Aiër

by emon14

Shëanon embarks on a quest that will change her life forever and must come to terms with her heritage, her abilities, and the desires of her heart. Tenth Walker. Legolas/OC

33. Chapter 28

Aiër Chapter 27

The muster of Edoras rode for many long hours, even into the dwindling evening and burgeoning night, so that when at last they halted, the clear sky was black and mottled with stars. They took only a few hours' rest, and Shëanon could not sleep. She lay on the cold ground between Legolas and Aragorn, turning over and over, able to think of little but the battle to come. Though all was quiet, it seemed many were restless, for even the horses did not to settle, and she could hear many low voices whispering in the night. More than once she rolled over and found Legolas or Aragorn looking at her. Finally, when the sky above was grey, and the night was waning, Shëanon sat up. Legolas then rose also, and Aragorn, and Gimli stirred, too, but no one spoke, and no one said what they might otherwise have said—that they should sleep while they could, that they should make use of the little time left to them and rest.

Instead they sat all together in silence, shoulder to shoulder, with their arms resting upon their bent knees, watching the pale glow over the horizon grow brighter and bigger with the promise of dawn. Then when the Rohirrim were roused, and it was time again to move on, they woke Merry and mounted their horses.

Many more hours they rode, along the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Though it was spring, the sun above was weak, and the air was chilled, and it seemed to Shëanon as they passed through Rohan that the land itself lay in wait, like some prisoner held in ransom. It was as though the battle to come would decide if the budding flowers would ever bloom—if the birds would sing and the new grass grow green—or if all would fall into ruin.

Finally, late in the day, they crested a hill and came upon what must surely have been the encampment of Dunharrow. Before them lay a wide valley through which flowed the river Snowbourn, and straight ahead, looming high above in the distance, was some ancient lookout set atop a steep cliff. It seemed the only way to get there was to pass through the valley, where an army of tents had been erected in long rows, and then ascend a winding path that hugged the cliff-face.

Shëanon urged Hasufel forward, following after Aragorn. A loud horn was blown, and several helmeted soldiers were running forth to call reports to Théoden. Shëanon watched men in the encampment stagger out of the tents and look up from their tasks at the sound of the shouting voices and the rumbling of the horses, all evidently desperate for a sight of the king.

As they came to the head of the valley Harrowdale and the towering mountain at its end, however, she realized that the stronghold was even higher than she had initially thought it. The dark face of the cliff was so steep it was more a wall than a mountain, standing like a sentry over the valley, and the road they began to climb was so narrow that they had to ride single-file on horseback, turning precariously sharp corners each time the path twisted. Up and up they rode, against the side of the mountain—it reminded Shëanon of the perilous journey through Moria, and she shuddered as she peered over the edge. When at last they reached the encampment at the top, the wind was blowing furiously, as it had upon the pass of Caradhras, whipping her face and Hasufel's mane, and even the surrounding mountains that entrenched the valley appeared small compared to the height they had reached.

More tents filled the camp, but they were larger and sturdier than the ones pitched by the soldiers in the valley; those had been little more than tarps strung just high and wide enough that one or two men might fit inside to sleep, but the tents up at the lookout were tall enough that she guessed even Legolas and Aragorn, who were taller than the men of Rohan, could have comfortably stood inside.

At the back end of the encampment, another steep wall of mountain-rock took shape, and it was riven down the middle by a deep fissure that clove it in two—a dark, narrow gap that seemed to lead into the depths of the mountain. At once Shëanon noticed that all of the tents seemed to have been clustered as far from this chasm as possible, grouped all together near to the edge of the cliff rather than against the back wall.

She followed Aragorn and Legolas through the encampment, until at last Aragorn reined Brego to a halt. Shëanon had to move very slowly to dismount Hasufel; her whole body felt stiff and ached, and her ribs were hurting again after their journey. She bit her lip as she eased herself from the saddle, hoping that no one would not notice, and to her relief she saw that Aragorn had already hastened to speak to Théoden the moment they'd stopped, and Legolas was busy helping Gimli clamber down off Arod.

She stretched gingerly and reached to stroke Hasufel's nose, thanking him quietly for carrying her, and then she held out her hand to help Merry jump down off Stybba the pony. When she glanced again at Aragorn, she saw that he and Théoden had crossed together to the very edge of the cliff, and stood surveying the assembly of riders far below. Shëanon sidled closer to the ledge not far from them and peered down, trying to estimate just how many men had been brought by Théoden's marshals. From so high up, they appeared as many lines of milling ants, and indeed there must have been some thousands… But she had seen Saruman's army of Uruk-hai that numbered more than ten, and in the valley there were certainly fewer riders than that. Surely Sauron would have even more at his command than Saruman had sent? The armies of the Enemy must have been a great number beyond count…

"Six thousand spears," she heard Théoden say, carried to her on the wind. "Less than half of what I hoped for."

"Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor," Aragorn answered grimly.

Not enough. A terrible sense of unease came over her, as a cloud that drifts across the sun and throws all below in shadow, and she edged carefully away from the cliff and hurried back toward Legolas and Gimli and Merry. Perhaps more men would come as the day lengthened? Perhaps they might have some advantage that she could not yet see?

"Are you well?" Legolas asked the moment she reached his side, turning from Gimli and fixing her in a discerning gaze.

Shëanon looked at him surprise, thinking that he must have watched her wincing her way off Hasufel after all, but then she realized that rather she had allowed her sudden worry to show upon her face. Indeed, even away from the edge of the cliff and trying to put their odds against Mordor from her mind, it did not leave her; she felt that she was growing more anxious and unsettled by the moment.

"Yes," she told him, though her heart was beating faster than it should have been, and there was an unpleasant weight in her stomach. She didn't want to tell him what Aragorn had said, and on further thought, she rather suspected that Legolas must already have known. It would not have surprised her if he'd taken count of the gathered soldiers as they'd ridden through the valley and privately reached the same conclusion.

Beside her Hasufel shifted nervously, and she lifted a hand to pat his neck, but then Shëanon realized that Arod and Brego and indeed all of the horses nearby seemed as agitated as Hasufel was and as she herself felt, nickering and stamping their feet. She scanned the encampment again… was it her imagination, or did the Rohirrim seem ill at ease, too? She noticed one man was pacing back and forth between his tent and his mount as though distracted, and two more were standing not far away, whispering and casting what seemed to her to be wary looks about them.

The weight in her stomach was suddenly twice as heavy, and she looked back up at Legolas in consternation. To her relief, he clearly also felt something was awry; he was taking note of the horses, too, and when he met her gaze again he put his hand on the small of her back.

"What is it?" she asked uncertainly. "I feel…"

But she trailed off, not wanting to say aloud that she felt afraid and jittery.

Legolas frowned for a moment and did not answer.

"What?" Gimli asked impatiently. He thumped the end of his axe upon the ground. "What're you two talking about?"

Legolas glanced down at him.

"The horses are restless," he pointed out, laying a calming hand upon Arod. "And the men are quiet…"

"They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," said a voice, and turning with a start she saw that Éomer had come behind them and must have heard what Legolas had said.

He nodded ahead of him, towards the far side of the camp, where the dark path disappeared into a haze of gloom between the rocky precipices on either side.

"That road there," Gimli asked, seeming to see it for the first time. "Where does that lead?"

"It is the road to the Dimholt, and the door under the mountain Dwimorberg," said Éomer. "None who venture there ever return."

Shëanon stared at him.

Legolas however seemed more pensive than perturbed.

"None yet, at least," he remarked.

Éomer raised his eyebrows.

"That mountain is evil," he said plainly. "Not if all the hosts of Mordor stood here to assail me and that dark road were my only escape would I take it. Many here will sleep ill tonight at its feet."

He cast them one more meaningful look and walked away, and Shëanon watched after him in utter astonishment, for Éomer she had already seen for herself was a mighty warrior of great courage, and a shiver raced down her spine at his words. What could be so terrible that even the greatest of the Rohirrim would not dare to face it?

"Hmm," said Gimli, once Éomer was gone. "Sounds like a ghost story to me."

"Ghosts, yes," said Legolas, "but it is no story. If that way indeed lies the Dark Door, then that way lies the Paths of the Dead."

Shëanon wheeled around to look at him.

"The Paths of the Dead?" she echoed, stunned, and he nodded, meeting her eyes.

"What are the Paths of the Dead?" asked Merry.

The hour draws near when the Dúnedain must come forth and walk the Paths of the Dead.

It was the message for Aragorn from Lady Galadriel.

The pit returned to her stomach, and she stood for a long moment glancing askance at the path. She now saw that two large standing stones had been set on either side of its entrance, and they appeared ancient beyond years. Doubt seized her. Their errand lay at Minas Tirith—they were meant to ride to battle with Théoden, but Shëanon knew without question that if Galadriel had advised Aragorn to take that darkling road, there must have been a reason…

"We should tell Aragorn," she whispered, but Legolas offered her a shrewd look.

