Aiër Chapter 21 part 2
Numbly Shëanon moved through the keep, the words of the Marchwarden ringing in her ears. The conversation, she knew, would not soon be forgotten.
As she sought her companions, however, she was met with the harsh reality of what she had only imagined while she'd lain inside. Looking anywhere other than at her feet made her feel sick, for the sight of the ruined garrison and the bloodstained stone stirred in her the horrendous memories of the battle, and the sight of the refugees cut through her like a knife. Their expressions were unbearable. Some, she saw, looked utterly broken. Others appeared only grim, as though they knew the hardships and injustice of their lives but had no choice but to live them. Shëanon couldn't decide which one was worse. She could tell who had lost husbands and brothers and sons to the evil of Saruman, and some she knew had probably lost everything else—their homes, their livelihoods. One young man and woman were standing in each others' arms without speaking, their grips so tight that she had to wonder if they'd been standing like that for days, and for some reason looking at them she felt a strange emptiness in her chest.
The others waited at the gate that led to the causeway. Horses and Men were assembled in the courtyard there, among them Théoden and Éomer. Éowyn, she realized, was also present, but while her eyes wandered over her surroundings, the woman stayed by her brother and uncle and did not speak. Her expression was unlike those of her people. In her eyes, Shëanon saw fire—not born of hope, but of resolve. It made Shëanon feel inexplicably wary.
Swallowing, she treaded hesitantly over to where Legolas stood with Arod. He had clearly just helped Gimli into the saddle, for the dwarf was grumbling and fidgeting where he sat. He did not seem to notice her approach, but Legolas turned at once to face her.
"Aiër," he greeted her quietly, and as his eyes met hers suddenly she found that she could not look at him. By the Valar, she realized as though she had forgotten, he had kissed her. He had yelled at her and then he'd kissed her and she had fled from him and then they had almost died in battle and she had taken a bolt for him. She had no idea what to do. Why had none of it affected her the night before? Her gaze was caught on the ground; she could not seem to lift it lest he see her blushing or her hoping or her wanting…
"Here," he murmured, and she looked up to see him procure a large bundle of arrows from among his possessions. "You will have need of these."
Shëanon started, thinking of how she had said to Aragorn that she would need arrows, but she had forgotten during the night. Had Legolas remembered that she'd run out during the battle? Before she could take them from him, he strode around her and began loading them quickly and efficiently into her quiver. When he was finished she dared to peek up at him.
"Thank you," she breathed. Nervously, she held out his cloak. "Is this yours?"
He nodded and took it from her without even glancing down at it, his gaze trained on her face.
"I hope it kept you warm," he said quietly, and she blushed as, suddenly, she thought of how warm she had been when she'd slept in his arms on the plains of Rohan.
"It did, thank you," she replied in a very tight voice, not knowing what else to say. She looked down at her boots, feeling weak and dizzy and not because of her injuries, when abruptly she felt his touch against her.
A spark of heat burned her skin where his knuckle came up against her jaw. Gently he lifted her face—forcing her to look at him and turning her head to the side—and for a moment she allowed his touch in a kind of daze. She tensed, confused and waiting, but also relishing the heat of his touching her. A shiver of pleasure and nerves ran down her back as a result of the physical contact, and she was suddenly very aware of the hard line of his jaw and the strength of his hand and the intensity of his regard. Then, however, she realized what he was doing—his eyes roving over her cheek, studying the wound there as he frowned. She jerked her face away as though he'd hurt her.
Reproachfully Shëanon looked up at him, her eyes wide and her stomach in knots as he slowly lowered his hand, his gaze keen and heavy. Shame washed over her; she would have looked away if it had been possible, but some unknown force kept her attention fixed on his features.
As he had done when she'd first woken, Legolas turned away. The action cut her like a dagger.
"Aragorn is waiting for you," he said quietly. "You should go."
Then before her eyes he swung effortlessly onto his horse, not once looking back at her, and feeling as though she'd been trampled, she woodenly turned on her heel and strode away. She didn't even notice that she stood before Aragorn until he had said her name for what she could tell was at least the second or third time; all she could think of were the intensity of the elf's expression and the vague but deep sense of foreboding that his gaze had stirred in her.
"Shea?" Aragorn inquired again, putting his hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Shëanon blinked.
"Are you well?" he asked when he saw what she gathered must have been a very troubled look on her face.
She turned to look behind her—at Legolas and Gimli and the king and the high stone walls of the garrison.
"I will be better once we have left this place," she told him. By the way Aragorn squeezed her shoulder, she could tell that he understood.
