Aiër Chapter 21
Shëanon was walking along a white shore. There was soft, fine sand beneath her feet, but to her left great waves broke and crashed in harsh, rapid succession against the earth; she could feel the cold mist on her ankles as the sea hissed and spat at her, but still she walked. And walked. It seemed that the coast would have no end, but she felt compelled to continue, for a sense of urgency had come over her and she knew that there was something important ahead. Time wore on until she wondered if she would be doomed to wander the shore in solitude for all eternity; then at last she could see something in the distance. It was so far at first that she could not make out its nature, but as she finally drew near she was able to see just what it was that she sought.
Shëanon felt herself frowning. Before her upon the sand was a smooth stone pillar upon which sat a large stone basin. Its edges were engraved with runes, and crystal clear water filled it to its brim. It was the mirror of Lady Galadriel, she knew, though she could not guess how it had come to be there upon the shore. Was she supposed to look into it? It seemed the obvious thing to do, and yet she could not help but feel that she had not the authority. Anxiously, Shëanon looked over her shoulder, though the beach was as empty and remote behind her as it was ahead. She was alone.
Drawing a deep breath, she gingerly laid her hands upon the edge of the stone and leaned over the water. As in Lothlórien, the surface was initially smooth and unremarkable. Then, however, it seemed to shimmer. Images, distant and indecipherable, became visible, growing and gaining in clarity until finally Shëanon knew nothing else.
A dark figure, shrouded in shadow, hurried through a forest. He moved quickly and silently, but purpose was evident in the set of his shoulders. She watched as he stopped at the edge of a clearing and waited, drawing back the hood of his cloak to reveal a head of raven dark hair. He seemed to gaze towards the other side of the clearing as though he were expecting someone…
Shëanon looked upon a little girl, screaming in pain as she was flayed by a large, looming man in dark clothes. At once she knew it to be herself, and her master mutilated the tender flesh of her back, the whip splitting the skin there with ease as she writhed and wept and screamed. The child shrieked that she had not meant to be bad, but the hatred was evident in the man's motions and Shëanon felt a wave of nausea wash over her, cringing away from the mirror but unable to look away, for never before had she seen her own torture so clearly. The sight of it alone raised bile in her throat and wove fear into her heart.
The scene changed. She saw herself once more as a child, but instead she was in the woods. Shëanon frowned, not remembering, but then from behind a tree the dark, cloaked figure stepped and she watched in confusion as he stooped to lift the little girl into his arms, for she had been crying still, and he carried her hurriedly through the forest, whispering in her ear…
Shëanon jerked as it changed again, for the mirror showed her in Edoras with Legolas, lying on the rug before the fire. Stunned, she watched him speak to her, his words from that night echoing in her ears. "How did you come to have such a low opinion of yourself? I find it hard to believe that anyone in Imladris would have instilled in you such a feeling of worthlessness."
There was a long, dark room. A light burned low in the furnace at the far end. Against the wall, a girl was struggling to free herself. It was her, Shëanon realized with a start, but before she could see anymore the vision changed again, and she saw herself running down a long, dark corridor. Her footsteps echoed against black stone.
There was an explosion, greater even than the one at Helm's Deep and the force and light of it was so terrible that Shëanon wrenched away from the mirror with a gasp, trembling and sweating, but it was only to gasp again, for she was met by an otherworldly, familiar face. Lady Galadriel stood before her, stone-faced and ethereal, and her gaze was penetrating and almost frightening.
"I know what it is you saw," she said quietly, her golden hair untouched by the blustering sea air that cast Shëanon's own unruly mane into her eyes and sent it dancing on the wind like angry flames.
Unnerved, she turned and fled back down the beach, but it seemed that no matter how she ran, she never crossed any distance. Truly frightened, Shëanon began to cry out, for she knew not where she was or what she had seen and she could feel pain in her body. It seemed that the shore had vanished, and instead the mirror's images were chasing her and attacking her so that she found herself running through the forest, trying to hide from that solitary, shadowy figure. Her master's breath was in her ear and she could feel the heat of the hot metal he sought to press into her skin, and then she was trapped in the dark room and running through the corridor and it would not stop. Shëanon screamed in fear and in frustration, wishing she had not fled from Galadriel, wondering why she had, and then…
Shëanon groaned. Everything was dark, and she felt that her very bones were throbbing. She was sure that there were people moving around her, perhaps even speaking, but she could see nothing and hear nothing save for a distant, vague murmuring. Her face ached. Her arm ached. Her torso seemed to have been torn inside out and then trampled by a horse, and her throat burned for water. Slowly, she attempted to move. Her fingers did not seem to want to cooperate. Her limbs felt like lead. Had she died? Perhaps that was why she was alone in the dark. Perhaps that was why she had no control over her body. But no, she reasoned, surely death would not be so painful. Surely there would be more light in the Halls of Mandos. She felt the corners of her mouth turn down as she frowned.
"Shea?"
Shëanon opened her eyes, then immediately regretted it, for the light in the chamber was bright and stung. Hastily she closed them again, trying to blink through the strain, though she could not quite seem to lift her arms to rub the sleep from her eyes.
"Aragorn?" she croaked, still struggling to see. At last she managed to peer blearily up at him. His face was drawn and haggard looking, and there were circles under his eyes, but he did not seem to be very hurt. Shëanon decided that she was not dead after all.