"I would guess he knows very well where that path leads, aiër," he murmured.

The four of them stood for a moment in charged silence.

"Standing here will do no good," Gimli said at last. "Let's find the lad and find some food. Then I think we will meet with Théoden—I would know our plan for battle."

Shëanon nodded, but she was distracted. The sinking unease that she had first felt looking over the edge of the cliff had not abated, and even as Legolas was soothing the horses with calming words in Elvish, she felt still more unsettled. While she cast her gaze about in search of Aragorn, she thought it was just that she'd had two pieces of bad news in quick succession—there were not enough spears to prevail against Sauron's army, and now this evil mountain pass that Galadriel had told Aragorn to take and which brought dread upon the men around them…

But as Aragorn returned to them and began to tell them, in a low voice, that they would ride for Minas Tirith at first light, she realized it was neither their bleak odds nor the threat of the ominous road that troubled her; the pit in her stomach was now an un-ignorable apprehension, and to her worry she realized that a cold sweat had broken over her prickling skin.

Something was wrong, she thought, something—

Shëanon was in dark room, windowless—barred. The only light came from a furnace in the corner that cast sinister shadows upon the black walls. She was struggling against a binding hold—heavy manacles shackling her wrists.

She was running along a long corridor, past flickering torches. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

There were fires burning. Ash was falling from the sky. A terrible explosion rent the air—she was falling, falling—she hit the ground with a crash, and then, she was lifted up…

"Shëanon!"

"Shea!"

With a gasp she opened her eyes and found that she was on her knees upon the ground, beside Hasufel's hooves. It took her a moment to realize how she had gotten there, or why Legolas was kneeling before her and grasping her arms.

Then she felt herself go pale.

"Shëanon," she heard Legolas say again. His eyes were wide—for a single instant she remembered the moment he had knelt before her like this and set his eyes upon the bolt in her chest, and she flinched.

"I'm fine," she muttered, with a surety she did not feel, trying to hasten to her feet. To her dismay, Gimli and Merry and Aragorn were all clustered around her, too, and all appeared as startled and alarmed as Legolas looked, and she could not blame them. She must have seemed to—to collapse—

Shëanon looked down at the ground, her mind racing. Long had it been since a vision had come upon her likes this, while she was waking rather than asleep. Indeed, the last time had been in Moria, when she had stumbled on the path… That day she had seen a vision of the danger to come, with the Balrog and Gandalf's death… A sick feeling took root in her. Did this mean that this vision would soon come to pass, too? She felt that she was supposed to understand something, but she could not tell what…

"I'm fine," she said again, allowing Legolas to help her stand.

She watched him and Aragorn look at each other.

"What did you see?" Aragorn asked her quietly, but Shëanon grimaced and shrugged.

"Nothing," she mumbled. "I just got—dizzy."

There was a beat of silence, and the cold wind whistled.

"We had no breakfast," Merry pointed out. "Nor any lunch. That'll make you dizzy. Gimli was right—we should find something to eat."

Shëanon nodded, but Gimli looked unconvinced, and the set of Aragorn's and Legolas's faces were severe, and she could tell that they did not believe her.

"You're no more dizzy than I am a wizard," Aragorn accused, frowning, as they began to walk through the camp.

"I don't want to talk about it," she whispered tensely back.

"Indeed, you need not," Legolas said. "For we can guess well enough what it was."

The line of his back and shoulders was rigid, and it was obvious that he had indeed understood at once that she had seen Barad-dûr once more. Shëanon squirmed with guilt, casting about desperately for something to say, but she could offer no comfort when she was so worried herself, and she suspected he would not accept an apology, either, though still she felt awful to serve as such a cause of stress for them.

She drew a deep breath.

"Let us add it to our growing list of things we will not discuss," she said quietly. She glanced over her shoulder again at the narrow path that crept into the mountain.

XXX

They spent what was left of the day with Théoden and Éomer and their men, Gamling and Erkenbrand and a captain called Grimbold, poring over maps of Gondor and of Minas Tirith and discussing any obstacles and how they would overcome them. Éowyn kept appearing, too, and Shëanon noticed that she seemed furtive and troubled, and she did not miss how often the woman cast her eyes upon Aragorn.

They dined with the king, but after dinner they went back to the tents Éowyn said had been set aside for them and built a fire, and the five of them sat together quietly as the night lengthened. It was cold after nightfall upon the high cliff, but all the tents blocked some of the wind. Aragorn, Merry, and Gimli began to smoke their pipes, and Shëanon drew her sword to sharpen its edges. Again and again she thought on the vision, able to concentrate on little else, and if indeed she could turn her thoughts away from the disturbing images of herself as a prisoner of Sauron, then she dwelled instead upon the coming battle, and how Aragorn had said they had not enough men.

"This feels like Helm's Deep all over again," she said at last, unable to bear the silence or the unspoken question any longer. She could no longer help herself—she wanted to hear what Aragorn had to say about this.

Her companions glanced up at her.

"Awaiting a battle when we know we're outnumbered," she finished.

"Aye, and we were victorious then as we will be now," said Gimli bracingly.

Shëanon set down her whetstone.

"Last time the Lórien wardens and the Rohirrim with Gandalf came to our aid," she whispered carefully. "There are no more Rohirrim to come; they are gathered all in the valley below and still are not enough. And I think no more Elves will come, either."

"They will not," Legolas agreed. His face was impassive, but his eyes were dark. "And no Dwarves, either."

Gimli suddenly sat straighter.

"You think the Dwarves would not come if we could call upon them?" he asked defensively.

Legolas turned to him in surprise.

"No, I think they would not," he said, as Gimli spluttered around his pipe. "But not by any fault among them. I think war has already found both your people and mine, and if there was time enough and a way to send word thither to our own homelands, I would guess that they would seek our aid as direly as we would beg theirs."

At this Gimli seemed to slump, and he looked into the fire in silence, but Shëanon looked instead at Legolas. She remembered when he had told her he feared he was betraying his duty to his people by staying with their company rather than defending the Woodland Realm, and her heart ached for him.

"What will we do?" she asked.

Aragorn looked at her wordlessly for a long moment.

"Fight," he said, and she could tell by his eyes what the truth was: there was indeed no aid to be found, and Aragorn knew it, and their only choice was to hope that their strength in valor would be enough to prevail against the enemy's strength in number.

Setting her face, she nodded and took up her whetstone again, but even as she sharpened her blade until arm ached, she could not deny the sinking feeling within her.

No one spoke again for a long time. Finally, when the hour was very late, Aragorn stowed his pipe and rose.

"We should take rest," he said firmly. "We will need all our strength tomorrow. It is a three-day gallop to Minas Tirith, and we will depart at dawn."

Everyone stood, and she sheathed her blade and stowed her whetstone, but as Gimli and Merry strode away she turned to Aragorn and frowned.

"You're going to sleep, right?" she asked, thinking of the dark circles under his eyes on the morning when the beacons had been lit.

The ranger offered her a knowing look, and nodded.

"I will," he promised.

Then he left them before the dying fire and retreated into the darkness.

When Legolas touched her back then and looked questioningly into her face, Shëanon understood immediately what he was asking, but for a moment she was surprised that he would ask at all: she had assumed when Aragorn had bid them take rest that Legolas would come with her to her tent. For some reason it warmed her that he had not assumed—that he would await her decision—and in gratitude she nodded at him and stepped closer to his side. He clasped her hand and she squeezed his in return, and together they walked away from the fire. As they passed through the camp and headed toward her tent, however, she began to feel a flicker of uncertainty, and the reason why was making her blush.

In truth, the dream she had shared with Legolas on their last night in Edoras had rattled her much more deeply than she had told him, and she was unnerved and mortified at the thought of sharing another. Part of her thought that perhaps she should not invite him into her tent at all, wary of what might happen if she slept in his arms again. Then again, the first dream they had dreamed together from separate rooms at Meduseld, so perhaps it didn't matter where they slept. She was privately glad for this—that she had an excuse to stay near to him. The terror of the coming battle was starting to weigh so heavily upon her that she felt sick, and the idea of passing the night away from him was intolerable. Shëanon wanted to be as close to him as she could be, for as long as she could. But…

She bit her lip.

Though she did not want to admit it even to herself, there was a small part of her that did indeed wish another dream, even as much as she feared it. If she had not realized what had happened—if she had not come to know that he had shared every moment—then she knew she would probably have eagerly anticipated another of the dreams. But to walk beside Legolas knowing that he had witnessed it all as vividly as she had…

Shëanon winced and looked up at the night sky, her heart plagued by doubt. He had assured her they had done nothing wrong, that it had not been real, and that it had been an accident, but still she could not silence the anxious storm within her.

