Aiër Chapter 31 Part 1
Shëanon was floating. Her mind was utterly blank, and around her there was nothing. Adrift in the darkness, there was no light, no sound. Nothing. She was content to languish in this peaceful nothingness—in fact she would have gladly sunken deeper into it, down into the cradling dark…
But, no. The nothingness was ebbing, and the first thing to interrupt it was pain. Her head hurt. Had her skull been cloven in two? Why this splitting ache? Why could she not retreat back into the empty bliss that had enshrouded her? It seemed the more she sought the senseless reprieve, the more it trickled away from her. More pain. Did everything hurt? Her face was aching. Her ribs were aching. Her throat ached. Her entire body seemed to be sore.
Then suddenly Shëanon remembered why she was in so much pain. Mordor. Her mind was slow, her thoughts vague and distant—it was hard to think in this abyssal, murky place, but through the thick, hazy nothing she recalled in bits and pieces all the hurts and wounds inflicted upon her. She felt an inkling of dread. Maybe if she clung with all her might to the darkness, she would never have to leave it. Maybe she could hide in it forever and never have to wake beneath the black, starless sky and face the torment of the Enemy again. If only she could escape that. She reached for the nothingness as a child might grasp for a blanket in the night, wanting to pull it over her whole body—sheltering, covering, protecting from all dangers.
But the darkness was disintegrating. Shëanon strained. No, she thought. She didn't want to leave it. The pain was worsening, and she began to really feel. She could feel her limbs and fingers and toes, she could feel the heavy weight of her eyelids, and she could feel the breath moving in and out of her. What would she feel next, she wondered? The sting of the lash? The bite of her manacles? The scrape of the rocky ground or the burn of the scorching air?
She frowned. She didn't feel any of that. Instead she felt…
Warmth?
Gentle, encompassing warmth. And softness.
Shëanon felt her heart begin to beat faster. Where was she? Was she dead? She was suddenly aware that there was a bright light pressing against her eyelids, and for a single instant she feared she must surely have perished—for where could such a light be coming from?—and she quailed. She'd liked the empty nothingness but she didn't want to be dead—
Then, something touched her hand.
She abruptly remembered she wouldn't have a hand if she were dead.
She opened her eyes.
It took a moment to make sense of what she was seeing, for her vision was blurry and the bright light was stinging her eyes, but eventually an airy, sunny room that she had never seen before came into focus. She was lying on a bed, and in a daze she glanced at the person next to her. Then Shëanon wondered if perhaps instead of dead, she was simply dreaming, for he was the last person she had expected to see.
"Elrohir?" she croaked. Her voice was so hoarse and quiet it was barely more than a breath, but her brother heard it nonetheless and his eyes, which had been trained on her hand, snapped to her face.
They seemed to instantly well.
"Shëanon," he gasped, sitting forward in the chair pulled up to her bedside. The hand that wasn't holding hers he laid gently against the top of her head, and at once a second person appeared beside him and sat on the edge of her mattress.
"Tithen lum, do not move," Elladan commanded with audible worry, reaching over to grasp her other hand where it rested upon her blanket. "Are you in pain? Are you hurting?"
Shëanon stared up at her brothers for a moment in utter astonishment, trying to blink away the cobwebs in her mind. Try as she did, she could not understand what she was seeing, and she looked between them in mute bewilderment—their identical eyes the same exact shade as their father's, their dark brows creased with concern. When she did not move or speak, she watched them trade a worried glance.
"Shëanon," Elladan murmured, "little sister, can you hear us?"
Her mouth felt so dry, her throat so raw, her tongue so thick and clumsy, but at last she found her voice again.
"Where am I?" she rasped in confusion. Surely, she could not have been in Rivendell?
Both twins squeezed her hands at the same moment.
"You are in Minas Tirith," Elrohir said gently. "You are safe."
That word, safe, struck a sudden chord of understanding and panic within her, and the fog in her head was blown entirely away. Safe, because she had not before been safe—because she had been Sauron's prisoner, and she had—in the Orc camp—
Tears came at once to her eyes.
"How are you here?" she asked, trying to sit up—trying to embrace them. "How am I here—what happened—how did I get here—?"
A third person suddenly appeared at the other side of her bed, and Shëanon heard herself make a strangled noise as she fought to rise, but Aragorn gently caught her shoulders and urged her back down against the pillows.
"Aragorn!" she choked.
"Lie still," he said quietly, "You are wounded—"
But Shëanon had already been wrapped up in the terror of the Black Tower and of the plains of Gorgoroth once more. She strained against his hands, grasping his arms, her breath racing faster and faster as she looked up into his face. This was too much—this made no sense—the last thing she could remember was standing before the Nazgûl, awaiting her death, and now here she found herself surrounded by her brothers, whom she had thought never to see again, and Aragorn, whom she had feared in utter despair would be slain at the Black Gate—
"What happened?" she demanded, her voice pitching higher and higher. She clutched him in frantic desperation, trying to read his face, but his features were blurring behind her tears. She remembered when Sauron had shown her his dead body. She remembered—Frodo and Sam—
"What happened?!" she begged again, still fighting to sit up; beside her Elladan had joined him in trying to press her into the bed. "What happened?!"
"Here," Elrohir murmured, holding a cup before her mouth. Shëanon could smell that it was not water.
"I don't want a calming draught! I want to know what happened!" she cried, feeling her hysteria climb.
Then Aragorn caught and held her hand.
"You hit your head," he murmured solemnly. "You've been unconscious. Lie still—"
But Shëanon couldn't breathe. He wasn't answering—he wasn't listening.
"Frodo and Sam!" she gasped out. "What happened to them?! The Ring—!"
There was a sudden look upon his face that stilled her, his clear gaze direct and meaningful, and she felt her heart begin to pound so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest.
"The Ring is destroyed, Shea," Aragorn whispered.
She felt her tears wet her cheeks.
"What?" she asked. It was as though she'd heard his words but could make no sense of them. Her ears were ringing, and all the air seemed to have left the room.
He squeezed her hand more tightly.
"It's destroyed," he said firmly. "It's over. Sauron is defeated."
"Over?" she echoed.
Aragorn nodded.
Shëanon pressed her free hand against her mouth, for she suddenly feared she might weep in earnest, and she felt that her head was spinning.
"We—we won?" she stammered in disbelief.
He nodded again and touched her face, and even if she hadn't known so surely that he would not lie to her, she would have known by the light in his eyes that he was telling the truth. Her mind seemed to stumble.
"What—Frodo and Sam—are they—?"
"They're alright," he promised, again trying to keep her from rising. "Everyone is alright—"
But Shëanon was shaking her head frantically.
"Where is Legolas—?" she cried.