Gandalf arrived then. Shadowfax's hooves made not a sound on the stone, and when he told them that the time to depart was upon them, Aragorn took to his saddle and helped Shëanon clamber up behind him. She hid her pain from him as best she could, and when at last they were riding over the causeway and out of the valley, Shëanon found that she had no desire to look back. She knew what she would have seen—the terrible rent in the Deeping Wall, the wasted land and battered ramparts from whence hundreds of people would bear their wounds—but as they crested up into the plains, she could not help the wild glance she threw over her shoulder. The image would never fade from her memory.
The journey to Isengard was not to be a long one. Their passage over the hills and plains would remain direct and swift so long as they met no trouble on the way. The horses ran in haste though not in urgency, for their riders did not want to tire their steeds without cause. Still, Shëanon was in pain. At first she had told herself that it was not so terrible, but as the day wore on she could not ignore the jarring hurt that jolted through her swollen, bruised side as she was jostled in the saddle, and neither could she distract herself from the throbbing in the places where her flesh had been pierced by blade or bolt. Aragorn had been right about her discomfort, though still she did not wish she had stayed behind.
While Brego cantered in time with the other horses, she held tight to Aragorn and grit her teeth, trying to focus on the sight of the grasslands in the sunlight. When they slowed to a walk, however, she could not help but to lean against his back, her eyes closed, for her head had also begun to pound and she was astonished by how badly she wanted to lie down. Aragorn said nothing, for which she was thankful. Hearing "I told you so," would only have made her feel worse. Day became twilight and twilight faded quickly. When at last they halted to make camp in the black, silent night—in the shadows of Fangorn Forest—Shëanon was aching and exhausted. Never before had riding been so trying. She clamped her lips together and did her best to arrange her face into a normal expression when Aragorn swung to the ground to help her down, but by the way he grimaced and stared at her she knew that she had not succeeded.
"Go sit down," the ranger told her quietly, indicating with a quick shift of his gaze the place beneath the eaves of the trees where the grass was littered with fallen logs and there was some shelter from the chilled wind.
Shëanon hesitated, watching as the King and his men began unloading their packs and tending their horses.
"I should help—" she began, but her words trailed off as Aragorn laid his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her in the direction he wished her to go. He pressed her bedroll into her arms.
"No one doubts your intentions," he said patiently. "Go and rest."
Hearing the firmness of his voice, Shëanon reluctantly crept closer to the trees. She knew that he was right. She was wounded, after all, and certainly her healing was already delayed by the trip she had insisted upon making. Despite all her stubbornness, Aragorn was a healer and certainly to listen to him would have been wise. Still, she was frustrated by her condition, angered by her own weakness. If one of her companions had been injured, she did not doubt that they would have pushed on without pause.
Her footsteps might have faltered if she had not been staggering in pain and stiff exhaustion; her memories of the end of the battle were very vague, for the poison had done its work and her recollections did not extend far beyond the agony she had felt as she'd crouched on the ground with the bolt in her body. She did know, however, that the trees of Fangorn had played some part in the end. She had heard whisperings among the men of a wrathful, vengeful force that had left the Uruk-hai shrieking in fear, but Shëanon could only guess what such a force might have been. It was with goosebumps on her skin that she lowered herself to the grass beneath the eaves, but despite her wariness she could discern nothing malicious in the trees behind her.
"I want the horses watered and rested," Éomer was shouting to their small company. His voice was well controlled, and she sensed more than she heard the vengeful anger that he surely felt. "We ride swiftly at first light."
Shëanon clenched her jaw and looked away from the men, trying not to imagine another day of hard riding. It might have been better if she were on her own horse, she thought ruefully, with her feet in the stirrups and her own hands on the reins, seeing the terrain and controlling the movements, but she also had to admit that it was less taxing to close her eyes and let Aragorn concern himself with the horse. Indeed, she had hardly been able to sit upright by the end of the day.
The grass upon which she sat, cool and damp beneath her, was black in the night. No fires would be lit, she knew, not so close to Isengard. As she watched, the men quietly left their horses and turned their thoughts at last to food and rest, and they were little more than shadows in the darkness. Still, she could see that Gandalf and Aragorn stood beside each other away from the others, their quiet voices discernable from where she sat.
For what felt like the hundredth time that day, her thoughts drifted into dark places. She still wanted to speak to Gandalf about Isengard and Saruman and Amon Hen and the Ring, but even then as she had her opportunity, she hugged her legs closer to her chest and remained silent. For some reason, she did not feel that the moment was right.
"How're you holding up, lass?" Gimli asked gruffly as he came near. He sat on the log nearest to her and let his pack fall heavily to the ground beside him. Shëanon offered him a wan smile.