Among the Eldar, a physical union was the most sacred act; the union in love of one's body with another's joined two elves in marriage and bound their souls forever. Though in the dream they had mostly just kissed and caressed, she still could not help but feel they had shared something they were not supposed to have shared… They were not wedded. They were not even betrothed. And yet Legolas had seemed entirely unperturbed. This fact left her even more apprehensive. Was he unbothered because he thought it did not matter, because it had happened only in their dreams? Or…

"I think there is a reason these dreams have twice led us down such a path…"

She felt a powerful plummeting sensation within her as she thought again on these words, as though perhaps her heart had fallen into her stomach, or maybe that her stomach had jumped to her feet, and her whole body felt hot, as when he had first spoken them. She had thought on them often as they had ridden out from Edoras, replaying their conversation again and again during the long hours of riding. It had seemed to her… It had seemed to her that Legolas was untroubled because he felt it a forgone conclusion, that they would be wed eventually anyway and so the dreams were no harm… Shëanon twisted her hands nervously and tried to calm herself.

"After all this is over, I will do anything you ask of me."

Had that not seemed a pledge of deepest devotion? And indeed, the way he had kissed her in the practice yard, the way he had held her as she'd cried and told him of her scars… He called her meleth nín. He had told her he would readily die for her. He had sworn never to hurt her.

Shëanon drew a shuddering breath. Elves were not by nature fickle with their hearts, nor did they lightly give them away, and Legolas had made it quite clear that he had conferred his to her. And she knew him to be both honorable and utterly true; she could not doubt it: Legolas would not have so adamantly courted her trust and vulnerability—would not have taken to spending his nights in her bed nor stolen moments kissing and caressing her—if he did not intend to become her husband.

"I am glad that I was mistaken. There is no one else I would sooner entrust with you."

"Aragorn, we are not..."

"Did you not just say that he stayed here with you last night? What do you think you are not?"

Shëanon felt foolish and naïve, just as he had once told her she was. It suddenly seemed terribly obvious where their relationship was headed, and like everyone else was probably thinking it but her. Hadn't she just herself felt, as she had lain kissing him in the practice yard, that there was no way to turn aside from the path, now? Did she really not know where that path was leading?

I did know, she thought worriedly. Indeed, more than once she had thought about the possibility that she might one day bind herself to him, but at the time it had seemed… hypothetical. Far away, like the thought of the distant spring at the beginning of autumn.

Now, after the dreams, it seemed to her to be a pressing and immediate reality.

Suddenly something touched the small of her back, and Shëanon started, looking up in a daze. Legolas was gazing down at her with an expression of deep concern, and it was only then that she realized that they had already reached her tent, and that she had been standing staring at the tent flap for several long moments, unmoving, lost in thought. Shëanon grimaced and ducked inside with her face flaming.

A small torch had already been lit within, so that there was some light, and Legolas followed her inside. But coming into the tent and standing before her bedroll, Shëanon went rigid. A terrifying, harrowing thought suddenly came over her, more daunting even than her oppressive visions, as though she had just been hit in the face by a bucket of ice water, and she found herself immobilized by panic.

"Shëanon?"

He touched her arm this time, and when she glanced up at him his brow was furrowed over his eyes. She knew her terror must have been showing on her face, but she could summon no words to speak. A cold sweat had burst over her skin, and she felt faint and ill, worse even than she had felt after their meeting with Saruman.

Legolas was watching her closely.

With an inward tremor she turned from him to set her sword down in the corner—where she had stowed the rest of her weapons before dinner—just so that she could have an excuse not to look at him—so that she might attempt to hide her sudden disquiet. She laid it beside her bow and quiver, then knelt to remove her boots and unwind the knife at her calf, but by the time she attempted to unfasten her cloak, her hands were shaking upon the mallorn leaf brooch, and she was so distracted that it took several tries before she finally managed to get it off. She could feel that Legolas was watching her the whole time, and his scrutiny only served to make her even more nervous. Finally, after she had set it folded upon her pack, she chanced another glance at him. He remained unmoving in the middle of the tent, staring at her.

Shëanon could only look back at him and swallow nervously. Her hands were now shaking so badly that she had to cross her arms over herself and tuck her fingers in against her ribs so that he would not see.

"What is it?" he asked, tracking the movement of her hands with his eyes.

But she could not answer, and to her horror she suddenly felt her teeth chatter, and Legolas clearly heard it, for in an instant he was at her side.

"Shëanon," he murmured, gazing down into her face. He looked so worried about her that she could not even meet his gaze. Instead she stared straight ahead at his chest, trying to compose herself, but the walls of the tent suddenly felt like they were closing in on her, and she shuddered in his grasp.

Legolas clasped her shoulders and began rubbing his hands up and down over her arms as though to still her trembling, and Shëanon could tell that he was alarmed.

"Meleth nín," he whispered, "are you unwell?"

She had to say something to him—she could not just let him stand there in worry and suspense.

"It's just that the coming battle," she began, but she could not finish. Her voice was quavering so much that she could not continue.

Though she was not looking at him, she could sense that Legolas was frowning.

"Are you frightened?" he asked gravely, rubbing her arms again, but again she found she could not speak.

Gently he lifted her chin, and Shëanon could see so much care and love in his eyes that she wanted to weep. She nodded, deciding that it wasn't a lie, though she did not know how to communicate to him that it was not exactly the thought of battle itself that was scaring her.

There was a moment's pause while he seemed to absorb her answer, and she could easily guess why. Never before during their journey had she succumbed to such fright and nerves at the prospect of battle, not even when he had deliberately tried to impress more fear upon her, and she could tell that he was surprised.

He did not, however, falter, and he drew her into his arms in the middle of the tent, holding her against him. Shëanon readily accepted his embrace, pressing her face against his chest and wrapping her shaking arms around him. She felt one of his hands move to the back of her head, and he caressed her hair as she clung to him, and the strong wind outside shook the tent around them.

"I cannot tell you there is no cause for fear," he whispered. She felt him lean his head against the top of hers. "Only that we must not let fear hold sway over us."

Shëanon clutched the back of his tunic and trembled, her eyes squeezed closed, struggling to breathe. She felt that she was overcome by the emotion welling within her, and the sound of his fair voice, his tenderness, the brush of his fëa were only making it all worse. The wind blew the tent again and she rose up onto her toes, wanting to stand even closer—wanting to tell him what was in her heart but dreading to do so.

Legolas held her fast for a long moment, but finally he drew away and looked again down into her face.

"Come," he said quietly. "We have slept little these last days. You must rest."

Woodenly she allowed him to steer her toward the bedroll, and she crawled on her unsteady hands and knees over the blankets to the far side, so that he might lie beside her. He must have sensed that she felt no better, however, for he drew her against him again at once, as he had at Helm's Deep when they had lain together upon the bails of hay and she had been too nervous to fall asleep.

"Shall I help ease your fear?" he whispered right beside her ear.

Shëanon nodded, but it was more because she could tell he was desperate to offer her some respite than because she thought it would work. She was certain she would not fall asleep, for the torment of anxiety and foreboding had not left her.

Legolas rubbed her back and began to murmur quietly, but unlike before, he did not speak of Imladris or Lothlórien or the Woodland Realm, but of her. To her disbelief he was whispering to her how beautiful she had looked on the night of the feast in Edoras, how her hair had gleamed amber and copper before the light of the torches in the hall, and how fair he had thought her as she'd laughed at the table with Merry and Pippin and danced with Éomer to the fiddles. Shëanon felt herself go still with astonishment, for he had never said such things to her before.

"At the hour of our first meeting, I had thought you beautiful," he whispered, "but nothing is so beautiful to me as your joy."

Shëanon squeezed closed her eyes, then, taken by such despair that it was grievous to endure, and as Legolas spoke, she felt only more wretched, not less, gripped in an unbreakable hold of distress. Her heart was pounding so hard and so rapidly against her ribs that she knew Legolas could feel it, and she began to shiver again with nerves. He was murmuring now about standing with her beneath the stars, how they'd stood kissing, and how if he had his wish he would still be there with her, lingering ever in their embrace.

Shëanon wished it, too, with such desperation that it hurt. The memory of standing with him in the temperate breeze, kissing him, loving him so much consumed her. She thought of the peace she had felt, leaning against him, feeling his fëa and listening to his heartbeat. Then she thought of their shared dream, and how, in it, she had felt such bliss and pleasure.

But then she thought again of Aragorn's face when he had walked away from the king, and his grim words. Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor. And she thought, in terror, of her vision of Barad-dûr.

Another shudder arced through her.

They were going to battle against such terrible odds that even Aragorn, who had not baulked or abandoned hope at Helm's Deep, now bluntly said they had not enough spears to prevail at Minas Tirith. And… and her vision seemed to be breathing down her neck, her fate looming like the face of Death before her.