The words had hardly fallen from her lips when she saw him.
Over Aragorn's shoulder, waiting near the foot of her bed, he stood still and silent. His arms were crossed over his chest, and though his face was somber his eyes were so bright with emotion that if she had been standing, she might have staggered.
She heard herself sob.
"Do not get up—" Aragorn warned, but she had already torn off the covers and lurched past him.
She had barely cleared the side of the bed when Legolas caught her, and in the next instant she was weeping in his arms. The moment he touched her, she felt such an onslaught of relief that it stopped her breath.
"Eru," she wept, holding him so tightly that her own muscles protested. She didn't care, and it seemed he didn't care, either, for he was holding her just as desperately. She felt his hand upon the back of her head, his arms wrapped around her, and the force of her sobs was so severe that it actually pained her. She couldn't believe that he was holding her—that it was real, that he was safe, and she was safe, and that she was in his arms. The warmth and strength and security of his body against hers, the touch of his hands, the brush of his fëa, the smell of his skin and hair and clothes—it was at once the most agonizing and most comforting moment of her life, to find herself in his embrace after all she had endured. All the emotion of Mordor— her fear for what would happen to him, and the horror of the visions Sauron had shown to her, and her despair and fear—seemed to seep out of her with each shuddering breath, and the relief to find him whole and unharmed was so poignant that it might have been grief.
"Are you alright?" she asked. She leaned back to search his face, but she could scarcely see him through her tears, and her fingers were shaking so badly as she touched him that he laid his own hand over hers to still them. "Are you hurt?" she choked.
"Nay," he promised in a voice so close and intimate that her tears were renewed. "I am not hurt."
She could only cry harder, and she sobbed and hid her face against his shoulder. She could feel his heart beating against her chest, and she could feel him breathing, and she could feel the solid heat of him through their clothes, and she squeezed closed her eyes against an emotion so fierce it was as much anguish as reprieve.
"He said—tear you limb from limb—" she wept, clinging to him.
Against hers, she felt his entire body tense, but Legolas said nothing and instead held her still more closely, his lips against the side of her neck. For a long moment she could say nothing else. Everything was washing over her in a relentless, dizzying torrent—she loved him so much—she would have fallen to her knees before the feet of all the Valar in gratitude—she felt so safe, in his embrace, and yet she was afraid to feel safe, for what if it wasn't real—?
"It's really over?" she cried, overwhelmed. "I'm not dreaming? Am I dreaming?"
"You are not dreaming, aiër," he whispered beside her ear. She realized he was rocking her gently back and forth. "It's over."
"Everyone is really safe?" she asked. "The hobbits and—Gandalf and—Gimli—?"
"Everyone is safe."
She sobbed again and clutched the back of his shirt. The notion that she had not only escaped unscathed out of Mordor but that the Ring was destroyed and that all her friends were unharmed was so miraculous she could hardly dare to accept it as the truth. She half-feared that the moment she began to believe it, she would find herself back on the floor of Sauron's throne room, deceived by another of his horrible tricks.
It wasn't until many long moments had passed and she found herself taking long, shuddering breaths while Legolas stroked her hair that she realized they were perched on the edge of the bed and that she had practically climbed into his lap, that she was indeed safe in Minas Tirith and weeping inconsolably in his arms, and that Aragorn and her brothers must surely have been watching the entire display.
Shëanon sniffled and drew tremulously away from him, but she made the mistake of meeting his dark gaze, and at once more tears came to her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she wept, covering her face with her hands.
Legolas drew her hands away from her face and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks.
"You should listen to Aragorn and lie back down," he said quietly. "You are hurt still."
She suddenly felt how heavy her head was, and how exhausted she was, and how much pain she was in, and she nodded tearfully and allowed Legolas to guide her back to the top of the bed. He drew the covers back over her, and she found that Aragorn and the twins were watching in silence.
Wordlessly Aragorn passed her a glass of water, and she gratefully drank. She remembered then her terrible thirst on the plains of Gorgoroth, and looking down into her cup she thought it the most blessed sight she had ever seen. She took another long drink until Aragorn stilled her hand to stop her. Then he made her look in different directions about the room while he studied her eyes, and after, to her bemusement, he made her perform a strange series of tasks such as touching her nose and answering questions that seemed to her to only get stranger.
"I'm twenty. My head is alright, Aragorn," she promised softly when he asked how old she was.
Aragorn gave her a pointed look, but he did not seem too stern.
"That is for me to judge," he said gently. "And in any case, you did not rightly answer, but indeed I think you are not badly wounded."
Shëanon furrowed her eyebrows.
"What?" she asked. "What do you mean, I didn't answer right?"
Beside her Elrohir spoke.
"Today is the twenty-ninth of March," he said.
Shëanon blinked.
"Oh," she stammered.
Her birthday was on March the twenty-sixth. She was twenty-one.
She didn't know what to say.
"That… wasn't a fair question," she whispered, glancing back up at Aragorn. "I didn't know how long…"
Then she started, for she realized she did not know how long she had been in Mordor, nor when she had come to Minas Tirith, nor even how she had come to Minas Tirith in the first place.
Her head began to throb again.
"What happened?" she asked once again.
Just then, the door to the room was thrown open, and Shëanon jumped.
"How's the lass—?"
It was Gimli. He appeared at the threshold, took one step into the room, and froze.
"Awake, as you can see," Aragorn murmured, putting his hand on her shoulder.
Shëanon's eyes welled again at once, and to her astonishment, it seemed that Gimli's did, too. He did not wear his mail or leather armor or carry his axe, but in his hands he held a vase full of yellow flowers that she realized in amazement were for her.
Appearing to remember himself, he drew slowly near to her bedside and set the flowers reverently upon the bedside table.
"Lassie," he said in a softer, gruffer voice than she had ever heard from him before.
Shëanon couldn't help it. She burst into tears again.
"Shall we summon the hobbits and Mithrandir now?" Elrohir asked. "So that you may shed all your tears at once?"
But though his words she could tell were meant in lighthearted jest, the look upon his face was markedly concerned, and so she tried desperately to dry her eyes.
"Ah," the Dwarf fretted, patting her on the arm. "Lass—don't you cry on my account—"
But his voice sounded choked.
"I'm just so glad you're alright," she sniffled apologetically. She kept hastily swiping the tears from her cheeks, but more kept coming, and she heard Gimli clear his throat.
"Well, look at us," he grumbled. "We Dwarves have a saying—the tougher the hide, the tenderer the heart, and here we be, the toughest and the tenderest of the lot, I deem."
Shëanon grimaced and scrubbed her hands over her face. She didn't think he would have thought her so tough if he'd been there to see how much she had already cried, but it seemed Gimli might have guessed some of these thoughts, for as he moved to sit in one of the chairs near to her bed, he shook his head and pointed a finger at her.