"She is awake," Aragorn called over his shoulder, and at last she took in her surroundings. Her body was laid out on some type of makeshift cot on the ground, and it was obvious by the amount of light streaming into the room that she was in the great hall at the head of the keep. Elves hurried about the chamber directly around her, and vaguely she understood that there were many wounded wardens in her vicinity. Evidently she had been laid among the Galadhrim. She looked back up at Aragorn, for he knelt beside her and was ladling water from a pitcher to bring to her mouth. Shëanon might have felt indignant or foolish being fed in such a manner, but she was so tired and her throat was so raw that she did not even care. Gratefully she swallowed the cold, clear substance.
"How do you feel?" he asked. Shëanon ignored the question.
"What happened?" she rasped, grimacing as Aragorn began running a damp cloth over her forehead. She knew he saw her scowl but he paid her no mind.
Aragorn said nothing.
"Aragorn?" she asked again, finally finding enough strength in her arm to reach up and weakly push his hand away. His eyes shone with disapproval, but Shëanon supposed that her face must have looked very worried for he sighed and set the cloth aside.
"You were poisoned," he said quietly. "A bolt just below your right shoulder. Do you remember?"
Shëanon stared at him for a moment, but then with a jolt she did indeed remember and in a panic she tore the blanket away and attempted to sit up. It pained her much more than she had expected, and Aragorn's hands at once moved to her shoulders to keep her from rising as she flinched against the sensation.
"Lie still," he said sternly, though his eyes were very gentle as he ushered her back down onto her back.
The sudden onslaught of pain momentarily stole her breath, and her head pounded from trying so quickly to sit up. Clumsily Shëanon reached for the neck of her shirt and pushed it aside just enough to see the white bandages crossing over her shoulder and around her chest. Even in such a state, it did not escape her that the shirt she wore was not the same one she had worn during the battle. Blushing hotly, she glanced hesitantly back at Aragorn and saw that he was watching her carefully.
"How long…?" she asked reluctantly, realizing she had no idea what time or even what day it was.
"You were unconscious for about a day," he informed her. "It is not yet noon, and you were wounded yesterday morning."
Shëanon blinked. She had been asleep for an entire day? Suddenly she remembered the disturbing things she'd seen while she'd slept, with Galadriel and the mirror and the beach. Had it lasted so very long?
Aragorn rubbed at the back of his neck.
"I took out the bolt on the battlefield and carried you inside," he said. Her eyes returned to his face. Shëanon still felt extremely disoriented, but his strange tone of voice was not lost on her. "It was very close to your lung. One of the Lórien healers had to extract the poison. It entered your blood quickly. I have never seen anything like it. I cauterized the wounds and stitched your arm and your cheek," he murmured, gesturing to the side of her face.
Shëanon had almost forgotten about the wound there, but sure enough when she touched her cheek she could feel that gauze had been adhered to the skin.
Aragorn leaned closer.
"Your ribs are badly bruised, but I couldn't feel any damage to the bone worse than what you already had."
"Thank you for taking care of me, Aragorn," she whispered, feeling her eyes beginning to close as she struggled to stay awake. How was it possible for her to still be tired? The longer she spoke, the more evident the pain of her injuries became and despite having apparently slept for a day, she was truly exhausted. Her throat was so sore that it pained her to speak, though she supposed it was due to her shouting during the battle.
Aragorn looked away from her then, however, and that caught her attention. She watched him glance down at his hands as though he couldn't bring himself to look into her face any longer.
"Aragorn?" she asked nervously, unsure what to make of such an unprecedented phenomenon.
"Aha! There she is!"
Turning from Aragorn's strangely solemn expression, Shëanon found Gimli standing at the foot of her little bed.
"Gimli!" she gasped, ignoring how horrible her voice still sounded. "Where were you? You weren't there at the end of the battle and I was so worried…"
The dwarf made a vague movement with his gloved hand, batting her question aside, though she saw that there was a gash near the top of his head.
"Small incident," he said gruffly. "Minor mishap of little importance, unlike what you put us through. Aragorn worried you wouldn't wake up. Paced all night like a hen, but I knew you're a tough lass yet. It'd take more than some orc poison to do you in, hmm?"
Shëanon looked over at Aragorn for confirmation, but by the exasperated look on his face she understood that Gimli had not been as confident as he would have had her think. She was not sure whether to laugh or squirm guiltily, and in the end she managed only a weak smile.
"Forgive me," she mumbled. "I did not mean to… cause problems."
Gimli grumbled.
"She's not got her wits about her, Aragorn," he said flatly, though she was sure she saw him wink. "She'll be needing more of that elvish medicine."
Shëanon huffed out a small laugh, but instantly it became a grimace of pain as it unexpectedly strained her ribs.
Gimli frowned.
"Ah, well, you'll be needing your rest." He nodded at Aragorn. "This one's made that clear enough."
Shëanon bit her lip, wishing she were not laid out so awkwardly on her back on the floor.
"I'm glad you're alright, Gimli," she called after him as he turned to take his leave. She heard his answering harrumph as he continued through the chamber. When he was gone, she turned questioning eyes once more to Aragorn, but he was rummaging through a rucksack on the ground beside her.
"He and Erkenbrand's men got trapped in the cave tunnels during the battle. Here, try to swallow a bite," he murmured, pulling out a piece of lembas and holding it out to her. "Gimli is right. You need rest, Shea. I'll speak with Gandalf. He'll want to know that you woke up."
Shëanon took the lembas in her hand without bothering to lift it to her mouth and watched in anxious consternation as Aragorn went to rise.
