Aiër Chapter 17
Shëanon was relieved the next day to hear Háma declare that they would reach Helm's Deep at around midday. For one thing, she was eager to get the people of Edoras to safety; during the night, she had begun to feel ill at ease and the feeling had persisted into the morning. She strained her ears and gazed over the land, searching for even the slightest indication of danger, but everything was still. It was too still, she decided, and the skin at the back of her neck prickled as they journeyed. Shëanon did not like it at all.
Her second reason for wanting to get to Helm's Deep quickly was that, quite frankly, she was feeling terribly awkward. She had not spoken to Aragorn once since the previous night. She had not even looked at him. In the morning, when she had been getting her things together, he had come up beside her and said her name. In answer, she'd turned her back on him and hefted herself atop Hasufel, and she'd ridden away without a backward glance.
Shëanon grimaced at the thought and looked down at her hands. It had been immature and disrespectful of her to behave that way, she knew, for not only was he her oldest friend but he was also her superior and her leader. She was not, however, ready to face him again. Despite all that Legolas had told her of what had happened in Rivendell and despite her understanding of his intentions, she was still not happy with him. The fact that she felt tense and uncomfortable because of the situation bothered her immensely,an avoiding him only made her realize how dependent on him she was; all throughout their journey, she had stayed close to his side. She had never noticed before how ingrained was her inclination to be near to him, to heed his judgment and follow his lead. It should not have been a surprise, for he had always had her allegiance and trust, but in the pale light of the overcast afternoon she felt decidedly out of place and anxious.
A sharp whinny brought her out of her thoughts.
"This animal has it in for me," Gimli huffed, grasping at the pommel of his saddle to keep from falling as Arod jostled him. "It can tell I'm not the Elf!"
"Dartho, Arod," Shëanon murmured, seeing the horse dance restlessly. "Thala, mellon nín."
Arod snorted at her in agitation but steadied his gate. For some reason, Gimli had finally agreed to ride that morning and had ridden beside her throughout the day. He was probably regretting his decision, she thought, for the horse had been on edge into the afternoon and Shëanon herself had been poor company. In fact, she suspected that he was only riding with her out of kindness and was using Arod as a pretense to stay near to her, for she knew that he'd heard at least some of the argument the night before. If that were true then she was grateful for his thoughtfulness. Legolas had gone ahead again to keep watch, and she would surely have passed a very isolated morning if it hadn't been for the dwarf's consideration.
"He can tell that you're anxious," she informed Gimli when he continued to grumble. She smiled slightly. "And that you don't like him."
"I'd like him better if he didn't keep trying to toss me to ground," he said indignantly, and Shëanon smiled again. While she persisted that Arod was simply reacting to the obvious agitation of his rider, she had a feeling that Gimli would have been complaining on even the most well behaved horse. Clearly it was for the best that he rode with Legolas.
Shëanon bit her lip. She had been unwilling to return to Aragorn and Gimli the night before, as emotional as she'd been and as upset with Aragorn as she'd still felt, so she and Legolas had sat together side by side against the rocks, speaking quietly until the sun rose. She had been stricken by the familiarity of the position, so similar to the way they'd sat together in Moria or under the outcropping in the rain, and at some point during the night he took her hand as he had on those other occasions. She had leaned her head against his shoulder, enjoying the quiet sound of his voice, so content that she'd almost fallen asleep. The memory stirred strange sensations in her, and heat rushed to her face. He had felt so solid and warm, and she could almost still smell the clean smell of him, like pine and wind and mountain air; perhaps it lingered on her due to their many hours of closeness during the night, she realized, and she blushed all the more for the notion.
'Aragorn said that I am ruled by my emotions,' she'd whispered into the night air, watching as his thumb ran back and forth over her knuckles.
'Did he?'
'Yes,' she'd answered, waiting patiently for his response. When it did not come, she'd looked up at the side of his face, seeing him in profile as she remained comfortably leaning against his side. He was gazing out over the hills. 'Do you think he's right?'
Even from her perspective, she'd been able to see the downward turn of his mouth. He had remained silent for a moment.
'I do not think he is wrong,' he'd replied eventually, looking down at her. He must have seen the dejected set of her face, for he'd shifted then to sit up straighter.
'That is not necessarily a bad thing, aiër,' he had murmured. 'Seldom will you be led astray by listening to your heart.'
The words had affected her more than Legolas had probably realized; she'd frowned as she'd rested her head against him once more, for she had known the will of her heart in that moment but she had not dared to listen…
"Dwarves are not horsemen, and for good reason. What use is there for horses when still we travel more slowly than a herd of old goats? For three days and nights we chased those hobbits, and our feet carried us more swiftly than this!" the dwarf said emphatically, but Shëanon was no longer listening. Her attention was over the hills, for a shadow had suddenly fallen across her thoughts and her unease from the night had returned tenfold. Something was not right. She tensed.
"Lassie?"
"I think I hear something," she told him, listening urgently, though the sound of her own pulse became loud in her ears and she had to strain to hear over it. She need not have worried, however, for the next sound that came was clear and unmistakable: it was the sound of a man's scream.
Shëanon cursed, seizing her bow and gazing anxiously into the distance. She was unsure of what to do, but she knew also that there might not have been time for deliberation. The guards could have been under attack. Orcs? Wargs? Both? She made her decision in an instant.
"Find Aragorn and tell him there's trouble ahead," she told the dwarf hastily, already urging Hasufel forward.