"Well enough," she said quietly as the dwarf began rummaging for his pipe and, she suspected, some food. She was quite relieved that he had come to sit with her, for with Aragorn and Gandalf to the side talking, she had suddenly found herself sitting alone while, an extremely short distance away, the king and his men had started eating and speaking quietly together. She was not sure if it was her imagination, but more than once throughout the day she had felt that the king's men looked at her when her gaze was elsewhere, and even in the keep she had felt their eyes on her. She could guess at the reason for their staring. Had she not predicted through a vision the felling of the Deeping Wall—foreseen and then failed to stop it? And there she was, injured, female, and an elf... hardly old enough and certainly not important enough to be among them. She frowned and turned back towards Gimli, hoping not to think on it further.
"Brego at least liked his second rider very well," she murmured, remembering that Gimli was convinced of Arod's distrust of him.
Gimli huffed and cast a dark look at where the two horses were grazing side by side.
"That beast is more amenable is all," he said firmly, passing her a piece of dried meat which she accepted with a nod of thanks.
Shëanon grinned.
"I am not so sure," she said. "I think it is just that I am more pleasant to carry."
"Oh, is that so?" the dwarf asked skeptically. "Then tomorrow why don't you ride with the elf? See for yourself that the animal is a menace."
Shëanon almost choked around the food she'd been swallowing. She started coughing at once, and as her diaphragm contracted shooting pain shot through her ribs. She inhaled sharply as a result and her coughing only worsened as she tried to suppress it. Gimli hastily thrust his bottle of water at her.
"Here, here," he said gruffly, looking rather like he wanted to slap her on the back. She was extremely relieved when he did not, and she took several sips of water until at least she could breathe.
"I'll take that as a 'no,'" he deadpanned. Shëanon wiped at her streaming eyes.
"I will take your word for it," she gasped out as the last of her coughing died away. She very desperately hoped that the dwarf attributed the incident to swallowing her food the wrong way. In truth, however, the sudden thought of riding behind Legolas had been an abrupt shock. While she had never given a second thought to riding with Aragorn, the image that Gimli's simple words had conjured felt so inappropriate that she blushed to the roots of her hair.
Suddenly Legolas appeared before them, and Shëanon found that she had to make a point of searching through her rucksack for her own water simply so that she would not have to look at him. As the moments passed, however, she began to feel terribly dismayed. The elf stood beside her and yet, other than to ask how she was feeling, said not a word. He gazed into the forest in silence, unmoving, and for some inexplicable reason, she could not help but feel again that it was because he did not want to look at her.
"It would give me peace of mind if you would lie down, aiër," he said after a long moment, and Shëanon glanced up from where she had been toying anxiously with the pommel of her sword. Legolas was staring into the shadows ahead.
She frowned.
"I am well enough for now," she replied steadily, too proud despite her pain to sleep before anyone else. Hesitantly she looked up at him, seeing his face in profile and the strong line of his jaw from underneath as he stood above her, but Legolas did not look down or even answer what she'd said.
The quiet that followed was tense and uncomfortable for her, and, it seemed, for Gimli as well; after a few moments he began a series of grumbling observations that she could tell were for the sake of filling the awkward silence.
"I'll be thankful for a bed after this, that's for sure," he said after fiddling for a few minutes with his pipe. "With stone I can make do, but these sticks and roots and groaning trees… Can't think of a worse place for a sleep. And hot food. I don't suppose we'll be dinner guests at Isengard, eh? Who ever heard of such a thing? Days of battle and nothing but cold meat for the victory. Well, I'll be seeing about that…"
"And where do you expect to find better?" Aragorn asked, mercifully arriving with Gandalf. Shëanon was glad for their presence if only to distract from the strained silence, but then she felt that Gandalf was watching her closely, and the scrutiny and strangeness of everything was wearing on her. Eru, she wondered, what was going on?
Eventually Éomer and Théoden sought words with her companions, and with them came their men as well. A strange group they were, she thought: two kings—one a Dúnadan—a wizard, an elf prince, a half-elf, a dwarf, and several horsemen. It struck her as even stranger than had their assembled fellowship, for still the Men seemed more foreign to her than the hobbits. It was strange to her to count Aragorn among them, for he seemed so different standing next to their sandy hair and suntanned faces. But then, he was from the North and raised by the Elves, she reasoned, and the culture of the Rohirrim was a different thing entirely.
For the next hour or so, there was quiet conversation among their party, although Shëanon did not speak very much. Only Éomer addressed her, and she was taken aback when he did.
"After our last meeting, I had not thought to see you again on such terms, Lady Elf," he had said shortly after coming to sit beside Aragorn. "And yet here we meet, and I owe you thanks for your defense of my people. It seems that your sword is indeed as sharp as your tongue."
Shëanon blinked in surprise.
"And it seems that Rohan's revered horsemen deserve their reputations," she replied, remembering the words she had spat at him before. To her relief, the man grinned.
"And sharp-witted to match," he smirked, while Aragorn put his hand on her shoulder.