This could very well be the last night that she would ever pass at Legolas's side. If they were to fall in battle in Gondor, or if, as she feared, she would be taken captive… Her stomach roiled. Elves did not truly die; their spirits went to the Halls of Mandos, and, in time, were returned to their bodies in Valinor. Legolas himself had assured her of her immortality, so she knew Mandos would be her fate. But how much time an elf would abide in the Halls of Awaiting could not be told. If one or both of them perished, they could be sundered for thousands of years. And who knew what evil would befall her if she became a prisoner of Mordor? This moment, alone in the tent, could very well be their last moments of peace and safety together… ever. It could be their last chance…

She didn't know what to do. Before she'd gone into the tent, she'd felt foolish for not realizing that they would surely be wed. Now she realized she had been wrong, so wrong, and that rather what was likely was that they never would be—that they would be parted before they could ever be joined. The thought of losing him was breaking over her like many rolling groans of thunder. Again she remembered the moment she had turned to see the Uruk-hai aiming its crossbow at Legolas, only now she imagined what it would have been like if she had not stepped forward. What it would be like to look for Legolas before the walls of Minas Tirith and find instead his lifeless body… It was unbearable—if she did not perish in battle, she felt certain she would perish if she lost him.

In desperation Shëanon leaned back to look at him. In the dim light of the small torch the blue of his eyes was like the night sky before the break of dawn, when the black begins to fade and the stars are retreating, and his hair shone like pale gold. His hand rested at her waist; she could feel the heat and weight of it even though her clothes. She could feel him breathing. She could feel his fëa everywhere. She could feel the beat of his heart where they were touching, and she felt that something within her was beating in time with it, and that something within her was shattering with her fear. Shëanon looked over his handsome face—did he know how wholly she loved him? She had never told him…

With a start, she realized Legolas had stopped speaking and was gazing back at her in silence, watching her study him. She froze.

"Shëanon," he said quietly, when she averted her gaze. "You must sleep—"

"I cannot," she whispered.

"You have said that before," he reminded her, "and yet sleep you did. Close your eyes, fair one."

But Shëanon shook her head, her eyes wide, her heart in her throat, and Legolas it seemed could tell that what had come over her was unprecedented, for his regard was solemn and penetrating, and he did not try to convince her.

"Aiër," he whispered, after a very long moment had passed. "We must rest."

Shëanon looked into his face, steeling herself.

"Why?" she asked tremulously.

"You would ask why I beg you to sleep on the eve of battle?" he frowned, caressing the back of her hand.

"It is because it is the eve of battle that I do not wish to sleep," she argued. "What if—if the worst should happen—"

Legolas visibly tensed, and his eyes darkened, and he seemed at last to understand some of what was troubling her so.

"We must not think of such things," he told her firmly.

As if she could help it.

"How can we not? If I go to Mandos…"

Legolas suddenly drew her closer.

"If you went to Mandos, I would follow you there," he said emphatically.

Shëanon closed her eyes, feeling nauseous—that did not make her feel better.

"The less rest we have, the more likely Mandos will be our fate," he murmured, more evenly now.

"Legolas… I fear… I fear time is running short, that our hours are numbered and—and—"

"If there is any whose hours are numbered, it is the Enemy," Legolas said. "And we will see to it they are soon spent."

She could tell he wasn't quite understanding what she was trying to express, but she did not have the nerve to tell him outright.

"What if this is our last night together?" she asked.

"It is not."

Shëanon looked into his eyes.

"You said you would do whatever I asked of you," she whispered uncertainly.

At once Legolas went still, and she knew immediately that he had finally realized where her thoughts were. She had never seen him look so serious, and to her chagrin he seemed to study her for a long moment without answering.

"What do you ask of me, meleth nín?" he asked at last, searching her face.

Her stomach twisted with nerves and anxiety. She opened her mouth to answer, lost her courage, and then closed it again.

"I—I don't know," she confessed. Her face was scalding, and Legolas was looking at her so intensely that she felt pierced by his gaze.

With a terrible surge of dismay, she sat up and looked away from him, scrubbing her hands over her face. Indeed, she didn't know what she wanted, or what she was ready for, or what was right. It seemed that every option felt wrong; she felt she had squandered so much time, that if it wasn't for her nervousness and stubbornness and fear, they would have spoken of their feelings much sooner. She felt that she had tarried and faltered—that she had delayed them—even he had said that she had turned around and fled from him more than once—and now here they were, and she felt that they had only just come to have each other, that she had only just let him in, and so soon it was all being taken away. They would ride to Minas Tirith at dawn, and all would probably be lost.

Part of Shëanon felt that it would be folly to risk their deaths without first sealing their union. Did she not love him? Should she not give herself to him that very night, while there was still time, so that even in death they would not truly be parted? Should they not bind themselves to each other before they lost their chance?

And yet part of her felt that such a union was what would be folly. Under duress and threat, without discussing it first, with no time to think it through? And on the ground in this tent, where they would not even truly have privacy? Where they could hear the sounds of the Rohirrim milling about just a few feet away? And what of her? She had adamantly told Legolas that she did not dread physical intimacy with him, and yet she could not deny that she was paralyzed with nerves at the mere thought of it. How was it possible to want something so badly and yet be afraid of it?

Shëanon felt a distinct pang of shame. It was her fault that they had had no time together, and her fault now, too, if she was not brave enough—

She had never felt so small.

Suddenly she felt his hand upon her shoulder; he had sat up beside her.

"Shëanon," he said, his voice very low and close.

Her entire body quaked again.

"Shall I give my say?" he asked, the words—she could tell—deliberately gentle, and she froze.

His hand squeezed her shoulder. Shëanon waited with bated breath.

"I think tonight we should sleep," he said meaningfully.

The breath rushed out of her.

So then he did not—want—

Even though she had not even been certain what they should do—even though she had been agonized with indecision—she felt an acute, awful siege of humiliation and hurt to hear him deny her. Shëanon nodded without looking at him, astounded to find that her eyes were stinging.

For the span of several quivering breaths she did not know what to say.

"Okay," she whispered at last, her voice cracking. She was still shaking from head to toe, and she turned away from him to lie down again, this time facing the canvas of the tent, for she was not sure what else to do, but Legolas caught her arm to stop her.

"Not yet, aiër," he murmured, urging her instead to lie before him on her back.

Her face still hot, Shëanon looked up at him in miserable question. It was torture to lie there beneath him; she felt that she had made a fool of herself, and she could scarcely meet his gaze. Then to her bewilderment he suddenly moved close and leaned over her, so that he was practically on top of her, and he drew her closer against him.

"What are you doing?" she managed, staring up at him. "You said—to sleep."

"Indeed, we must," he agreed quietly.

He bent then and softly kissed her brow, and then her temple, and then her cheek.

"But I would kiss you awhile first, meleth nín. Let us see if we cannot inspire a good dream," he whispered pointedly.

Shëanon quaked again for an entirely different reason.

Gently Legolas took her face between his hands and bent to kiss her once more, this time on her lips. Shëanon gasped, for at once this kiss felt different. The press of his lips and the sweep of his thumb against her cheek were heartrendingly tender, and yet he seemed to kiss her with a solemn intention with which he had never kissed her before, as though just the touch of his lips upon her were some binding vow or hallowed prayer.

Then suddenly his mouth was gone, and as she opened her eyes in confusion and saw the canvas of the tent above her, she felt the heat of his breath against the side of her neck. She shivered, and her flesh seemed to her to be burning—her face and neck and chest felt hot as though with an excessive blush, and all the rest of her felt heated, too, as though she had been submerged in hot water, and her stomach fluttered wildly. Her breath hitched, and, still clutching his shoulders, she went utterly still. It was but an instant after that his mouth touched her skin.

Shëanon had only a fleeting moment to wonder if something might be wrong with her, for certainly such a simple act should not have affected her the way it did. Legolas was unspeakably gentle as he pressed his lips to her throat, above the frantic throb of her pulse, reverent and pointedly careful, and yet Shëanon felt a bolt of pleasure course through her whole body. Upon his shoulders her fingers clenched into fists, curled into the fabric of his tunic, and within her bloomed a poignant, desperate ache. She heard herself make a noise that she was certain she had never made before, breathy and plaintive, and she clamped her lips together in shock. He kissed her again, higher on her neck, and she shuddered and had to bite her lip to keep from crying out, stunned by how good it felt.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered. As she spoke he pressed his lips to her again, below her ear, and her voice sounded choked.

Legolas paused.

"Shall I stop?" he whispered beside her ear. The feel of his breath alighting over the places he had kissed her made her shiver again, and Shëanon abruptly realized that she was practically panting.

Stop?

"No," she pleaded.