"Now wait just a minute!" she could hear Gimli spluttering behind her. She felt a stab of uncertainty. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to ride ahead and find out what's happening," she called over her shoulder, halting just for an instant to look back at him. The dwarf looked both alarmed and confused and she experienced a moment of guilt, but then another scream sounded and, adrenaline pumping through her, she wheeled about and brought Hasufel into a run.
"Noro lim, Hasufel," she murmured near the horse's ear, urging him to go faster as the sound of battle drifted over the hills. Shëanon tried not to panic; she would be able to hear it if there were a large army. The struggle she was hearing sounded small-scale, from what she could tell, but that did not mean much.
It didn't take long to find the guards; even before she crested the final hill, she was assaulted by the smell of fresh blood and putrid death. She heard something that sounded like the bark of a dog, only coarser and more terrible, and she blanched. Wargs. She had never seen one before, but she did not have time for any gruesome imaginings before Hasufel bore her around the bend and she was able to see the beast for herself first hand.
Shëanon went utterly rigid, her eyes going wide as she dazedly tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
About twenty feet from her, stark against the grass, she saw Háma's dead eyes gaping open, his arm and shoulders soaked in blood. The other half of his body was sprawled in a grotesque heap several paces away, and his intestines spilled from his mangled torso. His horse was similarly mauled; Gamling appeared to be desperately urging his own mount to its feet, and its eyes were rolling in terror as it attempted to stand. The warg, which was more massive than she could ever have guessed, lay dead already. Its jaw hung slack and its yellow teeth were stained scarlet; a silver fletched arrow was through its eye. Finally—belatedly, even though she had been on the scene for only a second—she turned and saw Legolas. His long knives gleamed, slashing through the air as she watched him end the life of the Orc before him.
"A scout!" he shouted, kicking the flailing creature away from himself as its blood stained the grass. Shëanon did not know when he'd noticed her, but she stared at him for a moment in shock, stricken by the gore. She had seen so much bloodshed and death, indeed she had even shed much blood herself, but the sight of the man ripped apart and disemboweled turned her stomach. Only Legolas's sharp voice broke her unmoving horror.
"There will be more of them, Shëanon! Go!" he commanded, already turning and hurrying away from her.
Coming back to her senses with a start, Shëanon bolted back towards the Rohirrim. Hasufel's hooves thundered over the dry earth and she could have sworn that her own heart was beating just as quickly as she reached the head of the caravan once more. She thought she would have to seek out Aragorn or perhaps even Théoden, but Gimli had apparently done as she'd asked; the ranger was already barreling toward her.
"Warg riders," she gasped at him as soon as he was close enough to hear, and he cursed as he turned back to the others.
"What is it? What did she see?" Théoden shouted as Aragorn sprinted back down the hill to swing onto Brego.
"Wargs! We're under attack!" Aragorn called as he finally reached his mount. The men and women who had heard the commotion began to scream and panic, and Shëanon had to clutch at fistfuls of Hasufel's mane as he reared, distressed by the sudden chaos and certainly feeling her own growing fear. Aragorn hardly ever relinquished his mask of confidence and ability in the face of danger, but his worry had been plain on his face as he'd shouted to the king. It frightened her.
She sat panting, her horse stamping as the king called for the warriors to go to battle.
"All riders to the head of the column! Eorlingas!"
There was pandemonium, horns blown and women screaming and Rohirrim jumping onto horses that began to sprint off. Then at last Aragorn was mounted and riding and Shëanon let out a breath as she pushed after him; her feelings of betrayal were momentarily forgotten, for still she would follow his lead.
Théoden was still shouting over the rumble of the many horses, but Shëanon did not know what he was saying. Her heart seemed to have taken up residence in her throat. Her few instances of battle experience had been nothing like what was transpiring around her. The Men had rallied at the command of their king, the static charge in the air affecting even her. Thinking became unnecessary; her entire existence seemed to have spiraled down to instinct and feeling: Hasufel galloping over the wasted grass, the feel of her bow clutched in her hand, the anticipation of what was to come, knowing that she had to fight—had to defend the innocent women and children fleeing to Helm's Deep. Panting just from the adrenaline, she focused her attention on the task at hand.
She could see them ahead. Each warg bore an orc upon its back, and even at a distance—which was rapidly closing—her half-elven eyes could perceive the horrible, sneering expressions on their faces; there was an eagerness there to shed blood that simultaneously made her stomach roil and her vision go red at the edges. They would relish the gruesome slaughter of any they could get their hands on, and, knowing that Hasufel would run true, she dropped the reigns to knock an arrow. It found its mark.
Only vaguely was she aware of Aragorn beside her, of Legolas appearing ahead and seeking out Arod among the riders. She continued to fire, watching orcs and wargs crumple and fall under her assault. Then, before she had realized what was happening, there came the sound of great bodies colliding and cries of pain and clashing metal as the two advancing charges met and collided.
Shëanon continued with her bow for as long as she could, for with it she could fell the wargs at a distance and then their riders found themselves at an extreme disadvantage amidst the stomping battle horses of Rohan, but she could only do so for so long before she had to draw her sword. She slashed at the exposed throats of her does, driving her blade through their eyes and chests; it was a manner of combat that she had not trained in—it was one thing for an elleth to train in archery and swordsmanship, but it had perhaps never occurred to anyone in Rivendell to instruct her in what was so blatantly warfare and it had never occurred to her to ask. It did not seem to matter, however, for her skills held and the bloodlust in her won out so that she was in a daze of flashing iron and killing and survival.
"Oof!"