"You've shown your mettle, lassie," he said.
Then he settled himself into his seat and gave her a kindly look that seemed to suggest he would hear no argument, so Shëanon nodded and did not give one.
Another silence fell as she attempted to pull herself together once more, and for a moment she felt self-conscious to be the center of everyone's attention while she was so emotional and discomposed.
Then Gimli spoke again in a hushed voice.
"How did you do it, lass?"
"Do what?"
"Gimli," Legolas said lowly. He shook his head, and to Shëanon's consternation, the Dwarf seemed to heed him and did not speak.
At this it seemed that everyone was suddenly tense, and a frisson of pronounced anxiety and unease coursed through her as she beheld the dark gazes that they all seemed to share.
She sat up straighter against her pillows.
"How did I do what?" she asked again. Though it had been Gimli's question, it was to Legolas that she looked as she spoke, and only when he did not answer did she turn to Aragorn and to Elladan and Elrohir.
Shëanon had a sudden memory of awakening in the keep after the battle of Helm's Deep, when she'd felt that Aragorn and Legolas were keeping secrets from her, and she balled her hands into fists.
"How did I do what?" she asked as firmly as she could in her still-raspy voice. She looked again directly at Legolas. "You're making me nervous."
She watched his brow crease, and then with a glance at her brothers, he moved to sit before her on the side of her bed and took both her hands in his, and Shëanon gazed beseechingly into his face.
"Shëanon," he said gravely. "You have only just awakened after much trial and hurt. You must rest and regain your strength. Then we will speak of—"
But Shëanon squeezed his hands and shook her head, her heart pounding so hard now that she felt faint.
"I don't want to rest," she argued even before he could finish. "I don't want to sleep. Please, I—you're worrying me, and I will only worry more until—until I know what's the matter—"
"Nothing is the matter, aiër," Legolas said. He lifted one of her hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, which she saw with a start were scraped and bruised.
"Then why do I feel that you are all keeping something from me?" she asked apprehensively.
To her surprise, Legolas steadily held her gaze and did not deny it.
"Gimli meant to ask how you escaped the dungeons of Barad-dûr," he said at last, without looking away from her. "But I would not so soon ask you to speak of the Black Tower or what befell you there."
Shëanon stared at him.
For a very long moment, she sat unmoving and silent. Her thoughts were a flashing blur—screaming on the floor while Sauron bore into her mind—weeping in her cell—struggling against the Orcs… She realized, at once, that she did not want to ever tell anyone what had happened to her, nor ever speak of her encounter with Sauron.
Legolas squeezed her hands again.
"I… Escape?" she echoed nervously, when she could think of nothing else to say. She swallowed.
"It was not among the ruins of Barad-dûr that we found you," Aragorn said.
"You—found me?" she asked slowly. "How?"
Indeed, it surely would have taken them weeks and weeks to traverse the terrain of Mordor, and with no idea where to look for her…
"We marched upon the Black Gate and called the Enemy to meet us in battle. The Great Eagles of Manwë came unlooked for to our aid," Elladan murmured. Shëanon's eyebrows shot up. "At the battle's end and at Mithrandir's behest, they suffered us to ride upon their backs and bore us beneath shade and shadow to look for you."
Shëanon shifted uncertainly.
"Frodo and Sam, Gandalf found at Mount Doom," Aragorn said. "But long we sought you."
A strange, eerie feeling came over her then, like a prickling tingle creeping down her spine, and then she turned instead to look again at Legolas. His gaze was solemn and intent upon her, his face betraying nothing, and for a moment she hesitated, but she was sure.
She could remember… being lifted up… She could remember foreseeing it—
"You found me," she whispered. It was not a question.
Legolas said nothing, but she knew that it was true.
She bit her lip.
"We—flew?" she asked faintly. She remembered again her capture by the fell beast—being caught in its monstrous talons, and looking down from that terrible, tremendous height—
Suddenly Legolas squeezed her hands more tightly still.
"Aiër," he said firmly, until she again met his gaze. His eyes were bright with conviction. "I would not have let you fall."
"But how did you—how did you—?"
Before she could even get the question out, he must have known what she meant to ask, for Legolas seemed to pause, and Shëanon had the sense that everyone was watching them closely.
"You called out to me," he said at last.
Her eyes widened.
"I—what?"
"We were at the Black Gate," he said. "I felt your touch upon my mind, and for a moment—I could see…"
But what he had seen, he did not say, for his jaw suddenly clenched, and he squeezed her hands once more, and fell silent.
"Do you not remember?" he asked quietly, searching her face.
She did remember. She remembered that moment of destiny, when she'd felt certain she would meet her doom. She remembered the whipping wind and the fell beast's screech. She remembered loosing her arrow. And she remembered wishing, with all her heart, to see Legolas, or to hear his voice, one last time.
"No," she stammered.
She watched him trade another glance with Aragorn.
"Shea," Aragorn murmured. "Legolas found you many miles from Barad-dûr."
Shëanon bit her lip.
"I don't remember," she lied.
There was another very long pause at this, and she felt herself flush; she could tell at once that no one believed her.
"Do you remember doing battle on the Pelennor Fields?" Aragorn asked.
"I—yes," she hedged.
"Do you remember the Nazgûl?" he pressed. "And your capture?"
Shëanon nodded, shuddering.
"I don't remember anything else," she insisted.
Again, Aragorn frowned.
"You were knocked unconscious by a blow to your head," he said—slowly and doubtfully, she thought, as he reached behind her to gently probe a very tender place beneath her hair that she abruptly realized was the source of her terrible headache. "Such wounds can bring a loss of memory."
"For a time," Elrohir interjected, his piercing gaze boring into her. "If indeed you cannot now remember, it may be that your memory will return."
"Perhaps it would be best if it did not," said Elladan. He seemed to glance pointedly at his twin and at Aragorn and Legolas in turn. "Were I a prisoner of the Black Tower, I should think I would wish indeed to forget all that there befell me," he said significantly.
"Maybe—maybe I was never at Barad-dûr," Shëanon muttered. "If that is not where you found me…"
She found five pairs of eyes staring at her as though with pity and felt herself blush.
Suddenly something touched her wrist, and she glanced down to see Legolas, still holding her hands, gently run his thumb over a raw, angry-looking abrasion there.
It was from the manacles.
Shëanon flinched and withdrew her hands at once, hiding them under the covers, and when she again looked up into Legolas's face, she had never before seen him look so simultaneously furious and aggrieved.
She floundered for something to say but could summon nothing, for a cold dread had come over her, and no one spoke.
