Main Characters: Aragorn, Éowyn, OC
Rating: G
Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen, Aragorn/Éowyn, Faramir/Éowyn
Genre: Drama
Length: Short story
Summary: Aragorn visits Éowyn and Faramir in Ithilien. There he rediscovers his old love for Éowyn.
-----
The dying sunlight flooded through the high windows of the great hall lighting golden patches across the woven tapestries hung upon the wall, and throwing long shadows across the stone flagged floor. At the far end a cluster of people were grouped upon furs before a dancing fire. The night was still and through the stone windows came the sweet scents of mingled flowers and moonlight. A great briar rose had wound it's way as far as the carven window ledge, and white roses with thick petals of pearly silk reached delicately over the sill.
On the edge of the circle of firelight Haleth leant against her best friend Eldarion, their heads together, and their hair, raven and golden mingled together upon shoulders. Eldarion's head was bent, and the dancing firelight threw dark shadows across his thin face. Haleth leant back against him facing outwards. Her golden hair was tumbled about her like a halo, and her eyes, bright and piercing seemed older than her six years. Haleth watched silently as the tall figures of her father and her uncle Eomer fenced, their blades flashing as they thrust and parried. Their footwork was light, almost dancing, and the slender blades flickered catching the firelight and throwing it back again so that the duellers seemed surrounded by rays of dancing light. Haleth's father Faramir was the taller of the two, slim and lithe, darkly handsome with piercing deep blue eyes. His opponent, Haleth's uncle Eomer was slightly shorter, but quick and muscular. His features were rough hewn, but strong and noble. His hair and beard were golden, and his eyes a blazing light blue-grey.
Suddenly Haleth noticed another man standing in a dark corner alone. His face was shadowed, but his eyes gleamed out of the darkness with a strange light. It was, Haleth realised, the King Elessar, lord of Minas Tirith. He was one of the Numenoreans, tall and straight with a lean wolf-like frame and dark hair flecked lightly with grey. He was Eldarion's father, but Haleth knew him only by sight, for he had long been absent from Gondor away at his wars with the Haradrim. He looked, Haleth thought, like her father in some ways, yet more distant and remote, and older. Haleth looked from him towards his Queen, the Lady Arwen, and back again. It seemed strange to see them in the same room, for they seemed so totally separate from each other, as if they belonged to two different worlds entirely. The Queen was beautiful, the most beautiful living creature that Haleth had ever seen, yet it was not her, but the King to whom the eye was drawn. Haleth would not have called him handsome, but there was a fierce energy about him, even at rest in the shadows that seemed to Haleth strangely familiar. It was a moment before she recognized it as the same energy that burned within her own mother.
As if called by Haleth's thought, the King's eyes moved towards Éowyn. There was a strange, bitter expression in his face as he watched the slender white clad figure curled at the Queen Arwen's feet. Éowyn's back was to him, but Aragorn was watching the smooth curve of her shoulder, the line of her proud neck and the way her slender body moved beneath the curtain of flaxen hair. Her legs were curled up beneath her, and her slim white feet peeped from beneath the hem of her white dress. One of her long hands rested lightly upon the floor, and the other was clasped about her youngest son Brego.
From where he stood in the corner Aragorn could not see Éowyn's face, but he knew it's every detail; Delicate and well formed with high, proud cheekbones and soft, slightly flushed skin like the velvety petals of a rose. Her face had a determined cast, and somehow contrived to be both impenetrable and incredibly vulnerable. Her clear eyes that he saw now in his mind were blue-grey, light and sparkling with large pupils and long dark lashes. It was a hard face, he thought, beautiful indeed, but only with the swift-waning beauty of mortal women. Imperfect, flawed with tiny lines that were the record of her every sorrow, her every laugh, her every tear. She turned suddenly to speak to one of the others, and Aragorn caught a swift glimpse of her soft sunset-pink lips curving in a little half-smile. He thought with a pang that the only time he had ever seen her smile properly was on the day that she was lost to him forever.
Then, with a sudden quick motion, Faramir's sword was beneath Eomer's guard, sending the younger man's blade twisting in a graceful arc through the air. Eomer laughed ruefully, and bent to retrieve the weapon.
"I give in!" he exclaimed, "That's twice tonight thou hast beaten me, it must be someone else's turn!"
"Aye," Faramir agreed with a swift grin "Thou art too easy to beat my friend!"
"If the King Elessar would condescend to play, I would see thee get thy comeuppance!" Eomer retoted. "Come Strider! Thou hast been starring into the fire all night! It must be thy turn by now!"
"I cry thee mercy!" laughed Faramir "If I am to fight the King, I may as well surrender now! No man alive could beat him in a fair fight!"
The tall figure in the shadow turned towards them, and his face was unreadable.
"No man, maybe," he replied softly, "Yet there is one in this room who I fear I could never overcome."
Slowly, watched by the bemused eyes of all in the room, he paced towards the fireside, and stopped before the Lady Éowyn.
"May I have the honour?" he asked quietly, extending his hand to her.
Éowyn looked at him in a sharp, calculating way, her eyes oddly bright. Then, to the wonder of all she lifted Brego from her lap to Elboron's and climbed gracefully to her feet. Her hand reached out, and from the sheath at her waist she drew the silver sword that had always hung there, but Haleth had never before seen. Éowyn held the slender blade aloft, shimmering in the firelight, and slowly, she levelled it towards the King. Aragorn drew his own sword from the jewelled belt at his waist, and bowed low towards the Lady. Slowly now the silver blades drew together and met; Aenlic and Anduril, as they had met once before, long ago. As the two swords touched, Éowyn looked up, and met his eyes for the first time. Silently, bound by some unbreakable link, the two began to move, circling with slow, measured footsteps in the silence that had fallen upon the hall.
All eyes watched them as they circled, but struck not, their eyes locked upon each other's faces. They were a perfect match for each other, Haleth could tell. Both were tall, and each lean, supple body seemed to anticipate the other's move as though they were two separate incarnations of a single will.
Suddenly, so quick that Haleth almost missed it, there was a flash of steel, and the two duellers leapt apart again resuming their relentless circling.
A second time Aragorn's sword flashed out, aiming a thrust at Éowyn's breast, but her own sword was there, as if she knew instinctively what he would do. Aenlic caught the longer blade, turned it, and struck, and suddenly they were moving, battling fast and furiously, dancing, spinning, leaping across the stone flags. The hall echoed with the clash of steel, the strong, assured footfalls of the King, and the light, springing steps of his partner. Back and forth the blades flashed, neither seeming to gain any advantage, and neither figure took their eyes from the other's face.
The controlled movements of before gave way beneath the magic of the duel, and they were moving as a single entity, the bond that joined them compelling thought and movement in a single deadly dance of unconquerable beauty. Aenlic and Anduril flashed in the dying sunlight, seeming barely to meet before they were again drawn apart. Haleth watched enthralled as the duellers moved, dark king and white lady, striking in earnest now, yet not for a moment fearing that a single blow would land upon its mark.
Then, so fast that none knew how it had happened, Éowyn's sword was at Aragorn's throat. Both stood suddenly as if stricken to stone, and the hall was silent.
Slowly the shieldmaiden and the ranger withdrew their blades and sheathed them. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath, light and fast upon his cheek. Aragorn gazed into the beautiful, myriad grey eyes and saw there the old love mingled with confusion, and fear. His hand touched her cheek, and the power that radiated from him stilled her breathing as lightly, greatly daring, his lips brushed hers.
"So," he whispered, "Thou still hast some skill with a blade."