Shëanon hadn't seen the warg leap at her until she was knocked from Hasufel to the hard earth. She let out a shriek, landing hard on the ribs that had not completely healed. In pain and with the wind knocked out of her, she barely registered what had happened and it was only by sheer luck that she managed to hold on to her sword and drive it through the beast's skull before it could tear her head off. For a moment she stared at the animal in shock; it convulsed and fell, its bloodstained muzzle but inches from her face, and then finally the sounds of the ongoing battle drew her from her horror. Panting and shaking, she scrambled to her feet and desperately searched for Hasufel. He had been knocked over but appeared unharmed, as he was rising and coming toward her when she caught sight of him. She sprinted to the horse, knowing that she was much more vulnerable on the ground, and finished the battle safely in the saddle. Finally, she cut down one last foe and raised her blade to take on another when she realized that there were no more left. Her heart still pounding, she surveyed the area around her and found that most of the Rohirrim were either doing as she was—warily ascertaining that the battle was over—or else driving their blades through one last orc or warg. It was done.
Shëanon let out a breath, lowering her sword at last and slumping slightly where she sat.
"Hannon le, Hasufel," she breathed against his mane, leaning as close as she could to his ear and stroking his neck with trembling fingers.
Théoden and Gamling were ordering to get the wounded onto horses, and she hastily began to help, leaping to the ground with several other men to pull a warrior out from under the body of a dead stallion. It was not until caught sight of Arod, riderless and alone, did she realize with a burst of dread that she had not seen any of her companions since the beginning of the fight.
There were men everywhere, up on horses and sprawled dead on the grass and walking among the fallen, and with increasing panic Shëanon began to move among them more and more quickly, her gaze roving in desperation over their faces. Just when she had begun to truly fear and was about to call out, she caught sight of Legolas's pale hair at the other end of what had been the field of battle. Gimli was with him, and she ran to them. It made her sick that she had to jump over the corpses of orcs and wargs to reach their side, but she was so anxious that she was unwilling to take the time to navigate around.
They were standing at the edge of a cliff, and as she approached Théoden joined them. Shëanon's stomach dropped; as she'd been running she had not noticed their rigid posture, but they turned to her as she finally reached them and their expressions hit her like a punch to the face.
"What—What's happened?" she panted, the solemnity of their gazes pinching all over her skin, battering against her lungs. No.
She looked from face to face, from Théoden's noble sympathy to Gimli's staggering remorse, and by the time she looked to Legolas she was in tears.
"Legolas?" she begged, needing him to deny it, to say anything but what she dreaded he would say, for Aragorn was not there and she knew…
Legolas stared at her for a moment, his eyes unbearable as she trembled from head to toe, and then at last he stepped toward her. He grasped her shoulders, looking down into her face, his hands beginning to rub up and down along her arms as he spoke.
"Shëanon—" he began in the most terrible tone she had ever heard from him. NO.
"Where is Aragorn?" she demanded. Her voice sounded high and almost hysterical, but Legolas was looking at her with such pity and sorrow that she could not breathe. His grip tightened on her arms, and as she waited he did not speak and she was sure that she would die if he did not answer her, did not say that Aragorn was safe and whole and would be with them shortly. "Where is he?"
The elf's gaze bore into her in the most excruciating way.
"Shëanon," he murmured, "he was taken over the cliff."
Shëanon blinked at him, unmoving for a moment as she processed that information, and then she pushed away and darted with a kind of blind panic to the earth's ledge. Legolas let her go, saying nothing as she rushed over the jagged rock to survey the turbulent water below; she could see nothing but the foaming spray of the rapids. They were very, very far down. She felt like she couldn't breathe. The idea of Aragorn falling that terrible distance…
"Well—Well then we have to go look for him," she said tremulously, wiping at her eyes. "Saruman will surely send more patrols, and if he is wounded then we must—we must…"
"Shëanon," Legolas said quietly, but she ignored him. It seemed to her that the entire world was crumbling.
"We must hurry, if he has been swept down river then—"
"Shëanon," he said again. He was shaking his head as she turned to him, his expression impassive but his eyes anguished, and something inside her broke.
"We cannot leave him!" she cried, clasping her arms against her chest for fear that she was about to fall apart.
"We must go now to Helm's Deep."
"No!" she argued. "I will not leave him! I won't!"
"Lady Shëanon," said Théoden, speaking for the first time. "The wolves of Isengard will return. We have not the time to see to the dead. I am sorry."
"He is not dead!" she shouted, cutting across him before he was even finished. She did not care that she was shouting at a king, or that Legolas and Gimli were regarding her with unspeakable pity. All she cared about was that Aragorn could not have been dead and everyone needed to agree with her at once.
"I will take my leave of you," Théoden murmured in a kind voice that should have shamed her, and with one last nod to Legolas and Gimli, he strode away.
As the king left, Legolas gestured toward the assembling Men and horses.
"We must ride, aiër," he said. His voice was both full of regret and authority.
She looked at him for a moment through her burning eyes, and then she turned beseechingly toward Gimli. It was clear that both would go to Helm's Deep with the Rohirrim.
"I won't go." Her stomach was burning. Her chest was burning. Everything was closing in on her like one giant, burning vice.
"Shëanon, these hills will soon be overrun," Legolas said, suddenly sounding stern. "We can do nothing for Aragorn now."
He might as well have hit her.
"You go, then," she spat. "I'm going to take Hasufel to find him!"
"You will do as I say," Legolas said sharply, eyes flashing. It was an order, a command, and for a moment she could only stare at him. Then her face crumpled, tears spilling onto her cheeks, and a sob came all the way up from her chest.
