Part One

Night Terrors

The Golden Hall burned. The blaze licked up the walls, burning the tapestries, melting the paint, wreathing the throne in flames. She could hear screams through the smoke. The banner of Eorl the Young,with its white horse, was the only bright point in the hall.  The roof creaked above her head, and as she searched desperately for those she loved, it started to collapse….

“NO!”

Éowyn sat up in her bed, sweat streaming down her body.  It must have been the heat that brought the nightmare on, she thought, as she rubbed her aching head.  Suddenly she could not stand it any longer – the darkness pressing on her, the roaring in her ears.  She sprang from her bed and seized a shawl as she walked out the door.

The passages were lit just enough for her to find her way.  At first she walked slowly, but the fear that tainted even her sleep hastened her steps.  Soon she was running, her breath coming in gasps.  She had to see that the hall still stood.

Slipping between two pillars, she entered the great hall of Meduseld.  It was dimly lit, but intact.  She walked to her uncle’s throne, and leant against one of the steps of the dais hugging herself.  Her breath slowed till the rasps became gentle. 

It had been so vivid – the smells, the sights, the sounds.  The nightmare had haunted her sleep for years, but tonight it had been more intense than usual.  She had heard her brother’s and uncle’s voices calling for her, and she could do nothing.  She was helpless, always helpless.

For so many years she had been afraid – afraid of she scarcely knew what, afraid of footsteps echoing behind her.  And ashamed – ashamed that as the King’s mind sank, and his people died by the sword, she had been but a glorified nursemaid.  She had never suspected that Wormtongue’s poison was the cause of Theoden’s decline. That Gandalf had driven it from the King’s mind was little comfort.

Though Theoden was free of Saruman’s spell, Rohan was still surrounded by enemies – indeed, the noose had been drawn tighter. In the morning they would ride to Helm’s Deep – but Éowyn had little faith in the safety of the fortress.  Battle would come to Helm’s Deep, as it had come to all of Rohan.

Éowyn knew what part she would play in any such battle – standing in the shadows.  The Shieldmaiden of Rohan could not be risked in battle until all was lost; that was the order of things.  The years past, in which so many had fallen, had taught her that well.  She did not know how she could bear it any longer. 

And so it would remain - she would be protected and forced to watch as everything she held dear was destroyed.  This was the protection they offered her, not knowing that the desperation of loss would kill her, as it had her mother.  Pain of the body she could survive, but she knew in her heart that further pains of the heart would tear her to pieces.  And the only antidote was to do something – fight, die if need be, but not wait in the house for the names of the dead

Her quiet tears had become sobs, and at last a cry of pain broke from her.  She put her hands to her mouth, trying to hold the sound in, when she heard a sigh, the sound of a heavy body rolling over, and a grunt as someone stood up.  She had forgotten that the three travellers were sleeping in the hall, as a token of Théoden’s displeasure with Aragorn’s ‘presumption’ in telling the King what to do.

She could not run. He must already know she was there – her white nightgown caught the light, and she had not been quiet.

“My Lady, what has disturbed your sleep this night”.  She looked up at him, and heard the breath catch in his throat as he saw her tears.

“It is long since there has been hope in these halls, my lord.  And even its presence cannot drive away the terrors of the night”.  He nodded, and again Éowyn was struck by his sheer presence.  She had met great men before, and knew in the very marrow of her bones this was a man born to lead, to inspire, to lift hearts from despair.  He seemed, now, to be searching in the space between them for words.

“The Wormtongue’s reign did not drive all hope from Meduseld, my lady, for even in the dark you withstood fear.  I have heard it said that you were faithful beyond all others.”

She could not restrain the slight shiver the mention of Wormtongue had sent through her, but shook her head.

 “You are too generous with your praise.  I did nothing.  It was you, and your companions, who brought back the light, not I.”

“My lady, forgive me, but you are wrong.  The Lady of Rohan has given the folk of Edoras hope – I see it, if you do not.”

“What good did I do them when I was but a puppet for Grima’s greedy thoughts?  His little toy.”  Éowyn stopped, regretting her words. She had not meant to let her bitterness spill out.

“What do you mean?”

“You are a hunter, my lord?” He nodded “Then you know what it is to stalk prey through the forest for days, for nights, without pause. I was Grima’s prey.”

She said the words flatly, but as she saw the pity in his eyes she despised herself all the more.  She had borne so very little and yet she sought this man’s sympathy.  How was it that he could look at her her with such warmth?  She, who had withstood so much, could be broken by a kind glance and a few understanding words from a man she did not know. 

He reached out a hand, perhaps to wipe a tear from her cheek, but stopped himself.  Suddenly she thought that it might be good to be touched.  It had been so very long since she had been touched with affection – she could feel an ache within her, a longing to be held by a pair of loving arms.   It would be so strange, so wonderful, to feel safe.

A deep tiredness swept through her body, seeping into her very bones.  “Forgive me my lord, I did not mean to wake you.  If you will permit me, I shall seek sleep again.”

He took her hand, and kissed it, “Courage, my lady,” he whispered.  She could not help but give him a startled glance, but said nothing.  Dipping in curtsey, she walked, as smoothly as she knew how, from the hall.  Though she might not find sleep again this night, she had at least found some measure of calm.  She thanked him for that.

First Frost

The young shieldmaiden ran after the stricken dwarf, her laughter bubbling as she helped him up.  With rosy cheeks and shining eyes, she looked like the young girl she should have been. The sight of Eowyn and Gimli, as she stood him up and dusted him off, made Aragorn smile.

Legolas followed his gaze.  “She is fairer than any mortal I have yet seen my friend.  Yet I do not understand how that should be when she has seen such darkness in her time.” 

Aragorn looked at his friend. “You noticed it too – and yet you said nothing to her that night?”

“What could I say to such as the Lady Éowyn?  I know nothing of the grief of men; and yet I would not wish to wound further through ignorance.”

“You should not think so much on what you might do, as what you can do Legolas.  Éowyn has a warm heart, and she would welcome your friendship, I am sure of it.”

“Perhaps and yet…” 

Aragorn laughed. “She is not as delicate as you think.  Can you not see the steel in her?”

“How do you know her, Estel?  You have known her longer than these few days, I can see.”

“You have the right of it, my friend. We met long ago.”

Snow fell around Edoras, coating the great hall and the barrows in white, rippling blankets.  Aragorn was grooming his horse in the stables, daydreaming of Imladris, when he heard mens’ raucous laughter.  Théoden was dragging a young hellion in from the snow, closely followed by a small girl.  He tossed the struggling boy on to a stack of hay, before straightening up and noticing Aragorn.  “Thorongil!  They did not tell me you had arrived.  Welcome!” The two men slapped each other’s backs in greeting.

 “My duties call me home to the North.  I must depart on the morrow.”

The boy tried to escape past Théoden but the King snatched him by the shoulder, saying, “Allow me to introduce my nephew, Éomer, Éomund’s son, and his sister, Éowyn”.  

The girl was dressed in a green dress with her heavy blonde hair in a thick plait down her back.  She had been hiding behind Theoden, but now came forward to peer intently at Aragorn.  She pulled her finger from her mouth and pointed to his head.  A moment of silence filled the space, before Théoden spoke, “She wants to see your hair”.

Aragorn looked at the child – who, despite the vivid colours of her dress and hair, seemed ghostlike – and slowly bent down. She came close to him, wary as a small animal, and took a lock of his black hair in her little hands, studying it carefully. Then she reached up and stroked his cheeks gently. She was, he realized, examining his beard.  

She stepped a little away from him, and then spoke in a little piping voice, “It’s black.  I’ve never seen black hair before.”   Her uncle and brother gasped as she spoke.  She turned to look at them and smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, Uncle. I think it’s pretty”.  Éomer tackled her, hugging her around the shoulders.  She extricated herself primly and turned to her uncle, “May we go out now and play in the snow?”

As her brother chased her from the stables, Theoden wiped tears from his eyes. “She hasn’t spoken in nearly a year.  Her father was killed by orcs, and she saw his body before they could clean it.  Since then not a word has passed her lips.  I feared she might die from despair, like her mother.  I do not know how you broke that spell, but you have my thanks, Thorongil”.

They left the stable and watched as the siblings fought a vicious and uneven battle –until Éowyn accosted her older cousin, Théodred and begged him to protect her from the ravages of her brother.  The three spent the day shrieking in gaiety and soaking wet, before retiring to sit by the fire in Meduseld.  Éowyn climbed into Théodred’s lap as the singing started and later he carried her to her room, her head sleepilycushioned against his shoulder.  That was the last Aragorn saw of her.

“I had forgotten…I did not realise she would still be at Edoras.”  That was not exactly true – the small child had remained in his memory, but not her connection to Théoden, until he saw her weeping in the darkness of Meduseld.  He wondered if she was ever to be a symbol of survival of suffering to him. Could her happiness ever become real, or was it as elusive and improbable as his so often seemed?

She was walking, leading her horse, lost in thought. When she was not talking or working, he could see her bone-deep exhaustion. She was unconscious of the feelings she inspired in those around her. Eowyn had no desire to have windows made into her soul, and fled those who would try.  After her many battles with the Wormtongue, she had learned to fear those who could see into the hearts of others.  She feared their sight almost as much as she feared their protection.  Yet somehow Aragorn knew that, will or nil, she would endure both before her course was run.

Fever

There were so few.  Most lay dead on the rocks outside.  Éowyn walked through the hall of Helm’s Deep, trying to keep despair at bay.  They were supposed to have won – but how could it be called victory when children, who ought to have been only playing at soldiers, had lost their lives?

She had spent the night in the caves, leading the women through the long, dark vigil while the battle raged outside.  She had comforted, cajoled and ordered them in to some kind of equanimity.  Somehow she had bottled up the terrible fear that had possessed her – storing it inside herself.  All she had wanted to do was scream and beat against the locked door with her fists, yet in some way she found the spirit to lead the women in hope, though she knew that their children were being slaughtered outside the door.  She wondered what kind of alchemy it was that allowed her to give hope to others when she had none herself.  Throughout the night she had plucked at her sleeves – her only respite from the burden of courage placed upon her. 

She came to an unattended bed, and sat.  She was no healer, but she would do something for those that had been injured, even if it was only speaking a few comforting, meaningless words.  She looked down at the child – he couldn’t possibly be more than twelve.  It was Haleth, Hama’s son.  His face had a terrible translucence to it.  She grasped his hand – he had no mother, for she, like his father, was dead.

This was not the first bed she had sat beside this morning.  She had spoken to the dying – telling them they would be remembered, they were loved, they were brave.  She had not shed a tear, and she wondered at it.  They were gone and she would mourn them, but she could not find it in herself to weep.

Leaning against this child’s bed, she allowed herself one deep breath, no more.  If she gave she would collapse, and though her body ached for sleep and her mind for oblivion she could not give in to those desires, not yet – how could she seek sleep and peace when children still suffered in the Keep?  She stroked Haleth’s face, and tried to speak to him.  He was so beautiful this child, his eyes calm even in death.  For he was dying, she could tell, she could hear it in each laboured breath, see it in the way his eyes seemed to look through her rather than at her.  Words seemed beyond her.

She did not know how long she sat with him.  She kept a hand on his cheek – she told him what a brave man he was.  She told him he would have a place by the fire in the halls of their fathers, though she hardly knew if that was true.  She told him the people of Rohan would remember him forever.  She breathed with him, and then... beats of silence…

A hand touched her shoulder, “He is dead my lady.”   She looked at his child’s face – so smooth.  He had not even begun to grow a beard yet.  She could tell that he did not yet have the voice of a man.  It was Aragorn’s voice that sought her but she could not answer him, she could not look away, “My lady?”  Haleth had died for her, how could she just leave him there, alone, cold?