For the rest of the evening, she merely listened. Partly this was because she was hurting and wanted simply to lie down, and partly because she was too absorbed in her own thoughts to speak. For one, she was extremely apprehensive about the day to follow.
"Saruman has great power in speech and persuasion," Gandalf was saying. "He need not cast spells to bend wills to his desire—though do not put it past him to do so. He finds himself caught between cliff and stone, for he has betrayed his master and no longer has the might of his army to defend against retaliation. Sauron will not stand for this betrayal, as Saruman surely knows. I bid you all to steal yourselves for what may come, for the victory at Helm's Deep gave him cause for fear and yet did not lessen his own power, and desperation reaps dangerous fruit. He may try to use you, hurt you, turn you against each other... You must all keep your guard."
Shëanon sat with her teeth clenched and her eyes trained on the ground. The wizard's words worried her terribly. She kept trying to reassure herself that she was safe. Was she not with Aragorn and Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli? Yet still she could not help but feel that she was walking right into the wolf's den, only to be snatched up and devoured once she arrived. She had fought tooth and nail to escape the torture that would surely have befallen her had she been taken by the Uruk-hai to Isengard, and yet at dawn she would go willingly.
"I have fallen prey to his sorcery once," Théoden said darkly. "Not with the power of ten wizards could he succeed again."
The group fell silent save for the restless shifting of the riders.
"Take your rest, if you will have it," Théoden said eventually. "We will need clear minds on the morrow."
No one spoke after that. As incredibly relieved as she was to at last ease herself down onto her bedroll, however, Shëanon's mind would not settle. For a time she thought that her throbbing side and shoulder were keeping her awake, or even her anticipation of the coming day, but it was the sight of Legolas turning away from her that she saw each time she closed his eyes, his unusually strained tone that rang in her ears. As the others around her one by one fell asleep, she lay worrying over all that had happened. If he had known about her taking the bolt, she felt that he would have addressed her directly. His treatment of her, however, and the way Aragorn had been behaving, the staring of the Men… Anxiety twisted her stomach as she tried in vain to work it through. If Aragorn's breathing had not been so slow and deep, she might have prodded his shoulder and whispered her concerns in his ear, but then again, perhaps not, for it was Legolas who had kissed her and Legolas whose eyes had been so fervent and different, Legolas who seemed suddenly so changed, and it was not Aragorn who had wanted to send her back to Lothlórien and it was certainly not Aragorn who had become so cold and aloof.
With her jaw set, Shëanon abruptly rose and marched into the forest, away from camp. She did not walk very far beneath the trees, but she went far enough that the light of the moon was reduced to thin beams that slipped between the branches over her head. The sounds of Gimli's snoring were remote, so that around her were only the whisperings of the wind and the leaves. Then she waited.
And waited.
A long moment passed during which she had nothing but the nervousness of anticipation to distract her from her thoughts. Shëanon sat wearily upon a fallen log. She was trying to hear him, straining her ears and wondering if he would even come, for the idea had been so sudden and wild that she was beginning to doubt herself there alone in the forest. At last he appeared, however, and it was in utter silence that he came. Instead of hearing, she felt his approach, sensing him so suddenly that she froze, and when she turned he stepped out of the shadows towards her. The scant rays of moonlight and starlight that fell across his face bathed his skin in silver, and the dark contrasts where the light did not touch his features created an ethereal, unforgiving appearance that stole her breath. At once she decided that luring him into the woods as she had had been a terrible idea.
They looked at each other for a moment without speaking.
"What are you doing, Shëanon?" Legolas asked quietly, finally breaking the silence.
Her heart sank. He did not sound pleased. In fact, he sounded rather disapproving and distant, reminding her almost of the way he had spoken to her before the battle. She looked down at her hands, hesitating. Valar, why could she not seem to breathe properly?
"Could you not sleep?" he pressed when she gave no response.
Shëanon shrugged.
"I do not know," she told him in a quiet voice. "I didn't try."
Legolas stared at her, his eyes roving over her face and flitting down to glance over her wounds. She could tell what he was going to say just by his expression, and sure enough when again he spoke it was exactly as she'd expected.
"You should not have wandered off alone," he told her with a frown. "You are wounded. Come. You should be resting."
"I was hoping to speak with you," she admitted softly. What had seemed so simple to her before was becoming ever more difficult; every word that she spoke left her anxious and uncertain. As his eyebrows rose she bit her lip, not wanting to look at him but too determined to look away.
Legolas's expression was indiscernible.
"You walked into the forest alone in the dead of night without telling anyone where you were going because you wished to speak with me?" he asked with a certain element of foreboding in his voice, but Shëanon ignored his tone.
"Because I wanted to speak with you in private," she corrected. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She was proud, however, that it did not waver, for in truth she could hardly believe that she dared speak in such a manner—on such a subject.
