Aiër Chapter 22
Their company was quiet as they took to the road; they had reached the Gap of Rohan the evening before, and so it was through the mist-shrouded forest in the foothills of the mountains that they journeyed; they would come upon Isengard in secret from the high ground. For Shëanon, it was among the most emotional and disconcertingly difficult mornings she had ever passed; she could hardly focus on her surroundings—she barely saw the trees or heard the creaking of the wood. Legolas rode directly behind her and Aragorn, and she kept feeling his gaze on her back, burning straight through her clothes to her flesh. Her thoughts wandered ceaselessly to their conversation from the night, and as they passed beneath the moss-hung beams overhead, she found herself recalling in agonizing detail their kiss upon the battlements.
Are my feelings so unclear to you? she heard his voice again and again, feeling how gently he had touched her cheek, remembering the fervor of his gaze. She could hardly keep the blush from her face, the tremors from her limbs. Whether she wanted to go to him at once for an embrace or else flee back across the plains of Rohan—hide in the depths of the woods and never have to face whatever it was that had transpired—she could not tell. She knew only that her heart was pounding and she could hardly stand to sit still in the saddle. Restless and burning, she kept shifting her weight. In love. By the Valar, she thought, I am in love with him. Very badly, she wanted to turn and see the elf's face, but she was afraid of how she might have reacted to the sight of him.
"Are you in pain?" Aragorn asked with concern in his voice when they had been riding in silence for near to an hour. She could tell that he could feel how tense she was.
"No," she whispered. She drew in a breath. "I am just anxious."
It was not untrue, she reasoned.
Aragorn frowned and nodded, turning his head to glance over at the Rohirrim.
"In that, you are not alone," he murmured, and afterwards they spoke no more. She was left to her thoughts, breathing in the familiar smell of Aragorn's skin while thinking of the scent of Legolas's hair and clothes as he had held her against him. The memory itself was enough to undo her.
Would things become very different between them after such an intense conversation? Shëanon had no idea what she would say to him when they returned to Edoras. To know that he cared for her had her biting her lip against a giddy little smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth, and yet the improbability of it all and the absurdity of the sentiment… And her utter naivety… And then, there was still the matter of his strangeness and whatever it was that he was so reluctant to tell her. She worried over it for a long time, turning the possibilities over in her head. Her uncertainties gnawed at her, and yet he had told her not to worry… She wrung her cloak between her hands, nervous pangs in her stomach.
"Allow me to wound your pride, Master Elf," came Gimli's confident voice, suddenly pulling her from her thoughts when the morning was growing old. In the balmy shade of the forest, broken by dapples of sunlight where the leaves allowed for it, the horses were moving slowly and the air smelled of dew. Shëanon started, realizing she had been entirely absorbed in her ponderings, her injuries almost unnoticeable given their slow pace and Aragorn's pensive silence facilitating her own tumultuous thinking.
Gimli, however, had apparently been unsatisfied by the lack of conversation.
"You may certainly try," she heard Legolas reply, "though I do not think you shall succeed."
"Oh, you think not? I'll have you know that I offered to switch places with our lady elf up there, and she answered that she'd rather endure Aragorn's stink all day than suffer your company astride this prejudiced animal."
Shëanon wheeled around in astonishment.
"You are putting words in my mouth, Gimli," she said defensively, though she could not see the dwarf where he sat behind Legolas. The elf was regarding her with raised eyebrows, the heat from the night before still in his gaze, and with a blush she faced forward once more.
"My stink?" Aragorn asked dryly, shaking his head.
"I did not say that," she assured him in a flustered undertone.
"My curiosity is roused, aiër," Legolas mused from behind her. "What then did you say?"
His voice affected her more than it should have.
"Gimli suggested a trade and I said no," she murmured, not loudly, though she knew that he could hear.
"Apparently my stink is not so bad then," Aragorn pointed out archly. "Have I a say in this?"
"That depends on what it is," Gimli said at once, sounding quite entertained by the turn the conversation had taken. Shëanon sat rigidly, profoundly uncomfortable by what she would have ordinarily thought to be a pleasant, light-hearted exchange.
"My say is that Shea remains with me," Aragorn said shortly. She could not help but give a small smile even while her thoughts were in a frenzy. She was glad at least that he was not quick to be rid of her.
Gimli made a sound of discontent from behind them.
"Let's put it to a vote," he huffed.
"You petition to the wrong end, Master Dwarf," Éomer suddenly cut in, evidently having been listening from where he rode ahead. "Why do you vie for the man when you could put in for the lady? Stick the ranger with the elf, and you can enjoy the better horse and the fairer company."
The men all laughed at the idea of Aragorn and Legolas together astride Arod, their jesting remarks loud in her ears while Shëanon flushed and shifted nervously, waiting for Legolas to give his opinion. Did he want her to ride with him? Did she want to ride with him herself?
"That is one arrangement to which I will not agree," Aragorn said roguishly. She could hear the grin in his voice. "Although Legolas at least does not fall from the saddle."
"He conspired with the animal and told him to throw me!" Gimli cried indignantly. "I'll not be having it said that that was any fault of mine."
"I was not even there when you fell, my friend," Legolas said, but still Gimli grumbled.
"You're always whispering in its ear, don't think I don't know that it's about me."
The Rohirrim chuckled again to hear the easy camaraderie about them, a brief respite from the bleakness of the past several days and the uncertainty that lay ahead.
Still, Shëanon could once again not help but imagine what it would have been like to have Legolas seated before her, Legolas against whose strong back she leaned and across whose waist her hands rested, her legs on either side of his. Abruptly she let go of Aragorn, stunned by the direction of her own thoughts and sitting rigidly back in the saddle. The ranger glanced around at her in surprise, clearly baffled by her sudden and seemingly causeless movement, but Shëanon simply coughed and pretended to take a sip of water.
"Arod's feelings are gravely hurt," Legolas lamented, and at his words Shëanon heard the horse blow a huff of air. "He has fought bravely in battle and yet he is scorned by man and dwarf alike."