Legolas moved at once and pressed a fervent, searing kiss upon her lips that shook her, and then he leaned over and began to kiss the other side of her neck, again and again, until she found herself tilting her head and leaning into his attentions, dizzy and hot all over.

Then suddenly against her skin his lips must have parted, for she felt what she realized even in the haze of her pleasure was the touch of his tongue, and she felt it like a flash of lightning through her entire body—she thought she would burst into flame. Legolas kissed her again in the same spot, except now he seemed to draw at her flesh with his lips, not just kissing her but softly sucking, there, too, and Shëanon felt herself jerk beneath him. She could not have stopped the whimper that fell from her lips if she had tried, but she was beyond any thought of shyness or self-consciousness now—indeed, she couldn't think, she could do nothing but clutch him helplessly.

He slid his hand over her, from her waist and over her hip and back, and she was arching into his touch, her breath staggering, her heart pounding. She realized her hands were moving over him too—she didn't know what to do with them, but she could not stop touching him, gripping his strong arms and shoulders, trailing her palms over his back and gripping his flaxen hair in a kind of nervous frenzy.

Then he returned to her mouth, his kiss fierce with intent and promise and devotion, and yet unrushed and unassailing, but deliberate and faithful and inviolable. She had not known—not even in her dreams could her mind have conjured this, the possessive, ardent passion of his kiss, the adoring caresses of his hands upon her, the heat of his breath, of his lips, of his whole body pressing against her all over—

His hand swept over her again, only as he had handled her, her clothes must have ridden up out of place, for suddenly she felt—the heat of it scorching—the touch of his fingers brushing over her bare skin, over her hip and up her back, where her flesh was ridged with scars—

With a cry Shëanon recoiled as though burned, jerking violently away from him, and when she opened her eyes and blinked to clear her vision she found herself gazing into his face. She must have seized his wrist to pull his hand away from her, for she held it fast between them, and her breath was ragged.

For once, Legolas looked as taken aback as she felt, and she stared at him, aghast and speechless, feeling her face color as he beheld her.

It took her a moment to come back to herself, and then Shëanon was seized by utter mortification.

"I'm—sorry," she stuttered. She realized she was still clutching his arm and released him with a violent blush.

Legolas did not answer, and she had no idea what to say—indeed maybe she was incapable of saying anything. The tremendous heat he had stoked within her had been doused at once, leaving only excruciating embarrassment and uncertainty in its wake.

Nervously Shëanon drew away and sat up, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to process what had just happened. She reached behind her and tugged frantically at her clothes, desperate to make sure no inch of her skin was left uncovered. She knew Legolas was watching her, and she knew that he knew what had caused her abrupt reaction—why she had so suddenly stopped him—and she blushed all the more, furious with herself for—for ruining it—

"Goheno nin," she muttered, staring down at her knees. Her throat was tight.

"No," Legolas said fiercely, and suddenly she found herself drawn against him.

"It is I who must beg forgiveness," he whispered against her temple. "I did not intend…"

He trailed off, and some note in his words caught her attention, for she had never before heard it in his voice.

Shëanon looked over her shoulder at him in astonishment.

Legolas was embarrassed.

It was plain to see at once, his brow creased with frustration and worry, his gaze contrite and appalled, and she realized immediately that he felt he had overstepped.

She felt such a sharp stab of guilt that she paled. Horrified, she turned and threw her arms back around him, shaking her head.

"No," she whimpered, even as she hid her face against his shoulder. "It was—it's my fault, I—I didn't mean—"

Legolas tightened his grip around her.

"Nay, meleth nín," he whispered, "I should have taken more care."

Shëanon shook her head again, holding him desperately.

"It's not your fault that I'm—"

"That you're what?"

She didn't answer, for even she was not entirely certain what she had meant to say. That she was hideously disfigured? That she was evidently so skittish she could not even enjoy this last chance for closeness with him without spoiling the whole thing? She bit her lip and pressed closer against him, silent.

She felt his hands moving gently over her hair.

"That you're what?" he asked again, his voice very serious.

Shëanon swallowed and looked away.

Abruptly Legolas caught her hand, and he drew her back down toward the bedroll with him. For a moment Shëanon had thought he meant for them to finally sleep—that he meant to hold her, but he did not release her hand and he did not, as she might have expected, place it over his heart. Without looking away from her face, he suddenly drew her hand down near his hips, and then beneath his tunic and shirt.

A jolt pierced her at the feel of his bare skin. Shëanon's eyes flew wide, and she almost pulled away in shock, but his sure gaze stilled her.

Very slowly, he slid her trembling hand over him under his clothes.

Shëanon's mind seemed to stumble—she stared back at him, utterly dumbstruck, as her fingertips glided over smooth skin and hard muscle. Over his abdomen he pressed her hand, until he stopped her, holding her fingers to him in a spot along his ribs, and for a moment she was simply gazing at him, confounded, not understanding, until he clasped her fingers and urged them gently over the same spot again, and she realized that there was a line of raised flesh beneath her fingertips.

Legolas was looking back at her meaningfully.

"This one, I was a child still," he said. "My friend Elornë and I wished to spar with real blades, though our fathers had forbidden us, for we were too young. We did not heed them, and Elornë cut me to the bone."

He drew her hand lower, around his side, until she felt another blotch of uneven skin.

"The sting of a giant spider," he said. "One of the spawn of Shelob that infest the forest beyond our borders."

Then he drew their hands out from under his clothes, and laid her palm upon his leg, halfway up his thigh, over his leggings.

"Here an orc caught me on its spear," he said. "The wound was poisoned. Aragorn closed it; we had been ambushed, and for many days I could not walk. There is still a mark."

At that Legolas lifted her hand once more and softly pressed his lips to her palm.

He said nothing else, but his point was obvious, and Shëanon looked desperately up at the roof of the tent, her eyes stinging again, and she felt her lip tremble.

"Lassie?" a sudden voice boomed.

Shëanon jumped, and looked back down at Legolas in disbelief.

"Lass?" Gimli called again from outside the tent. "Legolas?"

Her face was still hot, her heart still thrumming, as she speechlessly glanced toward the front of the tent and back at Legolas in utter incredulity at this interruption.

"Come on, you two! You can hear a leaf fall from a hundred paces! Don't tell me you cannot hear a dwarf from ten!"

Legolas sat up.

"Enter," he called, seeming to snap out of their trance sooner than she did. He squeezed her hand.

Gimli burst through the flap into the tent, breathing heavily and appearing harried. He propped his long axe before him and leaned upon it. Shëanon suddenly felt profoundly uncomfortable to be found sitting in her bedroll with Legolas, even though Gimli had no way of knowing what they had just been doing… but she feared her face might betray her, and that it would be obvious they had not been sleeping. She shifted warily on top of the blanket.

"The king awaits you," Gimli huffed at once. "An urgent matter—they bid me send you without delay."

Shëanon stared.

"Which one of us?" she asked, taken aback.

"Both of you!" Gimli cried.

Legolas rose right away, but her mind was still reeling from the tumult of emotion she had just endured, and it took her a moment to move.

"Aiër," he called, and finally she started and scrambled to tug on her boots. Legolas held out his hand to pull her to her feet, and then they hastened to follow Gimli from the tent.

There seemed to be some strange energy now throughout the encampment, though Shëanon could not guess why. It seemed there were even more men about now than when she and Legolas had retired. The three of them darted around the campfires and past the rows of tents toward Théoden's pavilion.

"Did he say what he wants?" she asked anxiously. "Did he send also for Aragorn?"

Gimli shook his head.

"If I knew, I'd tell you. I've had no words with the king, only with one of his men. Asked if I knew where the two Elves had gone—said he had an urgent message that could not wait. I told him I would deliver it."

Finally they drew near to the king's tent, and Gimli halted and nodded them forward.

Shëanon drew up short.

"You're not coming, too?" she asked, frowning.

Gimli drew himself up taller.

"The two Elves, they said," he reiterated, bristling. "Not the Dwarf."

Shëanon frowned deeper still. Surely whatever Théoden might say to her or to Legolas could be said in front of Gimli?

"But—"

But right at that moment, someone emerged from the king's tent, and the protest died on her lips.

It was Aragorn.

He stepped into the night air and looked at them, and in an instant, she became afraid. It had been a very, very long time since she had seen Aragorn look so grim; he held the sheath of a sword in one hand, and the look on his face was bleak, as one who had resolved himself to meet a terrible fate or take on an immeasurably heavy burden beyond his strength.

It was clear he had expected them to be standing there, or at least that he was not surprised, for he stepped toward them and nodded soberly.

"Shea first," he said lowly, as she gazed up at him in concern and trepidation. He touched her shoulder, his expression inscrutable, and looked into her eyes. Then as suddenly as he had appeared, he hurried around them and strode away without another word.

