could see her in the distance ahead of him.
How could he? she thought. How could he how could he how could he? It was a good thing that she was so angry with him; it was the only thing that kept her from crying, for she would never see Arwen again and Aragorn had known and he had been keeping it from her since they'd left Rivendell.
She sat in a daze of anger and hurt for the next few hours, stewing in it and letting Hasufel go where he wished. The bastard had told Éowyn! Éowyn! A complete stranger! He had been letting her believe that her sister was in Imladris the whole time—that they would be reunited when everything was over and done—when really she was over the sea, and then he had told Éowyn! How could he have done that to her?
Finally, at dusk, she heard the Rohirrim signaling a halt and setting up camp. She hopped off her mount simply because she suddenly needed some type of physical activity, and then she stormed back toward the Men, leading Hasufel along with her.
"I will kill him," she told the horse in a shaking voice. "I will send him to Minas Tirith in pieces."
Hasufel blew out a puff of air.
It was dark when she made it back. She had just enough composure to pick her way amongst the Men without looking absolutely insane, but those who had witnessed her outburst earlier in the day stared at her as she went by. Shëanon kept her chin up, a scowl plastered on her face. She found his horse before she found him; the beast—Brego, she knew he was called—was tethered towards the edge of camp. Shëanon glared at the animal, angry at it simply through association with Aragorn, and in any case she decided that she'd never seen a more Aragorn-like horse in her entire life.
"Over here, Hasufel," she muttered, leading him away from the other stallion. When she was satisfied that he was taken care of and that she'd provided her mount with better grass to munch on and a better place to sleep than Brego had, she went in search of the actual subject of her anger. To her extreme annoyance, he was waiting for her, denying her the satisfaction of demanding an explanation.
Just as he had always done in Rivendell, he turned and walked away without a word, knowing that she would follow. It irritated her immensely, but her anger was beginning to diminish and grief was quickly settling in its place. To her surprise, he ushered her into a tent. She had no idea whose it was or why he seemed to have access to it, but she found that she did not care. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. Across from her, he took up the same stance, though for once he seemed more wary than she. Several long moments passed in silence, which was all the more pronounced in the quiet confinement of the tent.
"Well?" Shëanon croaked at last, unable to bear the waiting any longer. She could barely speak, her throat was so tight.
Aragorn sighed. He truly did look weary, worn-down and bereaved.
"What would you have me say?" he asked quietly; Arwen's pendant gleamed around his throat, starkly bright against his dark, weathered clothes. Shëanon's anger rushed back immediately.
"What would I have you say?" she hissed. "I would have you explain! How could you keep this from me, Aragorn? How?"
"Keep your voice down," Aragorn murmured. "I could not tell you."
"Couldn't tell me? She is my sister!" Shëanon cried in frustration.
"I knew that you would react poorly, Shea," Aragorn said firmly. "Do you think I wanted to deceive you? I did not want to upset you."
"Upset me?" Shëanon repeated darkly. "Did you not think I would be upset when I found out?"
She watched him press his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids—a mannerism so very similar to her father that it stunned her, and Shëanon suddenly remembered how very similar his upbringing had been to hers. He let out a breath of frustration.
"I had thought that if—when—you learned the truth, this would have all been over—the Ring destroyed and Sauron defeated. You have endured too much, Shea. I did not want to add to your hardships."
She mulled that over for a moment.
"You didn't think I could handle the truth?" she asked eventually, unable to keep the resentment from her voice. Aragorn frowned.
"Shëanon, you have a tendency to…" He hesitated, his voice trailing off. He began to pace in the small space.
"To what?" she asked venomously, following him back and forth with her eyes.
"You are ruled by your emotions," he said plainly, turning to face her as he said it. Shëanon felt like he'd hit her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. She was shaking. Had he just insulted her? It certainly seemed so. Aragorn had never hurt her feelings before; in fact, she could not think of a time that they had ever raised their voices at each other, and because of this she felt all the more hurt by him.