Legolas remained silent, regarding her with cool, dark eyes in the shadows. Shëanon felt her cheeks burn under his gaze. Desperately she wished that he would speak, but he said nothing.
"I thought that perhaps you might have wanted to speak to me also," she ventured tremulously, feeling almost forced into saying the words even though he had not spoken. Her arms were crossed closely over her torso; she had to curl her hands into fists to keep them there—such was her desire to reach out to him—and her heart hammered as she waited for his response.
"Did you?" Legolas asked after another brief pause. "And why did you think that?"
His cool appraisal made her stomach lurch, and she looked up at him in a kind of wretched disbelief at his words. Why did she think that? Surely he knew why, she thought anxiously. How could he not have?
"I just... You have been acting so strangely," she murmured, swallowing. She looked into his face as she spoke, imploring him with her eyes to say something, for surely then he would have finally obliged her, but his stern countenance did not change and he uttered not a word as he continued to gaze down at her. Shëanon began to wring her hands in her lap. She had not anticipated his awful silence and indeed her courage was quickly waning.
"Are you angry with me?" she whispered at last. To her consternation, her voice did not sound at all like her own. It was too small and uncertain—even for her—and she almost grimaced just hearing it.
Legolas, however, frowned. Something shifted almost imperceptibly in his gaze.
"Angry?" He repeated darkly. "I am not angry with you, aiër."
"You have acted angry since I woke at Helm's Deep," she pointed out cautiously. "Yesterday you would hardly look at me..."
Again he gave no reply, and Shëanon felt that her nerves were frayed to a thread. Even the sound of the breeze in the trees was unbearable, for his stoic regard as he beheld her left her raw and faltering.
"Will you say nothing?" she implored him, feeling her limbs tremble. Every word that she spoke was agony for her, every syllable requiring immense effort. She was beginning to feel rather frustrated and betrayed by him, for surely he could tell how difficult their conversation was for her. He knew how she struggled to give voice to her feelings, to make herself vulnerable. Certainly she felt incredibly vulnerable to him in that moment, and his reaction was making her feel foolish and awkward.
Legolas glanced away.
"I had thought you would be the one angry with me," he said as he looked back at her. "You were furious not three days past, and as you are wounded I thought to spare you further distress."
Shëanon felt blood rush to her face. He was referring, she knew, to their altercation before the wardens had arrived.
"Distress? That was... before..." She stammered. Before the battle... Before he had kissed her…
"Nevertheless, I should apologize for my actions."
Her blood ran cold.
"Your actions?" she repeated. In her apprehension, the word tasted like tar in her mouth. Tremors of alarm and warning were shivering down her spine. "Which actions?"
"Shëanon," he said sternly, the corners of his mouth turning down, but rather than letting the subject drop, he had succeeded only in stirring her anger.
"What?" she asked with increasing agitation and anxiety. "If you are going to apologize then you should tell me for what exactly you are apologizing!"
Legolas lifted his chin, his gaze unwavering.
"I should not have treated you as I did before the battle. I do not regret my words, for I did not want to see you hurt," he said, glancing pointedly at her various wounds with a clench of his jaw, "but nevertheless to stay and fight was your choice to make and I should not have commanded you so harshly."
Shëanon stared at him. There was a brief, heavy silence during which her stomach was in knots and his eyes were fixed on her face.
"It was my intention to wound your pride," he continued. "In doing so I had thought to save your life. But never did I intend to hurt your feelings... Or to damage your trust in me."
His words turned over and over in her mind.
"You have not spoken to me because you thought I was angry and you did not want to upset me?" she frowned. Something did not seem right, as though he were only telling her part of the truth. Indeed, the way he had looked at her when she had first awoken... "But you are apologizing. Why then would I have been upset?"
If it weren't for the tight clench of his fists or the tightness in his eyes—the rigidity of his bearing—she might have wondered over his unfaltering lack of emotion. To her surprise, however, Legolas took a step closer to her, looking down at her face with an intensity that stole her breath.
"You are not ready for the conversation I would have with you, aiër," he said at last. He spoke both with severity and something alarmingly close to grief in his voice, and she felt her entire body freeze as she understood what he meant. Her breath left her suddenly, as though she had experienced the blow both physically and emotionally.
Shëanon bowed her head, her face burning, and turned away so that she would not have to see his face—truly she could not bear to see his expression.
"Oh," she managed. "I see."
She was foolish. She was so very, very foolish, for why would he look so serious and so remorseful if he were not about to at last say the words that she so dreaded?