"Wait," she gasped, grasping for his arm but unable to reach it as she felt the burn beneath her shoulder. The ranger paused to look down at her, still with that strange expression on his face. She felt suddenly cowed.
"Must you go?" she asked quietly, hardly daring to ask, for she knew that he was certainly very busy in the aftermath of the battle. In fact, she had a feeling that in addition to serving as a healer to everyone within the garrison, he was also probably doing much outside for the king as well. The haunting images of her sleep, however, and the memories of the bloodshed were fresh in her mind and she was suddenly quite aware that many of the wardens glanced at her as they passed.
Aragorn's expression softened, and for a moment he clasped her hand in his.
"I will return to check on you. Try to sleep."
"Aragorn," she said again, not letting go of his hand. Again he stopped to look back at her, his expression expectant and yet strangely strained. Shëanon frowned.
"Where is Legolas?" she whispered after a moment's hesitation.
Aragorn raised his eyebrows.
"I am here, aiër."
Startled, Shëanon glanced as far behind her as she was able in her supine position. Legolas stood by the wall several paces from where her head lay, his strong arms crossed over his chest.
Aragorn bowed his head.
"Try to sleep," he said once more, and to Shëanon's consternation he turned and strode away. She could only watch tiredly as Legolas moved slowly forward to take his place, gracefully kneeling by her side. Her eyes roved over his face, and she was slightly bewildered by the severity of his expression. Then she tensed, remembering that the bolt she had taken had been directed at him and wondering if he had seen her step in front of it. Surely he would be angry with her if he had.
"Are you in much pain, aiër?" he asked, his gaze skimming over the parts of her body that hurt her as though he could somehow tell just where she was feeling the pain the most. Shëanon bit her lip.
"It's not so bad," she said hoarsely, still searching his face to determine if he was displeased with her. The way his eyes narrowed told her that he did not believe her, but he did not press the subject.
"You sound thirsty still," he murmured, turning towards the pitcher, and although indeed her throat was still bothering her, she was so tired and so worried over his mood that she found she did not at all want him to ladle water into her mouth.
"I think I just want to rest," she confided, watching as his hands stilled over the handle of the jug. He did not move.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asked without looking at her.
Shëanon was incredibly confused. From her angle on the ground she could not even move to look at his face.
"You do not have to," she said carefully. She was quickly losing energy and felt sleep's pull ever more insistently. "I just… I wanted to see you…"
Finally Legolas turned to her, and his face was so composed and normal that she stared, wondering if she had been imagining his strangeness, but Aragorn had also seemed strange, had he not? She bit her lip; perhaps the poison still wreaked havoc on her mind as it had while she'd slept.
Then he spoke and she knew that she hadn't imagined it.
"Aiër," he began in a low voice. His eyes seemed much darker than usual, she noted, and the way he spoke seemed somehow heavier, if that were possible. As if he were about to say something very important. "Do you wish for me to help you sleep peacefully?"
Shëanon stared at him, her slow, tired mind unable to make sense of his words. His expression was so very serious and earnest, and yet, somehow, guarded. Distant. It almost seemed hostile.
Her eyebrows drew together.
"Are you well?" she asked. Again she wanted to sit up, but she was at the point where she could hardly keep her eyes open and indeed she had the impression that it was only because it was Legolas with whom she spoke that she was still awake.
Instead of answering, Legolas looked away from her again. Anxiety shot through her. She began to fear that there was something truly wrong, for never before had he treated her in such a manner. Tremulously she lifted her hand the few inches required to lay her fingers against his forearm, and he turned to stare down at them silently.
"What is it?" she asked him, studying his face. She expected him at any moment to voice his anger over her foolishness with the bolt, or perhaps even worse. Did it have to do with their kiss? With her? Had something very bad happened? She did not know, but her stomach was in knots. "Why is everyone acting so strangely?"
Something flickered in his eyes.
"I was very worried for you," he said quietly. "The poison was stronger than that which the orcs have used in the past."
The guilt grew heavier in her stomach to hear the pained note in his voice. Biting her lip, she took his hand in hers and tugged his fingers closer so that she could press them against her cheek.
"Forgive me," she whispered. His hand against her face was so warm, his fingers so powerful. He watched the gesture with an indiscernible light in his eyes, which were somber beneath his creased brow. She continued. "You said that I would get hurt and I did… I didn't mean to…"
"For what do you apologize?" he asked fiercely, and while before he had allowed her to brush his knuckles against her cheek, he suddenly turned his hand to grasp hers and hold it fast. "You fought bravely. You defended every woman and child in this keep."
Shëanon let out a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. If she did not hurt so badly and if her head had not been so very foggy, she knew she would have felt very gratified to hear him say such a thing. After what he had said to her before the battle… She squeezed his hand with what little strength she had in her fingers, terribly grateful that he had called her brave, that he had supported her actions even while she rather suspected he had more to say on the subject.
"I will stay for a while," he said after a long moment of silence during which the vague sounds of the Galadhrim around them were in Shëanon's ears. Legolas's voice still sounded strange; she was so unused to whatever emotion it was that he seemed to be grappling with. "In case your dreams become troubled."
Shëanon shook her head, though still her eyes remained closed. His thumb felt so very nice rubbing over her knuckles.
"My dreams are never troubled when you're with me," she whispered. She was asleep before she heard his response.