Suddenly a voice she had thought never to hear again, called out, “Éowyn!”   She jumped from her stupor, and turned, and looking beyond Aragorn she saw her brother, Éomer.  She sprang from her seat and ran to him.  He embraced her, and suddenly she felt glad and safe.  Nothing could be bad when her older brother was there.  She looked up into his face, which was graced with a rare wide smile.  Éomer’s smile seemed to shower her with his love, and she wondered anew how she had survived without him.

Somehow she found her voice, “I did not think you would return”.  He gave her a piercing look and said, “You ought not let Gríma’s lies poison your thoughts sister.” Looking at her white face he said, “What were you doing during the battle – beating the door down to get out?”

She looked into his eyes, warm and expressive, and wondered how he could not read her weakness in her face.  It seemed to her that it was writ large there for all to see, it must be.  A wave of tiredness hit her as she tried to speak, and she started to sink under it, drowning in her own exhaustion.  She felt Éomer catch her, and carry her to a chair, and started to remonstrate him. “Éomer, do not do this, there is still work to be done – go give help to those who need it.”  She felt shamed – she was uninjured and her brother was spending time on her while men died around them.

“You have done it again sister.  Is it so much to ask that you not work yourself to a standstill?  For once, my dear sister, you will do as I order you.”  In a tone she recognised as one he used when one of his Rider’s was uncooperative, “You will rest, and then you will eat, and then you will rest further.  You shall not sicken from neglect.” 

She acquiesced, but now that she was without a task she could not hold her feelings down.  The faces of all the men, and children she had watched die sped before her, and she started to cry for them, for all the loss, for herself and her breaking heart.  At first she made no sound, but soon her weeping grew in intensity, until she started to sob, taking in great gasps of air.

Éomer was speaking quietly with Aragorn and the elf, but it was the dwarf who heard her cries, and came beside her, asking “My lady?”  Gimli, who was gruff and yet kind – reminding her of an old friend of Théodred’s, who had helped her learn the blade.  At Gimli’s question, Éomer turned.

Éowyn felt her brother’s arms lock around her, and wept harder.  Some part of her realised that she was very close to hysteria, but that did nothing to aid her faltering self-restraint.  She babbled into his shoulder, “It’s been so hard, with you gone… and Théodred… and the waiting… all alone in the dark.”  Éomer stroked her shoulders, and made soothing noises, but somehow she knew that he didn’t understand.

Her brother, with his expressive eyes and his deep voice and his lack of subtlety - she loved him more than anything on this earth.  He would fight forever to protect her, but he did not understand.  He couldn’t understand – he had never been one to sit, inactive.  He could not see how much she hated herself, for always letting others fight for her.  How it seemed to rend her spirit from her body to watch as all of Rohan fought – for her – and she stayed, bound by his very love for her, when she could be fighting for them.  And yet as she loved him, she must bear it with at least the appearance of gratitude.

She felt a hand on her chin, forcing her head up.  Aragorn was close to her – his hand remained under her chin, warming her skin.  He spoke, “Look into my eyes, Éowyn”.  It was like her brother’s tone– she knew to obey that voice.  Slowly she grew calmer as she looked into his deep blue eyes.  She had a focus; something to distract her from… everything.  Her sobs ceased, and her breathing returned to normal.  His eyes looked, almost familiar, somehow, but… whatever it was, it would not come to her.

She was calm now.  She stood, blushing, but was saved the rigours of an explanation as a messenger came to call her to her Uncle.  She curtsied, but as she walked away Aragorn caught her arm.  He stood the required distance away from her, but his hand warmed her cold skin through her dress.  She wondered if this man knew what heat he possessed, what fire he gave to her.  She dared not guess what it was she felt for him, for fear that she would discover a depth of feeling she could not even imagine.  She could not even think what to call it.

He looked her in the eyes, and spoke softly, “Do not be ashamed.  You have nothing to be ashamed of.”   She could give no answer, but merely looked at him in gratitude.  How did he know her so well?  How could he see her so clearly?  This stranger, with the deep eyes and voice, the strong hands and broad shoulders, how could he guess her feelings so accurately, when her uncle and brother barely suspected the storms she carried within?

When she had thought him dead, she had felt as if another piece of her heart would break.  Another good man dead – dead before she even knew what she felt for him.  Not that it mattered, she had reminded herself sternly.  His heart was already spoken for – she could tell.  Though the woman might be gone to the Undying Lands, his heart still lay with her.

But Éowyn could feel herself slipping, into what she did not know.  Aragorn was a man already bound, and her heart could not contain another wound.  The well she carried within her would overflow, after years of being kept down, and she would be unable to resist.  And he was binding her to him, not intentionally, but with every kind word, every piercingly glance she felt herself sinking.  She did not know how much further she could sink without harm.

Hinge of Despair

Éowyn hated Harrowdale - she always had. Grima Wormtongue had come from Harrowdale, and sometimes she wondered if that was what had twisted him so.  The shadow of the Dead seemed to lie about the land, and she did not doubt that it could ravage the heart.  Had she not seen it?

Yet when Aragorn had come to Dunharrow, she had ceased to feel that shadow.  For moments she had been happy, glad to see him and his men, glad to house them and care for them, glad to help him in some small way.  What a child she had been – her happiness had not lasted.

The men had gone to parley with Saruman, an endeavour that seemed to her pointless.  Yet her opinion mattered little, and so she had led the women and children to Dunharrow.  They followed her without question – she had won their loyalty in the caves of Helm’s Deep.  When they had arrived she had seen the folk settled, and then she had waited.  For two days she had paced the ground at Dunharrow, desperate to hear word of her kin.

On the evening of the second day Aragorn had arrived, with a whole host of men at his back, and Legolas and Gimli at his right hand.  She had been glad… No, she had been joyful to see him.  Dunharrow was buried deep in the White Mountains, and she had felt cut off from the wind and the sky, surrounded by the unfamiliar peaks.  When she had seen him, somehow she had been reassured that she was not forgotten by the world outside; some knew that Éowyn lived still, though she was hidden in deep shadow.

Éowyn had seen the eyes of the women following them, and yet she had only been able to look at Aragorn.  Ragged though he was, when he looked at her, she could feel something within her answering a call - her blood thrilled when he was near He could ask her to follow him to the very ends of Middle-Earth and she would follow.  This knowledge left her breathless, and almost a little afraid. She felt close to him, and yet she did not know him. Stranger he might be, but he was not strange; he was a thing higher and nobler than any she had yet known.

And yet, when that great host had ridden into Harrowdale, she had not deluded herself.  In her vague fancies Aragorn would have ridden so far and so fast merely from a desire to see her face and hear her voice.  But it was not so, she had known it could not be so.  And yet, and she stifled a sob at the thought, it had never struck her that he would come to Dunharrow for so dreadful an aim as the Paths of the Dead.  All who walked those paths were lost to the darkness; and so it would be with him.  Another good man dead.

She pleaded with him not to travel the evil paths, or if he must, to let her ride in his following.  She could not bear to think of him riding away in the morning, knowing what fate lay ahead of him.  He refused, and for a moment she saw herself through his eyes – a lovesick child, thirsting for battle – and almost despised herself; but she rejected that judgement. She wasn’t like that. 

Later she stood by the window, and looked out at the sky.  The moon was riding high above the clouds – she had always loved the moon. Boromir of Gondor had told her of Ithilien, the moonland, and she had dreamt of living in that fair country.  That dream had passed away in the long dark of Théoden’s enchantment; now that very country that she had once pinned her dreams upon was under threat, and she could not even help in its deliverance. She must wait, and prepare food and beds for the few who survived the carnage.  No one dreamed that her heart strained to be gone from this place, that it beat in her breast like a terrified bird at the thought of the days and weeks she must wait to hear if any had survived.  Éomer might lie dead on the field of battle while she argued with the seneschal about cheese.

A footstep behind her alerted her to someone’s presence.  It was Aragorn.  She turned away, not wanting to see his face, not wanting to be reminded of what she knew she could not have.  He came close behind her, and spoke, “My lady, I would not have you think that I doubt your abilities or your strength.  I truly believe that your place is here, not wasted on the battlefield. You are a symbol for all of Rohan to follow

She turned to him and said quietly, “I can’t be a symbol.  Would you have me stand by and watch while you all die?  Must I feel nothing?  Must I do nothing, when I have the strength and the skill?  When I trained for battle since I was a girl?”   She stepped away from him to look at the moon once more “I have lost much to this war.  I have given everything.  Would you have me stay quiet and still while what little there is left is lost to me also?  I can not do it.” 

He said nothing.  Always before he had understood her instantly, without any further explanation on her part, and yet now he would not meet her eyes.  She wanted to make him see, and so she said in truth, “It’s killing me.”  Yet still he would not look at her and she realised that he did understand. 

But he would do nothing.  He said haltingly, “Your duty binds you, my lady.”  And then of all things, she saw pity in his eyes as he turned away.

She felt the desperation swell within her, tensing her muscles, closing her throat.  She could not stand under such weight – she could not bear it.  She could not see or hear anything – she was bound within her own head.  Never had she felt so confined, so tight within her own body.  Everything inside her ached, and all she wanted was to be oblivious.  She wanted to be free of the dreadful space that bound her to the earth and to herself; if she could be free of it then she might find happiness.

Her throat felt tight, as though a strong pair of hands were slowly crushing it.  She was straining to breathe, one hand bracing her chest while the other scraped against the pillar beside her.  She could not get a grip, she could not hold on to anything.  She could hear her nails scraping against wood and the dreadful rasp of her breath but nothing else.  She was alone, unutterably alone.  Yet she could not escape the aching dark within her – there was no sweet swoon to rescue her.  There was nothing to rescue her.

At that thought something in her shattered, and she turned and strained her arms against one of the pillars, pushing against it as hard as she could, until her muscles collapsed and her breath came in gasps.  She stared at her palms for several minutes; callused and strong, they were not the hands of a Gondorian or Elvish noblewoman. 

She heard the footsteps of two men cross the hall behind her and awoke from her reverie.  She squared her shoulders, lifting her head high and walked stiffly to her chambers.  Something dreadful wanted to claw its way out of her mouth but she clenched her teeth against it.  No good could come of giving it life.

She sat on her soft bed, laid her head on the pillows; but there was to be no rest for her that night, though she ached for it.

Aragorn had asked her to arm the halfling who was esquire to the King.  She had laughed to herself at the irony – she was fitting a halfling for battle, while she must wait quietly in the house. It had taken much searching but she had found armour and a light shield.  She had shown them to the hobbit, and had seen the light shine in his eyes.  He did not wish to be left behind either

Yet she had not found armour only for him: in her room there lay now a chain-mail shirt and helmet. One last duty remained before she could call herself ready for battle, and so she sat and cleaned her sword.  The cloth slit smoothly up the blade, beautiful silver-blue steel that made the weapon a thing of beauty.  She smiled to see it.  It would do very well.

She would no longer be a face without a heart – she would ride behind her Uncle and defend him.  Perhaps her life might earn some value before it came to its end.  Her people did not need her in Dunharrow.  Their headwomen controlled everything; she was just the lady of the hall, filling her belly with food that could be eaten by others, taking service that could be put to better use.  She would go and do something that might be of use to them. 

Shadowed

Legolas rode beside his brother-in-arms, to the Paths of the Dead.  It was a name of ill repute, and it had caused the Lady Éowyn much distress when she heard where they would ride.  It pained Legolas still to see the shadow that lay upon her; he knew it was not simply her love for Isildur’s Heir that tormented her heart.