"As I said," Legolas murmured eventually. "I would not now have you speak of it."
"I—Will you tell me what happened to all of you?" she asked, in part because she was desperate to change the subject, and in part because she did indeed wish to know. "What happened after I—after the battle?"
It was to her immense relief that they began recounting the events that had taken place following the battle on the Pelennor Fields. Elladan and Elrohir, she learned, had arrived a few days after their victory with a company of thirty Dúnedain riders, who had marched upon the Black Gate with the Men of Gondor and of Rohan. She listened as Aragorn described releasing the Dead Army of Dunharrow, and his plan to divert Sauron, but it was only when he made mention of Éomer that she gave a start and sat forward once more.
"Did Éowyn fight?" she asked, remembering their last meeting.
Aragorn seemed to look at her in surprise.
"She did more than fight," he said, still looking at her strangely. "She and Merry together vanquished the Witch-king of Angmar."
Shëanon felt her jaw drop.
"They what?"
"Did I not say that we would find him the greatest warrior on the field of battle?" Gimli asked her sagely.
"Is Éowyn alright?"
Then Aragorn seemed to hesitate, and her stomach dropped, for suddenly she realized—
"Éowyn has recovered," he murmured. "But Théoden fell on the field of battle."
For a very long moment, Shëanon absorbed this in silence. Théoden had not been in her vision, but she had been so distracted at Barad-dûr that she had not noted it. A hollow, numb feeling seemed to course through her.
"Has he been buried?" she whispered, looking back to Aragorn.
He shook his head.
"For now, he has been laid in the crypt," he told her. "But when the Rohirrim return to Rohan, he will be buried there in the tomb of his fathers."
And son, Shëanon thought despairingly.
"Oh," was all she could manage.
She listened for a while longer while the others spoke, but her head was spinning, and she found that she wasn't really hearing them. Then Shëanon rose gingerly from the bed and allowed Legolas to help her cross the small room to the adjoining chamber, and when she closed the door behind her, she stood in the washroom for a moment leaning back against the door with a lump in her throat.
'Every path now leads to Death,' she remembered Théoden had said. 'And yet we must all walk on.'
For a long moment she didn't move, and the hollowness within her seemed to expand.
Across from her there was a table with a pitcher of water and a basin and cloth for washing, and mounted to the wall above them was an aged mirror. Her gaze caught on her reflection, and for a single instant the sight was so unfamiliar and grotesque that she almost thought it was another person gazing back at her, and Shëanon jumped.
It was her face, and yet it wasn't. Some parts were marked by purplish-green bruises, swollen and dark, and others appeared sharp and sunken, as though she had lost much weight in a short time. The wound upon her cheek that Aragorn had closed after the battle of the Hornburg seemed to have been re-stitched, and there was an ugly, scabbed-over scrape at her temple. The clothes she had worn in battle were gone. She wore instead a simple, soft white dress. Someone had clearly bathed her, for her face and hair were clean, but her braid was loose and disheveled as though from many nights of sleep. It was her eyes, however, that disturbed her. How was it possible for her eyes to be unchanged after all that she had seen? As she studied them, they appeared the same as ever they had been.
She remembered that she had turned twenty-one. In that moment she felt she had aged a thousand years, not one, and her heart was weary, and standing before the mirror in the tiny room, she had the odd sense that the elleth who had been captured on the Pelennor Fields had indeed perished in Mordor, and that she did not now know who she was.
XXX
When Shëanon had finished up in the washroom and returned to the others, Legolas stepped forth at once as though fearing she might fall attempting the three paces back to her bed alone. She had hardly taken a single step, however, when there came another knock upon the door. This time, standing out in the hall and still clutching the doorknob, was Sam.
Shëanon felt her breath catch, and the hobbit's eyes found her at once and went wide.
"Milady," he whispered. He had a few cuts and bruises but appeared otherwise entirely unharmed, and unlike in the Orc camp when he had been covered in ash and dirt and black blood, he, too, now wore clean clothes and appeared healthy and hale.
She took a step toward him but drew up short, not knowing what to say.
What had passed between them in Mordor seemed out of the reach of speech.
But Aragorn had stood up.
"What is it, Sam?" he asked, as though with anticipation or worry.
There was no worry, however, in Sam's face.
"It's Mister Frodo," he said earnestly. "He's waking up."
Shëanon felt her mouth go dry.
Then Gimli let out a resounding laugh, clapped his hands, and leapt to his feet.
"Then what are we waiting for?" he asked and hurried from the chamber.
As one they followed after him, though Legolas and Aragorn kept glancing at her all the way down the sunny corridor beyond her room. Gimli bounded into a chamber at its end, and as they reached the threshold, Shëanon heard a commotion and a clamor of voices from within. For some reason, she found herself hesitating, wary of what she might find or how she might feel when she went in. It was then that Legolas touched the small of her back and ushered her gently ahead of him through the doorway.
Shëanon stopped in her tracks.
Sitting up in a bed much the same as the one she had only just left, before a wide window through which a shaft of soft sunlight came in and rested upon his head, was Frodo.
At once she felt herself transported, and for an instant she stood again in the dark chasm beneath the ashen sky, the black wind cutting her face and stinging her eyes, when she had passed doubting and despairing from the Tower to the trenches, alone and dying, not knowing that the hand of Eru had joined their paths at that most hopeless hour.
But then she heard a laugh, and she realized that Frodo's gaze was not haunted and aggrieved but bright with jubilant emotion, and that Merry and Pippin were sat upon his bed with him and had cheered when she came in, and for the first time since she had awoken, Shëanon smiled.
Legolas guided her further into the room until she stood before the last person in the chamber, who despite his white hair and raiment was laughing more jovially than ever he had even before his fall, and stepping forth at the sight of her, he enfolded her into his arms.
"Gandalf," she breathed, overwhelmed.
Shëanon hugged him fiercely, breathing in the smells of pipe weed and spring, and when he released her, she was weeping once more—not from grief or wary relief or the easing of fear, but from sheer joy so powerful that she began to laugh, too, through her tears.
The blue of Gandalf's eyes was sparkling, and behind her she could hear the others making such a racket that she was certain the whole city would hear them.
"You did it! You did it!"
"We saw it fall—didn't we, Merry—?"
"Wait until Bilbo hears—!"
"The greatest hobbit in the history of the Shire!"
"Bless you, laddie, bless you—!"
She turned and saw that her brothers stood waiting respectfully at the door, but Aragorn had come in and stood beside her and Legolas at the foot of the bed, and Sam had moved to Frodo's side. Gandalf squeezed her shoulder then, and she felt Legolas take her hand. Laughing and crying, Shëanon gazed about the room with her heart in her throat: Frodo, bright with unlooked for elation as she had never seen in him before; Merry and Pippin, no less light of heart despite all that they had endured, roughhousing and joking; Sam grinning and moved to tears; stalwart Gimli applauding even as he dried his own eyes; Gandalf, their leader returned to them from death, chuckling and beaming and bursting with pride; and Aragorn, grinning like a boy untroubled by any hardship.