Aragorn stopped pacing to step towards her, grasping both her shoulders in his large, rough hands. His face was full of regret and caring, but it only made her feel worse.
"You'd spent your entire life in Imladris, and then you had to leave your home—your family," he said fiercely. "And you were frightened. You could hardly sleep for weeks, Shea. How could I have added to your suffering?"
Shëanon shoved his hands away.
"Is that how you see me?" she asked furiously. "As a fragile, over-sensitive child? Then why did you let me come?"
"Listen to me—"
"I trusted you," she spat, hating the way her voice wavered. "I thought you were the one person I could depend on and I thought—I thought you trusted me," she admitted, the first few tears finally spilling over. "I tell you everything, Aragorn. I trust you with everything. And you don't even think I'm—what? Stable enough—capable enough to know what has become of my own sister?"
"That is not what I said," Aragorn protested, his tone sharp, but she couldn't even look at him. She stared down at the floor, up at the ceiling—anywhere other than at his face.
Shëanon shook her head.
"I talked about Arwen the night before last. Two nights ago, Aragorn, and we were alone. You could have told me then, but you let me think…"
"I let you hope," he argued vehemently, reaching for her, but she stepped away from him.
"I deserved to know the truth," Shëanon said coldly. "I deserved to know that I would never see my sister again. It was cruel of you to let me think that I still could when you knew it was folly. I should not have had to overhear you telling a stranger a secret about my own family that I didn't even know myself."
Aragorn did not answer for a moment, but she knew what he was about to say and she did not want to hear it.
"Why did she go?" she asked flatly, partly to change the subject and partly because it was suddenly imperative that she know. "She didn't want to; she told me. She was in love with you, she was going to choose mortality for you and stay here—"
"She left because I told her to, Shëanon," Aragorn whispered.
His words, quiet as they had been, rang in her ears. Shëanon gaped.
"What?" she asked, disbelieving, and Aragorn drew himself up to his full height, seeming suddenly to take up half the tent.
"I told her to go," he repeated slowly. "That is the truth. Are you happy?"
He looked angry. He looked broken. Bitter. He looked defiant and exhausted and heartsick and a million other things, but the only emotion that Shëanon could feel was betrayal. She'd thought that she was closer to Aragorn than to anyone else in the world, that he understood her and that she understood him. Now it was clear to her that she had been nothing but a naïve little girl.
She supposed that her heartbreak was showing on her face, for Aragorn's features took on a mantle of tenderness, his brow furrowing and his eyes shining with regret.
"Shea—"
"My name is Shëanon," she snapped, and then she turned on her heel and left the tent.
The night air had become chill; it bit at her flushed skin as she stormed away from him. Her heart was thundering; her vision was blurry and red. How could he? How could he have done such a thing, and how could he have kept it a secret? Numbly, she picked her way around tents and carts and smoking fires surrounded by people; she paid no heed to her footsteps and she did not care where she ended up. To get away from Aragorn and to find someplace where she could be alone were all that she wanted.
Finally, she reached a place where the men and women were only sparsely scattered about, a section of the long line that was mostly carts of supplies and where there were not many Rohirrim camping for the night, and off to the side, slightly away from the edge of the caravan, was a grouping of large boulders. Fury quickly turning to despair, Shëanon made a beeline for the rocks, marching around to the other side and plopping down on the cold grass. Pulling her knees to her chest, she observed her surroundings with a bleak, distant satisfaction. The sounds of the travelers were muted, the stars overhead were bright, and from where she sat she had an acceptable view of the dark plains rolling into the distance ahead. Ensconced behind the rocks, she felt acceptably alone. Then, and only then, did she bow her head and allow herself to cry.
In truth, she was not sure what the worst part of it all was. For one thing, she knew how wholly Aragorn and Arwen loved each other, and she was angry at both of them for forsaking what in her mind had always seemed so right and pure and enduring, angry at the universe for allowing them to leave each other. If Aragorn and Arwen were not going to fight for each other, then really what was there to fight for? They were supposed to win the war and restore peace and Aragorn was supposed to be king and take Arwen as his queen, and though there would be sorrow there would be happiness, too. Shëanon had always believed this with all her heart.
