Aiër Chapter 26
Shëanon stood alone in the practice yard of Edoras. The sun was set, and though the sky was still pink at the horizon, stars had come out overhead, and the yard was marked by deep shadows. As she breathed in the cool night air and listened to the early crickets, a brisk wind stirred her hair and moved the long grasses beyond the city.
It was the third day after the departure of Gandalf and Pippin, and she had spent all the day and all the day before with Aragorn out in the plains, attempting to train her Sight. After what must have been her thousandth failed try, they'd returned to the city in silence. Aragorn had tried to encourage her, saying again that nothing could be mastered in so short a time, but Shëanon remained privately frustrated and angry with herself. Her window of time seemed to be quickly closing, and she was growing increasingly worried by her lack of progress. Gandalf's warning to her about learning to control her powers had echoed over and over in her mind all day, until, agitated, she'd slipped out of the Golden Hall before dinner with her sword, bow, and quiver, desperate for any distraction she could find.
Now at dusk, her arms ached from exertion; target practice had been difficult. Her muscles were still weak and stiff from her sustained injuries, and she'd been astonished and dismayed to find she needed to keep lowering her bow and stopping to rest. Almost as much as her trouble with her foresight did this concern her—it was true that she had survived the battle of Helm's Deep, but many times during that bleak night she could easily have perished. Sauron's army would surely be of an even greater number than what Saruman had sent to assail them and the thought of riding to battle with her strength diminished abraded her nerves terribly.
Grimacing, she knocked another arrow and let it fly. Perhaps there would still be some time yet before Gandalf called them forth to Gondor. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm herself and quell the anxious clamor within her head. How many fights had she survived? Injured through almost all of them she had prevailed nonetheless, she reasoned, and worrying would only hinder her. Determined to stave off her disquiet, she tried to focus on her archery instead of thoughts of dying in battle, or the memory of Aragorn's face when it was clear she had failed again. Or the thought of Sauron, as she'd seen him in the Palantír. Or the vision of herself in Barad-dûr—Shëanon flinched and shook her head. She drew another arrow and lifted her bow, and had only just pulled back the string when she realized someone was watching her.
Startled, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him.
Legolas stood at the edge of the yard, near to the low slatted fence that divided it from the road, his arms crossed over his chest. As she watched he smiled softly and began walking toward her.
Shëanon lowered her bow and returned the arrow to her quiver.
"Your strength returns," he said approvingly, crossing the yard and retrieving her arrows from the target for her. In the waning twilight he was little more than a dark silhouette, but still the sight of him warmed her from head to toe. She watched in silence as he loaded the rest of her arrows back into her quiver for her, thrilled—as she always was—by his nearness.
"You are healing well."
Shëanon peered through the shadows into his face.
"I fear not well enough," she confessed.
Legolas's brow creased with concern.
"Are you in pain?" he asked with audible worry, and Shëanon felt a distinct pang.
"No," she rushed to assure him, shaking her head. "No, just..."
"Sore?"
She blushed and nodded.
"That is to be expected," he said sympathetically. "You will be sore and stiff for a while yet."
Grimacing, she stepped closer and cast a nervous glance to the mountains far head, where the beacon of Amon Anwar was dark and dormant.
"I should have asked Aragorn to spar with me tonight," she muttered, frowning. "In truth, I fear I'll lift my sword in battle and find I'm still too hurt to fight."
Indeed, if simply shooting an arrow was so taxing…
Legolas looked down at her, a sudden light in his eye.
"Shall we find out?"
"What?"
Gently he pried her bow from her hand and lifted her quiver from her shoulder, and as she watched in bemusement he crossed the yard and set them carefully down against the fence, where she'd left her sword. Shëanon remained unmoving as he bent and lifted it by its sheath, and when he returned to her and held it out she took it automatically, glancing up at him in apprehension.
"You—want to spar?" she asked uncertainly.
In answer Legolas reached over his shoulders and in one fluid movement seized the handles of his long knives, drawing them easily and swiftly. The blades glinted as he spun them in a flashing arc above him, so quickly that she could hear them cutting the air. When his hands came to a rest at his sides once more the gleaming weapons were utterly still, the look upon his face impassive and composed, and yet despite his nonchalance this small, effortless display of skill suddenly made Shëanon's mouth dry.
"We need not if you do not wish it," he told her. "But I would allay your fear now, if indeed it is troubling you."
She swallowed.
"We might confirm my fears instead," she pointed out. Indeed, it seemed much more likely to her that if they sparred she would instantly lose and be confronted by the truth of her wounds and weakness.
"Better to do so here with me, than in Minas Tirith against an army of foes," Legolas said gravely.
With that she had to agree. Steeling herself, she unsheathed her sword and held it aloft. To her great relief it did not pain her to do so, but even so she found herself feeling inexplicably wary. For a breathless moment she looked at Legolas, tall and strong before her, at the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the lethal lines of his body, and at the grip of his hands upon the knives. She thought of him in battle—fierce, relentless—and nervously shifted her fingers upon her sword.
Evidently seeing some of her doubt in her face, Legolas raised his eyebrows.
She lifted her chin.
"I am wounded," she reasoned, and her voice was mercifully steady. "I am at a disadvantage."
His gaze seemed to pierce her then, and without looking away from her he tossed one of the knives aside. Shëanon tracked it where it fell into the grass at the edge of the yard, out of the way, and when she looked back at him she could see the question and expectation in his regard—the challenge unmistakable. It was not however his challenge that sent a shiver down her spine or a flutter into her stomach, for the air between them felt heavy, and though he offered her a soft smile she could not slow her suddenly quickened breath.
Shëanon looked at him for one moment more, her body thrumming, her heartbeat fast, and then she adjusted her grip on her sword again and assumed a defensive stance.
Instantly Legolas moved—so quickly she barely lifted her weapon in time, his long knife a flash as he lunged, and the strength of it was a shock as she met his blade with her own and deflected, dodging aside. Immediately her arm ached where it had been slashed at Helm's Deep, but she found she could parry without fail. She whirled around to face him again, anticipating his next strike, but Legolas had not moved yet. Her chest already heaving, she held her sword at the ready.
Legolas stood before her as calm as before, his gaze sharp and critical, the smile gone from his face.
He spun his knife again and Shëanon leapt, but he blocked her easily and his blade swung scant inches from her before she ducked. Then she found herself panting as he drove her ruthlessly back across the practice yard. Long had it been since she had sparred with Aragorn and her brothers in Imladris, and none of the orcs or Uruk-hai she had faced had matched an elven warrior in speed or skill. They had made up for it with their unnatural, vicious strength, but Legolas was as powerful as he was agile, and he did not go easy on her as he advanced, hardly hindered even having surrendered one of his knives. Indeed, he moved so quickly he might as well have still had two, for she found she could hardly keep pace with him and more than once she had to resort to startled, sloppy blocks that shocked her. She was sweating, and suddenly Legolas grabbed her wrist with his free hand and caught it as she'd thrust forward, and though she was able to twist from his grasp she was abruptly staggered by the memory of him upon the battlements of the Hornburg, when he had taken her so fiercely in his arms and kissed her, the utter strength of his body—
Legolas caught her again but this time he anticipated the way she would try to throw him off, and she found herself instead hauled backwards against him, his hand upon her arm like iron, and the edge of his blade held near to her throat. Shëanon froze.