She glanced up at Legolas, who was golden in the radiant light that seemed, she felt, sent to touch them all in that moment, and though he smiled as he gazed upon their companions, he was still holding fast to her hand.
That was the moment that Shëanon believed, wholly and truly in her heart, that it really was over, that they had been victorious—that the Ring was indeed destroyed, and that they were all safe and together in Minas Tirith, for she knew at once that no trick of Sauron could have evoked in her such pure and untarnished joy, and she knew that no dream no matter how vivid or how painstakingly imagined could have ever conjured such a moment of complete and utter truth: Though they had passed through hardship and peril, though their quest was complete, and though, she realized, they had saved Middle-earth, looking around the chamber she understood—or rather, she felt—that they were not gathered as soldiers in victory nor as heroes in triumph, not as survivors in solidarity nor even as members of the Company assembled again at last.
Crowded around Frodo's bed, laughing and embracing, bathed in the golden light, all together for the first time since Amon Hen, the Fellowship of the Ring stood as friends bound forever by simple, enduring love.
XXX
Only after they'd caught their breath, after Merry and Pippin had flung their arms about her so enthusiastically that she'd almost fallen over, and when they had all dried the last of their tears, did Shëanon finally realize how weak and weary she was, and in silence Legolas drew a chair from the corner of the room and set it near to the bed for her. She cast him a grateful look and sat, and he stood behind her with his hand grasping the back of the chair so that, though he was not quite touching her, she could feel the brush of his knuckles against the nape of her neck.
For a moment they were all quiet. Shëanon noticed that Elladan and Elrohir seemed to have left, though she could not guess where they might have gone.
Finally, Frodo spoke.
"Tell me everything," he said, looking into each of their faces. "Tell me everything that's happened."
But Aragorn crossed his arms over his chest and offered Frodo a grin.
"You go first," he murmured.
And to Shëanon's amazement, Frodo did.
The group listened in astonishment as he recounted all that had befallen him and Sam after their parting. Shëanon guessed that some things Sam must have already told the others before she had woken up, for some of her companions seemed not nearly horrified enough to hear tell of the Dead Marshes or of Gollum or indeed, the Pass of Cirith Ungol. When Frodo—with increasingly frequent interjections from Sam—spoke of being struck by Shelob the giant spider's stinger and taken captive, however, her mind instantly began to race, filling in all the blanks and aligning all she had known, feared, or guessed while she had been locked in her cell with what Frodo revealed.
Then suddenly she heard her own name, and she realized too late that she should have known it was coming.
Two things were immediately clear to her. The first was that Aragorn, Legolas, Gandalf, and Gimli had all clearly already known she had met Frodo and Sam in Mordor, for they did not react at all when Frodo said it aloud, except that Legolas let go of her chair and instead set his hand upon her shoulder.
The second was that Merry and Pippin had not known, for both hobbits wheeled around and fixed her with looks of wonder and glee.
"We thought we were trapped, didn't we, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, though he was looking earnestly into her face.
In her seat, Shëanon was rigid.
"We heard a noise, and turned at the sound of it, and I thought for sure it was Orcs," he said.
"But it was Shëanon," Frodo finished quietly.
Pippin whooped, but Merry seemed to have noticed that she and indeed everyone else in the room was very quiet, and he frowned as he looked at her.
"How did you get there?" he asked her.
Shëanon bit her lip. For a single instant she wondered if she ought to tell them all, but then she remembered the Man whose throat she had cut, and cowering like a scared child between the great rocks on the plains of Gorgoroth while the Nazgûl had flown overhead, and she could not bring herself to speak, not even to lie again and say she couldn't remember.
Legolas squeezed her shoulder.
"Let Frodo tell his side first," Aragorn murmured. "We will all go after."
By the time they had all finished talking, however, Merry and Pippin seemed to have forgotten to ask about her part, and Shëanon was immensely grateful that the others seemed wordlessly agreed to let them.
Then Elladan and Elrohir reappeared at the door, and they each carried several bottles of wine and were accompanied by serving women who bore large trays laden with food.
Elrohir offered them all a wise grin.
"Let not this moment pass without celebration," he said.
The hobbits all gave a shout—even Frodo and Sam, who by the time Shëanon had last seen them at Rauros had seemed to find little comfort anymore in food, clapped when the twins began passing around cups.
Legolas set one in her hand, and she offered him a tight smile.
"To Frodo and Samwise," said Elladan, lifting his drink and turning to the two of them. "Whose bravery is unmatched in any song yet sung by Elves, Men, or Dwarves."
They all raised their cups and drank, but Shëanon noticed that Frodo's smile seemed to fade a bit, and his gaze became serious.
He lifted his wine next.
"To the Fellowship of the Ring," he said quietly, "and to all who helped us."
Everyone looked back at him, and Shëanon felt that an understanding passed between them all.
Then Aragorn nodded solemnly.
"To the Fellowship of the Ring," he echoed.
She lifted her cup with the others.
"The Fellowship of the Ring."
XXX
When at last it was time to return to her own room, many long hours had passed, and Shëanon had feared she would nod off in her seat. Aragorn, Legolas, and her brothers went back with her, and part of her felt foolish when she crawled into bed, confessed that she needed to sleep, and realized that they intended to stay while she slept.
But she felt safer to know she would not be alone.
When Elladan made her a sleeping draught and bid her gently to drink, she glanced once more about the chamber, at the four people guarding her bed, and heeded him.
She was asleep the moment she hit her pillow.
XXX
That night, Shëanon's sleep was dreamless and deep, and her waking the next day was leisurely and gentle. She slowly drifted in and out of wakefulness, comfortable in her bed, her mind utterly blank, and her every muscle relaxed. Eventually she heard something move, however, and only then did she remember where she was. Blearily she opened her eyes.
Elladan was sitting in one of the chairs beside her bed.
"What did you all do?" she mumbled in a voice hoarse with sleep. "Set a watch to sit here in shifts?"
Her brother offered her a gentle smile and leaned forward to rest his elbows upon his knees.
"Yes," he confessed easily. "But worry not; sitting with you is no hardship. Elrohir and Estel would be here still, but there is much work to be done to set the city to rights."
Shëanon shifted and gingerly moved beneath her covers. Her head seemed to be hurting her less, and she felt less exhausted than she had the day before. She rolled onto her side to face him.