She felt so thoroughly disillusioned. Everything that had always been true and constant and real was suddenly gone and broken and wrecked. Arwen was gone. Aragorn and Arwen were not together. Aragorn had lied to her, deceived her, thought her weak. It was all wrong, and it crushed her.
A fresh wave of anger washed over her. Did no one think she ought to know that her sister was leaving Middle-earth? Would they have had her return to Imladris after everything was done and over, and find that Arwen was gone and would never return?
Bitterly, she tore a fistful of dry grass from the earth and let the blades fall from between her fingers. Suddenly she saw the morning of the fellowship's departure in a new light. She remembered how distant and angry Elladan and Elrohir had first seemed, how Arwen had had tears in her eyes as she had hugged her and how pained she had appeared when the group had left. Aragorn's face that morning had been haggard, and her father's words echoed in her mind: A father seeks always to protect his children. He had wanted Arwen to sail, this she knew, and he had been frightfully aggrieved that day. Shëanon finally understood why. Arwen was leaving and her entire family had grieved for it, but no one had told her. If she were truly their sister, if she were truly Elrond's daughter, would they have told her then?
At this thought, a sob finally slipped past her lips. She sat crying quietly for a few moments, curled in on herself on the dead grass, the hard surface of the rock behind her biting into her skin as she wiped at her tears.
"Aiër?"
She looked up and saw him standing there, having come around the rocks to her hiding place without her noticing. The stars glittered around his dark form, indifferent and mocking so far away, but his eyes held an entirely different kind of light. She looked away from him without speaking, embarrassed that he had found her crying.
He stepped closer. "What is it?"
"Did you know?" she asked, looking up at him again. She watched his eyebrows draw together.
"I know only that you and Aragorn have quarreled," he murmured carefully, his gaze boring into her. "Of what do you speak?"
"About Arwen," Shëanon cried. "Did you know about Arwen?"
Legolas's face immediately creased into an expression of understanding, his eyes glinting sympathetically, and dully Shëanon turned away. She would have become angry with him as well, but she had no more anger left to give. Legolas slowly sat down beside her.
"It was not my place to tell you, Shëanon," he said regretfully. "The matter was between Arwen and Aragorn and your father, and I could not disrespect their wishes and interfere."
Shëanon could not resent him for it, especially when he had barely been acquainted with her when it had all happened. Still, she felt foolish and hurt. Everyone had known except for her. Gimli had probably even known before she did. It was not right. She covered her face with her hands.
"I am sorry," Legolas whispered. "It is painful to be parted from loved ones, this I know. You know that I do."
At that more tears ran down her cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly. Yes, she knew that he did.
"Do not be angry with Aragorn. He was trying to protect her, Shëanon. Would you begrudge him that?"
"They should have told me," she protested, though she knew in her heart that Legolas was right. She had always known how heavily it had weighed on Aragorn—the idea of Arwen relinquishing her mortality for him. It would probably have been more upsetting a fact to Shëanon if she had not grown up knowing already that they had pledged themselves to each other. And with the darkness growing ever more powerful, the danger of Aragorn's death more real everyday, was it such a wonder that he had wanted her to go into the West? Certainly it was clear why Elrond would desire it. Arwen would be safe in Valinor, away from the threat of Mordor, and she would remain immortal. She would be with Celebrían, Shëanon realized. She would be with her mother and when Elrond eventually went west as well, he would be reunited with them both for the rest of time.
There was a strange reluctance in his voice when Legolas spoke. "There was... This caused much anger, aiër. Aragorn and Lord Elrond did not part on good terms. You know that your father loved Aragorn like another son, but their love is now darkened by fear. Think how it must be for him, to lose his daughter to the same fate that took his brother, and all because of one whom he raised and cared for himself? It pains your father to cause them both unhappiness, but he has weighed his priorities and judged his daughter's life to be more important."