She did not like Dunharrow – indeed she hated it so much that she was in a constant war with herself.  Her duty would not allow her to satisfy her desire to ride from Harrowdale on swift wings, yet to describe it as a desire was false.  It was a dreadful yearning that seemed to stretch out of her skin.  Legolas could sense it – yet somehow he had hoped that his intuition was wrong.  As that very morning had shown it was an idle hope.

Aragorn had plainly sensed her torment also, for his face was marked with sorrow; it was rigid with it.  Though the man’s seat was more comfortable now that he had his own horse once again, Legolas could sense his disquiet.  Knowing that they had a dark and difficult task ahead of them, he thought to ease his friend’s sorrow, and so he approached him, pacing Arod beside Roheryn.

Aragorn was loath to speak, and so Legolas opened the conversation.  “I must confess, my friend, that my heart is troubled for the Lady Éowyn.”  Legolas noticed that Aragorn’s grip on the reins had tightened.  He said nothing, however, and so the elf continued, “I know my friend, that you have a share of fear in this, though you will not betray it.”

Aragorn looked at him in surprise, and said in a low tone, “I ought not to have attempted to conceal it from you.  My heart forebodes that some great evil shall befall her.”  He paused, “Some greater evil than those she has already seen.  And yet it must not be seen that I have too much care for this.”  Legolas knew then that they had reached the root of the matter – Elladan and Elrohir travelled with their company.

Aragorn spoke suddenly, “And yet, you too saw her last night my friend – such desperation screams from her face, such fear.  She begged for my aid; she believed that I would help her, and I turned away from her.  I have left her in such…” His voice trailed off.

Legolas saw pain in his friend’s face, and waited for him to continue.  Taking a deep breath, Aragorn said, “It is not right to me to leave her there.  You have seen her, Legolas; she is a woman brave and fair.  Indeed she is the fairest mortal ever I have seen.  Yet to have done otherwise is impossible – my heart does not stray.”

Legolas spoke; he hoped in comfort, “You did not create her despair, Aragorn.  What ails her began long before this day.”

“You have the right of it, my friend, loss and grief and too early and intimate a knowledge of men’s evil has done that.  And yet of whom did she remind you last night, Legolas?”  And then the elf knew what was torturing his friend.

“Boromir.  She reminded me of Boromir”. 

Aragorn nodded. “That is why I fear for her, Legolas.  We know what despair drove Boromir to do – what could it do to her, who has walked a lonelier and colder road than he?  And there can be no doubt in my mind that I have helped her along that road as much as any other.”

Legolas looked at his friend, “And you care for her.”

Aragorn sighed. “Yes, I care for her.  How could I not?  She is but a girl, a child, and yet she has withstood so much.  She has a pure heart, and a kind one.”  He paused. “I would have protected her if I could, for she deserves better than she has been given.” 

Legolas understood.  Aragorn had never known family, yet now he had found a woman who he could love as a sister.  Without words he had pledged himself to protect Éowyn, who shone like a new forged blade in the shadows of the halls.  And by his very love, by his protection, he might have driven her to some worse extremity. 

***

And when they came to Minas Tirith, and the battle had been won, they heard tales of Éowyn’s deeds: how she had defeated the Witch-King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgul, and so had fallen to darkness. 

When he and Gimli were able to visit the hobbits in the Houses of Healing Merry had enthused about the Lady Éowyn, his love for her only equalled by his admiration of her bravery.  He would not describe the terror that had been the Ringwraith, but told how Éowyn had stood before it without fear.  Later Merry had visited her, dragging Legolas in tow, in hopes of raising her spirits and cheering her.

She teased Merry gently, and yet Legolas could feel her straining to retain that mask of good cheer.  He could see the effort, though Merry perhaps could not.  She had not awoken to forgetfulness, as they all had hoped.  He hoped she had not broken – she deserved life.  If she only had the spirit to live he did not doubt that she would find an occupation.  And yet perhaps she could only be healed through such love as she had never received.  He hoped if it were so that she would find it – he did not wish to see her spirit vanish like snow on the mountain.

In Twilight

Éowyn lay on the bed, twisted up in the blankets, but lacking the strength to move.  The healers said that she was well!  She could not lift her head, her heart felt like a stone in her breast, and yet they said she was healed.  They knew nothing. 

Tears started to flow down her cheeks as she cursed the fate that had led her here.  Aragorn should not have healed her.  He should at least have respected her right to make such an end as she wished. Why did he resurrect her for a life in which there was nothing for her to live for?  Perhaps once she had dreamt of his rescue; now she cursed him for it.  What right had he to put her in his debt when he refused her friendship? 

If, by some miracle, they survived this war, she could only return to Rohan and wait for death.  There seemed to be little else she could do.  Once she had dreamed of the moonland, of peace, but those dreams had vanished like wisps of smoke in the long dark of her uncle’s enchantment.

She knew that the women whispered about her. She was the spurned lover of the mysterious king who had come and gone; she was the bravest woman who had ever breathed; she was a fragile beauty whose gentle spirit had all but broken under the Witch-King’s assault.  They knew nothing.

She could find no courage in what she had done, though she supposed others might.  She had withstood fear for so long that it had been no great feat for her to resist the fear the Witch-King had conceived in her.  And yet she feared that he had taken her soul even in his defeat.  And as for Aragorn, perhaps she had loved him – she did not know. She could not remember what it felt like to feel hope.

He had come to sit by her bed, late in the evening, the day after the Pelennor.  He had thought her asleep, until she, not being aware of his presence, had summoned the strength to turn over in her bed and reach for a handkerchief.  She had cried for so long that her skin was raw.  He had looked her in the eyes for a long moment – she had been shocked.

He had touched her face, gently, stroked the tearstains on her cheek, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  He stooped to kiss her brow, and walked from the room.  She had called out, “Fare thee well,” but was unsure if he heard her.  That night, at last, she had slept without nightmares.

Éowyn stood against her door, trembling, though she did not know why.  She had been granted the right to walk in the gardens, though not to ride out in battle; but to gain this right she had had to appeal to the Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor.

The Steward was the real reason for her confusion, though she did not want to admit it.  He was... disconcerting.  Young, handsome, polite: there was no real reason for him to make her anxious.  He had been kind, and concerned for her welfare, though she was nothing to him.

His eyes were keen and yet they were warm – she knew not how it was possible.  Stranger still, somehow she had liked the feeling of his eyes upon her.  She felt herself blushing, and put a hand to her cheek.  She was uncomfortable in even thinking such things – the Steward was in no way unusual.  For sure he was not the first handsome, nor the first polite man she had ever known.

But he had called her beautiful.  The only other man who had ever called her fair was Gríma.  Was it possible that this Faramir saw her in the same way Grima had?  She shivered.  She could not be trapped by another.  She would not be trapped by anyone.  He wanted her to walk with him in his gardens, but how could she know if that was the full extent of his desire?  Though he might not be of the same kind as Grima if he thought her beautiful he might seek to bind her to him in some way – after all, that was the habit of men.  Beauty was to be possessed, caged for its own safety. She clenched her fists; he would not bind her to him, not while she had strength left.

Éowyn cursed the fear that made her suspect all she met.  There was no reason for it, no reason to fear a man who both her own heart and every person she had met in this cold city told her was honourable.  So he had called her beautiful.  What of it?  He would not be the first man in the world to say many gallant if meaningless things.

It was mere foolishness; of a type she had always despised, to consider his words as meaning anything.  Was she to be disconcerted, to have her peace robbed, all because of a few words?  Her strength of mind was indeed prestigious – her brother fought the hordes of Mordor, and yet it was the speech of a man she hardly knew that took up all her thought.  Her heart might lie in fragments on the floor, but that would not stop her from contemplating the compliments of a handsome man.

She lay down on her bed, torn between her fears and recriminations.  For all her pride, she could not hold back the thought that he was handsome, that his face and shape and length were all as good as ever she had seen.  Her broken heart had not stopped her from noticing how well he could please a woman’s eye.  She scorned herself; how Théodred would have laughed if he could have seen her now.  Éowyn, cold lady of Rohan, huddled on her bed, quivering, and for nothing but a few paltry words.  Any of the Rohirrim would be amazed at such ‘wooing’; words were not their usual weapons when it came to courtship.

Éowyn goaned and determined to sleep; anything was better than such a whirl of thoughts.  Indeed, perhaps if she stopped pulling her every thought to pieces, she might actually find that peace she wished for.  None of it meant anything – and she would bring herself further pain by assuming it did.  She would sleep, and she would welcome anything, even the face and voice of this Steward, if it would drive the darkness away.

The Threshold

Éowyn held her head high as she picked her steps; she should at least look like she knew where she went.  She knew that leaving her room was probably ill advised, but cared not.  She had heard the housemaids gossiping, and would not have them think that she had secluded herself for Aragorn’s sake.  No one should think her heart was broken – the Lord Faramir least of all.

She shook her head at her own reflections; it seemed that pride was the only feeling she had left.  She could not even fear for Éomer; all she felt was a dull resignation to his loss.  She thought Éomer had spoken of some slight hope, but could not remember with any clarity.  For herself she could not see it – a few thousand swords could never be enough to defeat the great malice to the East.

At times an ache would come over her; she longed to see Éomer or Théodred or any of the folk of Meduseld.  All faces in this White City were strange and Éowyn felt lost among them.  One night she had dreamt of Théodred, dreamt that he lived still, and when she awoke hope had kindled briefly in her heart.  But it was not to be.  So many of the men she had known since childhood had fallen.  She could not think of them, save late at night when she was alone and none heard her.

At last she had reached the gardens, realizing that they had been so hard to find because she had gone in the wrong direction when she had begun her search.  Éowyn sighed at this reminder that she was far from the halls she knew, and stepped into the gardens.  Sunlight rested lightly upon them and Éowyn lifted her face to it with pleasure.  There was no wind and the light was gentle, not harsh as it was in her homeland. 

Slowly she made her way through the gardens, pausing briefly when she saw simbelmynë.  She could not dwell on it – she was not strong enough – were she to let her grief in she would never rise from under it.  She walked past the white flowers.

After wandering for several minutes she came across Lord Faramir.  He sat on a bench of white stone, his eyes fixed on a book, and yet Éowyn thought he was not reading what lay between its covers.  He had that sort of look, of a man whose thoughts are far from him.  The sun shone through the white blossoms in the tree above him, and he looked very peaceful.

She had hoped to avoid his sight but he happened to look up, and Éowyn could not with courtesy retreat from his company.  She sat beside him on and looked about her, or rather, she looked at everything save the man who sat beside her.  Though he did not sit any closer than propriety demanded she had the most curious sensation of his warmth beside her.  That side of her body seemed sensitive to his every movement.

To distract herself from that curious sensation, she asked him of the book he read.  Surprise, though she thought pleasant surprise, was evident in his tone as he said, “It is the tale if the fall of Gondolin and the Elf-maid Idril.”

Éowyn smiled and said, “That is a tale I know well.  My tutor taught to me when I was younger.  Tell me, for I have long wished to be satisfied on this point: Idril’s choice of Tuor was the correct one, was it not?”

He looked at her curiously and said, “I would think so, without any doubt, Lady Éowyn.  Has anyone ever told you different?”

“My tutor believed that had she chosen Maeglin, Idril would have been happier, and Gondolin might not have fallen.  I could never see it, however.”

Faramir looked at her with disbelief. “A most unusual tutor you had, to be sure.”

