She felt the cool nightly breeze catch in her unbound hair as she strode up towards the highest point of the hill where Meduseld stood, high, proud and kingly. Éowyn hurried past the great arched entrance, making her way around the tall building housing the Golden Hall. From the platform at the rear, she could oversee the gently swung hills stretch out wide around the fenced city. Her sword-belt was striped around her narrow waist, her hand rested on the worn leather. Her fingers trailed over the smoothness of it until they curled around the hard ornaments of her beloved weapon's hilt, gripping it, while her thoughts spun their ways, tormenting her. In her frustrated despair, she had clutched her weapon and retreated with it, letting it anchor and soothe her. Its familiar, mercurial weight steadied her.

She loved her home and her people and her people loved her, but now, behind the high wooden fence, she felt cramped and breathless. It was bad, so bad, that her breaths had become short, desperate gasps. Her mind swirled, making her dizzy, and her stomach was tight. She had no control anymore. She clutched almost hopelessly the hilt of her sword until it warmed, then became hot and clammy against her skin. Immersed in her anguish, she went to stand on the border of the terrace, balancing right on the edge as if she wanted to leap, to feel free and weightless. She sucked in the air, deeply and hitching, trying to calm her tense nerves.

Her hand then let go of the sword, and her arms hung now freely at her sides. She allowed her mind and heart to pour over the vast extent of grass that spread now dark in the night beyond the city. She imagined horse's hooves pounding on the rich earth, grass blades softly gleaming in the moonlight and bending in the streaming wind of the Mark. Éowyn fancied the hills blurring past, and the rhythmical movements under her, of a horse flattened in the speed of a mad gallop. She cried out loud from deep in her belly, from the bottom of her lungs, a long freeing shout, releasing all her anguish, her anger, driven by a boundless energy and sapped with longing. She inhaled the air that streamed past her and breathed slowly, deeply… Standing on the high terrace, she took in breath after breath, like sobs. The woman of Rohan let her head hang as if defeated, closing her eyes. She felt warmth running down her cheeks and then the nightly air cooling the wet streaks. She was weeping.

This valiant man, chieftain of the Dúnedain, exiled heir to a great lineage, this man bringing hope to Rohan, hope to her, would fight and stand when everything around them seemed to fall. He would suffer and die with them. He held so much love in his heart, was loved so deeply in turn… and had earned her deepest respect. She had seen his hope, his fear, his anguish and despair, his courage, his persistence, his valour. He had earned her awe and revealed a never yet discovered place in her heart, made it beat faster.

She wished nothing more than to fight by his side, for her people, for all that was dear to her, be part of something important that was about to happen in Middle-earth; something she craved for and had now reached her, brought along by this one particular man, concealed in the clothes and the heart of a ranger of the North. And yet he was so much more… simple, sincere, valiant and bold... a promise of hope... She wanted, she needed… so much more than to stay behind every time.

She clenched her hands into fists in frustration and turned her face upwards, gazing into the sky. It was veiled, but the stars fiercely glittered and shone wherever they found clear patches and spaces between dark clouds. She turned and looked at Meduseld towering before her, tall and familiar, crowning the hill. She clenched her fists tighter, her lips trembled.

Her blurred gaze swept over its high roof and suddenly caught and came to rest on a fair shape on its edge. Through the thin veil of tears, she frowned and blinked, watching in mild wonder as the shape unfolded long limbs and rose in a light, graceful motion.

"Lady Éowyn," a deep musical voice floated down to her. And she stared at the elf on the roof, slightly startled and stunned by the sight that seemed unreal in its fey delicacy. The elf slid down from the roof and landed soundlessly at the base of the building close to the young woman.

He regarded her, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Are you well?" he asked. Éowyn closed her eyes briefly, sucking in a long breath that she released in a heavy sigh. She then opened her eyes and looked at him. He stood at a small distance watching her, held her gaze with his eyes that were bright like the stars that showed on the free dark patches in the veiled sky of this night. For a moment she did not know what to say, as if all coherent thought was lost in the shifting light of those strange eyes.