"Davon," she gasped. He released her at once, and Shëanon stepped away and tried to catch her breath. Legolas watched her pace for a moment before him, gingerly touching her closed wound.
"Are you hurting?" he asked.
She shook her head—her wounds ached, but she was not in any real pain.
"Tired?" he pressed.
Shëanon turned to him in disbelief.
"I think the answer to that is clear enough to see," she lamented, still panting, and the corner of his mouth turned up.
"Shall we stop?" he asked.
Shëanon could not have said why, but for some reason she felt a burgeoning determination take root within her. She remembered, abruptly, the moment Boromir had assumed she could not fight, insisting he teach her as he had taught the hobbits, and though she knew Legolas had known better, still she bristled at how easily he had outmaneuvered her, wounded or not.
"No," she huffed, straightening and lifting her sword once more.
Legolas lifted an eyebrow but did not question her, instead moving to strike once more, and Shëanon found herself once again driven across the yard as Legolas resumed his assault. This time however she tried harder to fight back, pretending indeed that she was sparring with Elladan or Elrohir, while the other shouted instructions and advice. Her new resolve must have been apparent in the way she fought, for as they sparred she realized he was smiling again outright as he dodged her blade and continued to press his advantage.
"If you wish to best me, you shall have to stop fighting like Aragorn, aiër," he said after several minutes, as their blades clashed and separated.
Shëanon faltered and almost found herself caught once again, twisting away at the last moment.
"What's wrong with fighting like Aragorn?" she panted in bewilderment, still struggling to catch her breath. Aragorn was one of the most skilled warriors in Middle-Earth, and certainly the most skilled among mortal Men.
Legolas grinned again.
"Nothing, except I know all his tricks," he laughed.
Shëanon blinked and found herself smiling, too.
"I don't think he'd agree with that," she said, ducking another pass of his blade.
Legolas smirked and continued to push her, but as they fought she had to confess that indeed it did seem as though he was easily able to guess what she would do next. Flustered, Shëanon began to take stock of how he was fighting—making note of his stance and momentum and technique. The way he fought was unlike the style of her father and brothers and Glorfindel, and much more similar to what she had witnessed at Helm's Deep among the Lórien wardens.
Twice more he attempted to immobilize her, but each time Shëanon was able to wrench away at the last second—though she wondered if perhaps he allowed her to escape. This thought perturbed her even more, until finally Legolas moved to grab her again and she found the opening she needed. She allowed him to disarm her, her sword sent spinning, and then she dropped to the ground as quickly as she could. With as much force as she could muster she kicked her foot into the back of his knee. Much larger and stronger than she was, he didn't fall, but he did need to re-orient himself and Shëanon used his thrown balance to try to knock him down. As he turned to regain his footing she leapt at him, throwing every ounce of bodily weight she had at his chest, and as she had anticipated, rather than letting her fall when she was so recently wounded, Legolas dropped his knife to catch her instead. They both tumbled into the grass, Legolas breaking her fall so that she landed on top of him, and Shëanon plunged her hand into her boot. As he reached for his fallen knife, she pushed against his chest and sat up, coming to a halt above him, her dagger clutched in her hand and held loosely over his heart.
Legolas froze, his eyes widening in surprise. She saw his gaze move between her face and the dagger and could tell the moment he realized what she'd done.
"Do you yield?" she panted, exhausted.
Dusk had faded and night had fallen, and it was dark as he lay sprawled beneath her. There was an instant that he did not speak, and she waited above him with her chest heaving.
"I yield," he conceded finally.
Shëanon smiled triumphantly and returned the dagger to its sheath strapped to her calf. For a moment she was utterly elated—she was perhaps as surprised by the outcome of their spar as he appeared to be. Then however she felt her arm burning where the Uruk-hai had cut her, and her chest aching where the bolt had pierced her, and her bruised ribs were throbbing. She sat back with a grimace.
"Are you hurt?"
"No," she promised, looking down at him. "It is as you said... It will take me a while to fully heal."
Legolas looked her over thoughtfully.
"It seems you were right," he said. "I do not know all of Aragorn's tricks... if indeed he taught you that."
Shëanon grinned.
"He taught me to always take advantage of my opponent's weaknesses."
His eyebrows shot up at once.
"Weaknesses?" he echoed, sounding intrigued. "What weakness have I?"
Shëanon faltered, blushing immediately. What she had really used to her advantage, she knew, was his reluctance to see her hurt, and she felt suddenly shy to tell him so. She looked down at him in hesitation.
"Me," she admitted tentatively, biting her lip.
For a long moment Legolas was silent.
"I just mean—I knew you would try to break my fall—"
"Aragorn is a good teacher," he said at length, his gaze intent upon her. "My own would surely have admonished me for underestimating my foe. Perhaps I shall no longer call you aiër, and name you finiër instead."
Shëanon blinked, hearing the word he spoke in the sylvan tongue but not knowing its meaning, and Legolas must have seen the uncertainty upon her face, for he smiled as he looked up at her.
"It is 'cunning one'," he explained.
To her dismay, Shëanon could actually feel herself turning pink with pleasure, more gratified by his compliment than she would have thought possible. She thought of the way he'd spoken to her at Helm's Deep, before the battle, saying she was naive and untried, and how deeply his words had cut her. To see him instead gaze at her in approval was powerfully validating. Shifting sheepishly above him, she cast about for something to say, for he was still watching her closely, his expression so affecting that she could scarcely hold his gaze.
"I'm sorry for knocking you over," she said in a rush. "Perhaps I was not fighting fairly—"
"Sorry?" he repeated as though in disbelief. "Nay, aiër," he smirked. "Never have I suffered so pleasurable a defeat."
At these words he made a point of letting his gaze sweep over her from head to toe, and it was only then that she realized their scandalous position—that she was sat astride him, her legs on either side of his waist, and that his own hands were held up helplessly to the sides, hovering over her legs, as though he deemed it inappropriate to set them upon her and had nowhere else to put them.
Shëanon went rigid, blushing all the way to the roots of her hair. For one mortified instant she shared a moment of eye contact with him, realized that he was smirking still, and then she moved immediately to get off of him, clambering into the grass at his side. Her face was burning, but to her consternation that was not the only place she felt hot. Abruptly she felt warm all over, and breathless, and her mouth had gone dry again, though she dared not think further on the reason for it.
"Don't laugh," she beseeched him, scarlet-faced and seeing the mirth in his eyes as he propped himself up beside her.