Éowyn attempted to smile but her throat had closed over.  It was no happy memory.  Silence fell between them, seeming to vibrate through the gardens.  Éowyn was unspeakably grateful to Faramir when he began to ask her about Rohan – she could not have borne that silence a moment longer.

The sun had worn past midday when he asked Éowyn of her childhood dreams.  At first she denied that she had ever had any such thing, but at last he prevailed upon her to answer.  Éowyn’s voice was almost dreamy as she said, “For many years I wanted to be a Shieldmaiden, like my grandmother Morwen Steelsheen.  And then when my Uncle fell ill, I began to imagine that some day I might live in peace in the Moonland.  But my Uncle did not recover, and my hope vanished with his health.”

The Steward was staring at her with such a look of shock that Éowyn blushed. “Surely you knew of Théoden’s illness?  The eyes of the White Tower are not blind, is it not so?”

All the colour drained from Faramir’s face and he said, “Indeed they are not my lady.  Did you not know the part it played in my father’s demise?”

Éowyn blushed again, but from shame, and said, “Indeed my lord I did not, or I should never have…”

“My father was goaded into madness by the Dark Lord and his own grief, and so set himself to be burned in a pyre and I along with him

“My lord… please…” The words broke from Éowyn’s lips unwilling – she did not wish to beg.

 “My lady, I would not have you weep for me.” 

The tears had come unbidden to her eyes, and Éowyn touched her cheek in surprise.

“I ought not have burdened you with my sorrows.  Will you accept my apologies?”

Éowyn looked at him in shock and tried to gather her thoughts,

 “My lord I do not disdain the office of a friend.  It is simply so… I am sure there are others who could be more kindly to your grief than I.”

“And yet it is only you who has ever seemed to understand, Lady Éowyn.  Other men, my friends, have tried; but they cannot know what it is to feel such grief, and I seek no man’s pity.”

Éowyn was dumbfounded, and she could not meet his gaze.  She felt transparent, and prayed that he would ask her nothing further - she did not have the strength of mind to know what ought not be said.  But Lord Faramir spoke no more of these things, and only offered her his arm as they walked about the gardens.

Healing

Éowyn lay under a tree, her bright head cushioned on a cloak.  Faramir was glad that she seemed better.  The first day she had agreed to walk with him he had thought her almost wraith-like;  she was so thin and pale.  He had ached to see the tears that scarred her face when she heard his tale, and regretted the words that spilled out of him so surprisingly.  It was, he supposed, the shock at meeting someone who might understand.

He often coaxed a smile from her, but only on this day had she laughed.  As they walked by one of the ornamental pools in the gardens she had spied the red fish that swam there.  The fish clustered around her shadow as they always did, and today, for some reason, the sight had made her laugh.  He still remembered how glad her face had looked.

Faramir had laughed to himself as he remembered the words he had spoken to Frodo.  Men of Gondor loved the Rohirrim, for they were fair and valiant.  True it was, but his words had touched on something far greater than he had at that time understood.  Éowyn’s face hovered before him even in sleep and her voice sang a constant refrain in his mind’s ear.  But it was her words that fascinated him the most – she spoke haltingly of her grief for her cousin and her uncle, and yet at times she seemed to hint at some other great grief.  He wished he could solve the mystery of the despair that had sent her to the Pelennor.  Indeed he wished he could solve the mystery of her happiness – he wished to hear her laugh again.

He could not deny that she had lightened his own heart considerably.  On a day when the loss of his brother, indeed of his family, had rested on him with more than usual weight, she had spoken.  Éowyn had stayed near him throughout the day, perhaps guessing at his grief, and after they had sat together for several minutes in silence she had spoken.  “He was a good man.”

Faramir had stared at her in surprise as she continued, her voice halting.  “I only met him twice, but he seemed all that was good to me.”

He was curious, but said nothing as she continued.  “He was always a friend of Theodred, and came to my Name Day Feast, to represent Gondor.  I never understood why your father would send one of his most important captains, but I was grateful for it.  Your brother saved me from having to make a choice among all the guests for my first dance.  An impolitic choice could have caused trouble for my Uncle.”

Faramir laughed.  “My brother was always eager to save a beautiful woman from any trouble, ” but regretted his words when Éowyn shied away from him almost imperceptibly.

“He came to Meduseld last year to ask the gift of a horse.  He seemed changed to my eyes, more tired than he had been.”  Éowyn folded her hands in her lap and said, “I mourned for him when I heard of his end.”

Her words touched him in a way that no one else’s had, and he spoke from the great shadow that lay over his grief, “Yet for all his strengths, my brother fell to Sauron’s temptation in the end.  He failed in his duty.”  Éowyn touched his chin, the first time she had ever touched him, and said, “My lord, I know from Merry’s tales that your brother found his way back in the end.  Perhaps despair did drive him from himself, but it could not keep him.  He died as himself, and with courage and honour.”

Faramir wished he could bury his head in her hair, lose himself in her, but he could only kiss the hand she reached out to him.  He pressed it to his cheek and held it close as he felt himself weep.  He felt her stroke his hair, but shyly, as though she were uncomfortable.  When at last he could meet her eyes he said, “Forgive me, my lady, for burdening you once more with my sorrows.”

“My brother wept with me for Théodred; my Uncle wept when my mother died.  There is no shame in it, my lord.  He was your brother.”

She drowsed now beside him, and though he felt the air grow chilly he had no wish to wake her.  He suspected she had not been sleeping well – indeed, if her dreams were anything like his own he did not think it was possible that she could be.  Yet, now that the moon had risen above them, he felt obliged to wake her.

Faramir had heard her low cries of distress but it was only when she awoke that he realised she had been dreaming.  She stared at him, her eyes wide and fearful.  “Where am I?”

“The Houses of Healing.  In Minas Tirith.”  She was, he realised, trembling, and he thought to take her hand to soothe her, but she pulled away from him.  She wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks and laughed bitterly.  “Would you believe my countrymen think me cold?  I have wept more in these past days than ever before.”

“Éowyn, please, what is it?  What ails you?”

She put both hands to her face and seemed to take a moment to gather strength.  Faramir moved closer, to offer comfort if she would take it; but one slender hand warded him off.  Éowyn seemed to set her spine as she faced him, and her face was colder than he had ever seen it.  “Forgive me, my lord.  I was simply… remembering.”

“Perhaps…were you to speak of it…”

She laughed again, but it was not the joyful music he had heard earlier.  It was the cold mirth of the woman he had spoken with that first day. 

“You have honoured me with your tale my lord, so I shall gift you with mine, sad as it is.”

Éowyn took a deep breath, steadying herself, and said, “Speaking of my Name Day reminded me of other things…things I do not wish to remember.  I do not know how I should speak of this… My uncle had an advisor…”

“Grima Wormtongue.”

“How did you know?”

“Boromir spoke of him to my father and myself – he disliked him.”

“Your brother had the right of it.  Grima was a traitor.  He worked in league with Saruman; he betrayed his King and all our people for a few petty prizes.”

“Did he injure you, Éowyn?”

“Injure me… He followed me, stalking me as a cat stalks a mouse.  I could always feel his eyes upon me, sometimes even his stinking breath!  He was full of lusts – for power over my Uncle, over Rohan…”

“And over you.”

“How did you know?”

“Your face gives it away.”

“The things he used to say… I knew well enough what it was he wanted, though he never went so far as to state his intent openly.  And he would not leave me be, even now he will not leave me in peace.  Every night I see him, I remember…”

“The worst.  What did he do, my lady?”

“He came upon me once alone.  He tried…he tried to…”

“Force himself upon you.”

“Aye.  And though I warded him off, and he bears the scar of my defense till this day, after that I always knew what he could do.  I have never felt any security since that day…but I could not leave Théoden in the clutches of such a creature.”

“Your courage is great, my lady.”

“No greater than any other’s, my Lord.  I have never seen courage in myself, nor felt it.  I can only remember fear.  And I still do not understand why he did that.  Why would he prey upon me so?  What kind of man could have taken pleasure in my fear as he did?”

“Some are pained so by the sight of something higher than themselves, my lady, that they only wish to befoul it.”

Éowyn sighed.  “Well perhaps he has succeeded in that aim, if in nothing else.  There is nothing left of me except what has been twisted by fear.”

“You are wrong.”

Éowyn stared at him – her tears had left dry tracks on her cheeks.  Faramir spoke with energy, “It is not my usual practise to contradict a lady, but I will not hear you belie yourself.  Can you not see?  Merry is your devoted squire, the King spoke only well of you, and indeed even such as have known you for only a brief time think well of you.”  She had flinched as he spoke of the king but he paid it no mind. “All love you, Éowyn – can you believe us all so mistaken in judgement as to rate you higher than you are, if such a thing were possible?”

She shook her head at his words, and seemed to be blushing when she looked at him.  “You are too good to me, my lord.”

“Such a thing is impossible.”

Silence fell between them, and at last Éowyn stood and said, “I must retire, my lord.  Ioreth tells me the night-dew is bad for invalids.”

He kissed her hand once more and held for rather longer than was proper.  Éowyn stared at him; she did not seem to know what to say.  Eventually she managed to stutter out a few words. “I must…I mean, I am not…Goodnight my lord.”  She walked away from him with her usual grace, and he was left to think on what she had told him as he walked the gardens.

Upon the Brink

Éowyn’s arms clamped to her sides, in one last effort to keep herself from shivering.  A cold wind blew from the North, and with a kind of despairing pride Éowyn pretended that she did not feel it.  How could the wind injure her, the famous cold lady of Rohan?  Did she not set a chill in the flesh of all that kept company with her?  Her hair blew all around her, whipping in the wind and lashing her cheeks.  She wished it were not so dark; she wished she were not alone.  Faramir had stood with her for most of the morning but he had left on some errand or another, and though they had spoken little, Éowyn longed to have him by her.

But she would not flee; she would not allow the vapours shadowing her thoughts to send her back to the Houses in a flurry of hair and skirts.  If, as she somehow sensed, this were the day when their Doom would be decided, then she would see it; she would stand and face it.  At least if she stood to see the darkness she would know her fate – it would not be a shock.

She shuddered, remembering the words of the Ringwraith – “He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye.”  Could she stand such a thing?  Could she face it with honour?  That would not be the sweet oblivion she had craved, rather it would be a journey into greater torment, a death in which she would suffer more than ever she had in life.

Éowyn felt something like a shriek rise up inside her at the thought, but she repressed it.  Her denial counted for nothing – if her end were not now, well then it was still to come: the readiness was all.  She shrugged her shoulders at the thought and clung desperately to the thought of Éomer – her brother fighting perhaps even now, and with her no use to him.  If only she could die beside him, her life ending with the last of her kin!

She heard footsteps behind her, and clenched her arms around her waist.  Éowyn would not show any weakness in front of him, not again.  She ought to have learnt by now not to expose herself as she had that night in the gardens.  She could not stand to see the look in Faramir’s eyes as he looked at her, pained for her pain, grieved for her grief.  Éowyn would not be obliged to any man; she would not feign gratitude when the heart was absent.

He stood now behind her – it must be him.  She recognised the feeling – that sense of heat on her skin that came whenever he was near.  There was no other who could conjure such a sensation in her. 

“I have a gift for you, my lady.”

“I thank you, but…forgive me, but I care not for gifts.”

Éowyn shivered once more in the wind, and Faramir, stifling a laugh perhaps, said, “I think you shall care for this one.”

“If it is your will.”

She did not turn to face him, staring still at the darkness where her brother fought.  Éowyn could not look in his eyes – she dreaded his comfort, his kindness.  She was ice – though she might snap in two, at least she would keep her shape.  She could not melt.