"You should be helping them, instead," she murmured, feeling suddenly guilty. "I'll be fine on my own."
Elladan frowned.
"Many long months we were apart, and now my shadow is so eager to be rid of me," he answered. She understood what he did not say.
"That's not what I meant. I just—helping Aragorn and Gandalf is surely more important than watching me sleep."
But to her consternation, he shook his head and fixed her with a very serious look.
"You are my sister," he said. "You are more important by far."
Shëanon felt her heart swell within her.
"I missed you," she whispered honestly. "I didn't think I would ever see you again."
Elladan reached out and grasped her hand.
"I beg of you," he murmured, "next time Adar calls a council… stay in your seat."
Shëanon smiled guiltily, and he squeezed her hand.
"I am proud of you," he said.
She squeezed his hand even harder in return, and for a long moment no other words were needed between them.
Then Elladan's expression seemed to change.
"There is something I must ask you," he murmured.
Shëanon furrowed her brow and sat up a bit higher against her pillows, taken aback by the look on his face. She wondered what he could have to say that he'd felt he couldn't ask the night before, and her heart gave a nervous flutter.
"What is it?" she asked in apprehension.
"Are you betrothed?"
It took her a moment to process what he'd asked, and she felt that her eyes were wide in dumbfounded astonishment.
"What?" she stammered at last. "Why would you ask me that?"
Elladan's eyebrows rose, and he gave her a pointed look.
"Because I am not blind," he said meaningfully. "Many long years have I known Legolas, and accounted him a friend, and yet never have I seen him as he was when you were held captive."
Shëanon fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away from him, remembering what she had seen of the argument between Aragorn and Legolas over her rescue. Indeed, she could not have imagined that her brother would have ever seen Legolas act in such a way, but she remembered that she was not supposed to have witnessed it, and that Legolas didn't know that she had, and that there were many other things that Legolas did not yet know…
A weight like an anvil seemed to settle in her stomach.
She shrugged against her pillow and drew her blanket closer.
"I'm sure he worried very much for Frodo and for Sam, also," she hedged, not knowing what else to say.
At these words Elladan suddenly smirked.
"Maybe," he agreed. "And yet it was not from their sides that he refused to be parted these last days… And indeed they did not leap weeping into his arms when they waked."
Shëanon blushed furiously and looked down at her lap.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You did not answer my question," he grinned. "Are you betrothed?"
Shëanon opened her mouth and then closed it again. Was she betrothed? She realized she wasn't exactly sure. She thought back on their discussion on the way to Minas Tirith. Legolas had said that her father had—set him a task—that he'd consented to their union if Legolas kept her safe… but he hadn't asked for her hand, and they certainly hadn't pledged their troth…
"I—no—well… I'm not sure—"
"Not sure?" Elladan echoed as though in bewilderment. "Do you mean you did not give him an answer?"
"What? No—it's just—complicated—"
"Complicated," he repeated, with a furrow of his brow. "If I ask Legolas, will he answer in kind?"
Shëanon suddenly felt her lip tremble, and she looked away. Her heart gave a plaintive, despairing lurch within her chest. She realized, with such a pronounced burst of grief that it almost overwhelmed her, that binding herself to Legolas was almost certainly no longer possible.
"I—I don't want to talk about it."
"I would think you should be happy to talk about it."
"Elladan," she whispered in warning.
But her brother did not seem willing to relent.
"When we set forth from Imladris to gather the Dúnedain," he told her very seriously, watching her face, "Adar warned us that we might arrive in Gondor to find you wedded."
Shëanon was so speechless that she could not even answer.
"He looked often into your future while you were gone," Elladan said when she made no reply. "I can only guess he must have foreseen that such a thing may have come to pass."
Shëanon remembered the night in the tent and blushed to the roots of her hair, and then she didn't know if she should be mortified or heartbroken.
"Sister," Elladan smiled at her. "I am glad for you," he said.
"Elladan," she whispered. "I… There is something I must tell you—"
He frowned and watched her expectantly, but though the words were on the tip of her tongue, she found that she couldn't say them.
"What is it?" he asked.
But Shëanon had lost her courage.
"Never mind," she whispered. "It's not important."
XXX
Later that day, though Elladan seemed reluctant to allow her to leave his sight, Shëanon left her bed and paced back down the wide, bright corridor she had walked the day before. While she knew the Houses of Healing surely held many wounded men and women in the aftermath of the siege on the city, the hall where her room was seemed to be some kind of private ward set apart from the busy infirmary, for it had remained quiet and peaceful since she had awoken. The floors, walls, and high ceilings were made of light stone, and there were low tables set into alcoves in the hallway that bore vases of more fresh flowers, and many arched colonnades opened upon a verdant garden so that every breath she took was full of sweet air, and birdsong was carried in on the breezes that moved through the trees outside.
Shëanon stopped at the door she sought but had no need to knock, for it lay already open. Beyond it, sitting still in the same bed, was Frodo.
He glanced up to see her lingering in the threshold.
"Shëanon," he said, pressing himself higher up against the carved headboard behind him. For a moment her gaze caught on the thick bandages upon his hand, where she had learned Gollum had bitten off his finger, and she swallowed.
She offered him a tentative smile and strode slowly into the room. After a moment of thought, though, she turned back to close the door behind her.
Frodo was watching her curiously.
"You look almost wholly recovered," she murmured, moving to stand beside his bed. Indeed, the hobbit had more color in his cheeks and appeared stronger than he had the day before.
He smiled tightly, but it seemed to her that he could sense that something was the matter with her, and he gave no answer.
Shëanon wrung her hands nervously before her, realized it, and hid them behind her back. She watched him track this movement with his eyes, and his wary smile faded. She couldn't blame him—she could imagine that she would have been unnerved, too, if one of her companions had come to her room acting so strangely. She had been wishing to speak with him from almost the moment she had awoken, but she suddenly felt awkward about what she wished to say.
She moved to sit in one of the chairs still set by his bed if only to buy another moment before she had to speak. Then Shëanon drew a deep breath.
"Frodo," she said quietly, glancing up at him, "there is something I feel I must tell you."
"If it is to do with Mordor," Frodo answered solemnly and without delay, "I would ask you to tell me nothing."
Shëanon faltered.
"What?" she whispered.
"Not every story needs telling," he said, with a very serious look in his eyes. "It seemed yesterday that you wished not to tell yours. I would not ask you to tell it… unless it would lighten your heart in the telling."
For a long moment she could only stare at him, taken aback. At first, she wondered if perhaps Frodo knew her better than she had assumed… but then she realized that rather she had not hidden her feelings as well as she'd thought.
"It is not about Mordor," she said at last, swallowing thickly. "It is about Boromir."