Legolas grinned more broadly still.
"Laughter was the furthest thought from my mind, fair one."
Shëanon looked at him, her stomach fluttering. It was impossible not to notice the way he was appraising her, and a thrill coursed through her at once.
"What then was on your mind?" she dared asked.
Legolas smiled and leaned toward her.
"I was waiting to see if my lady would claim a prize for her victory," he said lowly near her ear. "I thought perhaps she was not yet done taking advantage of my weaknesses."
Shëanon felt her mouth open in shock, and certainly judging by the look on his face, shocking her had been his intention. With a satisfied grin he moved as though to rise, and before she'd even realized what she was doing, she was grabbing his arm to stop him. Legolas looked back at her in surprise as Shëanon closed the distance between them and, having no idea what had come over her, pressed her lips to his. Perhaps she had meant to shock him as he had shocked her, or perhaps it was simply that she did very badly wish to kiss him, but still her own boldness caught her off guard.
If he had been taken aback, however, he didn't show it, for at once Legolas drew her back down with him into the welcoming grass. Shëanon felt more heat in her whole body then—she felt hotter even than she had to find herself straddling him, for now as he kissed her Legolas pulled her flush against him. His hand was large and warm against her cheek, his fingers moving to caress her face, her jaw, the side of her neck, trailing up into her hair and trailing more heat as they went. His other arm was wrapped around her, his broad palm spanning her back, and she could not deny that she was exhilarated to feel the hard muscles and vitality of his body against her after having witnessed his strength and agility so closely. Seeing his skill as they'd sparred, being caught in his unbreakable grip—she had felt a blaze of desire, and to be in his arms so shortly after, his grip no longer unyielding but so gentle, Shëanon shivered.
For many long moments they kissed, her hands grasping his strong shoulders, her heart skipping in her chest. At first his kiss was slow and leisurely, as though they had all the time in Arda, but the longer they embraced the more ardent his caresses seemed to become, until his hands seemed to urge her up impossibly closer, and indeed she could not help but feel that the sweet brush of their lips against each other was somehow not enough, that their incredible closeness was not close enough. Suddenly she thought of the dream she'd had—of the way he had run his hands over her in it—and she felt such a burst of want that she thought it would consume her. His kiss felt so good, his touch so good—being close to him felt so, so good. Perhaps it shouldn't have startled her so, for she already knew that she was in love with him, and she knew that he made her feel safe, that his arms brought her comfort and peace and that she found bliss and pleasure in his kiss. But for all the nights she had lain awake wanting him, she had never felt such visceral, burning desire. She was hyperaware of every place they were touching, how her chest was pressed against his, her abdomen against his, their arms encircling and hands petting, their breath mingling between them. Within her emerged a sudden riot of panic and insistent yearning, for she realized in that moment that there was little Legolas could ask of her that she would deny him, and she abruptly understood that the nervousness she had once felt to think of kissing him for the first time had been almost foolishly short-sighted, as a child who had feared to step foot in the calm shallows of a gentle river only to then realize she would after need to swim in the deep waters and fast current ahead.
As though he could sense her sudden conflict Legolas drew away, and Shëanon, dizzy, gazed up at him with her heart in her throat. Behind him in the clear sky the glimmering stars were as a sheltering veil laid upon them, and suddenly while they lay looking at one another in the verdant grass she could hear the crickets again and feel the touch of the wind, cool on her burning cheeks. The look on Legolas's face was entirely unrecognizable to her; he appeared somehow to be both calm and unnerved at the same time, and she looked back at him in a spellbound daze, her heart pounding, afflicted still by the rapturous want and staggering uncertainty that had blazed through her and shaken by their overwhelming ferocity.
Then Legolas touched her face, and he looked composed once more.
"Aiër?" he asked carefully, but still she could say nothing, her eyes still locked on his, her breath still quick and shallow. She watched his gaze rove searchingly over her face and had the distinct impression that he could somehow discern her thoughts, that perhaps her eyes were like the mirror of Galadriel and in them he could somehow see her every wish and fear.
"It is well after nightfall," he murmured at last, his fair voice close and quiet. "Come, we will be missed if we do not soon go in."
He moved then to rise, and that's when it hit her: looking up at his silhouette before the shining heavens beyond, with the memory of his kiss upon her lips and the lingering heat of his touch upon her skin, she was seized by a longing that was so poignant it was almost despair. She remained sprawled before him on the ground, her eyes wide. When they had lain kissing and embracing, their fëar had seemed to press as closely as the rest of them, entangled perhaps as their physical bodies had been, and the moment Legolas had drawn away Shëanon had felt it as a distinct and grievous loss. The sight of him before her was so beautiful that she ached, and thinking of his playful laughter as they'd sparred, how he'd dropped his knife to catch her…
Legolas looked down at her in silence, his brow furrowed above his clear eyes.
"Shëanon," he said finally, and speaking her name he held out his hand for her to take.
For one more moment she just looked back at him, frozen, until at last she found the will to grasp his outstretched hand and allow him to pull her to her feet. Standing before him she found herself for some reason weak in the knees, and self-consciously she looked away, smoothing her hair and brushing errant blades of grass from her clothes while he watched on wordlessly. In truth she was confused by the emotions surging within her, unsure what to make of any of it, but somewhere deep down she felt a measure of foreboding, for she suspected that this feeling would not leave her, and perhaps that it would only get worse and worse until…
Before, Legolas had spoken of walking down this path together, and he had teased her for turning back more than once. Shëanon could not help but feel that turning back now was impossible, that the path beneath her feet had sloped steeply downward without her knowledge and without warning, and that she was tumbling down it out of control.
It wasn't until she moved past him, intent on retrieving her sword, that he grasped her arm and held her still, and she looked up at him in apprehension.
Shëanon expected Legolas to speak, but instead he gazed at her for a long moment, his keen regard knowing and tender. They stood together in the darkness and cool breeze, and then he bent and pressed his lips against her temple.
She didn't know why her eyes suddenly stung, but they did, and within her chest her heart felt swollen.
Legolas moved then and gathered their weapons, slotting both his knives into their sheathes and shouldering both her quiver and her bow. Last, he picked up her sword and returned to her side. With his free hand he grasped hers, and they left the training yard together, taking the road back up the hill to Meduseld. As they passed wordlessly through the city, quiet in the young night, Shëanon glanced up at him, illuminated by the starlight.
From the day she had identified her feelings for him and indeed even until that very moment, she had always assumed herself to be ahead of him. She had imagined that she had become aware of her feelings for him first, that she had begun falling in love with him first. As they returned to the hall, though, she couldn't deny that it seemed she might have been mistaken, for the empathy and recognition that had been in his eyes when he'd looked down at her in the yard was undeniable, as though he understood exactly what she was feeling.