"Don't forget by elf, too," Gimli pointed out with satisfaction. "The lass wants nothing to do with him either."
Shëanon bit her lip, listening with rapt attention.
"You are wrong in that," Legolas said calmly. "I do not think it was to poor Arod that Shëanon was objecting."
"Ah, well, I don't blame her for that. I wouldn't ride with you either, if I could do better."
The riders all laughed again and continued to jest amongst one another, though Shëanon could hear their agitation as they spoke and laughed, masked but not driven away by the conversation. She, however, could think of nothing but what Legolas had said, wondering if he had understood her reasoning, if he had guessed at her thoughts; at last she could no longer bear it, and she glanced again over her shoulder at him.
She could tell at once by the way he was looking at her that he'd been waiting for her to turn. His expression was hard but his eyes were like flames—so acute and hot did they feel upon her—and the gentleness in his regard warred with the intense, strained way that he beheld her. Whether this was a result of Gimli's kidding or relating still to the words they'd shared before dawn, she did not know, but she ached so badly and so suddenly that she was lightheaded with it. Valar, was she losing her mind? Had she no control over herself at all, that she was so powerfully affected by just his gaze? She turned back around, feeling oddly bereft and embarrassed and strangely floaty, though she did not know why. Aragorn, too, was conspicuously quiet afterwards—a bizarre notion on her part, for the ranger was often quiet—but still Shëanon could not help but feel that he too was aware of the implications of the exchange. After a while she found that she was more wound up than ever before. Between her fear of Saruman, the throbbing of her injuries, her awkwardness behind Aragorn and the memory of the way Legolas had held her and looked at her… Her head was spinning.
"You are troubled, my friend," Aragorn whispered when noon was approaching. Shëanon blinked, wondering in a daze if he was even speaking to her, for his gaze was ahead, but then realized that her fingers were gripping so tightly to the back of his cloak that her fists were shaking. Surprised, she hastily released him.
Shëanon frowned, realizing suddenly how very much she had on her mind, remembering all that she had not yet told him about her visions in the keep and her worries over the encounter to come.
"Yes," was all she said in reply. "Yes, I am troubled."
Aragorn did not press her.
"Careful now," Gandalf announced from the front of the group. "We are not far. In a moment the trees shall end, and I can not say what we shall find waiting for us."
Shëanon tensed at those words, feeling her heart rate accelerate. The members of the company fell utterly silent, which under ordinary circumstances might have suited her well, for she was straining her ears desperately. The wariness of the group, however, affected her nerves to such a degree that she was doubly anxious, and Gandalf's warnings in her ears were reminding her of all that she had to fear. Then, as they approached the end of the path and she could see the open light ahead, she felt a strange, sudden eagerness that she had not before felt: the desire for Saruman the White to see what he had failed to capture. She had escaped his kidnapping uruk-hai. She had survived his siege on Helm's Deep. Suddenly, she wanted answers.
Aragorn guided Brego through the trees and into the open air, but Gandalf and Théoden had stopped in their tracks, and then she felt even Aragorn's reaction. Tense, she peered hastily around him, trying to see what it was that had his attention, when she heard the unmistakable sound of sizzling bacon. Her jaw dropped.
"Finally!"
Shëanon stared. Isengard was in ruins, flooded and destroyed but for a few stray trees and the immense tower of Orthanc ahead, and there, in the wake of what was clearly some awful battle and upon the wasted remains of some great stone structure, two people were smoking pipes and cooking over a fire. Two hobbits.
"Welcome, my lords—"
"And lady!"
"To Isengard," Merry grinned, bowing low, and Shëanon was so stunned that she could not speak. Merry and Pippin, who last she had seen borne away by Saruman's uruk-hai and who they had chased halfway across Middle-earth, grinned at them, whole and hale and looking very pleased with themselves. For a moment, no one spoke.
"You young rascals!" Gimli finally exclaimed. "A merry hunt you've led us on and now we find you feasting and … and smoking!"
"We are sitting on a field of victory," Pippin protested from where he sat above them. "Enjoying a few well-earned comforts. The salted pork is particularly good."
He held up a piece of the meat, which indeed appeared to be of the finest quality.
"Salted pork…" Gimli repeated longingly.
In astonishment, Shëanon gripped Aragorn's shoulder, and when the ranger turned to her he was grinning broadly.
"Hobbits!" Gandalf muttered in exasperation.
Shëanon burst into laughter.
"Do you have any idea what you put us through?" she cried, her trepidation momentarily forgotten. "How did you get here?"
"We're under orders from Treebeard," Merry explained. He somehow appeared both taller and smaller than she remembered. It seemed like so long since they'd been separated, and yet Shëanon realized that it had been only many days. "He's taken over management of Isengard."
Suddenly, one of the trees in the distance began to move towards them, sending Shëanon almost to the ground as she jumped.
"Hoooom, young master Gandalf," the tree spoke.
Spoke! Its voice was bizarre, as though it had neither lungs nor vocal cords, and the sound of it echoed lowly on the air. She could not tell if it was really made of wood or not, but certainly its shape was of branches and leaves. Its strides were long, its limbs narrow; without a doubt, it was the most astounding thing she had ever seen, and it waded casually through the floodwater as if it were entirely commonplace. "I'm glad you've come."
"Aragorn," Shëanon hissed in his ear, unable to take her eyes from the sight before her. "That is—Is that…?"
"An Ent," he whispered in affirmation. She could do nothing but gape in wonder as the immense, ancient being approached to speak to Gandalf. Around them, the Rohirrim were exclaiming in astonishment, but as they spoke in their own tongue, she could not understand what they said. She imagined their thoughts were similar to her own. She could not wrap her head around what she was seeing. One of the Onodrim was really there before her. Even when Gandalf had spoken of the Ents when they'd met him in Fangorn Forest, she had not imagined that she would ever meet one.
"Wood and water, stock and stone I can master," said the Ent, seemingly unaffected by the way they were all staring. "But there is a Wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."
"Indeed there is," Gandalf agreed ominously as he gazed out at Orthanc. "And we shall treat with him presently."