He regretted kissing her. It had probably just been meant to manipulate her, anyways. He had admitted as much already, had he not? He had just told her that he'd wanted to bend her to his will, to drive daggers through her stubborn pride and tender confidence. His words echoed in her ears: 'You know nothing. You are as naive and untried as a newborn lamb, youngling. For me it is duty to remain here; for you it is folly.' How could she have thought any differently? How could she have allowed herself to hope—to believe—that he returned the awful, unfamiliar feelings he incited in her? That he cared for her, that he desired her? By the Valar, she was a fool. She wanted the earth to swallow her up simply so that she could escape his presence. She wished she were invisible.
"Well then just say it and be done with it," she managed. Still she did not look at him, but she could feel him standing before her by the heat of his body and the smell of his skin and the unbearable sensation that was his fëa.
"What?"
She looked up at him with a scowl.
"Or don't," she said hotly. She knew that her anger was a front for her embarrassment and heartbreak, but the knowledge did not keep her from glowering at his fair face. "It matters not, for I already know what you would say."
"And what would that be?"
She looked away again with a grimace. Her heart was pounding, her eyes burning, and when Legolas took another step towards her, the feel of his eyes on her was more than she could endure.
"Is there nothing else that you regret?" she asked instead of answering. Her throat was too constricted for speech and her voice sounded strained and unsteady. Shëanon had meant for the words to be scathing, but they had come out soft and forlorn in a way she did not at all like. To her embarrassment, the quiet question hung in the air for several moments, for Legolas remained unspeaking beside her.
"Do you speak of our kiss?" he asked at last, his voice low in the stillness, and something within her jolted. Our kiss. How would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?
"I should not have kissed you, Shëanon."
Should not have kissed you. It rang in her ears. The silence of the wood was wretchedly absolute, so that she could hear the sound of her own breathing and the beat of her heart and the strain in her throat when she swallowed. Her head was bowed, her fingernails digging into her neck. She could think of nothing to answer—nothing to say. The only things her mind seemed capable of processing were the crushing hurt and burning ache of humiliation and bereavement that roiled in her stomach and pressed against her ribcage.
She lifted her head.
"I wish you had come to that conclusion before, then," she murmured dully. Her cheeks colored as her voice grew in emotion. "It may be of little importance to you, but not to me."
"Little importance?" Legolas repeated, but Shëanon winced and turned away. Suddenly she was terribly afraid of losing her composure before him, for she found that she had to bite her lip between her teeth to keep her expression from crumpling, and her eyes had begun to fill with tears.
"Shëanon," Legolas said quietly. She did not realize he had moved so close to her until his hands came to rest on her arms, his breath near her temple and the smell of his skin in her every breath. His proximity to her seemed to set every nerve ending in her body on fire.
Legolas was evidently waiting for her to look up at him, for she could feel the expectant brush of his gaze upon her, but still she kept her eyes trained on the ground.
"I mean that I should not have kissed you when I did," he murmured after a moment when she did not move or answer. "We were both angry and I had upset you greatly, and you had made it clear to me not two days before that you were not yet ready."
It took her a moment to understand what he'd said. Shëanon froze.
"What?" she forced out, lifting her head at last. Legolas's eyes burned her skin as he looked down at her.
"My actions were rash and unfair to you," he said, his voice no longer solemn but dense with his regret and emotion. The change was startling. "Goheno nin."
Her heart was in her throat as she stared up at him, searching in his expression for some indication of what he meant, for she hardly dared to believe that he had kissed her out of desire. The dark earnestness and yearning of his regard, the heated remorse that she saw there… Shëanon felt it in every part of her body.
"You mean…" she stammered. "I thought…"
"What did you think?" he asked lowly, his hands gliding gently up her arms as he spoke. The passion of his voice combined with the tenderness of his touch was too much for her, and abruptly she rose and stepped from his grasp.
"I don't know," she gasped, striding away from him and beginning to pace. She had no idea what to feel. Embarrassed for jumping to conclusions? And indeed the unbridled hope and rekindled longing... "I don't know. Valar, I am so confused. You yell at me and then you kiss me and then I wake up and everyone is acting like I've done something awful and when you are near me I cannot even think…"
Shëanon came to a stop, gazing into the shadows before her while patches of starlight cast patterns over her face. She could again feel more than she could hear when he came up behind her, but still she jumped when she felt the backs of his fingers brush over the skin at the nape of her neck.
"Aiër, look at me," he said softly. In sudden fear she closed her eyes and did not turn, and in answer to her hesitation Legolas stepped even closer to her and laid his hands once more upon her, his fingers circling her elbows. "Look at me, aiër," he murmured again.
Her heart pounding, Shëanon slowly turned in his arms. Never before had she seen him look at her the way he looked at her then; never before had his gaze seemed so ardent. Except, maybe...
"Are my feelings so unclear to you?" he whispered, his thumb brushing her uninjured cheek. Her breath left her in a shuddering rush.