It seemed suddenly likely that Legolas had been ahead of her the whole time, and she shook her head at herself in exasperation. Had he not been the one to kiss her first, to speak of his affection first? The way he had looked at her upon the fur rug their first night in Edoras, his evident terror at the prospect of her death in battle?
For a moment as they walked she leaned her head against his shoulder, penitent and deeply touched, and in answer Legolas ran his thumb softly over the back of her hand.
They came to the back door that opened into the corridor near to her room, and inside they heard a distant din that told them supper was already started. Legolas guided her to her door and went inside to lay her sword, bow, and quiver upon the table. Shëanon followed suit and knelt to unwind the leather cords of the sheath wound around her calf, carefully laying her dagger on the table with the rest.
"This was your gift from Lady Galadriel, was it not?" he asked with interest, lifting it from the tabletop once more. Shëanon watched the way his eyes traced the design upon the sheath, before he drew the dagger and studied its markings. The blade caught the flickering light of the fire kindled in the hearth and shone brilliantly as he held it aloft, casting patterns over his fair face, and she knew he was thinking of how she had drawn the blade on him at the end of their spar.
Legolas glanced up at her.
"Yes," she remembered herself, clearing her throat. "Yes, it was one of her gifts to me."
"One of them?" he asked with a sudden frown. "Did she give you another?"
Shëanon started.
"Yes," she murmured, crossing the room and kneeling to rummage through her rucksack. She felt her fingers close upon the cold crystal of the Lady's vial and hesitated, suddenly nervous. She had not spoken to her companions of this gift—not even Aragorn—for even upon their departure from Lothlórien she had worried over its purpose, and what use Galadriel had foreseen for it. Indeed, the vial's contents troubled her much more than did the dependable knife.
Wavering only for a moment, she stood and returned to Legolas's side, holding the little bottle up for his inspection. As had the dagger, the crystal vial shone before the light of the fire, and when Legolas took it he examined it much more intently than he had her dagger, his expression unfathomable.
"It is water from the falls of Nimrodel," she murmured. "The Lady told me it is meant to—"
"I know what it does, aiër," he said quietly.
He ran his thumb over the etched face of the glass before passing it back to her in silence. Shëanon could not help but notice the way a shadow seemed to have passed over his face.
"I have been hoping I will not need it," she confessed in an undertone, taking back the vial and gazing down at it with unease.
Legolas's expression was somber.
"I think the Lady would not have gifted you something you will not need," he said grimly. "But still I will hope the same."
"We should go get dinner before it's too late," Shëanon whispered, eager to change the subject. She regretted having mentioned the water of Nimrodel at all, for she could see that it had worried Legolas, and his worry fed her own. Stowing the vial away and hastening to the door, she looked over her shoulder at him where he remained unmoving before the fireplace. Then at last he nodded, and they left her bedchamber together.
XXX
Shëanon was burrowed under the covers, warm and rested and utterly content. She was not quite asleep, but in that space between dreaming and waking, her limbs heavy, her breath slow and deep. Suddenly she felt someone moving behind her, but she did not turn. Something brushed aside her hair, and she sighed softly as she felt lips brush her neck. Beneath the covers she felt a hand upon her waist, large and warm, caressing her bare skin, and she felt herself pressing back against him, into the solid heat of his bare body behind her. He kissed her shoulder, behind her ear, the gentle touch of his lips and breath raising chills all over her, and she heard herself sigh again in pleasure. He had not stopped caressing her, and his touch robbed her of breath as she felt it moving over her—her ribs, her waist and hips, her stomach, her bare legs, until finally she could take it no longer. She turned to face him, her heartbeat fast, his tantalizing kisses a sweet torture that had set her ablaze with want.
His gaze upon her was tender, and when she turned he drew her to him at once. As he kissed her she felt dizzy, overwhelmed by her desire, until he left her lips to bring his once more to her neck, kissing the column of her throat, her collar bone, her chest. She heard herself whimpering his name, her voice breathy and plaintive, and she threaded her fingers through his flaxen hair as she felt his mouth move lower still—
Shëanon cried out as she opened her eyes, shooting upright in bed. For one bewildered moment she didn't know where she was, still lost in the haze of her dream.
"Aiër?"
She turned to Legolas in shock, almost expecting to see his bare chest and arms, his hair wild from her fingers, but he was fully dressed, and looking down she realized she was dressed, and that she was in Rohan, in her room, and that it was the middle of the night, and that his face was creased with worry.
"Are you well?" he asked, sitting up beside her and laying his hand upon her shoulder. Even though she was fully clothed, still his touch recalled at once the heat and bliss and terrifying closeness of the dream, and she felt herself tense. "Was it a nightmare?"
She released a shuddering breath.
"Valar," she breathed, drawing her knees to her chest and scrubbing her hands over her face. She felt that she was trembling, but she knew not why. A nightmare? No, certainly not, and yet there she was trembling as she did after her worst night terrors. She drew in another ragged breath, confused and nervous, trying to compose herself enough to sort through the flurry of emotion that was rattling around inside her.
Legolas slowly rubbed her back.
"Shëanon?"
She shook her head.
"No," she assured him, "no, it wasn't a nightmare."
"A vision?" he pressed.
"No, just a dream."
"I heard you cry out."
She felt herself freeze.
"Was I—was I talking in my sleep?" she asked anxiously. She thought of the way she had been gasping his name in the dream and felt the violent heat of her blush in her face. What if he she had spoken aloud and he had heard—?
"I think not," he murmured. "But I cannot say for sure, for I was sleeping also."
There was a beat of silence. Shëanon didn't know how she knew, but she did. She took one look at his face, and suddenly she was certain. She felt her heart begin to pound anew; a twist of trepidation twinged in her stomach as she thought over the dream and gazed back at him. Again she heard their conversation from before, the evening after Gandalf had left, when he had described his dream to her and she had been stunned by its similarity to her own. Now as Legolas looked back at her in the near-darkness, illuminated only by the dim glow of the dying embers in the hearth, she felt that her heart was in her throat. Her sudden dismay must have shown on her face, she guessed, for Legolas appeared concerned once more, but she could not bring herself to speak. Indeed, perhaps she should not ask—perhaps it would be best not to know, and not to tell him—
"What is it?" he asked. He took both her shoulders in his hands. "I have wakened you from troubled sleep before, and never before have I seen this dread on your face."
Shëanon shifted guiltily. If indeed she had done what she suspected, she had to tell him.
"Legolas," she whispered, steeling herself. "Were you—were you dreaming just now, before I woke you?"
"Yes," he said, frowning.
Shëanon bit her lip.
"Were you—were you dreaming... of us?"
He stared back at her, his face utterly still, but still she could see the exact moment he realized what she was asking him and why. Suddenly he appeared more tentative than she had ever before seen him, and the sight of his caution shamed her. She studied him with bated breath.
"Do you think you saw my dream?" he asked finally. His expression was entirely impassive, but his gaze upon her was so intense and discerning that she almost had to turn away.