When she woke again it seemed to be evening. Her entire body was throbbing, her wounds stinging and burning in pain so that she was sure that it was her injuries that had woken her. As she forced her eyes open, however, she found that that was not true. It was the presence looming over her that had undoubtedly drawn her from her sleep, and as she blinked to clear her vision she saw a tall, blond elf kneeling at her side and rummaging around beside her. Shëanon frowned at him, not recognizing his face and not at all liking when he began poking and prodding her, but he lifted a cup of sweet liquid to her mouth and bid her drink, and soon enough she was asleep once more.
Finally again Shëanon awoke, and she could tell at once that she was truly awake at last. Her body was sore and stiff from being on the ground, but her waking was immediate and complete and she knew that she would not soon sleep again. Groaning, she slowly rolled onto her side. It was dark in the chamber save for the fireplace at the end of the hall. Its warmth was close by, for she and the other elves were in the corner furthest from the door, but still the room was dim and still. She guessed that it was the middle of the night. Those in the hall were evidently sleeping, although several paces away from her there stood a group of the Galadhrim conversing quietly beneath the high windows. Near the door, there were men of Rohan whispering and moving among those lying on the ground. Shëanon wondered vaguely if the elves made them uncomfortable.
Trying to move carefully and quietly, she attempted to ease herself into an upright position. It was no easy task, as her left arm was injured and her right side as well, and she hissed as she finally sat up. Her head felt heavy and she was rather dizzy, but she was happy simply to be once again among the world of the living. Taking a few steadying breaths, she looked down at her lap. Her hands, she saw, were cut up and bruised. She wondered how many other minor injuries she had that she had not yet noticed due to the pain in her arm and chest. Shëanon sighed, moving to push off the blanket, but she paused when she felt the soft, light material. Someone had covered her with a cloak. A Lórien cloak. It was certainly not hers, for although all of the cloaks that had been gifted to the fellowship in Lothlórien were of the same color and make, the size of the one spread over her was too large to have been her own. She bit her lip as she brushed the mallorn leaf brooch with her fingertips, wondering which of her companions had left it there. Certainly it did not belong to Gimli…
"I thought I told you not to sit up," someone murmured from behind her. She turned to see Aragorn sitting against the wall where Legolas had stood earlier in the day, reaching for his pipe and making to rise. The groggy sound of his voice made her wonder if he had fallen asleep there sitting up, slumped against the stone. She decided that it was probably likely, knowing the ranger. It made her heart hurt.
"I've been lying still for days," she whispered when he reached her side. "I'm so stiff I will be a corpse soon if I don't stretch and move."
She had meant it in jest, but Aragorn's eyebrows drew together as he knelt beside her.
"You do not realize just how close you were to that fate," he murmured.
Shëanon looked back down at her lap. She did not want to think about it.
"How bad was it, Aragorn?" she asked softly. "How many?"
He sighed as she continued to study her fingers. She took the sound to mean that it was truly as catastrophic as she had thought.
"Not fifty men survived of the number we had in the keep. Rohan's losses are great," he said quietly. "As for the elves… less than a fourth of the wardens will be returning to Lothlórien."
Shëanon's stomach plummeted, knowing perfectly well how the hours must have been spent while she lay sleeping beneath the soft elvish fabric. She cringed just to imagine it, the men, women, and elves walking among the fallen bodies that lay on the sodden, muddy ground and the wrecked ramparts of the keep. They would have been searching for loved ones, pushing aside the corpses of the uruk-hai in the hopes that some may have been still alive. She pictured how it had been during the battle, how she had kept tripping over the bodies beneath her feet, and wondered how many men and elves were trodden on and trampled. Her teeth bit so fiercely into her lip that she actually tasted blood.
"The Marchwarden?" she asked quietly, still without raising her head. She was rather reluctant to look Aragorn in the eye, for she knew without question that he would have been among the others, serving as a leader as they sought out the wounded and the dead. How many had he pulled from the carnage? How many had he consoled? How many of the Rohirrim lived by the skills of his hands? She was ashamed for him to see how affected she was.
"He will live," Aragorn whispered, and she let out a breath of relief. "He is near to the fire, with his brothers."
At once Shëanon looked over her shoulder, following Aragorn's gaze to the hearth where indeed she could see Rúmil and Orophin crouched over an ellon on the ground. He seemed to be asleep; she could see the firelight flickering on his silver hair.
"He is very fortunate that his spine was not damaged."
"I am glad. I was worried."
"I want you to worry for nothing but healing," Aragorn said firmly.
Shëanon tried to sit up straighter.
"I am well enough," she assured him. Her hand went to the bandage plastered to her cheek; she did not like how it felt against her skin. "Can I take this off?" she asked softly.
Aragorn nodded and reached over to pull it off himself, his rough fingers gentle against her face. His gaze was very serious as he peeled the gauze away and inspected her stitches with a critical eye. At once she became wary, sensing his thoughts and knowing that he knew hers, and when he spoke she felt a hot pressure in her chest.
"I stitched it carefully," he told her quietly, lightly touching her forearm. "It might not even scar."
Shëanon blushed and turned her face away from him, feigning a sudden interest in the windows across from her. The night sky glittered with stars that shone through the ancient glass of the windowpanes.
"I don't care if it scars," she mumbled, though it suddenly became very difficult for her to swallow. Indeed, with the rest of her body so badly marred, she had always been very thankful that her face, at least, was untouched and fair enough. Bitterly, she looked up at the ceiling, feeling the wound throb.