It was Frodo's turn to stare. Then he leaned attentively forward and looked at her with an open, patient light in his eyes, and Shëanon grasped the arms of the chair and made herself hold his gaze as she spoke.
"I feel I must tell you—I feel I must confess to you," she whispered, as her heart began a rapid rhythm, "that… on the day the Fellowship broke at Amon Hen, I… I had followed you away from camp."
Frodo's mouth seemed to fall softly open.
"Why?"
"I saw that you were gone, and I saw Boromir go after you," she confided. She began to wring her hands again. "Legolas had warned me already that Boromir was falling to the power of the Ring… and so I followed because I worried he might try to take it."
It suddenly occurred to her, for the first time in all the long months since it had happened, that he might think she had wanted to take the Ring, herself.
"I—I didn't want it," she said in a rush, feeling her stomach sink. "I had thought I was doing the right thing."
"I believe you," Frodo said quietly, and indeed she could hear the surety in his voice. "Though it wouldn't matter—"
"It matters to me," she interrupted.
Frodo simply looked at her, and Shëanon drew another deep breath.
"I watched you from afar," she said, "and I saw when he attacked you. I tried to run to you, but you had already put on the Ring before I could reach you both."
Before her eyes, the hobbit gave a start as though of recognition, and frowned deeper still.
"I heard you scream," he said.
You were crying out, Lady—I will not hurt you—
She flinched and glanced away, neither confirming nor denying it.
"It just—it troubles me because—I think you should know… that Boromir returned to himself at once," she whispered. "I could tell—"
A sudden lump came to her throat, and abruptly Shëanon found it difficult to speak.
"I could tell that he was aggrieved," she told him in a quavering voice. "And looking back I can see now that he was afraid… and felt ashamed. Part of me wonders if… if I had spoken—if I had made myself known when I followed you… he might not have tried to take the Ring, and he might not have died thinking himself—thinking himself a lesser man."
A few silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and Shëanon brushed them hastily away.
"Perhaps, if I had spoken, much would have been different that day," she whispered. "Or perhaps nothing would have been. But I fought alongside him on the hill, and I watched him fall, and I heard him speak his last words… and though I know that he faltered, I would not have you think him a lesser man, either."
For a very, very long moment, Frodo was utterly silent. He watched her wordlessly, his small brow furrowed, his body tiny in the Man-sized bed. She thought he looked both far younger and far older than he had before.
"I could not think it of him without thinking it of myself," he said at last, and Shëanon blinked. It took her a moment to understand what he meant, and then she bit her lip and shook her head.
"Then think it of neither of you," she murmured.
She rose to take her leave, but Frodo seemed to search her face for the span of several breaths and must have come to some decision, for he folded back his blankets and got up from the bed. As she watched, he crossed to the table where the wine rested still, and pouring a measure into two of the silver goblets left from the night before, he returned to her beside the bed.
He held out one of the goblets, and Shëanon accepted it with complete confusion, but when he lifted his cup and gazed back at her, she abruptly understood.
"To Boromir," he said quietly.
Shëanon's heart ached.
"To Boromir," she agreed, and touched her cup to his.
XXX
There were two more people with whom Shëanon wished to speak, but they were not in the Houses of Healing, and when she tried to leave to seek them out, she found that she was not permitted to set foot outside the doors. By order, the healer who stopped her had said, of the future king.
She had returned then to her chambers, but even as she sat that day and night in the company of so many who cared for her, she began to sense a burgeoning wave within her heart of disquiet and desperation, and though she could feel its waters rising higher and higher, she felt there was no escape—as though it were an inevitable storm, and she could only await the flood, and hope to endure the violent, rushing waters.
XXX
Shëanon was lying in her bed, curled under the covers. The room was dark, and there was no fire in the hearth, and all was still and quiet. Though she knew she was safe in Minas Tirith, the shadows about the chamber felt sinister, and a sense of unease was creeping over her.
Then suddenly she heard an eerie noise, and peering through the dim room she saw, illuminated only by a single, lonely shaft of mournful moonlight, the door creak slowly open.
Every muscle in her body went still.
"Hello?" she called, but her voice was hoarse and barely audible.
There came no answer. Surely there must have been someone to hear? The Houses of Healing were full of healers… And where were her brothers? Or Aragorn? Or Legolas? Surely, they had not left her all alone?
She sat up and strained to see through the darkness, staring at the half-ajar door. Was that her eyes playing tricks on her, or was there someone there?
Then, before her eyes, the door was flung open and banged against the wall behind it.
Shëanon jumped, but she could see nothing in the pitch-black doorway.
"Hello?" she asked again. Her heart was now pounding so hard in her chest that she could hear it. "Elladan? Elrohir?"
Again, there was only utter, resounding silence. In fact, the silence to her seemed unnaturally absolute, and the darkness was such that she had never before seen—the moonlight suddenly gone—except for maybe when she had passed beneath the door to the Dimholt, and her stomach gave a lurch. Something was wrong, she thought.
She sat rooted to the spot for one moment longer, and then Shëanon cautiously eased off the covers and crept carefully across the cold stone floor. With every step she took closer and closer to the doorway, it seemed to get only further away, and she felt it was a hundred paces before she finally reached it. She paused before the threshold, facing the black portal, trembling from head to toe.
Shëanon stepped through it.
The corridor beyond was there, but instead of the white walls and columns of the White City she found black granite and dark iron, and far at the end—far further than she knew the hall to be—she could see a single figure.
"NO!"
Shëanon shrieked and sprinted forward, running and running as fast as her feet could carry her, but her legs felt like lead, and every step was slow and muddled no matter how hard she tried to reach him.
"NO!" she screamed again. "LEGOLAS!"
Through the darkness she could see him, his arms chained above him, slumped against the black wall at his back. His eyes were open and unseeing, and blood saturated his clothes, and she knew that he was dead—dead—dead as the guard had been, whose throat she had cut—but maybe she had not killed the guard at all, for it was Legolas who was locked in the chains, Legolas whose skin was stark white and shading grey, Legolas who was murdered.
"NO! NO!" she screamed. She kept running—she had to get to him—if only she could reach him—maybe it would not be true—maybe she could fix it—help him—
She stretched out her hands—she was so close to him now—
But just as she skidded before his feet, he vanished, and the corridor vanished, and she found she was not in the hallway at all, but rather she huddled in the middle of the throne room, and all about her was cold laughter.
"Foolish child," Sauron said cruelly. "Did you think you could escape me?"
She saw his enormous boots step closer, and she covered her eyes, his voice in her ears, and she felt the fire of the hot irons pressed all over her—
Shëanon screamed and screamed and screamed—
"SHËANON!"