"That is for Arwen to decide." Shëanon could not keep the tremor from her voice.
"Maybe," Legolas said gently, "but there is naught we can do about it. You do not know what happened that morning. Elladan and Elrohir almost came to blows."
Shëanon turned to him, stunned. "They almost fought Aragorn?" She asked in horror, her hand moving to cover her mouth. Legolas's eyes flashed, and he shook his head.
"They almost fought each other, aiër," he informed her solemnly. She knew that he was close friends with her brothers, and the gravity of his words shook her. "Elladan defended Arwen in her desire to stay, and he was angered with your father for pushing Aragorn to break her heart. Elrohir, however, agreed with Lord Elrond. Surely you know that he does not take well to the idea of his sister giving up her life's grace? And already they were divided, for they did not agree either on your decision to join the company. Elrohir would not have had you come, and Elladan condemned him for it. Aragorn and I had to pull them apart, Shëanon. I think it is only because you were leaving that they managed to reconcile. I do not even think Arwen knows about that, and yet she, I think, was more upset than anyone else."
The deep timbre of his voice raised chills over her skin as she imagined the scene. The revelation was terrible, like waking from an already bad dream to find that reality was even worse. Elrond had made Aragorn send Arwen away?
"I know that you are angry. I would be angry as well, but try to understand where their hearts were. You were leaving, and unlike Arwen, you were headed into danger rather than away from it. It was hard for you to go, was it not? And everyone knew that you might not return. Your family wished to spare you more grief, aiër. They did not want to send you away in anger and ill will. I must say, I think that in that matter, at least, your father showed wisdom."
"Wisdom?" she repeated tremulously, still trying very hard to take back her composure.
Legolas frowned at her.
"If you had been a part of all that I just told you, do you think you would have left Imladris that day?" He asked.
Shëanon grimaced, knowing the answer.
"I am surprised they did not use it all to their advantage," she admitted. "They did not want me to go, and if I had known all that, I would have stayed in Rivendell. It would have been wisdom to tell me what was happening."
"No, aiër," Legolas said quietly. "Your place was with the company. Lord Elrond knew that, however much he did not at first wish to admit it. Indeed he was very wise in this, and it should not surprise you, for your father is both wise and honorable. He could have acted selfishly, and yet he did not."
"And yet Arwen's place is with Aragorn, but my father seems to have acted selfishly in that," she said bitterly, looking down at the grass. Her tears had finally ceased. "Why is that, I wonder?"
Throughout the entire conversation, Legolas had not touched her. He had not so much as laid a hand upon her shoulder, but finally he moved towards her, gripping her arms and turning her to face him as he spoke in a low, stern voice.
"Do not do that to yourself, Shëanon," he ordered fiercely. "Do you think your thoughts are not clear to me? Your father loves you. It is your grief that mars your vision now."
Shëanon was startled by the intensity of his gaze, the hardness of his jaw, but she shook her head, saying nothing. Legolas sighed.
"I know this news is difficult for you, but you will see your sister again, aiër, as you will see your father and brothers. One day you too will go west, and you will be reunited with them once more," he assured her in a gentler tone. "I know that is little consolation for you. You are young, and what is but the blink of an eye for our kind must still seem like an eternity to you, but you will not be parted from Arwen forever."
"You don't know that," she said flatly. She had to keep her eyes trained away from him, lest she find herself lost in his gaze. His hands remained on her arms, burning her skin even through the fabric, and she felt his fingers tighten ever so slightly in response to her words.
"I do know it," he said with finality. "Your sister goes to the Undying Lands."
Shëanon scowled at him and made to move away, but he held her firm in his grasp.
"Look at me," he said, but she kept her head bowed. Suddenly she felt afraid. Legolas sighed again and bent his head so that he spoke close by her ear. "Do you think I do not understand how you feel?" he asked softly. "Do you think I do not understand your anger?"