"You two," he called to Merry and Pippin, who still looked incredibly self-satisfied. "Come now. Quickly."
Making a point to snatch up the last of their meals, the two hobbits scrambled down from the stone and headed for their companions.
"Tree-people and Halflings," said Gamling from beside the king. "What else will we meet with today?"
"Another wizard, at the least," replied Éomer. "Come, little masters. One of you may ride with me."
Aragorn swung down to help Pippin clamber up behind Gandalf while Éomer pulled Merry up from the ground.
"Were you a part of this?" Shëanon suddenly asked in disbelief, thinking of their proud airs and the demolished landscape before them.
"Might have had something to do with it, yes," Pippin grinned.
Shëanon let out a nervous laugh.
"I didn't think we would ever see you again," she told them, once again letting her gaze rove over the state of Isengard. Here and there, barrels and pieces of wood floated. The entire valley was seemingly a lake, though well she knew that it should not have been. Around them, she could see the remains of smaller buildings and structures, though nothing was left untouched. Then Shëanon flinched, realizing that the trees all about were not trees at all, but more Ents standing guard.
"And what about you?" Merry asked lowly as the group started forward in Treebeard's wake, their horses splashing through the water. "Saruman sent his army—"
"Later," Aragorn promised, for their surroundings were utterly silent and a sense of foreboding was about them all. The sudden joy of finding Merry and Pippin fled. It was clear that there was danger afoot.
Gritting her teeth, Shëanon suddenly pulled her bow from her back, wanting to have it in her hands. Her anxiety had returned, and anger came along with it.
They stopped some yards away from the base of the tower, the water two or three feet deep. Directly in front of them was an impressive staircase leading up to an imposing door; the bottom steps were submerged in the flood. Shëanon could feel the change in Aragorn, sensing how he had gone suddenly and utterly alert even while outwardly he appeared calm and confident. The Rohirrim looked around suspiciously, though none of them spoke, and even the hobbits said nothing.
"Show yourself," Gandalf murmured as they all gazed up at the imposing black structure that was Orthanc. It rose impossibly high, dark and rigid against the clouds. Shëanon felt sweat run down her back; the anticipation was awful.
"Let's just have his head and be done with it," Gimli snarled from beside her. She started, not having realized that Legolas had brought Arod so close.
"No," Gandalf said at once, though he did not take his eyes from the tower before him. "No, Gimli. We need him alive. We need him to talk."
Shëanon's grip tightened on her bow.
"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterwards."
Shëanon jumped. The cold, clear voice rang out on the wind, loud and precise. Gasping, she turned her eyes to the balcony several stories above. There, with his staff in one hand and the other resting upon the balustrade, was Saruman the White. A feeling of dread washed over her. It was the first time she had ever laid eyes on him, and yet she knew at once that it was he. His resemblance to Gandalf was, in fact, so pronounced that she could not help but to shudder. Well she remembered the day when they had mistaken their friend for the villain before them. He was arrayed all in white, his garments bright and stark against the dark stone of the tower, and in his eyes she could see clearly the enduring, timeless ages of his long existence. He looked them over coolly, his gaze sharp and seeing, and if she were not so stunned she might have drawn an arrow, so trapped did she feel there in the open.
Saruman continued. "Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace you and I?"
His voice raised the hair at the back of her neck, for it was sickeningly persuasive—incredibly disturbing, as though he knew without a doubt that his will would be done without question. Shëanon dug her fingers again into Aragorn's arm, wary and on guard. Tensely she turned to look at where Théoden was astride his horse, beside Gandalf at the front of their group. He was unspeaking for a moment, all eyes that were not trained on Saruman fixed on him. Shëanon's stomach turned over as they awaited his response. She remembered what Gandalf had said about the danger of Saruman's speech…
"We shall have peace…" Théoden spoke at last. The words at first were deathly quiet, drawing everyone's attention, but the king's voice grew in both volume and passion as he spoke. "We shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold! And the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows… we shall have peace!"
His shouts echoed on the open air, impossibly loud and not quick to fade. Shëanon had not yet seen the king in such a way. It was more than rage—more than ire. Trembling with the tension and emotion around her, she turned quickly back to Saruman.
"I might have expected such an answer from you, Son of Thengel," Saruman sneered. "Your will is weak and your judgment easily clouded, as well you know. You are clearly deep in the control of the conjurer who rides beside you. No doubt the words you bellow were whispered in your ear this morning by this beggar who presumes to call himself a wizard."
Shëanon watched Théoden's teeth clench, though Gandalf showed no outward reaction to what Saruman had said.
"Your treachery has already cost many lives," he said calmly. It was clear to her that he thought some reason or hope of redemption was yet to be found in Saruman's heart, for the way he spoke was not scathingly. "Thousands more are now at risk. But you could save them Saruman. You were deep in the enemy's counsel."
Saruman's eyes glinted as he lifted his chin.
"So you have come here for information," he said with satisfaction. "I have some for you."
He looked them over, his icy gaze falling upon each in turn. None in their company moved, and Shëanon felt almost sick with the heaviness of the moment. Suddenly, she was of a mind with Gimli. She wanted to shoot the wizard that stood above them—wanted to see him dead before any more harm could come to them, consequences be damned. She had hardly thought of stringing an arrow, however, when Saruman's eyes landed upon her at last. Shëanon froze, a deer before a hunter.
"Shëanon Peredhel," he sneered, and her blood ran cold to hear her name on his cunning lips. She felt that he was looking into her thoughts as he scrutinized her, and yet he gave the appearance of caring little over the details of their interaction. It was a profoundly disturbing sensation, and the wizard's voice spoke directly to the fear in her heart as he went on. "We meet at last. You have proven yourself a most elusive guest—no doubt a trait inherited from your pathetic father. You have the look of his accursed house."
Shëanon stared. She had the look…? As she heard his words, her mind began racing. Saruman would have known that Elrond was not her true father, that she was not of his blood and that she did not resemble him at all… She gazed up at him in horrified uncertainty.