He absently lifted his hand to his chest, and slowly rubbed his palm over the place where his injury had been.. From the corner of her eyes, Éowyn caught the motion, and a shiver rippled through her. He was close, his presence so strong that she felt his body warmth. And as all was quiet, the woman heard his soft breathing, which had now slightly enhanced with a surging memory.

Flashes of the recent events shot through her mind; of a heaving body at her knees, of hot clammy skin under her hands, of savage cries filling the air, fair features unnaturally contorted in torment, tear-streaked, alien eyes melted in a deep consuming madness.

Her own breathing became rash over the soft breaths of the elf, filled her ears, her awareness, and she trembled. She wanted to scream, flee this anguishing constriction choking her, feel free, ride over streaming grass in the wind of the Mark.

The elf said nothing. He stood beside her, staring out over the darkness beyond them.

"I cannot bear to watch when they send children to battle," she burst out.

"I know," he said, deep in thought, "You speak from my soul."

Only a few words of understanding in his warm, rich voice comforted her. She had broken the silence and now she felt compelled to speak of it all, break the bars caging her. "I cannot bear to wait and see warriors return injured and dying. Or wait in vain while they will never return. I cannot bear waiting, doing nothing while the fight for my people and Middle-earth unleashes out there."

The rush of her own words whirled her into dizziness... furious despair. The blood in her body pricked and surged.

She became aware of the elf's even breaths, and the warmth and strange glow that emanated from him. She heard the wind rushing over the grass of the Mark, and it gleamed in the sun while she raced over the land of her home on a mad ride. It all melted into one soothing melody. Warmth flooded her limbs, increased until she burned with heat.

Éowyn was so swept up in the tide of her senses, in her longing, this dream, that she startled as the hiss of an unsheathing blade briskly punctuated the air, as the air beside her perceptibly coiled, shifted and prickled. She whipped around to see the elf poised, eyes narrowed; in his hand, one of his white knives glinted dangerously at his side. She gasped in shock and gaped.

He waited a moment, holding her gaze, sharp and unblinking, and then gave a nod with his head.

A challenge.

Adrenaline charged through her veins, blew her mind with something explosive, fierce, and her limbs tingled with anticipation. She did not think. Her hand flew to the hilt of the sword at her belt, and she drew the blade from its sheath with natural ease. She accepted the fight. She would push her limits, relish in the thrilling sensation of it.

Éowyn lifted her sword almost solemnly, holding his gaze, which was cold and hard and dangerous. Suddenly, flashingly swift, she shot forward, thrusting the blade towards him. There was a sharp clash of metal and a shrill hiss as Legolas parried, deviating the blow with such force it jolted through her whole body and she stumbled.

He sprang to the side, whirled around and the woman felt him close, too close; the warmth of his breath brushed her neck for a mere instant. But she had already recovered from her astonishment. Her reaction was prompt, well-schooled, and she hurled herself back to catch his blade with her longer, heavier weapon. The metal shrieked and further fueled her passion for battle. She was dizzy with it, brimmed with inflamed ecstasy. Her trained senses were sharp, focused, and so she was led by the dance of the elf as he sprang, pounced, and twisted away.

His blade was shorter, slender, but bit sharp and swift. It glistened and sparked, drawing bright arcs and patterns into the crackling air all around her, as if aflame. Gradually, the sensation of her skin burning, of her head pounding, stole her breath. Her limbs became heavier by the minute and with every motion, Éowyn found them increasingly hard to control; she was tiring.

The elf did not slow his speed nor retain his power. He unleashed upon her his inexorable, deadly elegance. She knew that if it had been an actual battle, not a sparring match, she would be strewn with perfect, painful cuts that, while not deadly, would considerably obstruct her abilities. They most likely would have meant her defeat. But even as she would fight to the last to stay alive, now her pride would not allow an easy defeat. With this resolve, her spirit soared once more.