"Will you tell me what it was," she asked in what sounded even to her as a very strained voice. "So that I could know for sure?"
Legolas said nothing, and his silence more than anything else confirmed to her what had happened; for a long moment she did not think he would answer her at all, but at last he did finally speak.
"I dreamed that you and I were wedded, and in bed together," he said quietly.
Now Shëanon did have to turn away from him, her entire face burning, her stomach in knots. It was true. Valar, she thought. Valar, she had—she had violated his mind while he'd slept!
"Legolas, please believe me, I did not mean to—" she pleaded, feeling herself begin to panic. "I was asleep—I did not even know I could do that—"
"Aiër—"
"I would never—on purpose—while you slept—"
"Aiër—"
"I have still not even succeeded with Aragorn—I could not have looked into your mind even if I'd tried—"
"Shëanon," Legolas said firmly, touching her cheek. Biting her lip, she allowed him to turn her face toward him.
"Do you think I would accuse you of spying on me?" he asked calmly, searching her face. "I know that you would not. Be at ease."
He ran his hands up and down her arms as though to soothe her, but still Shëanon felt deeply unnerved. Certainly, from the moment her mind had found the One Ring all those months ago in Imladris, on the eve of the council, she had feared to do so again in her sleep. But never had she imagined that she might touch the mind of one of her companions in such a way, and certainly it had never occurred to her that she might find Legolas's mind as she had.
"It was an accident," she tremulously promised him, and he urged her closer to him.
"I know that it was," he said adamantly, and indeed to see the surety on his face she could not have doubted him. "Many times you have told me that I have your trust. Do you not know that you have mine in return?"
Shëanon winced, feeling deeply ashamed.
"I feel that I have betrayed it," she confessed.
"I will decide if my trust has been broken, meleth nín. Worry not."
"We can... sleep in turns," she said tensely. "That way—"
Legolas seemed to look at her in bewilderment.
"Sleep in turns?" he echoed. "Why would we do such a thing?"
Shëanon blanched.
"Legolas," she hissed. "In case it has escaped your notice, I can't exactly control this. I cannot promise you it won't happen again—"
"I think you greatly misjudge my priorities, aiër, if you think I would have you forgo sleep for a matter such as this."
"A matter such as this? Legolas," she said shrilly, "I was trespassing in your mind! Does that not trouble you?"
"Much more troubled would I be if you rode to battle in need of rest," he argued.
"Valar," she swore, turning away from him. Again she scrubbed her hands over her face, shaking her head. "You do not—you don't understand—"
"I think I understand better than you do, Shëanon," he murmured.
Shëanon felt a burst of indignation and stress.
"Ah, yes? Because you have foresight, too, is that it? And you're suddenly an expert—?"
"Tell me, young one, what is it that you so dread?" Legolas asked meaningfully. Though she did not look at him, she could feel how closely he was watching her reaction. "That you should walk the paths of my reveries? Or what you saw there when you did?"
At last Shëanon looked back at him, speechless, for his meaning was clear to her at once. She felt that her eyes were wide, and that she had gone pale.
"I do not—dread—" she stammered.
Legolas watched her in silence, his face calm and gentle.
Shëanon broke off, too embarrassed to say more, or even indeed to look him in the eye.
"You're wrong," she said stiffly, looking away from him. Instead she studied her hands, which she found she was anxiously wringing in her lap. "Valar, you think—?"
He thought she was distressed because of how very—intimate—his dream had been. A wave of uncertainty washed over her. It was true, the dream had been—shocking—and she felt terribly vulnerable in the face of it, to think of him thinking such thoughts about her, to witness them firsthand, to—to participate in them, but—
"Indeed it is difficult not to think it, when you will not even look at me," Legolas said.
"How can I look at you when—" she bit her tongue and pulled her knees closer to her chest.
"When what?"
"Is that what you think?" she demanded worriedly. "You think I—you think I dread—"
In doubt she thought back on her behavior, when she had told him on the way to Helm's Deep that he was frightening her when he had tried to kiss her, and how she had run off and refused to meet his gaze when he had kissed her for the first time before the battle. It was true indeed that she had been—nervous—but for Legolas to think she dreaded—he had dreamed them wedded and… and thought she dreaded—
She remembered how she had sat beside the stream weeping and panicking as she had imagined herself bare before his gaze, and her sudden trepidation as he had kissed her earlier that very night in the practice yard, and felt such acute worry that she had to close her eyes.
"Do you not?" Legolas asked steadily; his voice was patient despite her own obvious agitation and distress.
"No!" she gasped.
"Shëanon—"
"What do you want me to say?" she asked in desperation. "Do you want me to admit that I am embarrassed? I am! I did not—I did not think to be so revealed in my sleep tonight! But that does not mean that—that I do not also—I do not dread—"
Shëanon didn't know why, but suddenly she felt as naked as she had been in the dream. Perhaps it was foolish to feel so self-conscious, but they had never before spoken of a union between them, and to discuss such a bond and the physical intimacy needed to achieve it…
She had perhaps never before felt so very out of her depth. She could count on one hand the number of kisses they had shared, and now…
"Aiër," Legolas whispered. "It wasn't real—"
"It felt very real to me!" she protested. Indeed, it had been astonishingly vivid—she could still feel the touch of his lips, the heat of his skin… If she tried hard enough she could still recall the goosebumps that had swept over her beneath the warmth of his breath, the branding sweep of his hands on her waist and down her legs.
For a long moment there was no sound save the thundering of her heart in her ears.
"You said you saw my dream," Legolas said at last, sounding deeply pensive.
"Yes."
"Did you see it?" he asked. "Or did you share it?"
Shëanon turned back to him, startled. He met her gaze levelly, his expression thoughtful and intent.
"What?" she asked, taken aback.
"How did you see this dream, aiër?" he murmured.
"I know not what you mean," she whispered, although a growing sense of unease began to creep up her spine.
Legolas raised his eyebrows.
"If you had looked into my thoughts and found my dream, would not you have seen it as I dreamed it? Through my eyes? Or perhaps, watching from afar?" he asked.
Shëanon felt immediately uncertain. She felt at once that he was right.
"I... no, I... it was—it was as though... I was there with you... you were..."
She swallowed. She touched her neck, where in her dream he had been kissing it.
"You were kissing me," she whispered. "And I rolled over, and you..."
Legolas held up his hand to stop her, but he needn't have, for Shëanon could not have continued if she'd tried.
"I know little of foresight and even less of this power you have to touch the mind of another," Legolas murmured. "There are none in the Woodland Realm who possess such gifts, but I do not believe that if you had merely beheld my dream you would have experienced what you describe."
Shëanon gazed wordlessly back at him, her mind racing.
"What then do you believe happened?" she asked hesitantly.
"Cannot your father and Lady Galadriel make their thoughts known to each other, and speak into the minds of any that they choose?"
