Chapter 2

Aragorn returned late that night and retired almost immediately to his chambers. Those who saw him could see the grief he tried to hide as if it were a branding on his face. The mood over Edoras was gloomy and filled with an air of expectation, as if something enormous was about to happen or had just happened and was about to become general knowledge. But it never did. The king's suffering and Arwen, the woman who had loved and left so thoughtlessly, were only spoken of in a whisper.

Women gossiped quietly in the kitchens, many declaring that a life wont of immortality was little enough to endure for the love of a king, especially a man such as the Lord Aragorn with his kind eyes and gentle smile. Many hoped that he would take another wife, indeed many hoped that they would be lucky enough to grab his attentions. Others, whose heads where filled with impossible, childlike notions of great loves that existed only in fairytales, wished against all hope that the king would never marry. That his heart would be forever with the beautiful elf that he had loved his whole life. That the two souls would forever remain bound across the seas that divided them. That their passion would forever remain unrequited, but just as real as the day the young Estel had found his Lúthien Tinúviel wandering in the woods of Rivendell. Older women dismissed these stories as all they were - fairytales. A king needs a wife, and if his first choice had not the sense to bind herself to him, then he must choose another.

The men of Rohan said little. They were hard, humble people, as steady as the very land on which they fought and tilled. They had little time for the fickleness that Arwen had portrayed. They avoided speaking of her, save to say that a man should have known better than to try and make a home with an elf, and then slip back into their determined silence as if nothing was amiss.

Whether the king ever heard of this talk, he never said. Instead he went about his duties in Rohan with a dedication that few had ever seen. He seemed determined to use the weeks he had set aside for the country to the best of his abilities. Funds from Gondor were brought to Rohan to replenish their army and rebuild the fortress at Helm's Deep. Workmen were commissioned from Minas Tirith to aid with the restructuring of the city. He assisted with finding homes for the children that had lost their families, establishing havens for those whose houses had been destroyed by the war.

Éowyn saw little of him - something that she refused to allow to bother her. She threw herself into her tasks, making sure that her duties took place far from him. Occasionally, she caught glimpses of the king. Their eyes would meet and it would seem as if a million unspoken words passed between them, but he would always look away quickly, as if there was something about her that he could no longer bear to see, as if somehow she was a reminder of all that he had and all that he had lost. There were times when she wished to go to him, to ease the lines of pain from his face, to stop the bleeding of his heart, but she knew that she could not. She knew that it was beyond any skill that she could ever hope to possess to recall him from the dark place in which he now existed. If anyone would know the depth of a wound that love can leave, it was her. He may have healed her, but he had also broken her, and she would not recall that pain again by enduring his sadness over another.

She could grieve for his loss, she could cry out for his pain, but she could never be the one to heal him. She was not like Faramir. She was not strong enough to put herself in the way of possible rejection again. Not from Aragorn, not from the man that would always have part of her heart. She could not force herself to hear him declare words of love about another. She could not hide her anguish from him, and he would see it. He always had. His ability to see through her was what she had loved about him. But this she would hide for all their sakes. She knew it would hurt Faramir if he ever saw that deep in her heart, there still existed the smallest seed of love for Aragorn. She knew that he would overlook it, she knew that he would still love her, but she also knew that his pain would be comparable to hers when Aragorn had rejected her so cruelly. And why? For what would she give up the kind and loving steward of Gondor, a man who set her above all else even when she did not return his feelings fully? Why would she ever want to hurt him? For Aragorn? For someone who had loved another for decades, for a man so high and mighty that he could never have truly loved her, even if he was free to do so? Would she reject all that she had for this man?

She told herself that the answer was no. That she would never do anything so foolish again, that she would never allow herself to fall so far into the depths of love and need again with anyone, and especially not with Aragorn. She would continue without him being a part of her life, and she would not look back. She told herself all these things and also that she believed them.

And, somewhere in her denial, in her rejection of Aragorn, and in her dedication to her duties, she found that she could move on, if not forget. Distractions were plentiful, and she used them to their full potential.

A distraction that had been completely unexpected had been a request from the little fearless girl, Freda, to be trained as a shieldmaiden. Although Éowyn had originally denied the request, claiming that the war was over, she had known that it would take very little to convince her, and, the following day, when Freda had arrived with two friends in tow, declaring that they all wanted to be just like the shieldmaiden that had smote the Witch-king, Éowyn had been completely won over. Right there and then she had picked up her sword, taken the girls outside, and started teaching them the art of sword fighting, using sticks for blades and discarded wooden planks from the rebuilding process for shields. Progress was incredibly slow, but Éowyn loved every minute of it and found herself looking forward to the hour she spent with the girls every day.