Aragorn was quiet for a moment. The feeling of his regard on the side of her face was almost too much to bear. She was suddenly reminded of Lothlórien, on the night of their arrival when they had stood on the flet near to the Marchwarden. She had been so aggrieved and guilty in the wake of Gandalf's death, and she had had the impression for the first time in her life that things had become awkward between her and Aragorn, that he did not know what to say to her. For a moment she felt it again, thinking that Aragorn was unsure how to handle the disgusting subject, for she knew that surely if he had bandaged her up he had seen her scars. He had seen them before, when she had been young still, and she was certain that Lord Elrond had spoken to him about them, but she and he had never before discussed the awful disfigurement or the treatment that had caused it. Shëanon wanted to pull the cloak over herself and disappear, but then Aragorn spoke again.
"Shea," he said in a voice barely more than a whisper. "There is something you should know."
Tensing, she turned back to him. The sudden sense of foreboding that took root in her chest quickly spread to her fingers and toes until her entire body was drawn and alert, for the gravity of Aragorn's tone was unmistakable. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak, but even as the words had left his mouth she saw the clench of his jaw and the hesitation in his eyes. His gaze bore into her as her eyes roved over his handsome, troubled features and the moment of silence wore on. The only sounds were those of the elves behind her and the crackling logs in the fire. Aragorn shook his head and averted his gaze. Shëanon raised her eyebrows.
"We leave in the morning for Isengard," he sighed at last.
Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, she repeated the words a few times in her head. Leaving for Isengard. That was the important thing he had to tell her? She frowned down at her bandaged arm and thought of her sore ribs.
"Oh," she murmured after a short length of time, scrubbing her hands over her face and hoping she did not look as worried as she felt. "Alright. When are we leaving? First light? I'll need arrows—"
"Shea," Aragorn interjected, shaking his head again. "You cannot come. You will return to Edoras with Lady Éowyn and the others. We will meet you there in a few days' time."
Shëanon stared at him, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.
"What?" she asked incredulously. "No. I'm coming with you."
"You can hardly move," Aragorn said sternly. "You are hurt, and we will be riding in haste."
Shëanon's expression of disbelief grew more and more pronounced with every word that he spoke.
"I can move well enough," she protested, slowly extending her arm out in front of her. It hurt, but she was able to keep it from showing on her face.
"Your ribs—"
"You said the bones are no more damaged than they were before," she reminded him, starting to become very nervous. "And I ran all the way to Rohan and did battle with them cracked. Surely riding will be no worse."
Aragorn was shaking his head at her again, and the sight sent a tremor down her spine.
"You were gravely wounded, Shëanon," he said quietly. It was the kind of quiet that caused goosebumps to rise on her skin. He had taken on the same air that he bore when he was the aloof, unyielding ranger who wandered in the shadows and hissed orders at the Dúnedain, or else the rightful king of Men, but she refused to hear him. The idea of being left behind was inconceivable.
"I was unconscious for a few hours and now I'm fine. It's just a few scratches," she told him waspishly. His expression grew colder, however, to hear the animosity in her voice and she knew that her attitude would only act against her cause. When next she spoke it was softer, almost pleading. "Please Aragorn, we cannot split up."
"We will be parted for a few days only," he said evenly, his resolve evident in the firmness and surety of his speech. "I know not what dangers await us at Isengard. You cannot come. You are weak and in need of rest, Shëanon. Even now your strength fails you. You will return to Edoras and remain in the care of their healers."
"No," she said at once. "No, I will not."
Aragorn's eyes darkened and anxiety gnawed at her insides.
"I am not asking, Shea."
Desperately, Shëanon wrenched herself off the ground and stood, gritting her teeth all the while. Her head spun to be on her feet after so many hours of sleep, and indeed she did feel weak, she noted with a rueful pang of worry, but she would not have ever admitted it to the man who knelt before her.
"Where is Gandalf?" she demanded in a harsh whisper. "I wish to speak to him."
Aragorn said nothing, and so with one rather haphazard movement she wheeled around to make for the door. Her way was blocked by an expanse of broad, solid chest.
Legolas caught her with gentle fingers on her shoulders before she could collide with him, his brow lifted over his clear eyes as his gaze shifted from her face to Aragorn's, the question obvious in his regard. Shëanon saw it at once and wasted no time, clutching at his forearm as she spoke.
"Aragorn says that I am to return to Edoras while you go to Isengard," she told him in distress. It was with increasing panic that she watched his stoic reaction to her statement, the calm way with which he surveyed her and then Aragorn in turn. Her heart hammered in her chest.
"Aiër," he began, but she did not let him finish. His tone of voice indicated immediately what his response would be and she did not want to give him the chance to give it, nor Aragorn the satisfaction of hearing it.
"We cannot split up," she said again. Her legs trembled. "We do not know what might happen if we do. What if there is trouble at Isengard or on the way back to Edoras? If we separate we might not find each other again. We pursued Merry and Pippin for days and we were right on their heels and still we are apart. You cannot send me to Edoras alone. Please."
She gazed up into his face, her fingers still desperately tight on his arm as she watched him consider her words.
"I have already made my thoughts on this matter clear," he said tonelessly at last. Shëanon blinked, looking over her shoulder in search of some explanation, but Aragorn's face was expressionless but for the hardness and strain in his eyes.
"They have not been made clear to me," she frowned, turning back to Legolas and attempting to meet his gaze, but the elf's countenance had changed and it was with a slight shiver down her back that she observed the way he looked at his companion.