"You have no idea how I feel!" Shëanon cried, pushing away from him. He released her arms, but he caught her wrists as she made to stand, preventing her from rising and as a result they both knelt upright before each other on their knees. She glared at him, her face and neck burning from an irrational but deep anger, and she tried to pull from his hold even as she looked upon his fair hair and infuriatingly handsome face, which was magnificent even as he looked at her so severely.
"Then explain to me how you feel," he said evenly, his eyes piercing her in a terrible way.
"I cannot," she grit out, though her limbs were trembling at this point and as her temper left her desperation took its place.
It seemed that Legolas could tell, for his face lost some of its harshness. "Try," he prompted, his eyes scanning her face.
Shëanon bit her lip.
"I cannot help you if you do not let me, Shëanon."
"I do not want your help," she muttered. Even she could not tell if it was lie or not. All she knew was that she was frightened.
"Do you not?" he asked calmly, but his voice held dissatisfaction and she heard it clearly. "Would you rather suffer?"
Shëanon actually flinched. "You know nothing of my suffering," she whispered. She had tried for the same calmness with which he had spoken, but her voice broke halfway through and there was little she could do to hide how she felt. Legolas clearly noticed, and she shuddered as his fingers left her wrists and trailed up her arms to her shoulders.
"I would know if you would but tell me," he said quietly, his eyes cutting her, and Shëanon desperately drew away.
Finally he let her stand, but she felt unsteady on her feet. What was wrong with her? What was she doing?
"I don't want your pity," she said, and it was not untrue, but she regretted her words as Legolas rose, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashing.
"My pity?" he repeated darkly, quietly. He did not reach to touch her again, but it did not matter, for she could not move. "No. It is my affection that you have."
Her stomach leapt, her face burned, and she stared at him uncertainly. He met her gaze unfalteringly until she could bear it no longer and looked down again at her hands.
"Why do you think you will not see Arwen again?" He asked quietly. "Do you think you will never go west?"
Shëanon shrugged and crossed her arms over herself; she had begun to feel very strange, as though at any moment her body might fly apart. She trembled from head to toe and her heartbeat felt erratic and unsure; distantly she wondered what had come over her to make her act so strangely.
"Aiër, the Dominion of Men is foretold. There will come a time when all elves are called to Elvenhome. Even if you tried to resist it, you would find yourself in Aman eventually," he reasoned.
"I am a half-elf, Legolas, not an elf," she whispered anxiously.
Legolas stepped closer to her.
"Is not your sister peredhel herself? And she goes now to the west as Eärendil and Elwing before her."
Shëanon did not even realize that she was beginning to cry again until she felt her lip tremble, and she pressed her fist against her mouth.
"You don't understand," she cried.
Legolas suddenly flinched, and to her astonishment he went rigid and stepped away from her. Through her tear-filled eyes she watched as his hands curled into fists, and for a moment he looked away from her face. It was the most blatant display of agitation she had ever seen from him, and for some reason it ignited something in her chest.
"You think to choose mortality?" he asked at last, his regard almost too intense to take even while his tone was almost utterly dispassionate. Shëanon stared.
"What?" she asked in bewilderment, her voice raspy and tight. It took her a moment to understand what he'd asked. "No."
His expression cleared a bit, his stance losing some of the rigidity, but the tension between them did not abate. He lifted his chin.
"Then of what do you speak," he murmured, "if not your choice?"
Shëanon began to weep openly, bowing her head so that he would not see how badly she was crying, and it took her a long moment to steady herself enough to answer.
"That's the point," she explained wretchedly. "I don't think I have a choice."
Legolas furrowed his eyebrows.
"You are peredhel," he said firmly. "The peredhil can choose to which race they wish to belong—"
"No," Shëanon cried, shaking her head. Only her pride kept her from looking away from him. "No, that's not true. The Valar said that the line of Eärendil and Elwing would get to choose, not all half-Elven."
There was a pause as Legolas stared at her and Shëanon tried to get control of herself. The elf's expression was indecipherable as he watched her wipe her cheeks with her sleeves.