"No, it is not of Elrond Half-Elven that I speak," Saruman said coldly, seeing her stunned expression. Her heart began to pound, her breath coming quick. "Though as witless as you doubtlessly are, I suspect that the improbability of that particular arrangement has never occurred to you—how... coincidental... that the only bastard half-breed in Middle-earth should crawl her way to the doorstep of the only peredhel brood. Too convenient, one might say, to be the outcome of chance."
His words were met by utter silence, for no one spoke and Shëanon certainly did not know what to say. She had begun to sweat, feeling it cold on her back as her fingers slipped on her bow. Certainly he could not know anything. She would not believe anything he told her.
"Twice now have my servants failed to bring you before me," Saruman said with dissatisfaction, though Shëanon's ears were still ringing with what he'd said about her adoption.
"Twice?" Aragorn cut in sharply, but the wizard ignored him entirely.
"Tell me, do you desire your father's name?" he asked with what might have been disinterest if it were not for the cruel, taunting current in his words. He sounded both mocking and cajoling at once, an impossible combination, so that Shëanon hated him for his speech but yet she could not have survived if he did not continue—her attention unwavering, she was hanging on his every word. His eyes glinted. "It is to my understanding that you long to hear it at last. I know it well, and that of your whore mother. It might interest you to know that she died birthing you."
Shëanon's eyes went wide.
"What are you talking about?" she ground out, her voice hardly audible, it shook so badly. She felt terribly nauseous all of a sudden, as though not enough blood was being pumped to her head.
"Shea," Aragorn hissed, half turning to her, but again Saruman continued.
"A wretched, pestilent curse you were born—unwanted and ill-conceived, a squalling brat deserving of whip and fire."
Every nerve in Shëanon's body seized, her every muscle drawn as her breath stopped in her throat. She forgot about her companions entirely. All she could see was the light in Saruman's eyes; all she could think of were the memories of the beatings and the floggings, of reliving it in her sleep, of feeling the hot iron on her flesh while the Eye of Sauron blistered against her eyes. She felt that she was naked, that her scars were open wounds hideous and visible to all the world, and Saruman smiled wickedly. How could he have known her deepest, darkest secret? Of all the terrible things she had feared of going to Isengard, she had never anticipated such a moment.
"I can tell you the tale in its entirety," he said calmly, clearly seeing her horror. "Come inside, and we will… talk."
Shëanon shook her head, her blood rushing in her ears.
"You think I would let you kill me?" she asked in shaken disbelief.
"You would be dead already if I wanted to kill you," Saruman sneered. "You are of no use to me in your grave."
Shëanon clutched at her bow in alarm, beginning to feel truly panicked.
"You're lying," she snarled, though she trembled from head to toe.
Saruman only lifted one silver eyebrow.
"Do you think so?" he asked as though with pity, conveying without words that he had known every detail as fact. "What cause have I for lies? In your heart you have guessed much already. You know that I speak the truth."
"You're lying!" she screamed, causing Brego to dance skittishly. "You know nothing!"
"Shëanon," Gandalf called to her, but Shëanon could not turn away from the smug leer of the figure at the railing.
"You may tell yourself what you wish," Saruman said coldly, "but I have the answers you seek, and as fate would have it, I have need of you."
"What need?" she bit out, shaking violently. "What could you possibly want?"
"Am I to believe that the mighty Gandalf has not told you?" he asked, his voice dripping with malice and disdain. "Ah, yes. He does not know. For all your mighty friends, it would seem that your gain has been little. How foolish Elrond truly is, for all his alleged wisdom, to have had you under his roof and not see you for what you are. Or perhaps he has seen it. Seen it and convinced himself otherwise. Your blood is more valuable than the Dúnadan's head, and I offer you now a price."
Shëanon was almost panting, so difficult had it become for her to draw breath.
"Come inside, and I shall tell you all that you wish to know."
She could feel everyone's eyes on her, but she could neither move nor answer. Desperately she tried to swallow against the bile that was rising in her throat. Saruman pounced at her hesitation.
"Your friends," his lip curled at the word, "desire my help. Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth—something they have failed to see, but the Great Eye has seen it! Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. If you come inside, I will give them the information they so desperately need. Come inside. Sate your curiosity and aid your companions."
Shëanon was sure that she would be sick. She did not answer—she could not answer. She looked down at her bow and saw it as though it did not belong to her. Her back was on fire. Her mother had died birthing her—her blood was of great value—was it true?
"Of what do you speak, Saruman?" Gandalf asked when it was clear to everyone that Shëanon would say nothing.
"Will you have more blood on your hands, Shëanon Peredhel?" Saruman pushed. "Would you have more lives lost because of your own selfishness? Your own cowardice?"
Shëanon squeezed her eyes closed, her head pounding. Her wounds hurt her so badly that she was faint.
"Would you live the rest of your miserable life longing for that which you will never know? I assure you, if you do not give your questions to me now, they will be unanswered forever."
The she-elf! The she-elf! Who are you? Who are you?
She felt Aragorn's hand suddenly on her knee, but she did not look at him.
"No," she breathed.
Saruman stared at her as she lifted her head.
"I will never help you," she hissed. Her throat suddenly cleared, and she found herself shouting. "I would sooner take my own life than give myself into your hands!"
"You insolent little fool!" Saruman snapped, his eyes burning with hatred. "Do you think your choice is noble? You escape nothing! I give you the chance to aid me willingly, but the Dark Lord will take you by force. Do you think He is unaware of you? In the blackness of Barad-dûr you will scream and rot and beg for death, and you will rue the day that you refused my charity! Do you wish a new Master, you simpering brat? I assure you that you shall have one."
Shëanon flinched as suddenly beside her there was a violent movement.
"You will speak," Legolas spat, unmoving, his bow bent and the arrowhead aimed at Saruman's chest. He had drawn and knocked the arrow so quickly that Shëanon had felt the wind of the action, and again she felt herself shivering, her skin cold and clammy.
"Legolas," Gandalf said in warning, but the elf did not lower his weapon.