"Come now, lass," Gimli said in his gruff voice, but Shëanon stormed past both of them. Brokenly, she called for Hasufel, knowing that the Rohirrim were staring, and the horse obediently came to her side. She felt numb to everything in the world that was not anger or anguish. She noticed that Gimli and Legolas were mounting Arod beside her only because she was so furious with both of them, but in her heart her real fury was for Eru and the Valar and Saruman and every orc and warg on the earth for taking Aragorn from her. She was angry at herself, angry at Aragorn, just so, so angry. Most of the tears that rolled over her skin were tears of anger, for the anger protected her from the unbearable grief she could feel inside her. She knew that it was going to destroy her.
She half wondered if Hasufel had fallen in with the other riders by himself when she realized that they were at a gallop, for she certainly had not in any way directed the horse. As Helm's Deep came into view before them she let him do all the work, trusting that he would bear her there when she could hardly care enough to keep herself seated. The ride to the Deep was in truth perhaps only fifteen minutes, but to Shëanon it lasted a century. Over and over she saw the look on Legolas's face and the crashing river at the bottom of the cliff and she pictured Aragorn falling… falling… She was not even sure how it had happened, but the sickening image that she had conjured was so vivid that she had to press her fist against her mouth to keep from wailing her horror.
Her composure—if it could be called that—was wavering as they finally approached the gates of the Hornburg. The fortress was built entirely of stone, set into the mountains, but she did not even take the time to wonder over the massive stone walls or the impressive solidity of the garrison. Certainly the enemy would be hard pressed to penetrate the structure, but she scorned safety in that moment. She wanted danger, she craved recklessness and bloodshed and death. She wanted to kill something. She was not so sure she was unwilling to die herself. She just needed so desperately to relieve the harrowing agony that was swiftly closing in.
"It is the king! Raise the gate for the Lord of the Mark! Hail Théoden King!"
Trumpets blew. A horn sounded. Everything was grey: the stone and the walls and the sea of faces—men and women and children alike, crowded inside as the riders passed into the keep. Everything was too much. The walls were too close and the air too dense and there were too many people and Shëanon was suffocating; she was sure of it. The clop of hooves over rock blended with the jabber of voices and the pounding of her heart. As soon as she realized that she could dismount, Shëanon leapt from Hasufel and fled. Under other circumstances she would never have left the horse without taking care of him herself, but many horses had returned rider-less to the fortress, their riders slain, and she knew that he would be taken care of. Certainly Théoden and Gamling and the others would not be tending to their own animals, and Shëanon needed to be alone, to find a place away from the loudness and the closeness because, by the Valar, she could not bear it.
Heedless of everything but the burning in her body, she pushed her way through the crowd, entering the fortress, rushing as far into the building as she could go in search of any place of isolation. It appeared that she would find no such place, for the keep was packed full of refugees and every available space was taken up, but as she darted through narrow passages and down stairs, she eventually found dim, low-ceilinged halls that were relatively empty. She tried the first door she came across and nearly wept to find a storeroom full of barrels and crates. Hastily she stepped inside and pressed the door closed behind her. Only a narrow shaft of light near the ceiling at the opposite end of the room provided any kind of visibility once the door was closed, but she could see well enough. The room was crammed with as much as could be fit inside, it seemed, for the barrels and boxes were stacked high and only a narrow path down the center of the chamber allowed for any kind of movement.
Gasping for breath, she staggered past the supplies to the very back corner of the room, where she found a small space between the wall and the crates. She curled up there, hugging her knees to her body and hiding her face against her arms, wondering if perhaps she could make herself small enough to disappear. Then she wept. In truth she had been crying the entire way back to Helm's Deep, but it was more of a numb, silent crying than anything else. There in that tiny room, however, she wept and wept and wept. She cried so hard that she could hardly draw breath; her breathing was so erratic that she was gasping and dizzy.
'He can't be dead,' she thought, over and over and over. 'He can't he can't he can't…'
It was worse than when Gandalf had fallen. It was worse than any pain she had ever experienced. The very idea that Aragorn was gone—that she would never see him again—was agony. The fire she had felt in her chest in Lothlórien had returned tenfold; the grief was inexpressible, insurmountable, and rather than bring her relief her tears seemed only to make the suffering worse.
Of everything she had feared since leaving Rivendell, of every hardship she had faced or had anticipated facing, losing Aragorn was a tragedy so terrible she had hardly ever considered it. It was impossible. Aragorn had survived countless battles. He had faced down the Nazgûl. He had gotten them through Moria and Amon Hen. Aragorn did not die. He could not die. He couldn't. If anything in all of Arda were true, it was that Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and heir to the throne of Gondor, could not be killed by a mere orc attack. Not after everything he had done, after all he had survived and not with all that he had left to do. Aragorn their leader, Aragorn her beloved friend. It could not have been true.
Shëanon sobbed, continuing to scrub away tears even though it was futile, for her tears would not cease and her face was soaked from her crying. Aragorn, her Aragorn, who had cared for her since she was a small child. Aragorn who had pulled her down from tree branches when she had had skinned knees and no sense of self-preservation. Aragorn who had taught her to fight, who had let her sleep on his cot in Lothlórien, who had woken her night after night from her nightmares. Aragorn whom she trusted. Aragorn whom she loved. He could not—could not—have been dead. She thought of his wise eyes, his noble bearing. How could it be that she would never see him again, that she would never again know the determination of his heart or the selflessness of his spirit?
Drawing in a shaking, shuddering gasp, Shëanon thought of sitting with him beneath their tree, neither of them speaking because they understood each other so well. It seemed to have been an age since that last time, when he had returned to Imladris with the hobbits and they had gone there together in the night. That was the day that everything had changed—the day that the One Ring had entered her life, and she and Aragorn had sat together in their clearing speaking of councils and hobbits and the fate of the world. She had spoken to him of her vision that night, and he had moved her almost to tears with his understanding of her, his care for her… his love for her. Shëanon wept harder, then she went rigid. Her vision…!