Faramir came close behind her, his heat searing her back, kindling a fire in her flesh.  Oh, how she longed to push him away, to tell him that this heat was a danger to her, but she did not know how.  Her tongue sat heavy in her mouth, her lips stuck together.  He moved, and then she felt something soft and warm settle around her under his strong hands.  They lay now on her shoulders, and she nearly swooned beneath their weight, but distracted herself and kept some of her wits by looking at the mantle he had placed about her.  “It’s beautiful!”  She had not meant to say anything, and regretted it as she felt the rumble of his voice behind her.

“It was my mother’s.”

Éowyn was not unaware of the implications of such a gift, and would have said something, but Faramir was not finished.  “I would see you warm again, Lady Éowyn.  Forgive me – there is a clasp.”

His hands came around her to fasten the silver broach that would hold the mantle up.  She stood, a rigid column of flesh inside his arms, all but pressed back against his flesh.  His touch was lighter than any of the fighting men she had known, yet when his fingers caught in the hollow of her collar-bone, she could not restrain a slight gasp, that small portion of skin suddenly the focus of all her feeling.

Faramir paused, and Éowyn felt his breath come and go against her hair, some small part of it penetrating the mass of strands and touching her neck.  She was trembling, but could not pretend, even to herself, that it came from the cold.  Fear started to build in her; he had to let her go, he had to.  No good could come to her were he to hold her any longer.  The heat he roused in her skin would burn through, would reach her heart and melt the ice that had been her safety for so long.

Yet he said nothing and soon resumed his task, his fingers deft.  He did not touch her again.  He moved to stand beside her; Éowyn was limp with relief.  She had come too close to his heat; she had learned long before the safety that lay in the cold.  It was not only the body that became numb when chilled.  Her veins had been filled with ice for so long that the shock of warmth might kill her outright.

All this Éowyn knew to be true, and yet…she could not help a small feeling of regret that he had moved away.  Each way she turned she faced some danger, and at least within the circle of his arms it was not all pain.  Though she trembled and felt fear, there was a fragile anticipation weaved around her feelings, so that she knew not where one ended and the other began.

She would not stand the silence that stretched between them, and, in the grip of an icy dread that he would speak and tell her what she could not hear, she spoke, hardly knowing what she said.  “Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?  And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he road away.”

She was a fool – Faramir would not wait for an opportunity of her making, but would speak his heart whether she would hear it or no. 

“Seven days.  But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, nor lose so soon what I have found.”

“Lose what you have found, lord?  I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”  She could have lied to him, she could tell him that he held her heart as perhaps she held his, but yet Éowyn cared too much for him, felt her own happiness to be too involved in his, to lie to him, even as such an extremity as this. 

His eyes were sad as he looked at her and said, “Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom.”

They stood in silence for moments unnumbered, the only mark of the time the instant when by some chance her hand met his, his warmth anchoring her to him.  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she waited, scarcely daring to allow breath cross her lips.  And then a great Shadow rose to the East, and the stones of the city heaved one great sigh, and Éowyn felt some whisper of life shoot through her, and wondered anew that she stood where she was.

“It reminds me of Númenor.”

His voice echoed in her ears, and she stared at him, a sudden fear grasping her.  “Of Númenor?”

“Yes, of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?  Darkness Unescapable?”  And it darted through her with the speed of an arrow that she did not want to leave this world, not yet.  She felt the warmth of his hand afresh and drew closer to him, to that heat that threatened to burn her until there was nothing left of Éowyn but what had joined with him – though she might fear such an end, at least it was feeling.  She would rather be seared by his nearness then blown away with the chill wind. 

“No.  It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!”  He smiled at her as he spoke, a great happiness in his voice – she could not but smile with him, though it felt strange on her face.  She was facing him, her front all but pressed against his chest, and she looked up at him, trying to siphon some part of his joy into her own self.  And then he stooped and kissed her brow.

They stood together on the walls a little longer, and heard the eagle sing of their victory, and voices rise in celebration in the city.  Yet Éowyn could feel no joy – what, after all, had she won? 

Faramir took her hand to lead her back to the Houses and she heard herself say, “It was not my wyrd after all.”

He stared at her, and she continued, avoiding his eyes.  “In the battle I thought it had found me at last…and I was happy.  It was over.  I do not know what I should do.”

She saw sorrow etched deeply on his face and said, “Forgive me – I do not mean to taint your joy…I am too accustomed to speak my thoughts aloud.”

He kissed her hand.  “I can have no joy,  my lady,  if you are not well.”

She smiled at him, smiling for him.  “I am glad of your friendship,  my lord – doubt not that it gives me happiness.”

“My friendship?”

His eyes darkened and Éowyn moved away from him swiftly, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of the mantle.  When at last she had removed it, she turned to place it in his hands, saying, “Now that the sun shines once again upon the White City I can no longer take advantage of your kindness.”

He closed her fingers around it with his own hands, and Éowyn shivered once again at the contact.  “I would have no other wear it,  my lady.”

Tears stood in her eyes and she said, “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

He walked away from her then and she could not blame him.  Éowyn wished she could call him back, wished she could frame the right words, but none sprang to mind.  She could have wept as the hateful songs of joy echoed around her.

Author’s Note

Wyrd – Doom/fate.  A kind of monster.

In Doubt

Éowyn stared at the mantle, stroked it with a trembling finger, and breathed the soft scent that clung yet to the heavy folds of cloth.  She knew that she clung to it as though it were a love token – as though she were a lover – but her mind would not concentrate on anything else.  Two or three times a day she would return to her room, trace the stars at the throat, and ruminate on this beautiful piece of clothing.

She should have insisted that Faramir take it back – it was a cruelty to keep his gift, and yet tell him that there was no hope.  She wanted to give it back to him – she wanted to make it quite clear that she could not, she did not return his feelings. 

And yet she remembered the look in his eyes when she had tried to return the mantle – the poised blankness as he had veiled all feeling.  She knew what it must have cost him to shield her from his pain – she did not want to ask it of him again.  She could not.  To sense the pain that ripped through him at her rejection, to see it in the subtle changes in his stance, the direction his gaze would take – oh it was more than she could bear.

Éowyn shook her head at her reflections – vanity.  Was it not vanity to assume that such a man would entertain even the slightest thought of her?  Why must she assume that gallantry and kindness were signs of anything but his own fine nature?  It was more than likely that all his attentions to her were the courtesy of one invalid to another.  She should not presume that they were anything else – why waste feeling?  Could she not learn a lesson from her most recent experience?

She laughed shortly, her fingers tightening on the soft material – she did not think Faramir had a betrothed hidden away.  He did not act like a man bound – at least she did not think so, but then her own perceptions had so recently shown themselves to be faulty that she put little trust in them.

She stood with a jolt and walked to the window; this way madness lay.  It did no good to think recriminations at herself, or anyone else.  Idly she wondered when she had learned to distrust her own judgement to such an extent.  She felt as though her thoughts had been stirred together, mixing in ways no one could ever have expected – and now she was left to find some order in the blend.

Oh how tired she was of these eternal circles of thought.  Her spirit was fagged from the endlessly shifting scale that was her heart.  She stared out the window – the sun was shining, the White City radiant.  A wave of impatience ran through her heart; why could she not make a decision?  All were happy in these renewed days save her, and she walked and pined in the gardens, and for what?

What if she was hopelessly fickle?  The other did not want her, and, she began to feel that she did not want him.  Did she not deserve at least some happiness? 

She left her room and walked through the corridors, pondering the word – happiness.  What was happiness?  Could she find it now, or had she lost too much?  They would want her to be happy – Théoden and Théodred.  Éowyn did not have to consider this for a second – it was a marrow deep knowledge.

She picked at her sling with her free hand; what was happiness?  How did one find it?  She snickered suddenly – Théodred had always said she made things hard for herself.  Though he had spoken with regard to her swordplay – her insistence on fighting ‘honourably’ against a foe with more than twice her strength – she felt the truth of those words once again.

Could Faramir make her happy – and could she do the same for him?  There lay the heart of the problem – if it were so, well then none of the rest of it mattered.  Perhaps he did deserve a wife who had not seen as much as she had – who had a heart unstained, innocent of grief or despair.  Perhaps he deserved a wife of Númenorean blood, one who would not leave him to face his last years alone.  But, if she were his choice, if, despite all her apprehensions, he did love her, why could she not accept him?

Éowyn moaned under her breath, cursing her hesitancy.  She could not do it – she could not make herself believe that he might feel anything for her.  After all he had never actually said it.  How was she supposed to know?  He had said some things that might perhaps have meaning…but they were only so many riddles.

She started to walk again, trying to ignore the voices raised in song outside.  For her part, could she love Faramir?  Already she loved him too well to offer him anything less than a full heart – he was too good a man; he deserved nothing less.  And he had heard her speak such words as she had thought would only win her revulsion.  He had understood and, though she did not understand how, he had purged of the shame that had haunted her since the Wormtongue first laid his eyes on her in desire. 

Éowyn stifled a sob; Faramir had made it all right.  What a foolish, simple-minded thought – but it was the truth.  Her mind was not tortured by the past when he was near – he would not let her belie herself, even in thought.

She stumbled into the entrance hall – her thoughts had engrossed her to such an extent that she had missed the step.  An arm caught her elbow and steadied her – she looked up and saw Faramir’s face.  He seemed to smile involuntarily when she met his eyes.  Éowyn flushed deeply, remembering when he had touched her before, the gentle graze of his fingers against her skin.  She thought his hand lingered, but couldn’t be sure – she was no judge of time at such moments.

She turned to face Merry, a smile blossoming easily across her face.  His joy was infectious, even to a mournful creature such as herself.  He was dressed in the livery of Rohan, and Éowyn bent to examine it.  She swallowed a lump in her throat and said, “It becomes you well my squire.”

“Are you not coming to Cormallen, Éowyn?”

She gestured to the arm that hung uselessly across her front.  “I must abide here still Merry – I am at the pleasure of the healers.  Would you tell my brother that by and by I shall come?”

“Of course, but…”

“And if it please you, give my greetings to your kinsmen, and all the rest of your fellowship.”

“But can I tell them you are well?”

She saw a look of sorrow in Merry’s eyes and knew not how to respond – he thought she tarried for grief.  Well perhaps he was right; for certain she had no desire to join in all the rejoicing, or to see Aragorn in all his joy and splendour.  She was hateful. 

Still, she did not want Merry to fear for her, and so she said, “You may tell them…that I am better than might have been expected, though I am not yet well enough to leave these Houses.”

Merry looked unconvinced and might have said more had Faramir not tactfully intervened.  His greetings and messages to the King were to be conveyed, and Éowyn could see Merry straining to remember the exact wording.  She thanked Faramir with her eyes for this reprieve.

Perhaps it was an unlucky chance that Merry saw this, or perhaps he had observed more in days past than Éowyn had been aware of, but he gave her a look as he left; and such a look as made his suspicions quite clear.  There was no way to tell him that he presumed too much, and so she stood with Faramir and watched him depart.

A heavy ring rested now on the third finger of his right hand.  He saw her glance at it and said, “It is the ring of the Ruling Stewards.  It was retrieved, so that I might hold office till the King returns.”  Éowyn winced at the thought – how it must pain him to wear it now.  His face fell, and she took his hand in compassion, wishing she could ease his sorrow.

 “You are a fitting bearer Faramir.  Many good and noble men preserved this kingdom – who should see the return of the king, but the noblest of all?” 