"What desire has Sauron for Shëanon?" Legolas asked lowly, each syllable hard and dangerous. She felt Aragorn's fingers squeeze her leg more tightly, for Saruman began to laugh bitingly. The sound was empty and cold and turned her stomach; she did not know whether to look at the wizard or the elf, but before she turned back to Saruman, she saw Legolas's eyes narrow.
"I fear no arrow of yours, Legolas Thranduilion," he mused humorlessly. "And yet, how very far you are from your homeland. Tell me, how fares the Elvenking of late? Does he yet live, or have the Dark Lord's armies killed him at last, as they have killed so many of your kin these last weeks?"
Shëanon's hand flew up to cover her mouth. She saw Legolas grit his teeth.
"You do not know the answer. Did you even know that your people are at war? The Woodland Realm is red with blood and fire, every last warden deployed, and where is the crown prince? Where is the captain of the guard? Off gallivanting with wastrels and castaways."
Suddenly Saruman cackled, appearing for the first time to be truly mad, truly evil.
"You are all going to die!" he said with relish and disdain. "But you know this, at least, don't you, Gandalf?" he squinted down at Aragorn, baring his teeth. "You cannot think that this ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile crept from the shadows will never be crowned King."
Shëanon's hatred was uncontainable.
"But certainly you will try to use him to your purposes. Him and the elf tramp behind him. Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those who are closest to him… those he professes to love! Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death."
"I've heard enough!" Gimli exploded, brandishing his axe. "Shoot him! Stick an arrow in his throat!"
Seething and shaking with emotion and fear and rage, Shëanon obeyed at once, finally drawing an arrow. She did not even feel the pain in her wounds as she pulled the string.
"No!" Gandalf barked as she took her aim over Aragorn's head. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her muscles screaming. Gandalf's gaze was on her; she could feel it and his disapproval, though she could not look away from Saruman. Only with immense effort and fury did she relinquish her aim, slowly lowering her bow, though the arrow she kept at the string.
"Come down Saruman," Gandalf entreated when she sat, scowling and shaking but obedient, behind Aragorn once more. The wizard continued. "Come down, and your life will be spared!"
Saruman's face darkened.
"Save your pity and your mercy," he hissed. "I have no use for it!"
Suddenly a cry rent the air, and from where he stood upon the balcony a burst of flame erupted. It exploded from Saruman's staff and descended upon Gandalf like dragonfire, causing the horses to rear and Shëanon to gasp and shield her face against the heat, holding fast to Aragorn while he attempted to reign Brego under control. In a panic she watched the wreath of flame swirl around where Gandalf and Pippin and Shadowfax had been, fearing the worst. For a second she was certain that she was watching Gandalf die before her eyes for a second time, certain that when the fire passed they would see charred flesh and bone, and in despair she wondered what they would do. Then, however, the fire dissipated, and to her disbelief when it went wizard, hobbit, and horse were there as unscathed and whole as before, except Shëanon could tell that at last Gandalf had grown angry.
"Saruman," he called, his voice ringing. "Your staff is broken!"
With a burst of splintering wood, the white rod in Saruman's hand blew apart, smoke rising with the cinders. Saruman stood stunned, his face a study of resentment and ire. Shëanon watched on in anger and wariness, knowing that even without his staff he was powerful. Then suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway behind him. A man, wretched and pale and attired in black, crept cautiously onto the balcony. Shëanon's hatred redoubled. It was Gríma Wormtongue.
A murmur ran through the Rohirrim, but suddenly Théoden called out.
"Gríma!" he shouted. "You need not follow him! You were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down."
Shëanon turned to the king in astonishment. Surely he was mad! Had he forgotten that the man had betrayed his people? Did he not realize the part that Wormtongue had certainly played in the attack on Helm's Deep, in the deaths of the Rohirrim? Did he not remember how the man had tricked him into Saruman's enslavement? The king had wanted to cleave his head from his shoulders on the spot when he'd awakened from the long enchantment, and yet there he was inviting him to come down! Shëanon was horrified.
"A man of Rohan?" Saruman sneered. "What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs? The victory at Helm's Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse Master. You are a lesser son of greater sires!"
Shëanon's fingers were shaking with her anger, but Théoden to her surprise ignored what the wizard had said.
"Gríma," he said again. "Come down! Be free of him!"
Wormtongue, sickly looking and haggard, gazed down at the king in evident longing. Just when she thought that he would indeed go down, Saruman spoke again.
"Free?" he jeered. Suddenly, before their eyes, he backhanded his servant across the face. Gríma went sprawling across the stone balcony in a heap upon the ground. "He will never be free!"
"Saruman!" Gandalf barked, his voice sharp and ringing. He was clearly growing weary of the poisonous exchanges. His eyes flashed as he continued. "You were deep in the enemy's counsel. Tell us what you know!"
Saruman cast aside all pretense.
"You withdraw your guard and send up the girl and I will tell you where your doom will be decided!" he shouted, his face incensed, his knuckles white upon the railing. "I will not be held prisoner here—ahh!"
Suddenly Saruman cried out; Shëanon had been so focused on his words that she had not been paying attention as Gríma Wormtongue had gotten to his feet. He had, however, risen, and as they all sat below he stabbed a shining blade between the wizard's shoulders again and again. At once, an arrow was in the man's chest, fired she knew, by Legolas, but his instantaneous reflexes were not enough. Even while Wormtongue staggered back, Saruman's breath gurgled in his throat, his eyes wide and insane, and then, while Shëanon watched on in horror, he crumpled over the railing and fell to his death. With a sickeningly wet crash, he landed impaled upon one of the great iron spikes of his own war machine.
There was a stunned silence. Shëanon heard one of the hobbits gasp. They stared, shocked and grim-faced, at the body of Saruman the White. He had landed face-up, the cruel metal scarlet and dripping with his blood, and Shëanon was trembling so badly in her disgust and shock and horror in the wake of his unsettling words and abrupt death that she almost dropped the arrow she held into the water below.
Gandalf spoke first.