After a moment of breathing that the elf consented to her, she joined him again into the dance to the song of their blades. It was awesome and thrilling. He seemed not to tire in the least and slashed more imaginary gashes into her flesh. She tried not to envision the pain they would spike had they been real. Instead, panting, Éowyn observed him intently, nostrils flaring, eyes furiously alight. He had not yet dealt out the last strike that would have taken her life, forcing her beyond her very limits. Her face was flushed, and she brimmed with self-confidence. He had challenged her, not holding back. She was awed by the coiled power of her opponent.

In a real fight, she would bleed and suffer, and he'd be unscathed. She knew Legolas would long have used this advantage to deal out the final, merciless blow. But she was not afraid, and she was not ashamed. He was not the kind of being she pretended to defeat or even match in battle. He was the kind who left her speechless and awed and so very glad that he was not an enemy. And then, she had seen him nearly defeated, exposed to a poison that almost killed him; her support had helped save him. She felt a trust between them that went deep. Éowyn had seen him vulnerable – even the most brilliant of warriors died… His resilience and his magnificence in battle thrilled her, pushed her to unleash everything that lingered furiously within.

She breathed heavily as she saw him bolt onto her, a dark, defined silhouette before the misty, glowing pattern of veiled stars in the sky; smooth, feline ferocity. He fought with two blades usually; she knew it. He wielded them swift and utterly deadly. They would have swirled and blurred the air, her vision, and when her sword parried one knife, it would have cried out, high pitched and shrill, while the other would have found flesh and pierced. But now just one blade came down towards her. One sword – one knife; that's how the elf had established fairness to the fight. Those thoughts just flashed through her mind as she saw the shaded, tight body fly in beauty and violence. Her eyes were wide as Éowyn stared at the white dazzling light glinting off the fine metal.

Time slowed, and it was but a fraction of a blink of an eye when she spotted his side unprotected. With a deep roar, she released the very last strength she could gather, swept out her long heavy sword, a mere hair away from his body along his side. The strike diverted his course, and he landed in a crouch in front of her, head bent, his hand pressed to his ribs where the sword would have sliced.

In full contact this blow would have cut deep, ripping him open from hip to armpit, not killing instantly but thoroughly crumpling and sentencing to final and terrible agony, so that a last stab to the heart would mean mercy.

Breathing heavily from the effort, Éowyn stared, startled, at the bent elf before her. His torso heaved, although he was utterly silent. She went down to her knees beside him, suddenly afraid that her sword might really have struck him. She stared at his strong warrior's shoulders shuddering and the long hand pressed to his side, her eyes fearfully searching for blood that, to her relief, she did not find.

Slowly, he lifted his head and gazed intently into her eyes. Éowyn held her breath for a moment, although it was hard to do so still strained from the effort. Legolas nodded to her, slowly, approvingly. The ghost of a smile played around his lips. From somewhere in the pit of her belly, a flurry of feelings soared. She felt suddenly light and euphoric, almost bursting with it.

He rose slowly and turned his face to the soft wind. The faint star-glow peeking out between the dark shrouds of clouds seemed to gather on him. His skin shone softly, white-gold and sleek, and his hair gleamed and drifted long behind him.

Éowyn saw him standing tall, fair and strong beside her. She took in his face, pale and noble, and then she looked away. A lump formed in her throat as the memory rose once more and tore her. She hitched a sigh, and then she said desperately, "I do what I can while I am waiting, but I am not a healer. It is not my call. I cannot bear it."

She blinked up at him. A shade dimmed the brightness in his eyes. And he nodded in acknowledgement.

"You are strong, my Lady Éowyn," he bowed to her, his hand pressed meaningfully to his chest, "You have my gratitude for all you did," he said earnestly. "You have proven much already. If you fight on the battlefield the way you fight for the wounded – and the way you just performed…" he turned his face to look at her, and his eyes glistened, "… you might defeat the most terrible of enemies."