Shëanon went rigid at once, turning away from him again in horror. A cold sweat burst over her skin.
"You think it was my dream," she grit out, running her hands shakily over her hair.
He thought she had—put it in his head, that it was all her. She felt her skin burn in humiliation at the very notion.
"I think at least we dreamed it together," Legolas said.
For a moment she could not speak. It was worse than she had initially feared, far worse than simply looking into his mind as he'd slept, for if she was sharing her dreams with him…
"Are you so upset?" he asked carefully, when she did not reply. "Is not my mind a more welcome place to stray than the Ring or the Palantír?"
"Legolas," she whispered, "seldom are my dreams so pleasant. What if next time I—plunge you into one of my nightmares instead?"
"I think you will not," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Have you ever had the kind of dream you fear at my side?" he asked. "And it may be there will be no next time at all. Many nights have we passed together, and only once have you found me with your Sight."
Shëanon's heart sank, and she met his gaze guiltily, and it was obvious that he instantly understood.
"I didn't know before," she whispered. "Only this night did I realize, but… on the night of the feast…"
She broke off, and to her surprise Legolas's only response was to draw her closer, into his arms.
"Then two good dreams we have shared," he said, his voice very low. "I can promise you nothing, meleth nín, but I now think it even less likely your dreams will be dark and that what you fear will come to pass should this happen again…"
Shëanon held her breath, listening raptly, for she could sense that Legolas was choosing his words very carefully, and indeed it seemed he was reluctant or unsure if he should continue.
"I think there is a reason these dreams have twice led us down such a path," he said at last, lightly touching her hair. "And I think, if again our minds should meet while we sleep, our dreams would drift that way once more… But even if they did not, there is no nightmare of yours I would not readily weather, and no dream of my own I would not willingly share… Does that comfort you?"
It was obvious by the tone of his voice that Legolas truly did not know what her answer would be, and Shëanon could not blame him, for even she did not know if she was comforted or not. On the one hand, it was a relief to think she would not accidentally fill his mind with the very worst of her nightmares, but on the other hand, if what he said was true—and she suspected it was—then she worried what might happen if they should have such a dream again… What if she did not wake up but instead the dream continued? She shifted nervously against him, uncertain. But what she could tell was that, even if he could say nothing to reassure her entirely, Legolas had understood the direction of her thoughts and the source of her anxiety completely—that she was afraid of revealing to him more than she was ready to share. Indeed, what if she had a nightmare about her master, or a vision of Barad-dûr, or something else she would never readily show him, something that would disgust or disturb him? And so too did she worry that she might see a dream of his that he would begrudge her, for she was not the only one between them, she was sure, whose thoughts and dreams were private. There is no nightmare of yours I would not readily weather, and no dream of my own I would not willingly share. Shëanon shook her head in wonder, for though it was she who could apparently read his mind, he was the one who always seemed to know what she was thinking.
"Yes," she whispered at last. "It comforts me."
For a long moment they lay together in silence, and Shëanon could tell that Legolas was as deep in thought as she was.
"After the first dream," she whispered, and she did not know what made her say it except that she could not bear that he thought she'd dreaded the dream so, "when I thought I had dreamed it alone… I liked it," she confessed, blushing hotly. "But now to realize that we dreamed it together… I feel we have done something wrong."
"Wrong?"
She nodded against his shoulder.
"We did nothing wrong, aiër. We were asleep, and as you said, it was an accident. In these dark days when we have suffered so much let us not regret a moment of pleasure or joy."
At the mention of pleasure she blushed again and ducked her face, but when Legolas held her closer she felt some of her tension ease.
"If these dreams truly trouble you so, then we will sleep in turns, as you said. Waking or dreaming, we will do nothing if you do not wish it," he said, and at these words she felt a pang of love and gratitude.
Shëanon shook her head.
"I do not wish to sleep in turns," she confided, taking a deep breath. After all, Legolas was right: they both needed all the sleep they could get.
"Nor do I," he murmured. She felt the touch of his lips upon the top of her head, and held him still more tightly.
"Perhaps it is my mind, and not Aragorn's, that you should try to touch," Legolas suddenly whispered. "I will go with you in the morning, when you ride out to try again."
Again she nodded, lost in thought.
They did not speak again, lying instead silent and thoughtful together in bed. Shëanon knew they should try to fall back asleep, for the hour was still early and the darkness of the night was still deep upon them, but she knew she could find no more rest. As she lay listening to the beat of his heart she could not help but to think of the dream again and again, biting her lip as she imagined it, shivering as Legolas lightly trailed his fingertips over her braid and up and down her spine, and all the words they had traded echoed in her ears. More than anything else, she could not help but to dwell on what he had said: I think there is a reason these dreams have twice led us down such a path.
Shëanon had to bite her lip and tried to quell the storm of feeling welling within her, for she was certain she knew the reason Legolas had in mind, and all the thoughts that had afflicted her in the practice yard returned.
XXX
The sun had already risen over the crest of the mountains and light was pouring into the Golden Hall when Shëanon and Legolas went in to breakfast. They joined Merry and Gimli at the long table where the dwarf and hobbit sat eating, but Aragorn was noticeably absent, and it was obvious why. The more time that had passed since Gandalf's departure with Pippin, the more restless the ranger had become, sleeping little and spending long hours outside gazing eastward—waiting, she knew, for the moment they would be called to battle. After dinner the previous night their company had sat shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the city, facing Amon Anwar, waiting to see if it would be ignited. Aragorn, Merry, and Gimli had smoked their pipes, and a strange feeling had come over Shëanon. She had almost been reminded of the start of their long journey, when they had not yet been far from Imladris, and making camp for the night her companions had smoked and talked and the hobbits had told stories. In those first weeks when they had been all together, before Caradhras and Moria and Amon Hen, their spirits had been high and Shëanon had felt light of heart and optimistic.
Sitting in the chilly night at Edoras, however, the group had been utterly silent, and the air between them had been somber and charged. It was not quite unease that had lain about them, but she had sensed in her friends the pressing knowledge that the stakes had grown ever higher, that the trials that lay before them would prove ever more perilous, and that unlike in those simpler days of months past, their fellowship was scattered, their Enemy was almost upon them, and, as Gandalf had told them, their quest was nearing an end, and the fate of Middle-Earth would soon be decided. Shëanon had shifted where she'd sat in the cold grass between Aragorn and Legolas, biting her lip as she'd watched the smoke from Aragorn's pipe curl in the air beneath the glittering stars beyond. When at last they had risen, in the deep hours of the night, Aragorn had been the last to stand, and only when she had called to him, concerned that he would forgo sleep entirely and sit there until dawn, had he at last stowed his pipe and joined them on the road. His mouth had been set in a grim line, and she had watched him trade a look with Legolas, and his bearing was grave.