"Do you wish to choose mortality and fear that you will not be able to?" he asked at last.
She sniffled and looked at him in confusion.
"No," she whispered. "I do not want to be mortal."
Legolas continued to stare, but she didn't know what to say. She waited for him to speak with her heart in her throat, feeling lightheaded and hot all over.
Finally he moved, stepping closer again until their bodies were almost touching, and then to her surprise he lifted both hands to her face, gently brushing away her tears with his thumbs.
"Forgive me, aiër, but I do not understand the problem," he whispered, and indeed his voice sounded apologetic and compassionate in a way that made her close her eyes. His hands were so large but so very gentle, but as much as she enjoyed the feeling of his touch on her face, it was not enough to quell her fears or diminish her shame.
She took a deep breath.
"It is the opposite," she breathed. "I would choose to be counted among the elves, but I worry that I might not be allowed a choice. What if I am not allowed in the west? What if I am mortal? I have aged like a mortal until now. And then I will whither and die and go to where Men go, but the ways of the Eldar are all I have ever known and—and I—"
Legolas wrapped his arms around her, and she felt herself held against his strong body, his jaw resting near her temple as he slowly shook his head.
"What are you saying, aiër? You are immortal already. You do not need to choose it."
His quiet voice near her ear made her heart throb, and she pressed her face against his shoulder. Why did it feel so safe, to be held by him this way? She was always nervous when he touched her; even as well as she had come to know him and as much as she had come to trust him, she always felt that twinge of panic when he touched her or when he looked at her in that way of his, like he could see directly into her. As he embraced her in that moment, however, she felt only a kind of disconcerting rightness and a sense of comfort that under any other circumstances might have alarmed her.
"But you don't know that," she choked, feeling him bring one hand to the nape of her neck. She started as she felt the tips of his fingers touch the skin there, but his words distracted her from the movement.
"You are immortal, aiër, I assure you," he murmured. The hand that was not at the back of her neck gripped her waist, his arm clasped firmly around her. "The life of the Eldar is in you."
Shëanon shook her head.
"You sound like my father," she cried.
"Then why do you not believe me?" he asked quietly. She had not felt cold before, but in his arms she felt so very warm.
"I just don't understand how you can be so sure," she said softly against the soft cloth of his tunic. She had wet the fabric there with her tears, but he did not seem to mind.
"What do you mean, aiër?" he whispered. The way he asked made it clear to her that he considered the answer to be obvious, but she truly did not know. Embarrassed, she shrugged against him.
Legolas drew away from her just slightly and looked down into her face. She had to tilt her head back, for he was taller even than her brothers. He was frowning, his forehead creased, but she could feel caring in his gaze as he looked down at her. Affection he had said. What had he meant?
"I can feel it, Shëanon."
"Feel what?" she asked anxiously. His eyes roved over her, as though he were analyzing even the tiniest details of her expression. His frown had deepened, her heart lurching nervously at the sight.
"Close your eyes, aiër," he murmured at last. She tensed.
"Why?" she asked hesitantly, fearing the intense way he was looking at her.
"So that I can answer your question," he said patiently, clearly waiting for her to obey.
Shëanon bit her lip. He knew that she didn't like being unable to see...
"Shëanon."
"What are you going to do?" she asked nervously. She had hardly moved an inch since he had taken her into his arms, but she was as still as stone as she gazed up at him.
"Close your eyes, young one. Trust me," he said lowly. She hesitated a moment longer, trying to read his impassive features, but she finally decided that she was being foolish. Was this not the elf who guarded her sleep, the ellon who she had let into her bed? With one last glance at his dark eyes, she let hers close.
For a moment nothing happened, and she waited with bated breath to see what he would do. Then his fingers left her neck and she felt him take her hand in his. He laid her palm on his chest, over his heart, and held it there exactly as he had in Lothlórien.
"Do you remember how I taught you to listen to the trees, aiër?" he asked lowly, and, trembling, she nodded.