She said nothing, but she felt a pull, a boost of excitement and confidence. Éowyn felt strong as she stood there quietly beside the elf, sensing the reviving melody soaring within her. She relished in the vision of the wind blowing over the grass of the Mark on the hills, the exhilarating sensation on her skin, caressing her, filling her. This was her own melody, she realized, and it soared from deep within her heart.

And then she blushed upon realizing the words full of respect from this warrior, seasoned beyond years she could imagine. She lowered her eyes and felt humbled, saying nothing about the fight.

"It was not my skills nor my knowledge saving your life, I only assisted as best I could," she quickly dismissed, "My Lord Aragorn…" she began… she had to pause on that name, and breathe twice before she could go on, "…my relief was great when he arrived. His hands are those of a born healer, his determination and skill I cannot but admire, and his heart..." she trailed off and silenced, dropping her gaze.

"He is a great healer, a fierce warrior and a true friend…" the voice of the elf was soft and warm as he spoke about the man.

"I have asked him to allow me to follow him," she said then in despair, "His eyes are so clear I can see understanding – but even he bid me stay."

"He has not the heart to answer the responsibility if he took you with him and you should fall," the elf said. "So much weighs already on him. He even tried to talk me out of following him after my wounding. But he has no command over me. Even if counted young among my people, in years I am far older than him. I made a pledge and a promise, and I will not listen," he laughed softly, his eyes flashing a stubborn glint, and he looked as young then as he was among his people, Éowyn thought.

She sighed. "I do understand it," she said, "But I cannot accept it."

She lowered her eyes, sad, and then she was quiet.

The elf had stepped forward to the edge of the platform, where she stood before. His hair lifted softly by the light wind, and his shirt fluttered behind him. The icy breeze seemed not to affect him the least. He stood straight and still, leaning ever so slightly forward, and stared out into the darkness as if straining to listen. The wind flattened the light fabric against his body and she could see his chest rise and fall, but she could not hear a sound of his breathing, so silent he was.

Éowyn wondered what he heard or sought. And then – she knew not if it was carried along by the wind or if the elf close to her had somehow conjured it - she felt the air slightly shift, and a soft melody carried on it, like a lament, soft and quivering, and something else hidden in it; the rushing of sappy leaves, thick and dark green… and the sun, gleaming on a vast glittering plain… water trickling over stone… and a fleeting flash of dark eyes bright with tears.

She blinked and glanced at the elf, tall and unmoving beside her. His strong slender hand on his heart was trembling.

And then Éowyn spoke, as if it was clear what just touched their thoughts and senses, "I do not know how she can bear it all, for years over years of war and death, misery and despair unending. And yet she was there, again and again, when it struck; enduring, persistent, supporting a people at war even far from her home."

"She would not have carried through it all without your support, without your strength. And I would not be here anymore," he said dryly, still staring out over the plain.

Éowyn swallowed thickly, "I have seen her quiet despair, I know of her sadness, ever lingering… but that day I know she reached her very limit. I cannot guess what it did to her."

She saw the elf close his eyes and his breath shuddered.

When he turned back to her, there was something else in his strange eyes, a quivering longing, and she thought she saw tears well and flicker in the starlight. But then he blinked, and it was gone. Focusing on her, his face brightened. His voice was firm and reassuring as he spoke.

"I cannot tell you what to do. Nor have I the right to do so. Only your heart knows your true call," He smiled at her again, soft and genuine, childlike. "It sings your song," he said. And he turned away.

Taking a slight hold with his slender hands on the rain gutter, he swept up the roof of Meduseld, light and nimble, seemingly with no effort at all. He swiftly climbed towards the roof's highest point and then disappeared from her sight.

Éowyn clenched her sword tight while she listened to the song of the wind on the hills, to the rhythm of horse hooves pounding on the earth of her beloved land and the long blades of grass streaming, calling to her heart. The beginning of her path was mapped out clearly before her, yet at the edges and in the distance, the map was blurred. But there she stood, straight and confident, and the cool breeze did not affect her.