"We must send word to all our allies," he commanded, turning away from the gruesome sight before them. "And to every corner of Middle Earth that still stands free. The enemy moves against us. We must know where he will strike."
Théoden turned to one of his men, ordering him to ride through Rohan in all haste, though Shëanon barely saw as he rode off, splashing through the water.
"Then there is nothing left to be done here," the king was saying. "Let us leave this foul place."
"We must make for Edoras," Gandalf agreed, turning Shadowfax about. "There we will await word and prepare for whatever threat may come. Rohan must be ready."
"We shall be ready," Éomer said, glancing over his shoulder to look again at Saruman's dead body.
The horses began clopping back through the flood. Shëanon sat stock still as she was borne forth. She could not move. She stared down at Aragorn's shoulder without seeing it, tremors running down her spine.
"The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees. Wild trees." Treebeard's voice was distant in her ears.
There was a splash and she felt Aragorn move; she had to squeeze her eyes closed. She could not breathe.
"Pippin!"
"Bless my bark!"
"Peregrin Took, I'll take that my lad! Quickly now!"
Her jaw clamped shut, Shëanon tried desperately to breathe through her nose. The jostling motion as Brego walked made her feel even sicker. She felt like there were iron bands around her chest, keeping her from drawing breath. Saruman's voice was ringing more and more loudly in her ears. The more she tried to put his words from her mind, the louder they became in her thoughts. Her gaze roved sightlessly over the ruins of Isengard. She could see nothing but fire, Saruman's wild expression, the orange glow of red-hot metal, the Eye of Sauron in her head…
It might interest you to know that she died birthing you. A wretched, pestilent curse you were born—unwanted and ill-conceived, a squalling brat deserving of whip and fire. Will you have more blood on your hands, Shëanon Peredhel? Your blood is more valuable than the Dúnadan's head. In the blackness of Barad-dûr you will scream and rot and beg for death, and you will rue the day that you refused my charity! Do you wish a new Master, you simpering brat? I assure you that you shall have one.
Saruman had known about her Master. How had he known? And he had perished. Would she truly then never know of her past? Had the answers really died with him? And he had said that Sauron wanted her—that her blood was of value—and he had spoken those things in front of her companions—for Legolas and Gimli and all the Rohirrim to hear. What must they have thought of her? She felt ill just to imagine. They would think her tainted and dangerous, ill fated and accursed and associated with the Enemy. She remembered again hearing Sauron's voice in her head, remembered how she had felt the mark of a hundred brands burning her flesh as she had looked at the One Ring. Wave after wave of nausea crashed over her, and her breathing was shallow and fast and desperate. Her shaking got worse; she could not tell if she was stifling hot or freezing cold.
Her companions were speaking and there were Ents and Aragorn kept glancing back at her but Shëanon had no idea what was being said around her. Then she remembered the vision she had had when she'd been poisoned and unconscious—the vision of herself chained up in a dark room. In her fevered dream she had seen it in Lady Galadriel's mirror, but she realized she had seen the room before, in her waking life in Lothlórien when she had truly looked into the mirror there. In the blackness of Barad-dûr you will scream and rot and beg for death! Shëanon's stomach lurched.
She made it only as far as the edge of the forest before she had to clamber off of Brego's back and stagger into the trees to vomit. She heard Aragorn call after her, but she could not answer as she dropped to her knees. Doubled over and kneeling in the bushes, she wretched and wretched, her entire body convulsing. Her stomach was empty and she had nothing to throw up, but still she convulsed as her stomach heaved. Pain shot through her ribs as she gagged and coughed, her hands curled into fists in the damp grass.
Cool fingers were suddenly brushing her braid over her shoulder and pulling the loose strands of her hair back from her face.
"Pân no mae, aiër. Thuio."
Shëanon sat back on her heels, her hands braced still on the ground as she panted and gasped for breath. Her eyes were streaming. She felt Legolas's hand move to her back as she wiped at her face and tried to breathe normally.
"I'm fine," she choked out, humiliated that he had seen her in such a way, embarrassed that he had witnessed such weakness. "I'm fine. I just—sick—"
"Take deep breaths," he murmured quietly.
She sucked in air desperately, her head still spinning and her limbs still trembling and nervous knots still twisting in her stomach.
"I am fine," she bit out again, gritting her teeth. She knew that Legolas crouched just behind her, but she could not bring herself to turn to him. When at last she was certain that she would not throw up again, she rose unsteadily to her feet. For a moment she feared she might faint, for the earth tilted as she stood, but Legolas caught her elbows and steadied her.
"Sorry," she muttered when she had her footing. Her gaze was fixed on the ground. "I'm fine."
"Perhaps you should sit down for a moment," Legolas suggested carefully. His caution sent a shudder through her. Was he thinking on what Saruman had said? Did he think her an abomination, that she had killed her own mother? That she was of use to the Enemy? How much had he understood of what the wizard had uttered, regarding her master and the beatings? A bastard child, he had said—an unwanted whore's progeny who had just made a hideous display of herself there in the grass before the prince of the Woodland Realm.
Shëanon was almost sick again.
"No, I—I do not want to delay anyone," she forced out, swallowing against the bile in her throat. Her mouth tasted like metal. Her skin was clammy and the air felt too dense to properly inhale.
Trembling, she made to turn back to the others. To her extreme dismay, however, Aragorn stood just behind them, his eyes burning into her as he gazed keenly into her face. Ashamed, she bowed her head and strode around him, eager to get away from his discerning, knowing regard.
"Shea," he called quietly, but she pushed back through the trees to where the rest of their group was halted, waiting. Shëanon could not bring herself to meet anyone's eyes; truly, she hated herself just then. After what had transpired at the foot of Orthanc, and then jumping from the saddle to go be sick in the trees... Her face was burning as she waited at Brego's flank for Aragorn to arrive so that she could mount behind him.