"Can you feel my heart?" he asked. She could. It pounded just beneath her hand; even his heartbeat seemed to speak of strength, beating so surely and steadily. Her own seemed to be staggering. Again she nodded.
His thumb caressed the back of her hand.
"Clear your mind," he whispered. "Focus on me—on my heartbeat and my voice and my touch."
Shëanon flinched. At once she knew exactly what he had been hoping to accomplish, for as soon as she'd done what he said, she felt it. It hadn't been very difficult or taken very long to focus all her attention on him, on the feel of his heart, the heat of his body against hers, his hand at the small of her back and his other covering her own as she breathed in the smell of him, heard his clear, fair voice and pictured his noble face... In an instant she was aware of it, of the feel of him before and all around her, intangible and yet so very real. That was all she could describe it as—an awareness, this feeling against her body and mind that was so clearly Legolas. He was right in that it was like the feeling of the trees in Fangorn, only different. So very different. So much more. And almost as soon as she felt it, she realized she had felt it before many times without ever truly focusing enough to realize what it was. It was the sensation she'd had when she had first met him and had become speechless as he'd kissed her hand. It was what was there that night in the rain beneath the outcropping of rock when he had tried to keep her warm, and she had barely been able to think straight. But the only times she had felt it so directly as she felt it right then were those times in Moria and Lothlórien and the night before, when she had fallen asleep in his arms. He had said that he'd been taking away her fear, and this was how he had been doing it.
"Legolas?" she breathed, unnerved.
"That is my fëa you feel," he told her, but she had known that at once. She opened her eyes to look at him, but the sensation did not go away. She could still feel him as powerfully as before, and she saw that he was studying her face. She was at a loss for words.
"You perceive the fëa of every elf you meet, aiër, though you may not realize it. You might know it as a feeling belonging to that person. When someone walks up behind you, Elladan or Elrohir perhaps, you can you tell which one it is before you turn, can you not? That is because you sense and recognize their fëa without even trying."
Shëanon was gaping at him. He was right, of course, for she knew exactly what he was talking about. She knew perfectly well what he described, that feeling that she felt only with Arwen or with her father or even Glorfindel that was a part of them. She had never given much thought to it. It was so natural, as natural as the way they looked or smelled or the sound of their laughter, and yet so subtle that it seemed almost to be simply an emotion inside herself, the way they made her feel within her own being rather than something belonging exclusively to them.
She had grown up so immersed in this sensation that she had never thought to question it. Why had no one ever explained it to her? She knew, of course, that every elf possessed both a unique hröa and fëa—a body and soul—and that the fëar of the elves were bound eternally to the world. She knew as well that it was the joining of the hröar and fëar that bound two elves in marriage. These things had been taught to her, explained in detail when she was younger.
Never, however, had anyone put into words what Legolas had just described. How had she never known? Was she supposed to have just understood implicitly? She did not know, but she was floored by the information and its implications.
"Every living thing has a soul," Legolas continued. "But only can the fëar of the Firstborn be perceived the way you now feel mine. If you were to go to Aragorn right now and seek out his fëa, you would find that what you feel is... Remote. You might feel the goodness of it, but that is all. You would not know his from another's, and you would know that it is fleeting. Other beings walk this earth as guests only, aiër, and then they die and their souls depart."
Every word that he spoke jarred her. Frantically, she tried to call to her mind the feeling belonging to Aragorn that corresponded to those that belonged to her other loved ones. She imagined sitting with him beneath their tree while he smoked his pipe and they listened to the birds. Legolas was right; she came up short. She could only come up with the way being with Aragorn made her feel, but not the way Aragorn himself felt. It stunned her.
She looked back up at Legolas, wide-eyed. He was watching her closely.
"I need not touch you to feel your fëa, aiër," he told her solemnly. "I have felt it since first we met, and it is strong. If you were to be counted among the Edain, to die and depart this world, I assure you that I would not be able to feel your fëa as I can. That is what I meant when I said that the life of the Eldar is in you."