Shëanon blinked as she watched him go, a tremor of unease coursing through her. She turned and peered up at Legolas in question, her eyebrows raised; she could not imagine why Théoden would wish to speak with her alone, nor what could have possibly stirred such disquiet in Aragorn. What could have been worse than what he had already told them, that they had not gathered enough strength to break the lines of the Enemy?

But Legolas was gazing toward the tent with an odd look upon his face. He lightly touched the small of her back, and then he stepped forth and lifted aside the tent flap for her so that she might step inside. She cast him one last look of inquiry and caution, but if indeed Théoden needed to speak with her at once, she knew she shouldn't delay. Tearing her gaze away from Legolas's face, she nodded and strode beneath his arm, into the tent.

At once Shëanon halted.

She had only the briefest impression of the inside of the pavilion—of the many torches illuminating the heavy furs set upon the ground and strewn about the tent, of the canvas billowing in the high wind and the maps and weapons covering every surface. She hardly saw them and heeded them not, for it was not Théoden who was inside waiting for her.

There, before her, tall and still, stood a lone figure. He wore vestments of travel beneath a fine cloak, but his hood was pulled back so that Shëanon could see his face.

It was her father.

For one instant she was so surprised that she couldn't move, remaining motionless in the candlelight as she gazed at him in disbelief. He gazed steadily back, his wise eyes dark, his expression unfathomable.

"Ada?" she asked at last, astonished.

Elrond stepped forward and suddenly she found herself flying across the tent to him, hurling herself into his arms and throwing her own about his neck.

"Ada!" she cried. He caught her fast and held her against him. At once his embrace brought tears to her eyes, the smell of him so familiar and safe, the warmth and strength of his arms the earliest shelter she had ever known. Abruptly she realized she had feared she would never see him again, and she hugged him more tightly, burying her face against his shoulder as he held her and pressed his lips to her temple.

"Ada, Ada," she wept, her tears wetting his cloak. Elrond remained silent, moving only to rock her slightly back and forth, to touch her hair. She thought of the last time she had seen him, of turning away from him to leave Imladris with the fellowship, how she had regretted not hugging him one last time. Suddenly all the toils and plights of their quest returned to her: the persistent homesickness, the claustrophobic nightmare that had been the mines, watching Gandalf fall, Boromir's death, the poisoned bolt…

The power she could not control no matter how hard she tried.

The secret belief that she would never make it home.

Shëanon sobbed and clung to him, too moved for words.

A long moment passed. The tent rocked against the relentless wind, and outside she could hear whinnying horses and the noises of camp, and she remembered where she was.

Shëanon drew away and looked into her father's face.

"How is this possible?" she sniffled, overwhelmed. "How are you here? Why have you come?"

Elrond stood with his hands upon her shoulders, and she suddenly saw that his face, for so long unmarked by all the long ages of his life, appeared haggard, his eyes wet, his stern countenance severe and bereaved. At once Shëanon felt, more strongly perhaps than ever before in her life—more strongly than in Moria or at Helm's Deep—a pronounced and encompassing dread come upon her, for never through all the years of her childhood and adolescence had her father allowed such stark fear to show upon his face.

"Ada?" she breathed.

"Shëanon," he spoke at last. "You must listen to me."

She went utterly still, searching his face.

"I have come," he said firmly, "to bring you home to Imladris. You must leave Middle-Earth at once."

Shëanon stared at him, but Elrond said no more.

"W-what?" she stammered. "I-I cannot."

"You can and you will," he said, his tone of voice powerful and unyielding. "You must."

Shëanon stepped away from him and ran her hands over her face, scrubbing away her tears, her mind reeling. He had come all this way to bring her back with him?

"Why—Why do you bid me leave now?" she asked. "If you wished me to seek the sea, why did you not say so ere I left? You could have—you could have sent me away with Arwen!"

She looked at Elrond with reproach.

"I know that she went West. Aragorn told me—Adar, how could you have lied to me—?"

But her father's face seemed only to darken with greater torment.

"Arwen did not leave," he said. "She has relinquished her immortality, and has already begun to fade. Hope is now all that sustains her. If Aragorn dies in the battle to come, she will perish."

Shëanon felt herself go white. She was speechless with horror.

"She—what?"

But—Aragorn had told her that Arwen had left. For one instant, Shëanon thought she would faint, for the tent seemed to tilt, and her vision swam. Arwen was—dying?

"Elladan and Elrohir ride for Gondor with all haste," Elrond said. "They have gathered to them all of the Dúnedain who would go to the aid of their Chieftain and could be mustered at need, but their number is few, and they will not come soon enough to make safe Minas Tirith."

Shëanon stared at him, her heart pounding.

"I have brought to Aragorn the shards of Narsil re-forged," he said. "His fate is now upon him, and I cannot deliver him from it."

Elrond suddenly strode forward and cupped her cheeks in both his hands.

"But it is not too late to deliver you," he said forcefully. "We must go now, if we are to secure you passage from the Grey Havens."

Shëanon shook her head in disbelief, still struggling to make sense of what she was hearing. Arwen dying and Elrohir and Elladan riding to battle? And Aragorn—what did he mean, his fate was now upon him?

But the answer came to her at once.

The Paths of the Dead.

Her skin erupted into goose bumps.

"I cannot."

"Shëanon," he said, and she was stunned to hear him sound so desperate. Never before had she seen her father plead with anyone. "I have looked into your future, and I have seen utter peril."

Her breath stopped. Shëanon felt her face go pale, and Elrond clearly noticed.

"You know of what I speak, iell nín," he said gravely. "You have foreseen it. If you continue on this path, it will lead to your doom."

I give you the chance to aid me willingly, but the Dark Lord will take you by force. 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.

Before her eyes she saw the vision again: that terrifying image of herself prisoner in Barad-dûr, bound by the iron manacles.

Never in her life had Shëanon felt such conflict. She wavered before him, frozen to the spot, torn between her fear and her resolve and indeed, wondering what was the right thing to do. How could she turn aside when she had come so far? How could she leave and flee to safety when everyone else would ride into unspeakable danger? How could she abandon Aragorn and Legolas and the others? And yet, Sauron wanted her for some reason—what if whatever it was could further his advantage? What if she would do better for everyone if she left?

Shëanon stood in silence for a long moment, her chest heaving.

"I am a member of the company," she said slowly, after a long span of time had passed. She gazed at her father in hesitation and query. "I gave my word—"

"The ring bearer is gone beyond your help, daughter. Your task is ended."

"I gave my word to Aragorn," she whispered.

"Aragorn?" Elrond echoed sharply, his ancient gaze probing and formidable. "Tell me, hên nín, is it for my son, or the son of Thranduil that you stay?"

Shëanon stared at him in amazement, and he stared unwaveringly back. She suddenly recalled what she and Legolas had been doing in her tent just moments before, even while her father must have been speaking with Aragorn, and she flushed, but she did not look away.

"Both," she said at last. "And for—for Frodo and Sam, and Gimli, and—"

As another gust of wind howled around them, she recalled again, with such clarity that it was almost as though another vision had come upon her, the moment she had stood up and volunteered to join the fellowship, and how it had seemed to her at the time that she had been compelled by some greater power to rise and step forth. She felt it, still; within her very bones she felt that she needed to keep going.

Tell me, does it trouble you or reassure you, to think that perhaps you were meant to be part of our fellowship?

"I stay for myself," she whispered to her father. "Middle-Earth is my home, and I would stand and defend it. You say there is peril in my future; is the same not true for every man in this camp? And still they ride to war. They have no ships to carry them to safety. I will not flee, either."

Elrond turned away from her.

"Do not make me abandon you to a fate worse than death," he swore. "I beg you."

"Nothing can be told for certain," Shëanon murmured. "Is that not what you have always taught me? But when I stood at the Council, I felt—I felt called to this quest. And I feel called still—to keep going, even though the way may lead through darkness."

Elrond suddenly appeared devastated, bereft, as even the people of Rohan had looked amid the rubble and ruin of the wasted Hornburg, having lost everything but their lives. He seemed to have understood that he could say nothing that would dissuade her.

"So then this is to be my fate," he said grimly. "To lose all my children to this shadow."

Shëanon's eyes filled again with tears.

"Your fate," she wept. "Do you think it was fate that brought me to you?"

"Yes."

"Then can we not hope that fate will bring us together again?" she begged.

At these words he looked so aggrieved that she thought she might as well have pierced him with an arrow as say what she had—it was not lost on her what his thoughts were, for they were plain to see in his eyes: that they would not meet again.

"Hope we may," he answered at last, "though it may be in vain."

A sob wracked her chest, and Elrond drew her back into his arms. They stood together in the king's pavilion for many more moments, she weeping, and he silent.

"If you would leave with Aragorn, you must go now," he said at last. He lifted his hands and held her face between them, wiping away her tears and looking with agony into her face, as though he expected never to see it again. A few more tears leaked over her lashes.