"Are you alright, Shëanon?" Pippin asked from ahead as Aragorn finally appeared at her side. He paused before her, looking down into her face as though waiting for her to speak to him, but Shëanon only offered him a mutinous expression that he clearly correctly interpreted to mean that she would not have taken well to further inquiries into her well being or comments made on the subject. Frowning at her, he stepped into the stirrup and hoisted himself astride the horse.
"Yes," Shëanon muttered in Pippin's direction, accepting Aragorn's hand and heaving herself back into the saddle without comment but with a massive effort, for her wounds pained her terribly and she grimaced and grit her teeth as she swung her leg over. It was only because of her stubbornness that she did not lean heavily against the ranger as Legolas mounted Arod and their group began moving again. She wanted very badly to rest her head on his shoulder, but already she knew that she had attracted attention to herself and the idea that the horsemen might have been watching her or Gimli and the hobbits speculating about her or Gandalf keeping his eye on her made stomach roil.
For the rest of the day, Shëanon said not a single word. She rode in utter silence behind Aragorn, dwelling on awful, dark thoughts and darker memories. For the first time in a long while, she strained to remember her childhood. She had repressed much of it, but as Brego easily carried her back through the forest, she searched frantically through her earliest recollections. Whenever she had done so before, it had been to strain for anything that might have hinted at her parents' identities. This time, however, she desperately sought any information that might have linked her to Sauron or Saruman—anything that might have explained Saruman's knowledge of her or his claims that her blood was of value. Fear curdled in her chest. She remembered Lord Elrond's words from so long ago, telling her on the morning of the council that she was involved with the matter at hand. She cringed, her head pounding. What if she was more than simply involved? What if she was some spawn of evil origin? What if her birth had something to do with the Enemy or the Ring? How else could Saruman have known about her torture and her Master? No one but Gandalf, Aragorn, Glorfindel, and her family knew such things.
Her worry only worsened as the day lengthened. Shëanon did not touch a morsel of food during lunch, keeping to herself and not looking at anyone. When at long last they stopped for the night, she was awash in worry and shame and self-loathing. A filthy half-breed, neither elleth nor woman. A bastard child born of a whore, unwanted by her parents—by her family. She had killed her own mother simply by existing. She was linked somehow to Saruman and Sauron—the wretched blood in her veins was of some use to the Enemy; he wanted to use her. She could serve his evil cause. It was as she had always feared, only worse. She was worse than nothing. She was worse than lowborn and unwanted. She was despicable. She did not deserve to call Lord Elrond father. She did not deserve to be counted as granddaughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, as sister to the Evenstar and the valiant sons of Celebrían. She thought of the scars on her back and on her legs, the unsightly markings that marred her shoulder blades, following the line of her spine down to her waist, crisscrossing over her buttocks and all the way to the backs of her knees. The man who had given them to her had hated her. He had begrudged her her every breath. He had been right. She was disgusting and dirty and impure. Accursed, Saruman had said.
"Shea?"
Startled, she looked up to see Aragorn standing over her. His face was in shadow.
"I must change your bandages," he murmured.
Shëanon stared back at him uncomprehendingly. They were out again on the plains of Rohan, the moon bright overhead. Éomer and his men sat in a circle together passing around food and drink, and with them were Gimli and Merry and Pippin. Gandalf stood a ways away with Théoden; the two conversed in low voices that were garbled by the wind. Mere feet to her left, Legolas stood against the night sky, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze directed far into the distance, though Shëanon knew that he was listening to what Aragorn was saying to her.
Dazed and disoriented, it took her a moment to turn his words over in her head. Her wound burned viciously, but she thought she might wretch again as she finally understood the implications of what he had said.
"No," she said hoarsely. "I can wait until we get back to Edoras."
Aragorn frowned.
"This should have been done last night," he told her quietly. "You need fresh bandages and medicine, or the wound will become infected."
Shëanon's throat closed in revulsion. They were out in the open with nowhere to seek privacy. She drew her cloak closer about herself, looking from the Rohirrim to Aragorn and then down at the ground. It had been one thing to know that Aragorn had looked upon her while she'd been unconscious, but to bare herself to him while she was awake, that he might see those vile markings, that the Rohirrim might see… that Legolas might see…
"No," she whispered, drawing her knees close to her chest. "It can wait."
Aragorn crouched at her side.
"It cannot wait," he disagreed, the disapproving tone of his voice causing her to shudder even while he spoke softly in the night. He laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Come. We will be quick about it."
She sat unmoving in the grass, paralyzed by her dread and discomfort and shame as Aragorn waited for her to rise. Anxiously she twisted her cloak between her fingers and ran her hands over her face. She felt desperate and trapped and appalled, her teeth biting hard into her lip as she tried to find a way out of the situation without causing a scene.
"Can it not wait just until tomorrow?" she begged, her voice breaking.
"Let Aragorn tend to you, aiër," Legolas murmured from beside her. Her face flaming, she glanced up to see that his expression was dark and heavy, his words quiet but firm. With him gazing down at her and Aragorn kneeling beside her, both of them unyielding and expecting her to do as she was told, she felt her head begin to spin. She would not be able to dissuade them, she thought, her heart rate accelerating. They would make her do as they said and she was trapped and her wounds were burning and her skin felt vile and too tight and still they were looking at her…
Woodenly Shëanon stood, wincing at the pain that the movement caused her. At once Aragorn brought his arm around her shoulders, leading her away from camp and out into the plains. Shëanon did not turn to look at the rest of their company and only prayed that they did not watch her walk off. She trembled from head to toe as Aragorn drew her with him into the night. Neither of them spoke, the silence wearing heavily upon Shëanon's mind. The wind in the tall grass roared in her ears, the landscape silver under the stars, and her trepidation was a solid weight in her stomach until finally Aragorn stopped and pulled his pack from his shoulders. She stood frozen and afraid as she watched him pull fresh linen and a jar of salve from within, her heart pounding in her chest and her mouth and throat painfully dry.
Aragorn glanced up at her expectantly. She blanched.
"The others will see," she told him tremulously. She almost thought she would start gagging again.