What had her father told her in Rivendell? The night before the council, he'd told her that her vision hadn't really been a vision at all, that instead she had sought Aragorn with her mind and found him at Amon Sûl with the hobbits. Shëanon's heart began to pound. She had never given much thought to what her father had said except to fear that her mind would find the Ring again. Could she possibly do it on purpose, to seek for Aragorn as she had before, and find out if he lived?
"Oh, Eru," she cried, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to focus. "Oh, please."
Sniffling and shaking, she closed her eyes, pressing her fists against her temples. The sounds of the many Rohirrim in the keep drifted to her ears when she had stopped her weeping, and in frustration she tried to drown them out. 'Come on, Aragorn,' she thought. 'Come on, where are you?' For several long moments she sat in silence but for her uneven breaths, trying to reach for him. She pictured his face, his voice, his laugh. She thought of the river and of the cliff, imagining him lying washed up on the riverbank. She called to him with her thoughts, she prayed to the Valar and to Eru, invoking the names of Ilúvatar and Irmo and Elbereth; she concentrated until she had a headache, trying everything she could think of, but nothing happened. No matter how she strained and tried and pushed herself, she came up short. She didn't know what to do or how to do it, and the worst part was that she was unsure if she failed for this reason or if she failed because Aragorn truly was dead and she could not find his mind for that reason.
Cursing, she pounded her fist against the wall. She dug her nails into the skin of her neck. She began to cry again. She had not even been thinking of Aragorn during the battle. Aragorn always thought of her—always made sure she was safe—and she had left his side. And he had fallen. And she had not even spoken to him that morning.
She felt like she was going to be sick.
She had no idea for how long she cried. It felt like hours and hours, but was in truth probably not even one. She was just thinking that she never wanted to leave the little room ever again when a knock sounded upon the door. Shëanon froze, holding her breath. Had someone heard her crying? She pressed a hand against her mouth, hoping that if she stayed absolutely silent, the person would go away.
The door creaked open.
"Aiër?"
Oh no. She tugged her feet in closer to her body, pressing back into the corner, but she knew it was useless. He could probably hear her breathing. She felt him drawing near, and then suddenly his feet came into view as he found her hiding place. He was looking down at her, she knew, but she could not bring herself to look up at him.
"Stand up, Shëanon," he said softly. She felt a burst of rage. Stand up? As if she did not have the right to cry for Aragorn?
"Get out," she cried. "I have done your bidding and come to this place. Now leave me alone."
He did not move.
"Is that truly your wish?" he asked after a moment during which she had shed more tears. "For me to leave you?"
It wasn't. Shëanon shuddered, ashamed, and pressed her palms against her face.
"No," she wept into her hands, shaking in her grief.
She felt his touch upon her arms.
"Erio am, aiër. Tolo si. Bo pŷd lîn."
She let him lift her to her feet, though in truth she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into her corner. For a moment they stood pressed together in the tiny space, the boxes and crates not allowing for much room, and then suddenly she felt Legolas's hands at her waist as he lifted her to sit upon one of the massive barrels. He stood in front of her in silence, his hands resting still near her hips, watching as she continued to sniffle and wipe at her tears, and her shuddering breaths were all that could be heard in the crowded room. She could feel his eyes upon her, appraising her, but she could not meet his gaze.
"Goheno nin," she choked, trying desperately to dry her eyes. "I cannot stop."
"Cry now while you can, aiër," he whispered. "It will ease your hurting."
Shëanon shook her head, knowing that nothing in the world could have stopped the pain—nothing except for Aragorn.
"I cannot find him," she wept, bowing her head once more. "I tried, but I cannot find his mind."
Legolas said nothing, but he lifted his hands to her shoulders and rubbed his thumbs back and forth near her collarbone. It didn't even occur to her that he probably had no idea what she was talking about, and he did not ask.
"Do you really think he is dead?" she cried, leaning forward so that her forehead rested against his chest. In truth this was not because she had wanted to be closer to him, but because she could hardly keep her head up, she was so bereaved. But then he laid his hand over the back of her head and the steady rise and fall of his chest as he drew breath comforted her more than she had anticipated, and she closed her eyes.
"I do not know, Shëanon," he said quietly. "I tell you that very reluctantly, for I do not wish to give you hope when there is none, but in truth I cannot say whether I truly think that he is gone."
"He can't be," she whimpered. "He can't. I did not even let him speak to me this morning. I did not reconcile with him after our fight."
"It does not matter, Shëanon. He knew—"
"It does matter!" she interrupted. "How can you say that it does not?"
Legolas's expression was one of compassion as he cupped his fingers around her elbows.
"Aragorn knew your heart."
Shëanon shook her head, wishing that she could stop feeling the horrible, gnawing ache that was in her stomach and her chest.
"I want to go home." The words sounded pathetic and trembling and small, but she could not care. "I want to go back to Rivendell and just—just stop. I cannot—I can't…"
"I know, young one," he said softly.
She shook her head again against him.
"How can you bear it?" she asked desperately. "How can you just—just stand here as if nothing had happened? You said that you loved him and—"
Legolas seized her shoulders and eased her away from him, his actions a bizarre combination of gentle and fierce, and, dazed, Shëanon blinked the tears from her eyes and looked into his face. She was wholly unprepared for the expression that she saw there.