Frowning down at her toast at the breakfast table, Shëanon bit her lip and looked to the door ahead of her, but the rays of light filtering into the room had shifted, and the food was growing cold, and it was clear that Aragorn was not going to come.
"Lassie," Gimli murmured across from her. "To starve together in that accursed forest we agreed, but don't starve yourself before a hot breakfast just because the lad hasn't the sense to show up for a meal."
"Starve?" Merry echoed in consternation, looking to her plate at her mostly untouched food.
Shëanon looked at Gimli in surprise and grimaced.
"I won't starve," she promised, but reaching a decision she took an empty bowl from the table and filled it with porridge. "I'll be right back."
She traded a glance with Legolas before rising and striding from the hall, bringing the food with her. Outside the blue sky was untouched by mist or cloud, and immediately she cast her eyes to the beacon looming ahead, finding it still cold and caliginous.
Shëanon let out a breath and crossed to the steps to the side of the hall, setting off through the city, careful not to spill the porridge as she went. As she had expected she found Aragorn in the exact same place they'd sat the night before, his gaze fixed upon the mountains, his posture tense. He could tell she was there, she knew; her shadow had fallen over him as she'd approached, but he did not turn.
"I brought you something to eat," she told him, holding out the bowl.
Aragorn glanced up at her at last but did not answer, his shrewd gaze troubled and impatient, his brow furrowed above his eyes. He took the offered food with a distracted nod.
Shëanon bit her lip and bent to sit beside him.
"How long have you been out here?" she asked quietly, resting her elbows upon her knees.
"Not long enough to earn your worry," he sighed. His voice was exhausted.
Shëanon leaned forward to study his lined face, finding shadows beneath his eyes.
"Did you sleep?" she asked in concern.
To her amazement Aragorn raised his eyebrows.
"What?" she blinked.
"It is you who has forgone sleep at every possible turn from the moment we left Imladris, mellon nín," he said lightly. "How many times did I beseech you to rest?"
Shëanon looked back at him with a scowl, seeing through this at once. The ranger could deflect all he wanted; she did not need to read his mind to know that he'd likely returned to that very spot shortly after the rest of their company had retired.
"Last night I slept," Shëanon said pointedly. "It is clear that you did not."
Aragorn turned away from her, bending to eat a spoonful of the porridge.
"Gandalf and Pippin should have reached Minas Tirith by now," he said without looking at her.
"Is that not good news?" she asked tentatively. "Perhaps we are not yet needed."
The slant of his mouth was doubtful.
"Or perhaps something has gone awry," he said meaningfully, glancing towards the beacon once more.
Shëanon looked at it, too, and then down at her feet. Aragorn's worry was plain to see, but she could think of nothing to say that would comfort him, for she privately shared in his unease.
"Do you think we should not wait for the beacon?" she asked in an undertone.
Aragorn looked over at her as though surprised, and she knew that it was indeed what he had been thinking. She had assumed he'd been up all night to watch the beacon, but it seemed to her he'd been up weighing their options and agonizing over their course.
"Théoden will not call his people forth to battle if the beacon is not lit," he said in frustration.
"Do you think he'll call them forth if it is?" she dared ask, remembering the man's sharp words from before: Why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? They had not spoken of it in the preceding days, not in the plains when she tried to touch his mind nor in the city, but the truth was that they still did not know what the king's decision would be, and it was obvious to her that it was weighing heavily upon Aragorn.
He met her gaze and said nothing, his brow creased, his eyes shadowed with foreboding.
"If he does not," he began, but abruptly he stopped speaking.
Shëanon waited for a moment in confusion for him to finish, but Aragorn seemed to have frozen, his whole body rigid. Finally, she followed his gaze ahead of them to see what had distracted him.
Her jaw dropped.
There before them, upon the highest snowcapped peak of the mountains guarding the city, the beacon of Amon Anwar was aflame.
Shëanon stared at it for an instant in shock, at the towering fire and billowing smoke like a comet upon the mountaintop, but when she turned back to Aragorn he was already on his feet, and the bowl of porridge hit the ground with a clatter.
"Shea!" he called, half turning, and, jolted, she leapt up and scrambled after him around the bend.
Aragorn sprinted with all haste back up the road toward Meduseld, so swiftly that Shëanon could scarcely keep pace with him. At his heels she followed him up the steep steps, panting, her battered ribs protesting, for Aragorn was taking the stairs two at a time. She had just barely reached the top in his wake when she saw him run barreling into the hall, not stopping at the threshold but racing past the rows of carven pillars towards the far end. Shëanon hurried frantically after him, skittering by the startled onlookers who had turned in alarm to see them fly by.
"The beacons of Minas Tirith!" Aragorn cried. "The beacons are lit!"
At the end of the room Théoden stood with Gamling and Éomer, and the three looked up with wide eyes at the commotion, Aragorn's powerful voice echoing and urgent beneath the high ceilings.
Finally he skidded to a halt before them and spoke, she saw, directly to the king.
"Gondor calls for aid," he exclaimed, and as he stood, breathing hard in his exertion and excitement, Shëanon halted at his side.
There was a resounding silence in the hall then, everyone within seeming to hold their breath. Théoden was looking at Aragorn as though he were an apparition, his eyes incredulous, his face drained of color, but he did not seem to quail or bristle. Indeed the man's expression was entirely unreadable, and Shëanon's heart was thundering in her chest as she waited to see what he would say. A flood of fear suddenly seized her, though she could not have said which she feared more—for if Théoden would ride forth then they would go to battle—possibly to death, but if he would not, then Gondor would surely fall and their fates were imperiled regardless.
For one more instant Théoden stood silent, and Shëanon balled her hands into fists, shaken by anticipation, looking from him to Aragorn and back.
"And Rohan will answer," Théoden answered at last, in a stern voice that carried throughout the hall, firm and final. "Muster the Rohirrim!"
Shëanon's breath left her in a rush, and turning to Aragorn she saw him lit from within with gratification and relief. He grasped her shoulder and wheeled around, and there was a new flurry of movement in the hall, and with a start, she realized that of course it was time to go that very moment and with all haste: they would ride to Gondor without delay.
But as Aragorn hastened away she glanced once more at the king. He appeared to stand straighter than in moments before, and as he had appeared at their first meeting, when Gandalf had released him from Saruman's spell, it seemed to Shëanon that age had melted from his face, and he looked to her to be decades younger, a warrior in the prime of his strength and vitality, a king sure in his decision, fortified by honor and wisdom. But as Théoden turned away from the now frenzied men in the hall, she thought he looked suddenly haggard, as a man who walked to his doom.
Shëanon looked away with a sinking feeling in her stomach.
Then, turning, she came face to face with Legolas and Gimli, who must have risen from the breakfast table when Aragorn ran in.
The three of them stood there for only a moment, looking at each other, and for her part Shëanon felt almost childishly forlorn and desperate, for she knew that while they stood there together she could still believe that their respite in Rohan had not yet ended, but that once they moved, their feet would carry them to war.