"I do not even understand my own feelings," she admitted shamefully, though she could not help but to step closer to him, to lay her hands upon his strong chest. She exulted in the rise and fall of his breathing, in the firm muscles and heat of his skin beneath his clothes. His eyes were piercing in the moonlight—like azure ice over water or ithildin under stars.
"Do you not?" he asked. "I think you understand well enough, both your feelings and mine."
Shëanon blushed and pressed her face against his shoulder, shaking her head even while her entire being was crying out. His words had sent tremors down her back and aches into her chest, but she hardly dared to think on what he was saying to her. Oh, how terribly she desired him, that he should want her as she wanted him, but his words were too good to be true. It all seemed a fevered dream, except that in her dreams she was never so frightened.
"This is folly," she whispered against his tunic, trembling to feel his hands at her waist. "Oh Elbereth, this is folly."
"What folly is there in this?" he asked in her ear.
Shëanon was torn. She had hoped to hear such words from him for months, and yet she could not help but be reminded of every doubt she had ever agonized over, every reason why she had fought so desperately against her wanting.
"I am so young," she said uncertainly, remembering again his words at Helm's Deep. Legolas's grip tightened momentarily and she nervously tried to swallow. "And… You are the prince of the Woodland Realm—"
"And you are the daughter of the lord of Imladris," he said at once, his voice unyielding. "And even if you were not—"
"You know that I am not," she whispered in dismay, squeezing her eyes closed.
"It does not matter," he said fiercely. "I know your heart, Shëanon."
Almost instinctively, she rose up on her toes and pressed her face against his neck—where it met his shoulder. Never could she have responded to such a sentiment in words.
"Look at me," he whispered again, though he did not loosen his hold on her.
Her fingers curled into fists against his shirt and again she shook her head.
"I cannot," she told him as steadily as she could. Still, her voice caught as she continued. "When I look at you I feel that my breath is stolen away."
Shëanon trembled again. To speak of her feelings so openly was against her nature, so used was she to keeping her thoughts deep inside, never to be shared. And yet as raw and terrifying as it was, she could not help but want to pour her heart out to him. Suddenly she wanted to tell him how she had lain awake at night, how she had agonized over his words, how deeply affected by him she had been since the moment they had met.
"I will help you breathe if I must," he murmured against her hair. "Look at me, aiër."
Blushing hotly, she finally did as he bid. His hands moved to cup her cheeks, and instinctively she lifted her own to grasp his wrists, feeling the strength of his hands and forearms. As every time he touched her, she felt heat wash over her skin, spreading from where his fingers were, expanding hotly in her chest and unfurling in her belly. The sensation was overwhelming, and yet it was not nearly enough. Then Shëanon tensed, seeing how he looked at her and not knowing what she was supposed to do, what he expected of her in that moment.
"Forgive me, I—I have never…"
"I know, young one," he murmured, his gaze roving almost hungrily over her features. She might have thought that he looked starved, but the light in his eyes was too gentle for that. Valar, she wanted to close her eyes and stand in his embrace all night; the moment hardly even seemed real. The leaves rustled around them, the night air sweet with the smell of the forest, but suddenly Shëanon frowned.
"If you were not angry with me, then why have you been acting so strangely?" she asked, her fingers digging into his forearms as her anxiety returned. Still she did not understand, and in her mind she saw again his expression when she had awoken. "Did something happen while I was unconscious?"
At once she saw the darkness return to his eyes, falling over his face like a shadow. He drew her even closer to him, his movements less fluid than usual, and then to her dismay he averted his gaze, looking instead up at the branches.
"This is neither the time nor the place for me to tell you, Shëanon," he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously, gripping his shoulders. "A moment ago you wanted so badly to see my face, and now it's as though you cannot bear the sight of me."
"No," he said at once, turning once more to look into her face. "Looking at you could never be a hardship to me."
He clearly meant the words with some profound significance.
"Legolas, you are frightening me," she told him, searching his face. His drastic changes in mood were more than alarming, as was whatever she could see in his eyes. "I have been so worried… I thought that you… that you didn't…"
Her voice trailed away as her words failed her, and Legolas ran his hands up and down her back.
"Please forgive me, aiër," he said again, his expression appearing anguished behind the ancient calm that masked his emotion. "I did not intend to cause you such disquiet. Truly, all reason leaves me where you are concerned."
"I care not for reason," she whispered in reply. "I just want you to be honest with me."
Legolas looked at her almost pityingly, the sight seizing her muscles.
"I fear that you will not at all like my honesty, fair one," he said quietly. He must have felt how stiff her body had become—must have felt her worry—for he sighed then.
"When we return to Edoras, I will answer any question you ask of me, Shëanon," he vowed, taking one of her hands in his. "But it would be unwise of me to answer you now. We ride for Orthanc in but a few ours."