There was a child, a little girl, who as so many, had been touched by the war. Amidst all the death, the misery and suffering back on that burg of dark grey stone, she had been a light – fragile, and shivering, and all the more precious. Sorwyn was her name; sorrow and joy. Such intangible meaning in a simple name of a child from a ravaged village of Rohan. The mere thought of this child he had come to know in those hard days on the stone-burg both tore and kindled Legolas' heart.

Their roads met again, here on this hill where Sorwyn might find a new home, at least for some time. It had been good to see her again. So good that Legolas could not explain it in words, nor would he want to. She looked up at him with those wide children's eyes, "I… I know you will fight," she said seriously. "Be safe, Legolas!" and her cheeks slightly flushed, so innocently young and puffy. She beamed him a trustful smile that set his heart on fire with flames of power, that would not burn him, but scorch all that could harm this little girl and all that was dear to him in this world. And before he could blink, she had bounced up at him, throwing her slim arms around his neck and broad shoulders. She clung to him with such eagerness that he was surprised at the strength of her small body, and nearly staggered. The elf held her tight, breathing deeply and then coddled her fondly, teasing blissful laughter from her lips. He whirled her around in the air, making her giggle and squeal.

Sorrow and joy, wrapped in the name of a child.

The people looked at them, smiling, surprised that a small girl would so easily and naturally be affectionate towards a being they dared only behold from a distance. This child was building a bridge between the worlds. They both looked so young and serene, their fair voices soared, like wings, and many a heart sparked with hope. But still, they did not see all it meant, the unmeasurable depth in the gesture; only a few did.

The time had come for them to leave. Legolas hugged Sorwyn one last time, and set her down, so that immediately she could cling to the gown of her mother. He bowed low before Sorwyn's mother and Godliss, and then stood before them, his hand resting on his heart. The women returned his gaze, eyes caring, full of gratitude and hope but also insecurity and concern and other emotions impossible to put into words. The boy close to Godliss shyly lifted his hand in greeting, and Legolas swept his hand from his heart towards him as he went.

The elf then caught Éowyn's gaze. – She had seen, and she knew much of it, knew the greatness of the impact.

Then Legolas turned and joined Gimli and Arod, who were ready to leave, the dwarf already packed upon the horse's broad back.

"How on Arda did you get up there?" Legolas blurted out, both eyebrows lifted in amused surprise.

"That is of no import…" Gimli grunted, "I could have mounted up on my own, for all you know." He squinted at Legolas grimly. "Need a hand?" he offered with played dwarvish gallantry.

Legolas snorted and leapt off the ground to settle easily in front of Gimli. "No need. But gratitude, master dwarf, horse-rider." He smiled back brightly over his shoulder, where Gimli scowled and mumbled something about the politeness of dwarves that stayed unreturned and grumbled and growled quite indistinct things about wood-elves, poor manners and arrogance, that he did not mean but were part of the game.

Legolas ignored him, but secretly found those gruff words soothing, which was ridiculous, he thought. He smirked at his own thoughts, which pushed Gimli to grumble even more, which Legolas again ignored as if it was a rule of their game. Instead, Legolas spurred Arod and wheeled him around to once more pass by Sorwyn and her mother and Godliss and Gram. They gazed up at him and he smiled, drinking in the sight of those who had conquered a place in his heart. Behind him, Gimli was now finally well settled and distracted and raised his hand in greeting.

There they were going, all of them, towards the unknown and fateful battles ahead. Aragorn, his mien strong and determined. He looked straight at Éowyn bidding her farewell. She gave him her blessing and tried to conceal the hard hammering of her heart and her aching longing to ride at his side with the valiant Dúnedain, all broad, strong and noble men, but so utterly simple and weathered from a raw life in the wilds.