Shëanon nodded. Even though she had just fought tooth and nail to go with Aragorn, she found herself loathe to leave his arms. She closed her eyes, clinging to him for a moment longer, and in that moment she wished with all her heart to depart with him, to go home to Imladris, and to lay all her grief and fear aside, as a child who wholly trusts that her father can ease any hurt and banish any woe.

But Shëanon was no longer a child.

Drawing away from him at last, she dried her eyes on her sleeve and looked up at him.

"I love you," she whispered.

It seemed to her that his face was terrible.

He did not answer for a long moment.

"You were my child the moment I saw you," he said at last.

Shëanon felt her face crumple with more tears, and she knew that if she didn't leave then, that she would remain with him weeping and overcome, and would not be able to summon the strength to be parted from him.

She turned at once to leave, but suddenly he called her back.

"Daughter," he said, and she stopped but did not turn back around.

"Cast aside your doubt," Elrond said behind her. "Or in doubt you will fall. No sword or strength may serve without faith, nor faithless power prevail."

There was no wind then, nor noise from without. Shëanon cautiously looked over her shoulder and met her father's gaze.

"Go," he said, just as he had that morning in Rivendell.

Shëanon left the tent.

XXX

The moment she set foot outside, Legolas reached for her.

She had completely forgotten that he had been summoned, as well, and that he had stood waiting outside while she had spoken with Elrond. By the look on his face, it was clear he had heard every word spoken within, and he touched her wet cheek with a fathomless look in his eyes.

Shëanon reached up and laid her hand upon his, and for a moment she was entirely overwhelmed, and she wished that he would hold her, but she knew he could not. She swallowed and glanced behind her at the tent.

"Aragorn is leaving," she whispered, and Legolas nodded solemnly. She knew without words that he understood; they had to hurry. It was time to go.

Gently he brushed away the last of her tears with his thumb, and then he released her and turned to enter the tent. Shëanon watched him go in, and then she drew a deep breath.

The wind was roaring as she hastened back through the camp. She ran as fast as she could between the tents and around the campfires until she came again to the tent that she and Legolas had planned to sleep in. Inside she donned her weapons as quickly as possible—strapping on Lady Galadriel's knife, and her belt and sword and dagger, her cloak and pack and her quiver and bow.

Then Shëanon hurriedly knelt in the opposite corner and gathered everything that Legolas had left, too; she would bring it for him to the horses, so that they would not tarry any longer than they needed. She slung his bow and quiver as best she could over her shoulder and lifted his pack, cloak, and longknives in her arms, and then, laden with both their things, she raced back out of the tent.

It was as she was dashing back to where they had left Brego, Arod, and Hasufel that Shëanon barreled around a tent and almost ran headlong right into Éowyn.

She drew up short, shifting her hold on Legolas's knives to keep from dropping them. Éowyn halted, too, and, for some reason, ducked her head. As Shëanon watched, she swiped her hands over both her cheeks, but still Shëanon had seen, by the pale starlight and the glow of the nearby campfires, the tears shining upon her face.

She stared at her.

"You are leaving, too," Éowyn said quietly, as her gaze fell upon her weapons, her pack, and Legolas's gear under her arm. It was not a question, and indeed there was no hint at all of her tears in her voice.

Shëanon nodded.

"Yes, Aragorn…" she began, but she trailed off, looking again at the woman before her. You're leaving, too. Éowyn must have seen Aragorn already, if she knew he was leaving, and Shëanon silently considered her red-rimmed eyes and drawn, tear-stained face.

She recalled what Éowyn had told her in Edoras, about asking to fight at Aragorn's side, and somehow Shëanon knew what must have happened. She bit her lip, feeling her heart stir with pity and compassion.

"We must go," she amended softly.

Éowyn stood beholding her without speaking, her face blank with misery, and Shëanon didn't quite know what to say. For a moment the woman looked exactly as she had when Shëanon had asked her about Théodred, her eyes as cold and hard as steel, and upon her a mantle of despair.

"Then I will wish you well," Éowyn whispered finally, "in case we will not meet again."

She turned as though to walk away, but Shëanon heard herself call after her.

"Éowyn."

The woman stopped and looked back, her expression forlorn and defiant, and Shëanon couldn't have said how she knew, except that she felt she could see so much of her own feelings in her face. Somehow, she could tell that Éowyn did not plan to return to Edoras.

"May your sword find its mark," she whispered at last.

Éowyn stared at her, and understanding passed between them.

"And yours," she said quietly.

Shëanon nodded, and then, with an air of hurt and determination, Éowyn hurried away.

Hefting the strap of Legolas's pack higher on her shoulder, Shëanon rushed back through the camp. Finally, she saw the horses tethered ahead and bounded forth, intent on readying Arod and Hasufel right away. As she drew near, however, she saw that Aragorn was already attempting to lead Brego off. Gimli stood in front of them, as though to block their way.

"Don't you think we won't chase you down! Faint-hearted dogs we'd be, to let you go and not follow after. And follow we will! Forty leagues we hunted the Uruk-hai and did not give up the chase! You will make for shorter sport, I think!"

"Gimli—"

"Don't you shake your head at me! I know Legolas could track you even in the dead of night!"

"This path I must walk alone."

"Bah! You're trying to sneak off into the darkness because you know we'd not let you leave!"

"What's going on?" Shëanon gasped, as she reached their sides.

Aragorn looked markedly unhappy to see her.

"Aha!" Gimli cried in satisfaction. "See? I told you. Go ahead and try to tell the lass you mean to go alone!"

"Alone?" she asked sharply. "Are you mad? We're coming with you!"

Aragorn looked at her with regret, and shook his head, his eyes full of care and sympathy.

"It is too dangerous," he said.

Shëanon scowled at him. How many times would she have to have this same argument? Her family had said it was too dangerous for her to join their company. Legolas had said it was too dangerous for her to fight at Helm's Deep. Aragorn had argued she could not ride to Isengard, and then again her father had tried to say it was too dangerous to stay with her companions. Now Aragorn would tell her it was too dangerous to go with him? She was quite sick of it.

"Everywhere is dangerous!" she hissed. "We have not been swayed by danger this whole time. You think we would leave you now?"

"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens," Gimli said, and Shëanon felt a jolt in her chest.

"Your faithfulness is not in doubt," Aragorn sighed.

She opened her mouth to disagree, but before she could speak she could sense a gaze upon her, and then she could feel his approach; Legolas was coming, and as he reached her side and touched her arm, she turned to him instead.

"Aragorn means to walk the Paths of the Dead alone," she told him the instant he halted.

Legolas paused, and Shëanon gave a start. For a moment there was a terrible look upon his face, as though of anguish, but it vanished so quickly that she wasn't sure if she had really seen it. As she watched, he glanced first at Aragorn, grasping Brego's reins, all his gear tied to the saddle; then at Gimli, who had donned his helm and stood stalwart and immovable; and then he glanced back at her, over his own weapons and pack clutched in her arms and the look of distress upon her face.

He raised his eyebrows.

"And would you let him?" he asked her calmly.

Shëanon blinked.

She peered at Aragorn over her shoulder, at his exhausted, familiar face. Clear as day, she remembered the moment before the battle of Helm's Deep, when he had stood before her, his forehead against hers, and he alone had given her courage. She remembered when she had awoken in the Hornburg after treatment of her wounds, and realized he had been slumped sleeping sitting up against the wall by her head. She remembered her promise to him on the plains of Rohan: I don't know what help I can be to you, but whatever it is, I will do it.

Her heart beat ferociously in her chest.

She glanced back at Legolas.

"No," she said adamantly.

Legolas seemed entirely unsurprised. He turned to Gimli.

"And you?" he asked.

Gimli thumped the haft of his axe upon the ground.

"I would not."

Legolas nodded easily and moved closer to Shëanon's side. As she stood before him he bent and kissed her upon the cheek, and her eyes widened in surprise, for never had he displayed his affection like this so openly before their companions. Then he wordlessly hefted his gear from her arms, taking first his cloak, and then his long knives.

"You are outnumbered three to one, mellon nín," he said gravely to Aragorn, as he buckled on his quiver and took his bow from Shëanon's shoulder, "for I will not readily let you go, either."

Aragorn stood before them in silence, looking into each of their faces.

"Have I no say?" he asked at last.

"No," said Shëanon fiercely, and to her immense satisfaction, Legolas and Gimli had both answered in kind at the same time. The three of them stood facing him: she furious, Legolas completely calm, and Gimli staunch and resolute.

Then Aragorn seemed to deflate, and he rubbed his hand over his face.

"Never would I have thought to miss the days when you two were at odds," he said to Legolas and Gimli, shaking his head. "Nor when you were so shy you would scarcely speak to them," he said to Shëanon. "Now the three of you are united against me."