"I would sooner defend you from harm at Isengard than leave you in the keeping of Men," he said, his eyes still trained on Aragorn rather than on her.
His words hung heavily in the air, though they had been spoken quietly and without hostility in the stillness of the long hall. Shëanon felt her surprise show on her face, and she crossed her arms over herself, unsure how to respond. A frisson of anxiety trembled somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach as his words took root in her mind. His meaning surprised her, and did nothing but reinforce the fear that she already felt. After their battle together for Helm's Deep, she would have thought that there was a greater friendship between the elves and the men who had fought. Had something happened while she'd been unconscious that would renew the distrust between the two races?
"Even if you were to forbid it, surely you know that she would follow after us on her own."
Aragorn's frown grew more pronounced.
"She can barely stand," he pointed out and hastily Shëanon stepped away from Legolas, realizing that he was still supporting her with a hand at her elbow.
"Please, Aragorn, please," she begged desperately. "I promise I won't be any trouble. Please don't leave me here."
She watched as he wearily pinched the bridge of his nose, his thumb and forefinger moving to press against his closed eyelids. She could see his jaw clench as he worked it over in his mind.
"Legolas is right," she pressed, scooting once more closer to the elf. "I will only follow after you anyways."
Her breathing was becoming increasingly unsteady and rapid as she imagined how it would be to be abandoned with strangers for an indefinite amount of time, knowing that her companions might not return and being left with no one whom she could trust and no one who knew or understood her… being a burden on people who surely would have preferred not to have to deal with her, having no place among them… She would be stranded and all alone if something were to go awry.
At last Aragorn looked up at her.
"Already I regret this," he said doubtfully. "You are badly in need of rest."
Shëanon bit her tongue against her retort. She knew it would not help matters to point out that she had already had enough rest for several days. She waited with bated breath.
"You can come," the ranger grimaced, shaking his head and moving to rise. "The journey will be uncomfortable and you will wish that you had remained behind."
"I would never prefer to be parted from you," Shëanon said at once, unspeakably relieved. Even after she had his answer, she could not quite get her heart rate back to normal and her limbs still shook ever so slightly.
Aragorn glanced down at her dubiously.
"Rest now while you can," he sighed, casting a wry look in Legolas's direction before stepping around them both and heading for the door. Shëanon watched him go.
"Thank you," she said softly, turning to glance up at Legolas with a shy, grateful smile. It quickly faded, however, when she saw that the look in his eyes had not changed.
"Aragorn is right that you should not be coming," he said. "I would call it folly were it not for the implications of leaving you behind." His gaze shifted to where the Rohirrim were huddled on the far side of the hall. "Know that I would send you back to Lórien with the Galadhrim if I thought even for a moment that you would go."
Shëanon recoiled, surprised and hurt.
"It is good then, that you know better," she said after a moment, trying to understand his strange mood.
Legolas only looked at her stoically.
"You should do as Aragorn says and try to rest," he said softly. With one more unfathomable look into her eyes, he turned on his heels and strode off after Aragorn.
Stunned, Shëanon watched him slip out into the night. She was left standing alone in the vast hall. Around her, she could feel the silent gazes of the Galadhrim on the side of her face, but when she cast a cautious glance in their direction, she found that their eyes were averted and their conversations were hushed, their pale hair like gold before the firelight. Feeling an odd combination of downtrodden and indignant (and ignoring the strange ache in her chest that had nothing to do with her various injuries), she stiffly knelt to sit again on her little bed. While she seriously considered going out into the night for some fresh air and a chance to stretch her legs, she found to her dismay that her body did not seem to want to do anything but be horizontal and she did not care to be chastised by her companions should they have found her outside.
Heaving a silent but frustrated sigh, she lay quietly again beneath the Lórien cloak. She could suddenly tell by the smell of it whose it was, but that only deepened her frown. Oh yes, Legolas must have known that she had stepped in front of the bolt. Certainly that was why he did not want her to go to Edoras unsupervised—he did not trust her not to do anything reckless. It was just as before the battle when everyone kept telling her that she had to follow orders, as though they all thought her to be some hotheaded, disobedient brat. She scowled halfheartedly, and then instead felt a rather poignant ache in her heart.
Still, the situation did not quite make sense to her. Vividly she could remember the tenderness that the elf had shown her when first she had woken, and the strange way that neither he nor Aragorn seemed keen on looking her in the eye for too long. And then, she had the feeling that the imminent departure for Isengard hadn't initially been what he'd wanted to tell her…
Feeling more and more uneasy, Shëanon burrowed beneath her covers and tried to pretend that she was in Imladris. It was difficult, for the snoring of the Men was hard to ignore and her shoulder was aching, but she felt suddenly desperate for a respite from their journey. Eventually she gave up, and instead lay listening to the voices of the wardens for many hours. Her arm and her ribs and her cheek and the tortured wound where the bolt had pierced her began throbbing terribly during the night, but she was too proud to ask for something for the pain.
Night wore on, and Shëanon found that she could not sleep at all in the hours leading to dawn. Instead she lay gingerly on her side, trying to ignore the disturbing thoughts that haunted her restless mind. Chiefly among them were the nightmarish images of the Uruk-hai at Amon Hen. The she-elf! The she-elf! Their voices still echoed in her ears. She remembered how the sun had shone in her eyes, blinding her as it had filtered through the branches so that she could not even see as she had desperately kicked and struggled. All the days since they had left Rivendell, Saruman the White had been an ever-looming threat, lingering in her mind and breathing down her neck. If it weren't for that horrible instance on the night before the council when Sauron had spoken in her head and struck such fear into her heart, Shëanon would have said without hesitation that it was Saruman, not Sauron, who plagued her thoughts during the long hours of the night.