She looked to Legolas in trepidation, and saw that he was looking back at her.
"Aye, muster the Rohirrim, he said," Gimli said then, reaching for the haft of his axe. "Muster the Four Hunters, I say! Come on, you two—the hour is upon us, and I pity the foes who will stand in our path!"
He clapped Legolas on the arm and hurried away, and with one more glance at Legolas Shëanon followed after him, hastening through the now chaotic hall to the door in the back corner. Down the corridor to her room she rushed, gathering her scant belongings from within. The Lady's knife she strapped as ever to her calf, her sword and dagger and waterskin to her belt. About her shoulders Shëanon drew her grey Lórien cloak, clasping the mallorn leaf brooch at her neck, and then she buckled on her quiver and pack. Trembling with adrenaline, she cast her eyes about the chamber in search of anything left behind, and then Shëanon saw, beside the pitcher on the dressing table, the single scrap of parchment that Legolas had left her on the black night when she had been overcome by despair. Reverently she picked it up, and stood studying it in the warm light of the late morning, imagining how he must have taken care to rise from the bed without waking her—perhaps inquiring of someone in the hall for ink and quill, all so that she would be comforted.
Then Shëanon's eyes suddenly welled, and she looked about the room again with her chest aching, setting her gaze upon the fur rug where first she had confided in Legolas about her foresight and he had told her about his mother, the bedframe where she'd hit her head, the bed where he'd held her now through many long nights.
Where he'd vowed to do anything she'd asked at the end of their quest.
It wasn't until that very moment that she understood that she would likely never return to this place.
She stood unmoving for a while longer, thinking how different she had been when first she'd set foot in this room, wondering if she'd changed in Rohan or if Rohan had changed her.
Then she carefully tucked the piece of parchment into her pack, took up her bow, and strode from the room.
She did not find her companions in the corridor or the hall, so Shëanon headed for the stable, but on the road she met Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli and they had the horses already. Legolas passed her Hasufel's reins as she drew near. From the city gates tolled again the same bell that had sounded upon the funeral of Théodred, only now it was not slow and mournful but urgent and quick, and all around them men and women ran about, calling to each other and to their horses, for all those in the city who had sworn fealty to their king were obliged to leave their homes and ride with their lord to Gondor. Between Arod and Brego Hasufel stamped his hooves and nickered nervously, for the energy in the road with the growing crowd, the excited horses and bellowing men and weeping wives and children was frantic, and in commiseration Shëanon grasped his bridal and stroked his nose, speaking softly to him in Sindarin, wondering if he could hear her heartbeat and understand that she was as affected as he.
"Peace, my friend," said a sudden voice behind her, and looking up she saw Legolas at her shoulder. He had laid his hand upon Hasufel's neck and was murmuring to him in Elvish as she had been, but his eyes were trained upon hers. "Your rider is valiant and will steer you true."
Shëanon swallowed thickly and stepped closer to him, meeting his gaze. It seemed there would be no time now to try to touch his mind as he had suggested, nor to worry over their dreams. As Gimli had said, the hour was upon them.
They were out of time.
Merry appeared then out of the crowd before them, towing a stalwart pony, and as she set her gaze upon him Shëanon realized the hobbit was clad in the heraldry of the house of Eorl, wearing a shirt of mail and leather armor emblazoned with the shape of a mighty horse. A helm was under his arm, and a light was in his eyes.
She felt her mouth fall open in astonishment.
"What raiment is this?" she heard Aragorn say, and Merry stopped the pony beside their taller mounts.
"I have laid my sword upon the lap of Théoden," Merry said, "and sworn him my service. He has made me an Esquire of Rohan."
"And why shouldn't he!" Gimli harrumphed. "No truer heart will he find—among hobbits or Men."
Shëanon bit her lip, glancing at Aragorn in consternation, but though his brow was furrowed, he made no protest. Still she could not help but feel a thread of doubt, though she dared not speak her mind and damage Merry's burgeoning confidence and pride, which both were plain to see.
"Just wait until Pippin sees you," she said instead. "Surely no other hobbit can claim such an honor as this."
"No," said Merry, smiling weakly at the mention of his friend. "I am the first… but who knows what adventures Pippin has had with Gandalf. Maybe my armor will be of little interest after that."
Then he looked down at his wooly feet and said no more, and the five of them stood together amid the mayhem on the road, and it seemed to Shëanon that none of them save maybe Gimli was not burdened by worry.
"We will ride first to the encampment at Dunharrow," said Aragorn, glancing now and then over his shoulder to take measure of the amassing riders. "The marshals will gather their countrymen there, and when all are assembled we will ride for Minas Tirith with all haste."
Suddenly a clear voice rang out on the air, carrying over the toll of the bell and the din of the riders, and wheeling around Shëanon could see Éomer upon his own steed, shouting to make himself heard.
"Riders of Rohan!" he cried, and abruptly she remembered the moment he had appeared at Gandalf's side at Helm's Deep, rallying his Rohirrim to battle. "Oaths you have taken! Now, fulfill them all to lord and land!"
The Rohirrim lifted sword and spear and chanted together an answering call in their own language, and one after another climbed into saddle. Shëanon watched small children uplifted in the hands of their kin to reach the men on their high mounts for one last parting embrace. Ahead, surrounded by streaming banners marked by the same vibrant emblem upon Merry's chest, Théoden sat upon bright Snowmane, straight-backed and resolute.
Then Aragorn swung up onto Brego, and Legolas helped Merry onto his pony and Gimli upon the back of Arod, and that was when Shëanon lifted her boot to the stirrup and mounted Hasufel, for she had sworn no oath to Théoden but indeed she had sworn an oath to Aragorn, and though no oath had been laid upon her in Rivendell, in her heart she had sworn an oath to Frodo and indeed to each of her companions, as well.
Aragorn urged Brego forward, to the head of the column beside the king, and Shëanon nudged Hasufel in his wake, riding beside Legolas and Gimli. The horses walked slowly at first down the road toward the city gate, and about them was a tumult as the muster of Edoras clamored to follow. But then a single trumpet sounded, and Théoden and Éomer and Aragorn were borne forth upon their steeds at a gallop, and Shëanon whispered to Hasufel to run. So then did she pass through the city gates, her heart racing, the wind whipping her face. The banners billowed behind the banner-men, blown by the blustering breeze and by the haste of the bounding horses, their beating hooves hammering the earth beneath, and far behind, as their host broke over the hills, she could still hear the harrowing peal of the bell.
Only as Hasufel's hooves splashed into the stream where she had sat and cried did Shëanon look back, and the Golden Hall had never seemed so bright to her, as bright as the beacon that summoned them, and never at her first coming would Shëanon have thought Edoras so fair a sight, nor to find herself so aggrieved to leave it.
Translations:
Davon: I yield
A/N:
Merry Christmas ;)