The knowledge that he did not find a few hours' time to be sufficient troubled Shëanon greatly, but she realized that she had little choice but to agree. She almost wondered if she would not be better off asking Aragorn again, desperate for some clarity when she felt so unsure already, but Legolas seemed to sense the train of her thoughts.
"We will speak of this when we return, aiër," he murmured, holding her gaze steadily. "I swear it, for I could not withhold this from you even if I desired."
Shëanon looked down at where he held her hand against his chest, her fingers and palm looking so very small beneath his.
"You would have me worry until then?" she asked softly, acutely aware in her uncertainty of his every breath, his every slightest change in posture.
"No, aiër. Worry not."
At her doubtful expression he drew her flush against him, his arms holding her as though she were some precious burden that he sought never to release.
"Do you not trust me?" he asked, and Shëanon trembled to know that they both remembered clearly the other times he had asked her that question. Her breath left her to realize how much they had lived through together, how many dark moments he had been by her side.
"I have always trusted you," she whispered, suddenly fierce. In answer he tucked her head beneath his chin, and they stood together in the waning night for many long moments. Her cheek rested against his chest, his arms about her. His fëa was so strong a presence against her own that she kept shivering in his embrace even though she felt warmed all the way to her toes.
Legolas lightly ran his hand over the wounded part of her arm before gently skimming his fingertips over where the bolt had pierced her. Shëanon sighed and leaned into him, never wanting to leave his embrace.
"We should go back to the others," she said reluctantly after a long time, not at all wanting to say the words.
"Is that your wish?" he asked quietly.
"No," she admitted, breathing him in. "No, that is not my wish."
"Nor is it mine," he sighed. He ran his hand over her hair. "But we have lingered here too long."
Ever fiber of her body protested as she pulled away from him. For a moment they regarded each other in silence, until again Legolas touched her arm.
"Come," he murmured. "You are weary and in pain."
"I feel no pain right now," Shëanon told him breathlessly, pressing against him once more. "I feel none when you touch me."
Her quiet words had been meant in sincerity, though at once she blushed as she saw the expression that crossed Legolas's face. If she'd thought he'd looked starved before, she's been greatly mistaken.
"Do not tempt me, aiër," he said, more lowly than he had ever before spoken, though still as his knuckles brushed her jaw the corner of his mouth turned up, his eyes dark but shining. She was floored by the reaction his words had over her, and it was in a stunned and bashful but astonishingly pleased silence that she allowed him to take her hand as he led her back through the woods.
Their companions were still sleeping when they reached camp, and so without speaking they picked their way to where Shëanon's bedroll had been left. Her mind was still reeling in light of all that they had said to one another, and it was in longing that she looked up at him. She knew that he would not lie with her that night; unlike the last time, there was no privacy to be had and they were in plain sight of Aragorn and the others.
Still, her limbs trembled with her desire to be near to him and she suspected that Legolas could tell by the way that he was watching her. Eventually he lowered himself to the ground not far from where she lay, sprawling out on his back much as he had long before on the eve of their ascent up Caradhras. As on that night, Shëanon was profoundly affected by his presence, only the nature of her awareness of him was different entirely. To know that he was so close and yet not holding her was almost agony, and she could not sleep for a moment as their words to one another echoed in her head. She sent up a prayer to the Valar, hardly believing what had transpired, but each time she recalled the heat of his hands against her face, she knew that it had been no dream. The implications of their conversation frightened her terribly, though in her nervousness she could not help but hear again his voice asking if she trusted him. By Eru, she did, and when the sky was grey with the coming dawn and Legolas gently touched her shoulder to wake her, the tenderness that she saw in his eyes was all the reassurance that she needed.
She knew then as she sat up and briefly leaned against him that she was lost—utterly lost—for her heart was no longer in her own keeping. It was too late for excuses, too late to flee. Somehow she had fallen in love with the prince of the wood elves, and, as he brushed his knuckles lightly over her shoulder and arm, she could not doubt that she had his heart in return.
A/N: Soooo there's that I suppose. Thoughts? Comments? Sorry that took a few extra days. I'm quickly nearing the end of my stay in France: I go back to America in two weeks so I've been busy getting everything ready. I also went to Ireland this past weekend! Spent the entirety of the plane ride editing this chapter (and crying in terror), so I hope you enjoyed it hehe. I really wanted it to be perfect because obviously this was a huge moment for Shea and Legolas's relationship. Anyways, I have a 10 page internship report to write today/tomorrow, but the following chapter is already underway and it's (finally) Isengard, which I know some of you have been eagerly anticipating :) I certainly have been! Thank you as always for your amazing reviews, support, messages, and dedication. It is so incredibly rewarding to receive the feedback that I get from you guys, and as always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! You have no idea what a pleasure it was to write! ;) xoxo Erin