"As if nothing had happened?" he repeated in apparent disbelief, his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes flashing and tormented even while his voice remained quiet and steady. "Do you think I do not grieve? Do you think this is not one of the most difficult things I will ever endure?"
He turned his face away from her, his grip tight on her arms, and when he glanced at her once more his jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing.
Shëanon drew a ragged breath.
"Forgive me," she whispered, abashed and regretful. How could she have said such a thing? "I did not think—I was not thinking…"
She hesitated, not knowing what to say or do. His regard was awful, but rather than wanting to avert her gaze she found that she could not look away from him. She remembered how in Lothlórien she had felt so terrible to know that he suffered from Gandalf's death, but she had been too timid and uncertain to comfort him. She felt the same kind of helplessness just then as she saw the truth of his pain. It had been easy in her grief to think that she was the only one hurting, that only she felt the staggering weight in her heart, and that Legolas, who was always so composed and calm and unaffected, did not suffer as did she.
The rigidity of his body and the ferocity of his countenance, however, left no doubt of his feelings.
"I am sorry."
Rather than responding, he simply reached up and brushed away a few of her tears, his fingertips leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Shëanon reacted instinctively, moving to reach for him, but she hesitated as her fingers brushed his shoulders and almost drew back her hands. Legolas's expression did not change, however, as he watched the movement, and so she leaned forward and curled her arms around his neck. At once, he returned the embrace, pulling her against him, and as his arms tightened around her she did the same until they were both locked together as closely as possible. Shëanon pressed her face against the side of his neck, wetting the skin there with her tears, but it did not seem to matter. At first she had wanted to alleviate some of his sorrow, thinking that perhaps if she hugged him he might have understood her caring. Perhaps it did have that effect, for she felt his jaw near her temple, his fingers pressing against her, but also she was staggered by the relief she felt. Her entire world had been upturned, but Legolas was so solid and real and alive. She could feel his pulse against her, his breath on her neck. The warmth of his body seemed to heat her all the way through her own.
"I bear it because I must, Shëanon," he whispered, still holding her closely. She shivered to hear his voice so close to her ear. "We must both bear it."
"What are we going to do?" she asked, trembling once more as he ran his palms up and down along her spine.
"We will remain here either until Gandalf returns or until the battle ends. Then we will take counsel together, for I know not what he would have us do."
Shëanon bit her lip so hard that she feared she would draw blood. The idea of another battle, of more death… And the idea that Aragorn might have been alone and badly injured, washed up somewhere to die because they tarried… She felt sick again.
"If there is a battle, and I survive," she said softly, "I am going to go look for Aragorn. Will you go with me?"
"I will," he vowed, and there was no doubting the tone of his voice. Shëanon however could not give voice to her gratitude—neither for that promise nor for his comforting of her—and so she simply closed her eyes for a moment. She focused on his fëa as he had taught her to do, reveling in the sensation that was so very comforting and him.
For a few more minutes they did not move, but finally Legolas drew away and drew himself up straighter.
"I found this on the battlefield. One of the orcs had pulled it from his neck. You should take it."
Shëanon glanced down at his hand and saw, with a start, Arwen's pendant gleaming against his palm. She squeezed her eyes closed. How ironic that it would come to this, to be given the very necklace that Arwen had given Aragorn as a symbol of her love in that moment, after Shëanon had spat those terrible words at him during their fight. She could not take it.
"I cannot," she whispered, the guilt that she felt increasing in strength. "Not after…" She shook her head. "Will you keep it? Please?"
Beseechingly she looked up at him, and his fingers closed around the silver.
"I will hold it for you until you feel ready to take it… or until it can be returned," he said solemnly, his eyes searching her face.
"Hannon le." She dropped her gaze to her lap.
"We must confer with the king," he said soberly. "It pains me to deny you more time to mourn, but we must be prepared for what is to come."
Shëanon nodded, knowing that he was right. She could not hide in the little storeroom forever; there were probably hundreds and hundreds of orcs on their way to Isengard and in any case, she wished desperately that her mourning would be for naught. Exhaustedly, she rubbed her dry, burning eyes and attempted to fix her appearance. Legolas was no longer touching her, instead watching without comment as she attempted to pull herself together. At one time she might have felt embarrassed for him to see her thus, but instead she felt that his gaze steeled her resolve.
She hopped down from the barrel, and he looked into her face for one more moment before leading her from the room.
They found the king in the centermost chamber of the keep, built into the rock of the mountain; he was surrounded by guards and advisors that bore armor and chest plates emblazoned with gold horses. Light poured in through the long, narrow windows, and on an enormous wooden table Shëanon saw several large maps laid out. Gimli was already there, standing among the Men who pointed out various points on the scrolls of parchment before them, but everyone paused and glanced up as she and Legolas approached. It occurred to her that some of the Men present had not been at Edoras and so had not before seen the two of them, and she knew also that she almost certainly looked a mess.
"What knowledge have you of warfare, Master Elf?" Théoden asked, having barely glanced their way for a moment before turning at once back to the maps before him.
"Knowledge enough," Legolas replied as they reached the table, coming up to stand beside Gimli. The dwarf patted Shëanon's arm and heaved an enormous sigh, and she did not dare look down at him for fear that she would start to cry again in front of the Men. Instead she turned her slightly bleary gaze to the sheaves of parchment, seeing depicted upon them maps of Rohan and schematics of the keep, diagrams depicting Helm's Deep in detail and the surrounding land.
"We will place all bowmen upon the Deeping Wall, Sire, and fortify the towers," a man was saying.
"How many spears?"
"About a hundred, my Lord."