Had it not been Saruman the White whose spies they had watched for outside of Imladris? Saruman the White who had sent them up the cruel pass of Caradhras, whose terrible voice had echoed on the storm and sent them into Moria? Was it not the White Hand of Saruman that had been borne by the orcs at Amon Hen, by the armies that sieged Rohan, and by those who had assailed Helm's Deep when all hope of victory had seemed a faraway dream? It was he who had pursued them at every turn, his name that was ever on their lips.
Shëanon shuddered. What would come of such a meeting, between the kings of Men and the servant of the enemy? Between the White Rider and the White Wizard? She could only guess.
She bit her lip, listening to the whispers of the elves behind her. Would she at last learn why he had wanted her? The knowledge that Saruman's servants had been ordered to take her alive had never left her thoughts. Would she find out why? Did she want to know? She could not decide what would be worse: to be left with her own sinister conclusions or to be exposed to an even darker truth.
No matter how many times she tried to close her eyes, she found that the darkness of her thoughts rendered sleep both impossible and undesirable. Not only had she once again begun to dwell on what might have happened had Saruman actually succeeded in taking her hostage, but she was also assaulted by memories of battle: the sight of the fallen elves and butchered young boys. Vividly she saw again the dark pool of the Marchwarden's blood, the manic eyes of the uruk-hai… Shëanon curled her body into a ball, feeling nauseous and shaky and casting frantically about for anything that might drive the memories from her mind.
Someone was whispering to the wardens in the shadows. It was Legolas, she knew, speaking to them in the silvan tongue of their homelands. Shëanon could not help but frown. Did he never sleep? Was he not tired? She could not understand the silvery words that he spoke, but she lay listening to the sound of his voice until the room grew light with the oncoming day.
When Aragorn came back into the chamber, Shëanon was already strapping on her pack and quiver. Her fingers hesitated over the buckle when she caught sight of him, seeing the hard set of his jaw, but he said nothing to stop her as she continued to gather her belongings.
"How do you feel?" he asked calmly, lightly touching her shoulder as he moved to gather his own belongings near the wall. Shëanon realized belatedly that his affairs were all piled there. Clearly he had camped out at her bedside, and she might have grinned if it were not for the knowledge that he wanted to leave her behind. Aragorn's eyes roved critically over her injuries as he buckled on his leather gauntlets.
Shëanon lifted her chin.
"I am standing, am I not?" she asked quietly.
Aragorn sighed.
"You will have to manage more than that," he said with a shake of his head. He laid his hand over her head. "Come. You will ride with me."
Shëanon looked up in confusion.
"But Hasufel—" she started to protest. Aragorn silenced her with a glance.
Bowing her head and running a hand over her hair, she sighed and nodded.
"Fine," she murmured, knowing that he was already exasperated with her and trying to be gracious. Her eyes fell on the Lórien cloak again, and she hesitated. Crouching to snatch it up, she was just about to ask Aragorn where she might find its owner when the sound of her name caught her attention.
"Lady Shëanon."
Rising, Shëanon turned to find Orophin standing before her. He was wearing a somber expression, his grey eyes serious but not unkind, and she noticed not for the first time how very similar he looked to the Marchwarden. Surprised, she stared up at him, waiting in confusion for him to speak, for she could not imagine why he would have sought her out. To her astonishment, he placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head towards her.
"My brother wishes to speak with you," he told her in his clear elven voice, "before you depart."
Shëanon cast a bewildered glance at Aragorn, who merely tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, and then followed the warden over to where Haldir was laid out near the hearth. His skin looked very pale, she noted as she drew near. He had been divested of his armor and lay on his stomach, and while his arms and shoulder blades were bear, thick bandages were wound closely over what she was sure was a gruesome wound. His eyes were open despite his prone position, and he was speaking quietly to Rúmil when Shëanon approached. Both the Marchwarden and his brother glanced up at her when Orophin led her near, and to her consternation Rúmil rose at once and bestowed upon her the same respect as had Orophin, laying his hand over his heart and bowing his head.
"All of Lothlórien stands in your debt, Shëanon of Imladris," he said when he had lifted his head. A fervent light that was at odds with his calm voice shone in his eyes, so that she could not have doubted his sincerity even for a moment. "But none is so indebted as are my brother and I, for not only do we owe you the life of our captain, but of our own kin."
Shëanon was so astonished for a moment that she could not speak.
"You have the gratitude of our people, granddaughter of Galadriel," Rúmil continued. "And while you had it even before, know also that you have our respect. Not quickly shall the Galadhrim forget your bravery."
Utterly dumbstruck, she watched as he bowed his head once more, Orophin at his shoulder.
"We take our leave of you," Orophin murmured after a slight pause during which she only managed to gape at them. He also inclined his head again and before she could process what had happened, they were gone.
A sick feeling settled itself in Shëanon's stomach as she watched their broad shoulders and flaxen hair retreating. They thought that she had saved the Marchwarden. She felt herself go pale.
"Shëanon," a voice said quietly, drawing her from her thoughts, and with a start her eyes flew to where Haldir lay.