Close to him, as tall shades cast by two different suns, were the two elves whose faces bore the same smooth perfection. They shone in their bright mail and shimmering long raven hair as some warrior princes of ages long past sprung from a book of legends of the Firstborn. Like two divine protectors, they looked upon the man as a precious treasure they kept safe in their midst. And Éowyn thought how similar the man suddenly appeared to them. They looked almost like kin, like brothers; the same silver gleam in their eyes, proud and fierce. With great effort, she pushed down the tears that threatened to well and burst free from the storm of emotions raging within her.

Her gaze followed Aragorn as on his way he turned towards the young apprentice healer who had assisted with Legolas.She who stood with her friends. The girls looked up at the elves and the man, eyes wide, mouths slightly open. There was awe in their young eyes, but fear also. They stared and blinked as the imposing men passed them by, and they seemed to tremble and sway slightly. Their usually excited chatter was muted and lost for the moment. Aragorn lifted his hand in farewell and gratitude to the young healer, and she smiled and waved her hand shyly.

Éowyn steadily held Aragorn's gaze as he passed her by. He gave her a last, respectful nod, and she found that moment almost unbearable.

Further behind, she spotted Legolas on Arod riding with Gimli. And the girls that before had been in wordless stupor now suddenly fidgeted nervously in a surge of excitement, coyly glancing up at the two unlike riders in a flutter of lashes. Despite her sombre spirit, a burst of quiet laughter escaped Éowyn as she observed the scene. It was like a fresh gust of wind, a dancing flash of brightness, a welcome lightness, that broke through the thick gravity of these days. The elf caught the flicker immediately, and gracefully bowed his head at the girls, his face smoothing in a dazzling smile. Their cheeks flushed and gleamed fresh and rosy, which seemed to delight him further.

"My Ladies–" Éowyn heard him say in his warm, deep voice, while he inclined his head, bringing his hand to his chest. Éowyn saw the amused, heartened glitter in his blue irises. Gimli was waving at the girls eagerly, his warm brown eyes agreeably pleased and alight. He said something to Legolas, grinning, at which the elf narrowed his eyes, and with a mischievous smile on his lips, made a sharp noise with his tongue. As if responding to a trained command, the white horse bolted. The elf smoothly navigated the jolting motion and the dwarf hugged his waist in sudden urgency, looking both angered and terrified. Éowyn then heard him mutter grumpily – probably a curse – while clutching fast at the elf. Legolas laughed; his face was radiant, as if the clouds in the sky had parted only for him.

By the time they reached Éowyn, Gimli had calmed and greeted the Lady good-heartedly, wishing her farewell. Legolas' features became calm and serious, and his gaze held hers for a very long time. He said nothing, but his strange eyes shifted in the bright colours of a clear pool, speaking more than words. She listened to the melody surging within her, standing before him straight and confident.

"Hannon le," she said as she had heard Aragorn say before, "Thank you."

She felt that same deep trust between them again as he returned the words of gratitude, bringing his hand to his heart. How many times had he done that gesture... But this time, it meant so much more to her; it meant strength and sorrow and hope, and she felt her resolve settle. Still holding his gaze, she mirrored the gesture.

His lips slowly curved in an encouraging smile. She smiled back at him openly, and this time, as she had often thought before, Éowyn was now sure he could read her; her heart pounded in the rhythm and strength of horse hooves on the earth; there was the wind and high grass around her, and on her hip, held by an ancient leather belt, she felt the comfortable weight of her weapon.

Legolas' smile widened, and then he swept Arod around and spurred him on, away from her towards Aragorn, who was already ahead leading the party of quiet and serious rangers to the Paths of the Dead. The pale early daylight caught upon him, and he glowed slightly as if he was riding to a completely different place. Behind her, she heard the young healer's friends gasp before their tongues loosed in lively chatter.

But the people retired fast, hiding in their houses, for the dread had crept into the city as they watched the reckless strangers ride towards the gloom and darkness of the Haunted Mountain. "They are elvish wights," some muttered, and others just stared and thought them bewitched or deranged, and yet many despite their fear were awed at the sheer boldness.