And it was in this setting that Aragorn came upon her for the first time since Arwen had taken her leave. Éowyn had decided to hold the class, which had grown from three girls to seven, in the Golden Hall, as it had simply been too cold to take the girls outside into the freshly fallen snow. She was demonstrating a fairly simple blocking technique when she became aware from the looks on the girls' faces that someone stood behind her. Turning, she followed their awed gazes to see that Aragorn stood a few metres away, leaning against a chair as if he had been there for a long time.

"My lord," she said, hoping that her voice did not betray that he had caught her off guard.

He stood up and nodded to her. "My lady."

He seemed tired, washed out, as if he had not slept in many nights. He looked rugged, raw, not like the regal king that had arrived in Edoras a week before. He gave her a small smile, one that did not reach his eyes, and her heart went out to him. She cursed herself for allowing him to suffer, as he had with no words of comfort from her. Even if she could not have eased his pain, at least he would have known that he was not alone, that the one person who truly knew how he felt was there to console him. But then his words from Dunharrow came back to her - harsh, cruel words that cut her to the core. Words that brought back the painful realisation that he could never have loved one such as her. Words that killed her a little every time she thought of them.

Pushing a stray strand of hair out of her face, she turned back to the half-expectant, half-awed faces of her charges, who had made no show of curtseying to the king or even greeting him. She smiled as she realised that they had not made the connection of Aragorn and king. To their young minds - like to her - he would always be an untamed ranger who lived day to day in the wild and saved the world on a whim. The man who had told them tales of magical people called Beren and Lúthien. The man who had shown them how to make special knots and where to find athelas if they needed it. A man who was a friend, and not a ruler.

"Very well," she said, breaking them out of the reverie, "you have all done well today. You may go early, but we'll meet again tomorrow at the same time."

In unison the girls nodded and began to make their way from the hall. Éowyn watched them leave, hoping that she would find the words to say to Aragorn when she could no longer claim her small shieldmaidens as a distraction. All too quickly they were gone. She sighed and slowly went to the storage chest where she kept her sword and replaced the weapon, taking time to slide it into its scabbard and arrange it neatly in the box and then, knowing that she could no longer delay the inevitable, she stood up to face the man who had broken her heart as recklessly as his own love had broken his.

"What brings you here, my lord?" she asked, hoping that her voice sounded steadier than she thought it did.

"Do I need a reason to see an old friend, my lady?" he answered.

Briefly, she just looked at him, her heart aching for the moment. This was the man she had seen herself spending her life with, the man whose children she would carry and nurture in her body, the man she would love all her life. This was the man that would forever carry a part of her with him, the only man who had ever had the power to break her. And break her he had. Break her and empty her and destroy what little faith she had left. And yet, she felt no anger or resentment towards him. Truly, she felt pity. He had been destroyed by Arwen's desertion as she had been destroyed by his. She knew all too well the pain that he was in.

She gave him a small smile. "No, my lord, I welcome your company."

He seemed to brighten at that, and she found herself warming to the idea of being near him. "Walk with me," he said, offering his arm to her.

For a moment she was unsure of whether she should take it, but he smiled sadly, and she knew that she could not deny him such a simple request. Sighing imperceptibly, she slid her arm into his as she had once seen Arwen Undómiel do in this very hall, and together they stepped out into the fading sunlight.

He led her down the steps of the Golden Hall and along the path that led out of the city. Snow had fallen the night before, and the air was crisp and cold. For a long while, neither of them said anything. Éowyn knew that she should have been paying attention to her surroundings, to the newly planted trees and crops, to the endless sapphire blue sky, to the small animals that darted around in the snow, but she could think of little more than the man beside her - the way their arms were linked, the way his body was warm and close to hers, the way he could still make her feel the same way he had all those months ago. She didn't have the words that needed to fill the silence nor the will or the energy even to think of them. So she walked with him, simply breathing the cold air and watching as the sun's feeble rays struck the earth in a vain attempt to melt the ice.

It was Aragorn who broke the silence. "I have seen little of you, my lady," he said quietly, "painfully little."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, not really knowing what she could say. "Things have been busy, my lord," she began.