He smiled at that, and though she knew he disagreed with her, she was glad to see it.  His smiling face was so close to hers that she could scarcely breathe – some breathless feeling had possessed her, half fear, half she knew not what.  He took a careful breath and said, “It may be many days before I see you again my Lady.  I shall have many labours in healing this city.”  A healer called to her, and she dutifully, with a heavy heart, obeyed his command, wondering when she and Faramir would say all that needed to be said.

The Marriage of True Minds

Éowyn stood on the highest tower of the sixth level, gazing north.  Her face was pale and wistful, her mouth was set in an expression of sadness, but her eyes, her eyes seemed to burn in her face.  She had the look of one whose desperate quest has ended in failure. Faramir shivered to see it. 

Yet she brightened when she saw him, and, smiling, beckoned him closer.  “I am surprised to see you, my Lord. I thought you were busy.”

He glanced at her sharply. There was a slight edge in her words, but her face was calm.  She pointed towards the North, a thin half-smile gracing her face.  “I look to my homeland, my lord, and all is well.  I wonder what I shall find there when I return.”

She was right.  The skies were clear as far as the eye could see, and the sun shone down warmly.  Éowyn sighed, staring off into the distance.  “When I left Rohan, I wanted nothing more than to fall and burn as the world ended. But it has not ended, and I find now that I do not want to fall away.  I thought Rohan was the most blasted and accursed place in the world, where everything I touched seemed barren. Now, perhaps it is not so.”

Faramir stared at her. She was not usually so open about her feelings.  There was always much to be intuited from her silences, things she could not bring herself to say. Yet he was the man to understand her - he had never realised what a gift it was to sense the hearts of men, until he had met her.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.  Taking her chin in his hand, he said, “Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen, where your brother awaits you?”

“Do you not know?”  Again he sensed that mocking tone, and began to see what lay under it.

“Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know.”

“I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainly!”  Her mockery had become tears swimming in her eyes, but she did not look at him – rather she looked out beyond him.  He chose his words carefully, as though she were a nervous throughbred that might shie away, and spoke as gently as he knew how, to soothe her.

“Then if you will have it so, lady, you do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?”

She turned to face him again, and of all things, he saw surprise cross her lovely face.  “I wished to be loved by another,” she stammered. “But I desire no man's pity.”

He almost laughed to hear her throw his words back at him – there was hope,  after all! “That I know.” he said. “You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!”

She met his eyes – waiting for something, waiting for his conclusion.  He stroked her cheek, and a tremulous smile spread across her lips.  “Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity, For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you.”  He felt his heart soar within him.  “Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn do you not love me?”

She stared at him, reaching  one hand up to caress his cheek, trembling, she spoke slowly, as though she could not believe what she felt.  “I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.”  When she turned to him again, she was smiling with her heart instead of merely her lips.  “No longer do I desire to be a queen.”

Faramir laughed, the joy which had filled him, bubbling up in his voice.  “That is well, for I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes.”

Yet Éowyn looked at him nervously at these words.  “Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?  And would you have your proud folk say of you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to choose?'"

“I would,” said Faramir. And at her smile he could not help himself, and leaned close and kissed her.  She responded with an ardour he had not expected: she let him hold her close, and drop sweet kisses on her lips.  Her laughter was so joyous it turned almost to tears.  They stood together, bathed in the glow of the sun, and he knew that at last Éowyn was healed.

Title:

From Sonnet 116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Evening Star

Sunlight poured through the windows of Meduseld, a great flood of golden warmth.  It flowed joyfully through the great hall, mingling with the sound of voices raised in laughter and song.  The folk of Edoras wore garlands of summer flowers, and all the faces Aragorn could see wore their happiest aspect.

He and Arwen strolled hand in hand through the great hall, her face smooth, a light seeming to shine about her.   It still filled him with wonder to see her by his side, to call her wife.  The light that shone from her face left him dazed, groping towards an understanding of his own good fortune – that she would forsake so much for him still left him breathless, his soul searching for an answer as to how he could deserve the love of such a creature.

Arwen clutched his hand to her, her face smooth as always, the golden light making her delicate features all the clearer.  Yet something was bothering her, tugging at the smile she wore, and he wished they were alone and free to speak to speak of it.  He clasped her hand in his and smiled at her, some small comfort until they were at liberty.

He was never more grateful than when Éowyn approached them, her step light and graceful, and her look so improved that he would hardly know her from the unhappy young woman at Dunharrow. 

She was smiling as she said, “Perhaps my lord, my lady, you wish to retire?  My brother’s celebrations are sometimes…intemperate.”

They agreed and fell into step with her gratefully.  They had reached Edoras that very evening, and after ten days' journey, a soft bed was more than welcome.  Faramir joined them, and as they walked to the guest quarters Aragorn surveyed the Shieldmaiden.

A great change had come upon her.  He had sensed its beginnings in Minas Tirith, but now it was complete, and he was glad to see it.  The last traces of that look of caged desperation had left her her face. She seemed younger; yet it also seemed that she had ripened into joyous womanhood. She was warmer, fuller; and when he heard her laughter ring out in the hall it was sweet and clear as a bell, with no hint of bitterness left.

And the change was not only in her spirit.  She had improved in health and radiance, and her skin was the pure colour of new cream.  And her smile - he did not know what had wrought this change; but from look of mingled rapture and wonder on his Steward’s face, he could guess.

When they reached their rooms, Eowyn explained hesitantly, “This was my Uncle’s chamber.  I hope you will forgive me, but with so many guests we were sore beset, and I wished to be sure that your accommodation would be satisfactory.”

Aragorn looked about him at the flower-bedecked room.  He knew the meanings the Rohirrim attached to each bloom, and saw full-blown roses for gratitude and friendship, snapdragons for a gracious lady, and finally orange blossoms for wedded love and fruitfulness.  The last especially was rare indeed in Rohan, coming from far to the South, and Aragorn was touched at this effort on her part.  He had no words to describe his feelings, and could only send her a look that spoke of them.  Her smile in return was a small, trembling thing, and he wondered if perhaps she had feared his ill opinion.  If such a thing were true, he must find some way to rectify her misapprehension, and as soon as possible.

 “There may be some trinkets of my Uncle’s left here – if such is the case, send them to either my brother or myself…we had not time to sort through all.  I hope you can forgive me.”

Arwen replied coolly, “Of course.  Tell me lady Éowyn, why was your Uncle not barrowed this evening?”

At this Éowyn’s face seemed to tighten, and Faramir took a step toward her as she said, “The people wish to pay their respects to their King, so it shall be three days before we bid him a final farewell.”

She managed a frail smile, and rallied somewhat as Faramir stood beside her.  She spoke jestingly as she said, “I see my lady, that my brother is enraptured. I hope he was not too persistent in his attentions.”

A strange heated force seemed to come from Arwen as she said, “He, was not.”  She stared Éowyn down, as though the full import of her words was not clear enough.

For one moment Éowyn’s face was wounded, as though the Queen had slapped her.  For an instant Aragorn’s eyes met hers, and they seemed to accuse him of some betrayal.  Then the familiar mask fell again “Well, I shall see to it then that you suffer no further unwanted gestures in the name of friendship.” 

Arwen looked her up and down for a moment, and said, “I thank you.”

Her breathing a little fast, Éowyn turned to Faramir and said, “Perhaps, my lord Steward, you desire to see your chamber?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face, and Éowyn seemed to take heart.  Faramir bowed slightly and said, “If you will forgive me, my King…my Queen.”  Éowyn nodded at them both, refusing to meet Aragorn’s eyes, and after a moment they left the room, Éowyn leaning on his proffered arm.

Aragorn stared after them, wishing he could have found some way to prevent Arwen’s words.  He did not know how she could feel such enmity towards Éowyn, and it grieved him to the heart.  Arwen was the very summit of his desire, the fulfilment of all he had ever dared to wish, but yet…he did not think he could bear the thought of Éowyn in pain.  Futile though such feelings might be, though he had never loved her, it ached his heart to know she suffered.

He turned to Arwen, to seek some explanation for conduct so unlike her, but the anguish of her face stopped him.  She sat on the bed, weeping quietly.  He knelt before her, caressing her cheek with one hand, and finally she spoke.

“My father…oh, my father.  I have broken his heart…I saw it in his face.  How can he ever forgive me, love?  No other has ever caused him such grief…and soon, soon we must part.  Why must our joy be bought at such a price from one I love so?”

He held her close, knowing no comfort for such grief.  “And that girl, that girl whose suffering is all past.  She walks in such joy, and she can grieve for her Uncle while I have caused such grief to one whom I love, and can make no amends.”

He rocked her back and forth, allowing speech to drain her grief of its poison; but he could not deny, even to himself, that his heart was lightened when she said, “I do not regret this choice, nor would I take it back for all the joy that might be in the West…but I would it was not a choice.  I have torn his heart.”

Half the night was spent in conversation, and they were near sated when he told her the meaning of the flowers Éowyn had left for them.  Arwen’s eyes went wide and regretfully she said, “I have wounded her.”

He could not deny it, and she laid her hand on his and said, “I am sorry for it.  It was never my wish to hurt one you love.”

He began to speak a denial, but she laid a finger on his lips.  “I do not doubt your constancy or your honour, love.  But can you deny that you have a care for her happiness and peace?”

He shook his head – he could not.  Arwen smiled as if satisfied, and said, “If there be a breach, I shall heal it.”

“I would see her happy.”

“I know, love, but such a gift is not in our power.  Her happiness shall not come from us; but perhaps you have already put her in the way of finding it.”

And then Arwen smiled at last, and once more he was intoxicated by her nearness. It was a night for joy after all, and Aragorn allowed himself to feel all that had been bottled up within him in the light of day.  She was near, she was his, he could reach out and touch her – he could ask no more of life than that.

Judging Anew

Meduseld felt strange to her, though she was more than familiar with the great feasting halls of elves, and men.  She had never known such an odd folk before – many of them looked at her and her kin with fear, and fear, as Arwen knew well, was all too easily twisted into something darker.  The elves had always held it a mark of man’s nobility how he viewed the Eldar, fairer, wiser and higher than any mortals, and yet for all that she caught glimpses of fear in the Rohirrim; there was authentic nobility in their bearing.  She sat now in one of the chambers that had been appointed them – for in Rohan no propriety was offended if man and wife shared a room – and she longed to examine the tapestries, the wood carvings, the decorations in blankets and rugs and all around the room, for it was in the details that she might come to know these people – but she could not.  Such behaviour was not fitting for a Queen.  The urge to examine, to learn, and thus understand, was so strong however that she was almost glad to catch the sound of footsteps approaching the door, though it meant they would be forced to sit through yet another audience.

Fortune smiled on her this day it seemed, for it was the Steward who joined them.  Arwen had not known him long of course, though she had spoken with his brother in Rivendell, but she was already learning to appreciate his character.  It was a wonder to her how such dignity and graciousness could have flowered in a man who had fought for so long, in a war with such bitter losses.  Perhaps she had spent too long secluded in Rivendell, and thus had forgot the true strength of men.

Though he stood and spoke with all the requisite formality, she could sense some excitement underneath it all.  She met her husband’s eyes, smiling at his confusion, but waiting for the Steward to speak.  When he did there was a hint of turbulence, a herald of some great joy, in his rich voice... “My lord,” he said, his well-learned decorum holding fast even at such a time, “I wish to inform that my betrothal will be declared this day – unless, you have some objection.”

Aragorn gave him a piercingly glance, but smiled after a moment and said, with open curiosity, “But who is the lady?”

And then Faramir stood a little straighter, with a light in his eyes that Arwen had never noticed there before, and said, “Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan.  Her brother has granted his permission.  What think you my King?”