Shëanon opened her eyes, and for a moment she had no idea where she was, or what was real, and she heard herself crying out. She could feel something tight about her wrists and thought for one wild instant that she must surely have been locked again in the manacles. Then there came a light, and she saw that she was on the floor, tangled up in her blankets, and that the hands she was fighting belonged to Legolas, and that she was weeping.
"It was a dream," Legolas was telling her fervently. "It was only a dream, aiër."
His voice at first seemed to be garbled and muted, and though she could hear him, she could not understand him, but eventually she was able to fit meaning to the words he spoke, and she realized she had had a nightmare.
"Oh," she stammered, disoriented and crying still, "I'm—sorry. I'm—alright."
But she was violently trembling and found she could not banish the terror that had come upon her. It had seemed so real, and she remembered Legolas, dead in the chains, and the footsteps of Sauron drawing nearer and nearer. A fresh, shocking bout of tears came over her again, and she wept and covered her face with her hands.
Legolas drew her against his chest.
"Goheno nin," she whispered against his shoulder. "I did not mean—to disturb—I wasn't—I couldn't wake up—I'm—sorry—"
Vaguely she was aware that she was speaking nonsense, but she couldn't help it—the line between sleeping and waking seemed all blurred and broken, and for a moment even though she knew it had been just a nightmare, she could not convince herself that it had not been real, and she was afraid that when Legolas drew away she would see his cut throat and his dead eyes, and that at any moment Sauron would appear again and continue his torment—and yet at the same time she knew that this was utter folly, and that she was in the Houses of Healing, and that she must have woken every single person in the entire hall with her shrieking, and she felt humiliated.
"Peace, peace," Legolas was murmuring softly beside her ear. "Take deep breaths."
Shëanon gripped the back of his tunic and tried desperately to obey, but her breath was dragging erratically in and out of her, and her throat was so raw from shrieking that she almost felt that she was suffocating. She was soaking wet; her sweat upon her skin was like an icy sheet, and she heard an odd noise like a woodpecker for several long moments before she realized that it was her own teeth chattering.
Legolas began rubbing her back, and then opening her eyes she saw over his shoulder that both her brothers stood just behind him, and she tensed.
"Goheno nin," she muttered again as she pulled away from Legolas and tried to stand, though she was still bound up in her blankets, and she felt stiff and sore from thrashing about on the floor.
Legolas rose at once and pulled her to her feet, and then he helped her gently back onto the bed. She found she could not meet his gaze.
"Thank you," she managed. Legolas sat on the edge of her mattress but said nothing, and indeed he and Elladan and Elrohir were all staring at her. For a long moment they were quiet as she sniffled and dried her eyes.
Finally, Elrohir spoke.
"Has your memory returned?" he asked quietly.
Shëanon flinched. She had all but forgotten she had told them she had no memory of her imprisonment, and she thought of the way she had been screaming and screaming and screaming…
It was clear by the way the three ellyn were all looking at her that they had some inkling of what horrors her nightmare had held, and she felt a sick, trapped feeling come over her. As they awaited her answer, she could only clench her jaw, saying nothing, for what was there to say?
"No," she whispered at last.
"Shëanon," Elrohir frowned.
"The hour is very late," she said hoarsely, drawing her damp blankets closer. After so many days in their company, she suddenly wished very badly that they would all leave.
Elrohir crossed his arms over his chest.
"Do you wish to tell us—?"
"No," she said sharply before he had even finished speaking. His eyes flashed, and Shëanon looked down at her lap in contrite dismay. There was another long silence. She could feel her sweat drying on her skin, making her shiver, and she could feel her face stiff with the salt of her tears, and she could feel her brothers and Legolas watching her.
"Very well," Elrohir said at length. "I will make you another draught—"
"No," she gasped, looking up again. "I don't want more."
Indeed, she did not want to go back to sleep for another moment and risk another nightmare.
She watched her brothers turn to each other, but Legolas had not once glanced away from her face, and she was looking resolutely anywhere other than at him.
"Shëanon," Elladan said very quietly, "you were all but dead by the time we found you. Your body and mind need sleep to heal—"
"I will sleep," she lied at once. "I just do not wish another sleeping draught."
Elladan seemed only to begrudgingly concede to this, and she guessed it was only because he did not wish to distress her.
"We will be right here to wake you again if—"
"You needn't sit with me—"
"Have you hit your head anew?" Elrohir asked as though in bewilderment. "A fortnight ago we thought you lost beyond all hope. Not three days past we feared you would never again wake. You think we do not willingly sit at your bedside?"
But Shëanon had begun to feel that she couldn't breathe.
"You need to sleep, too," she said in a rush, shaking her head.
"Then we will sleep in turns in the chairs here beside you," Elrohir snapped.
Shëanon blinked and looked at him in alarm. She was reminded immediately of the day of the council, when she had volunteered her service to Frodo and her brother had lost his temper.
"I want to be alone," she said at last, looking from him to Elladan and back. Elrohir opened his mouth as though to argue, but either because he sensed her desperation or because he knew she would not be dissuaded, Elladan grasped his brother's arm and shook his head.
"We will leave you in privacy," he said firmly, with another glance at his twin, whose answering gaze was dark. "But we will not go far. We will hear you if you have need of us."
Shëanon felt a small inkling of relief.
Elladan and Elrohir turned then to leave but paused at the door and looked, with obvious question, back at Legolas. He did not, however, show any intention of leaving, and when Shëanon remained unmoving and silent, her brothers looked to her instead.
She blushed furiously, unsure what to say. Then Elladan again cast his brother a meaningful look, and the two strode wordlessly from the chamber.
Only after they had closed the door behind them did she dare to look at Legolas.
"Aiër," he whispered at once, seeming to search her face. She had never seen him look so uncertain, or indeed, so troubled. "Do you wish for me to—"
"I want to be alone," she blurted out so quickly that Legolas blinked and stopped speaking, and she could see at once that her words had hurt him. He looked back at her for a long, tense moment, and she wanted to weep again. In truth, she did wish for him to lie with her as he had so many other times—she was certain that this was what he had meant to offer, and she could not deny that she yearned to accept. In that moment, she wished the safety and comfort of his embrace as desperately as she had wished for water on the plains of Gorgoroth; she thought of the salve Aragorn had applied to her wounds and wondered if such peace and closeness with Legolas might soothe the hurts upon her spirit as the salve had soothed the hurts upon her flesh…
But she thought again of the truth that Sauron had revealed to her, and felt ill.
Legolas looked searchingly into her face for a moment longer, and as though finding some answer, he nodded and rose to his feet.
"I will take my leave of you," he said quietly. "Rest well."
Then he followed her brothers out the door.
XXX
Translations:
Tithem lum : Little shadow
Goheno nin : Forgive me