For a moment, her mind whirred and she gazed into his eyes. Then, without thinking, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly as she both laughed and cried against his strong chest. The relief that she felt was so powerful that it staggered her. She was immortal. She would see Arwen again. She would not be sundered from her family.
"I did not know—no one ever said—hannon le," she choked.
For an instant, he did not move, and Shëanon experienced a moment of panic. Perhaps she had overstepped, but then his arms came back around her, more tightly than before. She wasn't sure how to explain the onslaught of emotion that she felt. Joy and gratitude and humility, and regret for the way that she had spoken to him, and perhaps, just a little bit, fear.
"Hannon le," she whispered again, drawing a shuddering breath as Legolas pressed her against him.
"I have done nothing, aiër," he said. One of his hands trailed up and down her back, the sensation so pleasurable and assuring that Shëanon closed her eyes again, her fingers curling into the cloth of his shirt just beneath his shoulder blades.
"Have you never spoken of this to anyone?" he asked hesitantly. His chin rested on top of her head. Something in his voice gave her pause, however, and she flushed. He had put an end to her worries so easily and so simply, and it was clear that she could have been reassured long ago if she had but mentioned her fears to someone in Rivendell.
"I told you that I... do not like to talk about... about..."
Legolas grasped her shoulders and eased her away from him. Reluctantly she lifted her head from his shoulder and met his gaze. He was staring down at her, looking as though he wanted to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it. Suddenly Shëanon went rigid, realizing what exactly she had done, to throw herself upon the prince of Mirkwood as she had. She was just about to step away from him when he shook his head and pressed his palms against her back.
"You are ridiculous, Shëanon," he said seriously, his contemplative gaze roving thoughtfully over her face.
Ridiculous? Shëanon was unsure whether to feel indignant or wounded; certainly she felt very vulnerable and the words stung, and she bristled that he would say such a thing to her. To her bewilderment, however, and to her immense relief, his expression softened when he saw the stricken look on her face; his piercing eyes glittered with understanding as he continued.
"You slept on top of me for half the night, and now you worry over this?" he asked, clearly referring to their embrace. His tone was both teasing and utterly serious—the words soft and gentle but the question pointed—and despite the heat that rushed to her face and her accompanying grimace, Shëanon allowed herself to relax. He was right. She was ridiculous.
A sound escaped her that was somewhere between an anxious laugh and a sigh of relief, and feeling sheepish, she leaned forward to rest her cheek against his chest once more. They stood without speaking for several long moments; she listened to his heartbeat again, still feeling rather stunned to know that it was his fëa that shimmered against her consciousness. Finally, her pulse returned to normal, her breathing slowed, and while her eyes felt dry from her tears, the myriad of unbearable, unprecedented emotions that had overwhelmed her that evening seemed to have finally abated. And it was because of him.
"Legolas?" she whispered. She felt the movement of his jaw brushing along her hair as he looked down at the top of her head, and, feeling more peaceful than she had in a long, long time, Shëanon stretched up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his cheek.
A/N: So. That's that, I suppose. Again, I'm so sorry for the long time it took me to update. I wrote as often as I could, I promise! In total, though, these three chapters ended up being more than 50 pages so hopefully you guys enjoy that! I know what you're probably thinking: 50 pages and they aren't even at Helm's Deep yet? I know! I'm sorry! But a lot can happen in a few days and clearly this little excursion was uh... dramatic? Please let me know what you guys think! Some of this stuff was a bit different from my usual chapters; I wanted to make sure that there were some lighter moments since this story is so heavy in general. Like. The journey from Edoras to Helm's Deep should be called The Angst Road or something because Shea was all over the place.
As always, I want to thank you all for your patience and your support! You guys are awesome readers and your enthusiasm and understanding continues to amaze me! I love you guys and I hope you enjoy these chapters! I have finals coming up so I'll be busy but then I'll be on break and I'm hoping to bang out as many chapters as possible! Let me know that you think and thanks again xoxo