Her husband sat, his face grave, and Arwen reached out to grasp his hand, though she was unsure what could have perturbed.  Aragorn was lost in thought for a moment, before he said, “I would speak a few words with you, before I speak, for I have a friend’s interest in your lady.” 

And then Arwen saw something pass between the two men, though she could not have given it a name, and slowly Faramir sat, saying, “Ask what you will, and I will answer”.  There was however a look in his eyes that seemed to almost dare his King. 

Aragorn looked at him and did not take the dare and said, “You would marry her though she is not of Númenorean blood?  Though you may live many years without her?”  

For a moment Faramir met Arwen’s eyes, and she thought ‘We are the same, you and I’, but he said, “I would.  Though she asked the same thing”. 

Aragorn smiled slightly, and again Arwen wondered what exactly was the nature of his relationship with the Lady of Rohan.  He spoke again, haltingly, “You know of, she has told you of what stalked her in Rohan?” 

Faramir nodded, saying, “She told me all, but…you cannot think it of any matter to me, save that I would…I would it had not been so.  I would bring her joy, if it is in my power, for I know what her suffering has been.”  Faramir was not a loud man, nor was he given to overt display of his passions (at least, he never had in Arwen’s presence, but she suspected the restraint had become natural to him) and the feeling that surged through his voice was the strongest sign of all of the importance of his request.

Aragorn placed his hand over Arwen’s and spoke softly, “I understand.”  Adopting a more formal tone he added, “My Steward I grant you permission to wed.  And as a token of our friendship, you may tell your bride that on the day of your marriage, she may take up the post of Lady Steward.”  Arwen looked at him, hoping the surprise was not written across her face.  The Steward’s wife had for many years been known as the Lady of Gondor, but the Lady Steward was a different matter altogether.  It was not a title granted with marriage, but one only afforded to those women who had done Gondor some great service themselves.  Clearly Faramir understood as well as she did, for his smile was all the brighter as he left the room.

Aragorn smile, a true contentment shining in his eyes, and asked, “Was I like him when I first saw you?” 

She could not but smile at the memory.  “Much the same my lord, though perhaps a little less formal – I think there is not a man born, who does not look as though he has been dazzled, when he loves first.” 

He laughed and stood, kissing her hair.  His tone was rueful as he said, “I must go Umdomiel.  Gimli wishes to ‘speak’, most likely at great length, about rebuilding the gates, and though I am loath to spend time on such a subject, I fear it must be done.”

He paused before he left, “You are happy are you not?” 

She smiled at this reminder of his concern for her feelings since they had arrived in Edoras, and nodded, “Yes, my lord, I am happy”. 

Now that he had left, she was free to consider Faramir’s betrothal.  She had promised to heal the breach with Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, but the task was impossible Éowyn had proved far more capable and perceptive than Arwen had thought at first – and she had politely eluded all Arwen’s overtures of friendship.  She had not been cruel or unpleasant or remotely rude, she had simply been absent whenever Arwen attempted to strike up a conversation.

Arwen bitterly regretted her resentful words on arriving in Edoras.  She did not know what madness had possessed her, save that she had felt a wave of sick envy more powerful than anything she had ever known.  Not only was this girl happy, and beloved, and innocent of any injury to those who loved her, she had dared raise her eyes to her Estel!

She soon realised her mistake.  Éowyn’s lightning fast response to her politely expressed contempt, had betrayed a sensitivity Arwen had not expected.  Éowyn had been hurt by her words, for all the light of love surrounding her.  Arwen had misjudged her – like all others who had fought in the War of the Ring, there were bruised, aching patches still in her heart.

She bitterly regretted taking out her confused emotions on Éowyn; and came to regret it more with every word that was spoken of the Shieldmaiden, for clearly she had suffered greatly, though the nature of that suffering was still unclear to her.  The joy and lingering pain that came with her marriage had confused her, made her judgement uncharacteristically harsh and unforgiving...  And now this same woman was to be Lady Steward – her second, and supposedly her greatest ally.

She had watched Éowyn since they arrived in Edoras, and while she remained confused about her relationship with Estel – for they had not spoken since the first day – she had put her jealous resentment to one side.  She knew her husband too well to doubt his heart, and she could see on sign of any misconduct on Éowyn’s part. For she loved Faramir with in a way that had been thought dead from the world of men.  They were beautiful together, seeming to radiate some glow of bliss.  All who saw them were happy.  And having watched the girl closely, Arwen could no longer retreat to the formula she had used to justify her animosity.  This was not a heartless Wraithbane; rather, she was a woman who had grown to maturity in time of war.  Arwen had known many such, in the years before Eorl rode south.

She was very young, but not innocent, not callow, not lovesick or headstrong as Arwen had heard her judged.  But sensitive, very sensitive.  The Queen’s words had obviously cut her like a whip, for Arwen could see not other reason for her avoidance of both her and Aragorn in the days following.

She did wonder how she had made such a massive misjudgement.  Was she not wise?  Had she not learned in her many years of life that a man or a woman, is not to be known in a day, perhaps even a year?  And yet this wisdom she had ignored in a moment of she knew not what.  It was certainly not like her to experience such a failure in judgement, especially when all those respected thought highly of them.  It was hard not to resent Éowyn for being the cause – especially when Arwen’s mistake of perception, had worried Estel, over whose heart the girl had some hold.  She knew it was nothing akin to his feeling for her, knew she had no basis for her anger, but... 

She disliked the girl for being so unsure that a few words from a woman she barely knew could wound her.  How ridiculous!  And yet, even as some little anger mingled with her curiosity, Arwen also felt a little protective of this child she barely knew, though she was the cause of almost the only feelings of guilt Arwen had ever felt, and had refused all efforts at reconciliation for fear of being cut with words.

She knew that she must build some kind of friendship with Éowyn – even if only for peace.  She wished though that it might be easier, that the girl was more like an elf, less full of the passion and uncertainties of her kind.

Morning Star

Éowyn leaned over a basin of water, splashing her face gently.  It would not do to appear before the assembled masses with a tear streaked face.  This was a happy day.

She stood up, patting her face dry with a rough cloth.  Her mourning gown hung across the room, and she stared at it for a moment.  She had worn it too often in years past, when attending the funerals of fallen Riders or servants of Meduseld or … Théodred.  She shook her head – these were heavy reflections indeed. 

She had stood upright at Théoden’s funeral; she had not even wept.  Perhaps all her tears had fallen already, for her face and eyes had been dry and arid until she had longed for some soothing tear.  Yet she had lifted her voice and sung the lament at the barrow, all the while conscious of only the wind whistling about her, and Merry’s head bent in sorrow.

Éowyn had felt eyes upon her throughout the burial, though this was hardly surprising.  She and Éomer were the last, precious scions of the House of Eorl, the great hope of Rohan, and it was to be expected that their people would look to them for guidance.  Yet when she looked around it had not been their eyes that impressed her.  Rather distantly, she had noted the open curiosity on the faces of some of the elves, the worn yet oddly beautiful face of the Ringbearer and the veiled kindness in the eyes of Gandalf Greyhame. 

There had been other eyes upon her, that she knew well, but she could not meet them, for as the ceremony went on, she had felt her façade dissolve.  Had she seen the love and understanding on Faramir’s face, allowed him to touch her hand in comfort, it would have broken her.  As for the Queen however, she was almost the only person Éowyn could bear to look at, for the anger that surged through every time she met those steady, clear grey eyes was enough to steady her.

She had walked back to her room in a mist, hardly noticing Faramir’s hand on her arm, or the concerned glances of those around her.  Théoden had taught her to ride; he had given her a home, he had allowed her training as a Shieldmaiden and appointed her byrele of Meduseld, and as she thought of all these kindnesses, of all the love and trust he had shown her, Éowyn had swallowed gulp after gulp of sorrow, until it felt that she was breathing it.

Without meeting anyone’s eyes, not even her brothers, she had made her way to room, yanked her mourning gown over her head and flung it as hard as she could into a far corner.  Sinking to the ground, Éowyn had sat, hugging her knees, tears slowly dropping to the ground for many minutes. 

Finally she stood up, stretching her arms over her head, and walking to look out the one window in her small bedroom.  The wind bent the grass on the plains, and she could just see a herd of horses grazing in the distance.  The land was peaceful, and slowly Éowyn felt the pain ebb out of her.  Théoden had been devoted to his land, and it was some comfort to know he had died in its service, as he would have wished, not an old man, sick in his chair.

And then she heard Éomer calling her, remembered that she had scant minutes to prepare for the feast and rushed to wash her face.  Fortunately, her young handmaiden, Modwyn, joined her joined her quickly, and Éowyn was able to prepare herself with a minimum of haste.

Finally she joined Éomer at her door, smoothing her hair and skirts desperately.  She couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, when she saw the Lady Galadriel walking ahead of them, an image of absolute perfection.  Thinking of the man she was to meet, the man to whom she was to be betrothed, Éowyn swallowed a sigh. 

But then she remembered his face.  The past three days had been such a haze of planning and balancing acts and diplomacy that they had hardly had time for a true conversation.  Éowyn had only watched him across the hall, shared smiles with him, and once touched his hand, but this night he would sit beside her, and they could talk as much as they could wish.

Though, as to that, there were times when Éowyn could not seem to speak around him, for the look in his eyes would overpower her and her mind would be a blank, and she could only gaze, helpless. 

Éomer seemed tired, strain tugging at his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and Éowyn saw him touch his crown tentatively.  Following a sudden impulse she turned and embraced him.  They clung to each other for many moments, and when they separated Éowyn smoothed his jerkin.

Swallowing a sigh she said, “Well my brother, perhaps tonight we may find you a wife.”

Éomer flushed and she had to swallow a laugh, although she was in earnest.  If nothing else, she did not wish to leave her brother alone.  Already he was unhappy at the thought of her marriage.  He did not know Faramir; for all that he respected him. 

She shook the though away, and took Éomer’s arm before entering the Hall.  As they walked through Éowyn checked to see that all her orders had been carried out one last time, and sank gratefully into her chair.  She smiled at Faramir and Merry, and looked forward to a pleasant evening.

That was until she saw that on her brother’s other side sat King Elessar and his wife.  She had hoped there would be a greater distance separating her from Gondor’s Queen, for she had no desire to suffer through yet another painfully polite conversation with Arwen Undomiel.  The Queen had made her feelings quite clear on her first night in Meduseld, and Éowyn had no desire to afford the Evenstar a fresh opportunity to insult her.

She had done nothing wrong.  She had spoken briefly with the King, who was a friend, she had thought, and made a gesture of that friendship, yet for this she was to be castigated?  It had been all but impossible for her to conceal her anger at the Queen’s barely concealed insult, and even thinking of it now could bring a wave of anger to her breast.  How dare Arwen pronounce judgement on her with her mocking smile and air of triumph, when she knew nothing, nothing of what Éowyn’s life had been? 

She spent the evening laughing at Merry, who told her of her brother’s apparent infatuation with Lothliriel of Dol Amroth, which had begun in Minas Tirith.  Upon seeing her astonishment he had told her the whole tale.  Apparently, the princess was famous for her wisdom and love of learning as well as her beauty, and Éomer had attempted to learn an elvish poem to win her over.  Merry’s tone was mischievous as he said, “And of course she laughed out loud at his accent, not out of nastiness my lady for I heard the Queen laugh as well, and then he spilled his wine in her lap for all to see.  And it was a white dress.”

Thinking that perhaps her brother’s honour had been traduced enough Éowyn stated gravely, “I hope Master Merry that when you fall in love you are subjected to such strictures on the propriety of your courtship methods.  It would be entertaining.” 