"They will stand upon the battlements," Théoden nodded, indicating various places on the map laid out before him. "The rest will defend the Hornburg and the gate."
"And if the hold is breached?" Legolas asked, his eyes roving over the plans.
The men all stared at him, a pause filling the chamber with an uncomfortable silence that caused Shëanon to fidget. Théoden stood up straight.
"No force has ever gained access to this keep," he said with finality. "It is impenetrable."
Beside her, Legolas shook his head. It suddenly occurred to Shëanon that no one in the room was aware that he was a prince or the captain of the guard of the Woodland Realm.
"No fortress is impenetrable," he replied evenly, gazing again at the maps. "If the defenses fail and your Men occupy only the wall and the parapets, the Deep will be taken in moments and the garrison will fall soon after, no matter how many guard the Hornburg."
"You speak of a breach in the wall?" one of the men asked incredulously. "No army could even break through the gate, let alone ten feet of solid rock."
"The valley is protected by Helm's Dike," Gamling murmured. "The Deeping Road is the only accessible path, and the Deeping Stream flows before the gate so that entry into the garrison is nigh impossible save for by the causeway. For an entire winter Helm Hammerhand held this keep against the Dunlendings. A siege is impossible. It cannot be taken."
"If what you say is true, then Saruman the White would not try to take it. He would not send forces against Helm's Deep if he had not devised a way in," Legolas said firmly. "Saruman is cunning. This fortress may never have been breached, but neither has it fallen under the assault of the White Wizard."
Shëanon felt a sudden, powerful wave of foreboding wash over her at these words, so strong that she was dizzy from it. Frowning, she glanced over the map, studying the faded ink. The images of her vision flashed across her mind, the explosion and the screams… she was standing upon rough stone… She took a deep breath, sure somehow in the pit of her stomach that she was right. The Deeping Wall would fall.
"I ram dannatha," she said in an undertone to Legolas after a moment's hesitation.
He looked down at her with knit eyebrows. "You are certain?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"Speak the common tongue, she-elf, if you have something to say," one of the men called from across the table, and Shëanon flushed as she met his gaze. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and leaned his knuckles on the table, clearly waiting for her translation. The other guards all regarded her in anticipation as well.
"I just," she began, and then cleared her throat. She fidgeted anxiously with her sleeves, finding it hard to look anyone in the face. "I think we must be prepared for a break in the defenses."
"And I think that you should leave the defense of this keep to those who will fight to defend it," he said pointedly. Shëanon bit her lip.
"Lady Shëanon has already fought to defend our people," Théoden cut in, his stern voice clear and distinct in the cavernous room. "And she has shared in our loss."
The Men looked at her dubiously, but no one replied and Shëanon was glad, for the words had caused her throat to constrict. She bowed her head.
"We will not allow for this hold to be taken," he continued. "We will be prepare for a breach in the wall even while I do not believe it will come, but we cannot fortify the Deep at the expense of the garrison," the king said. "There are not enough men to defend both the Deep and the gate."
"No, there are not," Legolas agreed grimly.
The Rohirrim began to argue about different strategies and battle tactics, proposing various solutions and deliberating over the maps and charts. Shëanon remained silent; she was not learned in military procedure and she recognized that she was out of her depth. Mostly she just listened quietly and observed the way the Men in the room argued and interacted. The man who had addressed her before was called Erkenbrand, she learned, and she gathered that he must have been in charge of the keep until the king's arrival. He and Gamling stood on either side of Théoden and were among the most active contributors to the conversation. Gimli and Legolas spoke, too, but it was clear to Shëanon that they chose their words carefully. After Gandalf's departure and Aragorn's… absence… it seemed that the Rohirrim were feeling less trusting of the other races and only Théoden and Gamling seemed to hear their suggestions without wariness.
Long hours passed. Shëanon grew progressively more tired. The Rohirrim had begun to discuss provisions and supplies, where to shelter the refugees, and the afternoon was fading. As the king and his advisors began debating about places she had never heard of and men she would never meet, the distraction of their words ebbed and as a result the pain of her sorrow began to return.
"We will decide nothing now while so many voices speak," one of the guards said at last. He had fought earlier in the day against the wargs, Shëanon remembered, and she saw that his face bore a deep gash that was congealed with dried blood. He looked weary. "What say you, Théoden King?"
The Lord of the Mark seemed uncertain.
"Leave us," he commanded finally. "Let those who have fought this day rest and eat. The others are to relieve the watch posts. Go."
Shëanon watched as Erkenbrand and Gamling remained behind with the king, and then at Legolas's behest she left the chamber with him and Gimli. The cloudy sky had grown even darker as the day had progressed; what little sunlight had earlier managed to penetrate the dense cover had been completely obscured, and as they stepped into the inner court Shëanon decided that the gloom was appropriate given the events of the day.
"These horsemen are too comfortable for their own good," Gimli grumbled as they found themselves again among the enormous crowd of refugees. Shëanon did not like the stifling closeness any more than she had when she'd first arrived.
"There is little they can do," Legolas said quietly. "They have not the numbers. It is as Gandalf predicted. He knew it was a trap."
"Bah! Strength is not in number!" the dwarf protested vehemently, thumping the bottom of his axe against the rock as they pressed through the crowd.
Legolas did not reply, and Shëanon had not the heart to speak her mind on the matter. She did not even bother to ask where they were going, for she did not really care. The horror of the day was again wearing on her. To her surprise, Legolas and Gimli lead her up onto the wall. She was puzzled by this for a moment, unsure what business they might have there, but then she realized that they had been seeking to escape the suffocating crowding of the keep. There was no one there save for a few dozen guards—some on duty and others simply sitting with their backs against the battlements.