At once she lowered herself gingerly to her knees, sitting back on her heels beside him. It was strange for her to see his face from such an angle, for when they were standing she always had to tilt her head back to look at him. Having him laid out before her... If it were possible she would have lowered herself even further, feeling that even while he lay wounded, she still was not worthy of looking down upon him.
The Marchwarden glanced up at her.
"I seem to remember instructing you to follow orders," he said quietly. The dignity and nobility of his voice were astounding to her. She was certain that she had exuded only helplessness while she had lain injured. Even while he lay on the ground, his skin a sickly pallor and covered in a faint sheen of sweat, and even while he spoke much more quietly than she had ever before heard of him, his voice lacked none of his usual authority. "And you gave me your word that you would do so."
Gaping at him, it took a moment for Shëanon to understand what he'd said.
"Yes, captain," she confirmed softly, gazing tremulously still upon his face.
The Marchwarden's eyes closed momentarily, and when he spoke again his breathing was slightly labored. Shëanon could tell that it pained him to speak.
"You were ordered," he said, "to retreat into the garrison."
"Yes, captain."
"You disobeyed your commanding officer and risked not only your life, but those of your companions."
Shëanon blanched. Swallowing thickly, she looked down at where her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
"Yes, captain," she whispered guiltily.
For a moment Haldir was silent.
"I believe I also said that there is some fight in you yet," he said at last, drawing her gaze back to his face. She blushed as she remembered, unsure what to say, and when she remained silent the corner of the Marchwarden's mouth twitched. "Rúmil has an affinity for dramatic declarations. You should be thankful that he was brief."
Despite his impassive face and quiet voice, she could tell by the glint in his eyes that he had meant the words in good—if dry—humor. Her guilt, however, did not allow her to smile.
"His gratitude is misplaced," Shëanon said at once, feeling that the burning in her chest had spread to her throat and eyes. "It is Aragorn and Legolas who deserve his thanks. They are the ones who carried you to safety. I was—I was too weak to lift you," she rasped out, ashamed. Saying the words aloud stirred in her the memory of that awful moment, and she had to clench her jaw against the image of her helpless struggle, surrounded by Uruk-hai and trying futilely to heave the Marchwarden over her back.
Haldir's expression did not change.
"You would have died trying," he said quietly. "You could have retreated, yet you did not. I owe you my life."
"I owe you mine a hundred times over," she said fiercely. His words were as absurd as were Rúmil's. Had not it been the Marchwarden who had admitted them into Lothlórien on that black day when they had been so in need of his aid and protection, of sanctuary in the Golden Wood? Had not the Marchwarden hunched over maps with Lord Celeborn and Aragorn for hours, trying to determine the safest path for the fellowship? Had not Haldir led the Galadhrim to their rescue at Helm's Deep when she and her companions had been so hopelessly outnumbered? And had he not allowed Shëanon to fight beside him, pulling her out of the way of the explosion and saving her life during the battle again and again? To think that he owed his life to her was such folly that it shamed her just to hear him speak it. It was she who stood in his debt, not the other way around.
The Marchwarden only lifted an eyebrow as he heard the ferocity of her tone.
"Of that, I am not so sure," he murmured dryly. "But you have my thanks nonetheless."
He closed his eyes again, grimacing and clenching his jaw while Shëanon watched meekly. The bandages about his back, she saw, were stained through with his blood. The depth and expanse of the wound she did not know, but surely it must have been as awful as she'd imagined when he was struck down in battle; it was clear that Haldir was in a great deal of pain, and instinctively she knew that only terrible hurting could have succeeded in showing on his face.
"You go this morning with your companions?" he grit out while she sat worrying over his expression, half wondering if she ought to fetch Aragorn to give him something for his pain.
"Yes," she whispered.
Haldir frowned.
"I do not believe that our paths shall cross again," he said quietly. "Not while this evil persists, but should ever fate lead you again to Lothlórien, there will be a place for you among the Galadhrim."
His words, which were low and solemn, hit her harder than she might have expected. To her acute embarrassment, Shëanon found suddenly that she was in danger of crying. Discreetly she attempted to swipe away her tears before they could spill onto her cheeks, but nonetheless she suspected that Haldir had seen.
"Perhaps if… Perhaps when I return to Rivendell, I will rest awhile in the Golden Wood," she said, although in her heart she was beginning to feel that there would be no return to Rivendell, no end to her journey that was not death.
Haldir stared at her with a peculiar look in his eyes, his gaze intent and discerning while she waited, confused, for him to answer.
"Perhaps," he said at last, his deep voice momentarily free of the strain of his discomfort. "If it is toward Rivendell that your road indeed turns. I believe, however, that it is in the Woodland Realm that you will find yourself, sooner than in your homeland or mine… unless my sight betrays me."
Taken aback, Shëanon opened her mouth to speak, but she closed it again as words failed her. Was he suggesting…? She looked down at the cloak that was still draped over her arm, and when the Marchwarden spoke again she was certain that her alarm had shown on her face.
"Namarië, Shëanon of Imladris," he murmured. The sound of his speech raised goosebumps over her skin, and mournfully she looked back at him. The finality of the moment was not lost on her. "May the Valar keep you."
"Namarië," she whispered, laying her hand over her heart. She expected him to close his eyes again once she had been dismissed, but he did not. Grey and sharp, they regarded her as she rose on trembling legs, and to her consternation the Galadhrim in the chamber were all watching as she stood. Blushing, she watched as each one laid his hand across his chest, and by the time she had at last stepped into the morning air, her heart had begun to ache.
A/N: Part 2 is on the way.