Legolas shook his head.

"We are united with you."

"You might as well accept it," Gimli said. "We're going with you, laddie."

At last, Aragorn nodded, and even as he met Shëanon's eyes in exasperation, he offered them a small smile.

"Then let us go," he said. "We must now count every minute; there is no time left to waste."

"You're leaving?"

Shëanon whirled around; before the smoldering remains of their campfire, dressed once more in his heraldry, stood Merry.

Shëanon nodded at him and looked around for his pony.

"Yes, in all haste," she told him. "But maybe you should ride with me or with Aragorn—unless you think the pony will endure the dark way through the mountain?" she asked Aragorn as an aside, turning to him, but to her consternation the smile was gone from his face. He looked at her in solemn silence, and she stared back, bewildered, until again Merry spoke.

"I cannot go. I have pledged my sword to King Théoden," he reminded her.

Shëanon turned back to him in astonishment.

"What?" she asked, startled. "You have to come with us."

Merry looked over his shoulder, back towards the king's tent, and he suddenly seemed much older than she knew him to be.

"I gave my word," he said. "And I think that I must keep it."

"But…" Shëanon floundered. She glanced at Legolas and Gimli, but they were as somber as Aragorn had so suddenly become. Legolas stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

When they had been arguing with Aragorn, she had thought it understood that if they went, they would all go: the four of them, and Merry, too. Were they not all still one company? The others had left not because their allegiances had changed, but because they had been driven by dire need. But now Merry stood before them and said he was staying to serve Théoden rather than follow Aragorn. She had no idea what to make of this.

"It would seem fate now leads us again on separate paths," Aragorn said quietly. He looked down at Merry and placed his hand on his shoulder. "At least for now. I think you are right, Merry, that your road lies with Théoden."

Shëanon wanted to protest, as she had protested when he had said he'd be setting off alone, but Legolas squeezed her shoulder, and she stopped the words on her tongue. It was true that Merry was not obligated to go with them; her own father had said in Rivendell that they could each turn aside at any time they wished—had even just beseeched her moments before to turn back—and so too had Lord Celeborn told them all the same. It was just that she had not forgotten their frantic hunt across Rohan and through Fangorn forest, desperate to save him and Pippin. And Pippin she now counted as safe with Gandalf, but it scared her to think of leaving Merry behind to ride into battle alone.

"If all goes well," Aragorn said, "we will meet again soon."

"Goodbye," Merry said. Shëanon could tell that he was making an effort to sound much braver than he felt, and her heart lurched.

Stepping away from Legolas, she moved to kneel before the hobbit and drew him into an embrace.

"Please be careful," she begged, hugging him tightly. She felt his small arms go around her in return.

"You, too," he said, when she drew away. Somehow, in the middle of the camp with all the tents and horses, he seemed even smaller to Shëanon than before, and as she began to stand he seemed to steel himself.

"If you see Pippin—" he began, and she felt like ice fell into her stomach.

"You will see Pippin," she told him sternly.

Merry smiled, but his skepticism was easy to see. Shëanon couldn't blame him; she, too, had been seized by worry.

Gimli gave a loud harrumph.

"Don't you fret, lassie," he said, and clapped both her and Merry on the arm. "This hobbit laid siege to Isengard, did he not? And left it in ruin! We will meet again on the field of battle and find him the greatest warrior there."

Shëanon smiled weakly and then had to turn away, her throat tight. Legolas was peering into her face and she bowed her head, fiddling with Hasufel's bridle, not wanting him to see her misgivings.

"Farewell, my friend," Legolas said, and he laid his hand over his heart and then extended it towards the hobbit, and with her heart in her throat, Shëanon did the same.

Then Aragorn nodded at Merry and then at the rest of them, and turning he began to lead them through the camp. Shëanon guided Hasufel behind him, and she did not turn back to look at Merry, for she did not think she could bear it. She had thought then to soon be gone, but their leaving had obviously been noticed, for as the four of them and the three horses passed by the many tents and campfires, the Rohirrim turned to stare and whisper, and many leapt to their feet and pointed. A murmur of confusion and dismay arose in their wake even as they reached the edge of the encampment, and there, as the soldiers stood crying after them, they met Théoden and Éomer.

"That way lies death," Éomer said firmly, when Aragorn stopped before him. "You would do well to take any other road."

"That way lies my course," Aragorn answered in a measured voice. "No other road will serve."

Éomer stood staring back at him for a long moment, tall and stern as when they had first beheld him, but unlike the hour of their first meeting, his eyes were shaded not with suspicion but with regret.

"Then I will not hinder you," he said. "It was my hope to ride to war together, but I think you would not go if it could be helped. Farewell."

"We may still yet ride together," Aragorn said.

"If you will walk the Paths of the Dead, I think not," said Éomer. "I will hope I am wrong."

"Every path now leads to Death," said Théoden severely. His regard was as harsh as his words. "And yet we must all walk on."

There was a moment of tense silence.

"Ride to whatever end you must," said the king. "We will ride to Minas Tirith, and if any other were to go where you intend, I would count them lost beyond hope, but I think there may yet still be some hope for you, at least, small though it may be. I will look for your coming before the walls of the city."

"Hope yet for us both," Aragorn said, "and for all who will stand against the armies of Mordor."

Théoden did not answer.

"Go now in haste," he murmured. "Before the hour is too late."

Aragorn nodded and then headed into the darkness, and Legolas led Arod in his wake. Shëanon turned to follow, but her feet would not move, and she looked back at Théoden and Éomer.

"One of our companions remains with you," she said suddenly. "For he has pledged you his service. When first I came to Rohan, I would not have thought you worthy of it or him, but now I know the House of Eorl to be both noble and valiant. I am honored to have fought alongside you."

It seemed to her then that everyone looked at her in astonishment, but she did not care. Already that night she had said goodbye to her father, and to Merry, and to Éowyn and now Éomer and the king, and she could not say for certain whether these parting words would be the last she ever said. She thought on her feelings at the feast when she had danced with Éomer and the others, and of the battle of Helm's Deep, and she knew that she would have been ashamed to leave without saying what was in her heart.

"Ride to good fortune, Lady Shëanon," Théoden said at last.

Shëanon looked at him, and she thought again of her father's words, and she felt a lump in her throat.

"Roho na bronwë," she said in Sindarin. "Ride with lasting faith."

Then she followed after the others, toward the cliff face and the deep rift that led into blackness. Before the entrance to the narrow ravine, Aragorn stopped to mount Brego, and Legolas and Gimli followed suit.

Shëanon looked at the three of them, and despite the grief that had been set upon her that night, she felt a renewal of strength. Though Aragorn had warned of danger, Shëanon felt less afraid to brave it with them. After all, had the four of them not together endured the terror of Moria, and the despair of Amon Hen? Had they not together run on for countless miles through strange lands she had never thought to see? And had they not fought together through many terrible battles now, side by side in dark Dwarrowdelf, and on the plains of Rohan, and against the foes of Isengard? She looked at Aragorn, whom she had loved for as long as she could remember; at Gimli, whom she had come to love against all odds; and at Legolas, whom she had begun to love at the first moment of their meeting. She realized that she would follow any one of them even to the very gates of Mordor, and so, at their sides, she swung up onto Hasufel and rode into the black chasm before them.

Translations:

Goheno nin: Forgive me

Meleth nín: My beloved/my love

Adar: Father

Ada: Dad/Daddy

Iell nín: My daughter

Hên nín: My child

Mellon nín: My friend

A/N:

Happy New Year, my beloved readers! I hope 2022 has brought you lots of peace and happiness (and health) so far, and that you all had a wonderful holiday season with your loved ones. Thanks so very much for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter-reading them was seriously the highlight of my Christmas :')

A couple announcements and notes about this chapter! First of all, this is now the longest chapter at 15K words. I'm wondering if you guys like having a longer chapter posted like this, or if you would prefer that I break it up as I did for earlier chapters of the story? Second, a few readers have asked if I'd consider posting on Archive of Our Own. Im going to give it a try-hopefully for the next chapter, I'll be able to get everything set up over there, too. I will of course still continue to publish here on FFNet, as well.

Third: after careful deliberation, I've decided that I will soon be upping the rating on this story to "M" instead of "T". Not because I anticipate that anything is going to get terribly graphic or explicit, but because on review of the rating guidelines I think that some of the themes I've already touched upon as well as story elements to come are a bit more 'mature'. Please let me know what you think!

Finally, I would as always love to hear your feedback for this latest update :) I know it was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, but there's a lot going on and a lot at stake! I think it's pretty obvious that we're about to get to the height of the action for Return of the King, and I'm so SO excited for the coming chapters and for you guys to FINALLY know what will happen :')

See you soon!

xoxo Erin