"Perhaps you should sit down, aiër," Legolas murmured as they came to an empty spot not far from the keep. "You look weary."
"Are you hungry, lassie?" Gimli asked, looking up at her with his keen eyes.
Shëanon felt her cheeks heat up, ashamed. They had been through just as much as she had.
"No, I'm well," she told them both, making an effort to clear her face of any sorrow or fatigue.
"What do you want? Lembas?" Gimli pressed, ignoring her. "Something hot? They've got stew outside the storerooms."
"Really, Gimli, I am not hungry," she said softly, peering over the side of the wall and down into the Deep. There were women gathered below, for the Deeping Stream flowed through the wall by way of a small culvert, and the precious source of water was clearly badly needed.
"Don't be ridiculous. Passing up a meal!" he said gruffly. "I'll bring you something."
The dwarf strode back down the stairs, his dwarven boots thumping against the steps. Shëanon watched him go in bemusement.
"He has been acting strangely since the day we left Edoras," she mumbled, leaning against the wall. While before she had not had the will to speak, she suddenly found that she needed to say something simply to keep her agonizing thoughts at bay.
Legolas's expression remained entirely impassive. She wondered if he felt as hollow as she did.
"He worries for you," he said, gazing after their companion even after he was gone from sight.
Dully, Shëanon sank down to the ground, leaning against the stone and resting her arms upon her knees. Legolas watched her somberly, but thankfully he did not remark on the fact that she had elected to sit down after all. Shëanon closed her eyes.
"When do you think they will come?" she asked quietly, listening to the sounds of the Rohirrim below. "The orcs, I mean."
"Soon. Isengard is ready. The attack earlier indicated as much."
Shëanon pressed her fingers gently against her ribs, which had been aching since her fall off of Hasufel. The entire area felt bruised, and she winced.
"Can you see them?" she asked. She felt Legolas step up beside her to look over the wall and towards the horizon.
"No, but the hills block my sight."
Shëanon sighed, unsure if she felt anxious or indifferent for the coming battle. On the one hand, she did not want any innocent people to be hurt, and she did rather perversely look forward to killing the foul creatures. She was also eager for it to be over, for she wanted to go look for Aragorn. That was the part of her that was in anguish. The other part of her was empty, and she almost did not care.
"Shëanon."
His voice was so abrupt that she cracked her eyes open to peer up at him. He was still looking over the battlement.
"Stand up," he ordered, gazing at something on the road, and Shëanon's heart stuttered as she realized—
She was on her feet in an instant, bracing herself on her palms to lean over the wall. Her mouth fell open.
Aragorn was on the causeway.
For a moment, she couldn't move. She covered her mouth with her hand, wondering if she was dreaming, if it was really true.
Then she burst into tears.
"Aragorn!" she cried, quickly shoving away from the wall and taking the steps two at a time. She flew back into the keep, across the outer court and down to the first level; the hoards of people were slow to move, and Shëanon found herself desperately pushing through the crowd to get to the gate. He was alive. She needed to see him. She would not believe it until he was in front of her.
"He is alive!"
"He has returned!"
"Lord Aragorn!"
"Aragorn!" she shouted again, trying to break through the dense wall of people that had rushed forth at his return. She could hardly see for the tears in her eyes, shoving between bodies until she emerged at the front of the crowd and then he was there—ragged and bloody—but he was there before her, clambering off his horse and turning away from the gate, and then his eyes met hers.
A sob tore from her throat as she rushed at him, colliding with his chest and throwing her arms about his body.
"Oh, Valar!" she cried, holding him tightly. "Oh, Aragorn!"
His clothes were cold and damp and smelled of rust, but Shëanon didn't care. He was warm and alive and breathing; she could feel the rise and fall of his chest and hear the steady beat of his heart.
"I thought you were dead," she cried. "They said you were dead."
"I'm alright, Shea," he murmured, but his voice sounded terrible and she drew away from him at once as she realized that he was surely hurt and exhausted and cold. His sleeve was torn; there was blood running down his arm. His jaw was bruised so darkly it was purple, and the way he held himself indicated that he was in some deal of pain.
"Are you wounded? Where—?"
"Shea." He grasped her shoulders, and she looked up into his face. Something was wrong; she could tell by his expression, by the gleam in his eyes. "Where is the king?"
"He is upstairs," she replied, staring at his noble, familiar face. He was alive. She still could hardly believe it, and she wanted to throw her arms around him again just to make sure that he did not disappear before her eyes.
Aragorn hurried around her to make for the stairs and Shëanon hastened after him, her mind still reeling. She knew that she should have been more concerned with whatever news he had brought, but all she could think was that he was not dead and that it was a miracle. Another sobbing breath left her even as she felt so terribly happy and thankful.
Aragorn apparently heard the sound, for he turned and hefted his arm around her, clasping her briefly to his side.
"Come," he murmured, his voice urgent but soft, and together they climbed the steps.
Translations:
Dartho, Arod. Thala, mellon nín. : Steady, Arod. Easy, my friend.
Noro lim, Hasufel. : Run swiftly, Hasufel.
Hannon le. : Thank you.
Erio am, aiër. Tolo si. Bo pŷd lîn. : Stand up, aiër. Come now. On your feet.
I ram dannatha. : The wall will fall.
A/N: More coming very soon! As always, thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and messaging me! Your feedback has been overwhelmingly awesome :D Rohan has run Shea through the wringer and the battle hasn't even started yet, poor girl. I did say that she'd be facing a lot in Rohan! Thoughts? xoxo Erin