Éomer choked on his drink when she said the words ‘in love’, causing both the King and Queen of Gondor to laugh out loud.  Meanwhile Merry’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he said, “I am sure you know much about the correct methods of ‘courtship’ lady Éowyn, perhaps you and my lord Steward could instruct me.” 

Éowyn had no reply to that except to flush, and she was rather glad to be called away to raise the toast to her brother at that opportune moment.

And then she stood in front of the multitude, and plighted their troth before the assembled company, and Éowyn could not restrain her smiles, even had she tried.  He smiled at her to, and suddenly she was laughing, her joy bubbling out of her. 

She nearly dropped from shock when she heard Aragorn say “No niggard are you, Éomer to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm”. 

She stared at him, surprised that he would dare compliment her with his fearsome wife by his side, but she straightened her spine, drew her head up and looked at him with all the pride she had inherited from Morwen Steelsheen, all the pride she had earned in this life, and said, “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”  Éowyn was not ashamed.

Perhaps she was insolent, or unfair, but certainly she had expected him to look away.  Instead Aragorn looked at her with an indefinable look in his eyes and answered softly, “I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee.  It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss”. 

Something in his tone, or perhaps in his eyes, touched Éowyn to her core, and the small part of her heart that had longed to speak with him and tell him … something, welled up within her, and she looked away.

She spent that night dancing with Faramir, enjoying the sensation of being in his arms, of seeing such true happiness in his face.  She remembered all too well the settled sadness that had seemed so much a part of him in the Houses of Healing.  They now laughed so much that at times every eye was upon them.   Éowyn felt at peace, and happier than she had ever thought possible, for she had never known such joy, such rejoicing, and all unmixed, in the Golden Hall.

By the end of the evening Éowyn’s legs ached and her eyes were heavy, though whether from the exertions of the day or the heavy southern wine she did not know.  She bid Faramir goodnight, and kissed his cheek, where he sat with the Hobbylta. 

Putting a hand to her head and yawning Éowyn walked slowly through the halls.  The crowds of earlier in the evening had dispersed, though at least one servant was sober enough to have lit the torches. 

She stopped outside Théoden’s room for a moment, and suddenly she felt a surge of tears.  She leaned one hand against the wall and put another to her eyes.  There was no shame in this.  Her Uncle had died a proud death, and though Éowyn could wish it different, wish that she could have told him of newfound happiness, of the man who had brought such hope to her, she could not begrudge him a place in the halls of their fathers – with his son.

She heard a step behind her, loud in the silence that pooled in the night, and her head snapped up, a moment of panic seizing her chest, before she could fully think.  And then she laughed, for of all things it was the most absurd.  Even after all this time, after all she had seen, a footstep could cause her to start.

Éowyn wiped a hand across her face, and turned to see whoever it might be.  She was unsurprised to see the royal couple of Gondor approaching, though she could have wished otherwise.  She managed a smile, though to her embarrassment, a yawn broke through. 

There was a pause, and Éowyn bit her lip looking at them.  It was all so silly.  Finally the Queen said, “I wished to congratulate you, lady Éowyn, on your betrothal.  It gave me great joy to hear of it.”

Éowyn bowed her head, surprised at the warmth of her tone.  “I thank you,” she said.  Something possessed her to add, in a tone that held more sorrow then she would have liked, “I hope you can forgive me … I did not mean to linger.  These were my Uncle’s chambers, but I should not have …”

Aragorn looked at her piercingly, “There is no offence.”

Éowyn could not keep a trace of scepticism from her tone, as she said, “Of course not.”

Still, she curtsied to them, as she ought, her shoulders perfectly level and her face absolutely still.  The King’s face was troubled as he said, “Éowyn…” but she cut him off.  She would not have him think she pined, or regretted anything that was past – she could not, would not abide it.

Stretching a hand out quickly, she said, “No, my lord.  I am well.  Truly.  I wish you sweet repose.”

And then she walked away, stifling yet another yawn.  She did not wish to seem ungracious, but in truth, her only longing now was for a bed and soft pillows. 

She would sleep.

To Mourn

Arwen stood at Meduseld and watched her father ride away.

Though the sun shone, a strong wind blew, whipping her skirts into a frenzy.  It was many minutes before the echo of the horses’ hooves faded from her hooves, and still longer before she could convince herself to move.  If she left the steps, if she strayed at all from her position, her doom would be sealed.  She would never see him again.

And yet, she could not stay.  Already her stiff posture, arms slack and her mouth still open, as though to call her father back, had unnerved the guards.  The Steward’s hand on her arm reminded her that she could not sink into a reverie.  His eyes were kind as he said gently “Will you come inside my lady?” 

She nodded and allowed him to escort her in doors – somehow she felt stunned, her mind hardly comprehending what her senses felt.  Inside the hall was dim and warm.  She stepped away from Faramir’s hold and looked at the tapestries on the walls.  They were crude; blunt representations of events that almost from memory.  And these would be her people.

The day passed in a flash, though she felt so numb – she hardly cared where she was or what she did, all her thought focused on the riders that had left.  She followed Éowyn as she walked, for Arwen could not summon up the resolution even to return to her room..  The White Lady was grave, for her friends among the hobbits were gone, and in the absence of her betrothed and her brother – who were riding together – she was ill-disposed for conversation. 

Arwen sat on the grass, as Éowyn planted cuttings of the simbelmyne on the barrows of uncle and cousin.  She explained that they had always grown on the graves of Eorl’s descendents.  Almost absently, Arwen realised that it was about continuity – even hundreds of years later there would be someone to tend the flowers.  She had never understood the significance men attached to such things before.

At first Eowyn had seemed sombre, but the task it seemed soothed her, for by its end she wore the look of serenity that was her habitual state.  And Arwen wondered how she could endure this void, this sudden gulf that signalled the absence of those the heart loved best.

And as Éowyn stood, dusting soil off her knees and staring in horror at her filthy hands, Arwen felt a wave of longing for her Estel.  She wished he were near her now, to hold her in his arms and soothe her tears and comfort her through the long nights.  Her parting with all her kin would endure till the ending of this world, and though she might make connections new and strong, she feared none could ever be as dear to her as her own kin.

Éowyn came towards her, and Arwen knew that, had her mood been less grey she might have laughed to see the Shieldmaiden’s dismay at her dishevelled appearance, so reminiscent of her own husband.  And Éowyn bade her come inside for the evening meal, and indeed seemed surprised that she had remained outside so long.  Dusk was falling around them.

As they sat in the peace of the ancient hall, and Éowyn and Éomer and Faramir laughed gently at each other’s foibles, Arwen had never felt more alone.  She was not like them…she was not of their kind…she could never be at peace amongst them. They would never understand or love her – how could she be their Queen?

And then she heard an unfamiliar sound and they stared at her in horror, and she realised that she was crying.  Weeping for the loss that seemed so immense, so massive she could not find any words large enough to describe it.  And she wished for Estel all the more, for he would have known what to do, where she did not.  She had been stoic through all the years of the war; it was her way, and one her father had always approved.  Elves were to keep their suffering at bay, not give in until the pain had sunk its teeth into their heart.  The last thing he would have wanted was for Arwen to display it for all the world.

She felt an arm around her, and she was coaxed to stand up, and walked out of the hall to her room.  And as she went she saw the faces of Faramir and Éomer King, and saw no contempt on them, as she had expected, but sympathy and pity, which seemed in that moment all the more strange.  And in her room those hands coaxed her to lie down, and covered her in a blanket as she continued to weep her bitter tears.  The person stayed with her through it all, but Arwen had not the strength to look up to see whom it was.  She found herself calling to her mother and father, asking for their forgiveness, asking that the One might be merciful, but knowing that her words were without wings.

And slowly her tears eased and she fell into a stupor, huddled under the thick blanket.  It was not until a slender hand lit a candle, its golden glow spilling through the room, that she awoke.  The woman moved, and sat beside Arwen on the bed, and asked in a sweet, accented voice, “Are you recovered Arwen Queen?”.  And Arwen looked up and saw that it was Éowyn Lady of Rohan, and for a moment she thought the White Lady might use this moment to take some revenge. 

But Éowyn’s face remained plain and vaguely sympathetic, and she said, “I know what it is to lose a father, if you would speak of it.” 

Arwen looked at her entreatingly, longing for some comfort, and Éowyn spoke again, “I was only six years old, full young as mortals measure time, my Queen.  And my father was pursued a party of orcs and he was killed.  It was some hours before his men could retrieve his body, and …the orcs took full opportunity for their sport.  And when they brought his body home, mutilated, before they could clean it, I saw him”, Arwen gasped at Éowyn’s words, which were a little sorrowful, but not bitter, “It was such a shock to see my father, for he was a handsome, brave man my Queen, beyond all others I ever saw, to see what they had done to him, that I… could not speak again for nigh on a year.”

Arwen wondered despite her sorrow, and asked, “What made you speak again?” 

Éowyn’s eyes seemed to be looking into some great distance as she said, “I saw a man with a black hair.  I had never seen black hair before.  And I looked into his eyes, and strange though it sounds, I knew, I knew that he loved me.  He wanted to hear my voice.  And there was nothing to be afraid of any longer.” 

Arwen sat up, and looked into the Shieldmaiden’s face, and it dawned on her that indeed Éowyn was old for her age, and asked, “Do you know who he was?”

Éowyn smiled and said, “I have thought long on it of late, and I think I remember his name was Thorongil, and yet...” She noticed Arwen’s breath catching in shock, “Yet I have often thought that he bore a strong resemblance to… to your husband, though that man must be much older now.  It is strange.” 

Arwen swallowed a gasp, for she realised that Éowyn was right – Aragorn had seen her while she was still a young girl, in fact he had told Arwen of it – the child’s image had seemed to haunt him – but she had never made the connection.  She left it for now, for it was her husband’s tale to tell not hers.

Words unwillingly burst from her lips, as she looked into Éowyn’s eyes, sorrowful, and yet still open, still with some hope of joy in them. “How do you bear it?  To lose so much?” 

Éowyn sighed said softly, “I do not know Arwen Queen… save that we must.  We are made to lose all that we love, and we hope to find it again, but… It is not that it does not hurt, much, to lose those we love my queen, but we cannot… it is not fit to pine for what we have lost and forget what may still be.”

Arwen could not keep a sob from her voice as she said, “But some losses may never be repaired.”. 

Éowyn’s face softened, “But we never can really lose those we love.  I shall always love my father, and my mother, and Théodred and Théoden King.  I cannot lose my love for them though they are not here.  I hold them in my heart still, and though I would give much to see them again, I cannot… I will not, and I must comfort myself as I can.  They will never leave my heart.” 

Arwen would have interrupted, explained that she did not mean to insult, but Éowyn continued, “We cannot fear to live because of death.  Had I done so I could never marry my lord, for he is… Númenorean and shall live many years alone after I have passed.  I could spare him that… but to be alone, so that we would both live miserable, and all for fear of some future pain, would be a greater evil.  We have only the time we are given.  I know your loss cannot be compared but surely the love you bear your kin shall never diminish?”

Arwen had no words left to say, and Éowyn seemed to understand.  She covered her once more with the blanket, and said, “Sleep now my Queen”.  Smoothing a hand over Arwen’s brow as Celebrian had once done, she blew out the candle and left the room.

And the next morning, though they remained uneasy together, and though they spoke little, a small sense of companionship had grown between Arwen and the White Lady.  No more would they cut each other with words, and for this and Éowyn’s understanding, Arwen remained truly grateful.