She had never before seen Aragorn look at her the way he looked at her then. Pityingly. Apologetically. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. Her skin was crawling. Never had she felt so uncomfortable, so distressed and self-conscious and discomposed, and never before had she felt so wretched under Aragorn's familiar gaze.
"No one can see, Shea," he assured her. "Not this far in the dark."
Shëanon shook her head.
"Legolas will see," she whispered, panicked and almost in tears.
Aragorn looked at her for a long moment while she pressed her knuckles against her temples and struggled desperately for composure.
"Legolas will not look, Shea," he said finally, his gaze piercing her. "Come here."
Shaking, she stepped towards where he knelt. Her hands trembled so badly that she could barely unclasp the brooch of her cloak, her hands slipping on and fumbling with the mithril mallorn leaf. Pulling off her tunic was difficult with how badly she was hurting. Her adrenaline had distracted her earlier in the day when she had drawn her bow in Isengard, but she felt the toll the movement had taken on her injuries acutely there before Aragorn. She winced and clenched her jaw as she pulled it over her head and dropped it to the ground with her cloak, her shirt following. When she stood in only her undershirt, she hesitated, her flesh covered in goosebumps and her breathing shallow. She could not decide whether to turn her back or not, unsure whether she would be more embarrassed facing him or away from him.
"Do not look," she begged, even though Aragorn had already averted his gaze.
Tears burning in her eyes, she turned her back. Awkwardly she struggled to slip her arms out of the sleeves of the garment, her movements ginger and halting with the seizing pain in her ribs and sharp ache where the bolt had pierced her as she eased the straps over her shoulders and tried to pull her elbows through the holes. The knowledge that her scars were clearly visible in the light of the moon was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes closed, her hands fisting in the thin fabric to keep it up around her chest, clutching the cloth to her breasts. In trembling silence, she turned to kneel before Aragorn.
At once he drew his knife from his belt and cut the old bandages away with careful fingers. Shëanon winced and bit back her cry as he drew the linen away from the wound, for it had stuck and adhered against her raw flesh and it hurt her terribly as Aragorn peeled it off. The ranger worked swiftly and silently, turning her slightly so that the moon shone directly upon the injury. His critical appraisal was worsening her anxiety and she shivered as the wind blew again.
"You should not have drawn your bow," Aragorn murmured, wiping at the blood that had congealed on her skin. "But it does not appear infected."
Shëanon said nothing. Her head was tilted back, her eyes trained on the dark sky above, for she could not have borne the sight of him. Aragorn pulled the lid off the jar of salve and began dabbing the contents within onto her chest while Shëanon remained unmoving and rigid. Because she would not relinquish her hold on her shirt, Aragorn had to work around her arms as he began winding the fresh bandages around her chest and over her shoulder. It seemed to her to take an eternity.
"How fare your ribs?" he asked quietly. "You were in pain yesterday."
"I was fine," she lied, tensing each time that Aragorn reached around behind her, dreading that his fingers might brush against her mutilated body.
In her peripheral vision she saw him glance up at her, but he made no further comment. When he was finished Aragorn sat back, finally having secured the end of the bandage. Then he reached for her again, evidently to look at the stitches on her arm, but Shëanon stood at once and moved away from his grasp.
"Can I get dressed?" she asked softly, staring down at the grass. Aragorn stood and turned away from her, and immediately she shoved her hands back through the sleeves of her undershirt and scrambled for the rest of her clothes in the grass.
Do you wish a new Master, you simpering brat? Elrond knows nothing of your birth? The Dark Lord will take you by force. In the blackness of Barad-dûr you will rot. I assure you that you shall have one. The she-elf! The she-elf! You will beg for death. I'll show you pain. You know nothing of it. Do you wish a new Master? You will rot. Do you wish a new Master? Which of your parents was human? I fear we will find no clarity yet. A wretched, pestilent curse. Disobedient brat! I'll show you to defy me! I'll show you pain! Who are you? Who are you? You shall have one.
"Shea."
Aragorn was staring at her. Shëanon looked down to see that she held her cloak in her hands, though she hardly remembered picking it up. All she knew were the awful numbness and the aching waves of shame and fear. Clasping her cloak over her shoulders, she bowed her head and quietly walked to his side, intent on returning to camp, but he held out his arm to stop her. Shëanon froze.
"You have tended my wounds," she muttered anxiously, not looking at him. "We should return to the others."
"One wound I have tended," he replied quietly. His voice was frighteningly serious. "But there are older ones that I think have never healed."
Tensing, Shëanon lifted her head. The meaning of his words was clear, and she balled her hands into fists. Aragorn's eyes were too knowing, too keen, and he stepped closer to her and lowered his voice even more as he continued.
"The power of Saruman the White lay in deceit," he murmured, his gaze roving over her face. Shëanon took a step backwards.
"I have been deceived in nothing," she bit out, feeling defensive and angry—frail and brittle and hollow like cold, empty glass.
The ranger's expression did not change.
"You deceive yourself," he told her, his eyes dark beneath his brow, "if you think I do not know what fears are in your heart—what doubts you have harbored all your life."
Shëanon stared at him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered.
Aragorn frowned at her.
"Then you forget whose bed you ran to when you were a child and woke screaming in the night," he said lowly.
Shëanon actually flinched. Desperately she turned away from him, pressing a fist against her mouth.
"I am weary," she said in a trembling voice. "I am going to lie down."
On legs that felt like lead, she brushed past him without looking back and hurried back to where their company sat together in the billowing grasses.
All the night long she lay awake, pretending that she slept, and all the night long Aragorn sat beside her smoking while Legolas stood silent and still by her head.
A/N: Hello, everyone. So this chapter got pretty dark, I must say. Shëanon clearly has a lot that's she's coping with all at once. Sadly, I'm back in America :( But happily for you guys, that means that I have more time to write! Yay. I feel repetitive at this point but let me just say thank you again so much for your support! Your feedback is incredible and I feel so very fortunate! I'd love to hear your thoughts about the chapter! Hopefully you enjoyed it! It's the second longest chapter to date, actually :D More to come soon! xoxo Erin