"Too busy for an old friend?" he asked good naturedly.

She snuck a sideways glance at him, but his eyes were fixed on some faraway point that she could not fathom. There was no answer to his question, so she remained silent.

"Not that one could blame you," he said suddenly. "I haven't exactly been the best company." He looked at her briefly and stopped walking. "Or the best friend either."

She looked down at her soft leather boots, which were becoming saturated by the snow, wondering what she could say. "You have had much on your mind, my lord," she answered dismissively.

"Please, call me Aragorn," he said. "I am not your lord."

She nodded again but remained silent.

He led her a little further into the snow and then turned to look back at Meduseld. "Do you know that this is where I stood when I beheld you for the first time?" he asked. She shook her head and looked towards the balcony that she knew she would have had to stand on for him to have seen her from this vantage point. "I looked up and I saw you. You looked so pale and so lonely. You were so empty. I had never seen anyone that empty before." He paused and looked away.

Éowyn shifted slightly, feeling uncomfortable in his presence. Hating and loving the way he saw through her so easily, wanting and not wanting to hear his words. She searched for words of her own, words that could match his, but there was nothing. Just an eternal, yawning silence punctuated by the sound of the cold wind blowing snowy breaths across the land.

She shivered. Absently, and without taking his eyes from Meduseld's balcony, he removed his cloak and put it around her shoulders. It was warm and soft and it smelled of him.

"I wanted to help you," he continued suddenly. "I wanted to save you, although I didn't know from what. I wanted to see you smile... I knew that you would be beautiful when you smiled."

She pulled his cloak closer around her shoulders, more for protection than for warmth. He mistook her gesture and placed his hands on her shoulders as if trying to keep the cloak in place. Suddenly, Éowyn felt very alone and exposed standing ouside on the stark landscape with none other than the man she had tried so desperately to avoid. As alone as she had been before Aragorn had come to Rohan. The irony was not lost on her.

"My lord..." she began, uncertainly.

"Aragorn," he interrupted.

She bowed her head and turned slightly so that she could see his grave face. "Aragorn," she acquiesced. He nodded. Taking a deep breath, she started again. "Aragorn, the past is gone. Let us not speak of these things. They too are gone. Dead and buried."

He smiled sadly. "Yes, my lady, the past is gone. The past and everything with it." The defeat in his voice was painful to hear. Not knowing how to answer, she pretended to focus on some faraway point of nothingness. "I think I understand now," he said.

"Understand?" she asked, plucking up the courage to look at him.

For a while he didn't answer.

"I think I understand you, my lady. I think I understand what drove you to seek your own destruction. The pain that broke you. I didn't understand before, could not comprehend your actions, not truly. But I know it now. I know your anguish, I know your heart." He was no longer talking to her or even about her. He was so wracked with pain that she could have been Sauron himself, and it wouldn't have mattered. His grief was tangible and all-consuming. She wanted to reach out to him, to say something, anything that would give him the smallest comfort, anything that would ease his heart. Her pain at watching him pine for another seemed small, insignificant in the face of his grief, her coldness towards him of late seemed immature. His only crime was to love too much.

The snow started to fall anew as she turned to face him. "My lord..."

Abruptly, he broke out of his daydreams and focused on her. "I'm sorry, Éowyn. I am speaking out of turn." He smiled kindly, but defeat showed in his eyes. He touched her face gently, and his fingers felt warm and soft against her face. "I had simply hoped to recapture some of what once existed between us."

She did not waver under his gaze. She would not look away this time. Too often had she allowed him to make loaded comments such as this without questioning him for fear of rejection. She would face him head-on and listen to what he had to say. The maiden of the Rohirrim who could destroy one of the most evil beings in the land would not shy away from his words, whatever those words may be.

And when they came, they were unwanted but not unexpected.

"I think it may be too late for that now," he said sadly.

She bit her lip and looked down at the snow for a moment before meeting his eyes again. "Aye," she said, "so do I." Her heart broke as she said these words, but she faced him directly, never a hint of regret showing on her face.

His face was also unreadable, showing no emotion at all. "I am sorry, lady. I have taken you from your tasks. Please allow me to escort you back."

She nodded, accepted his arm, and together they returned to the gates of Edoras, neither seeing or heeding the two figures that had been watching them from the steps of the Golden Hall.

Chapter 3

Éomer's naming day celebration loomed like a black angry cloud on the horizon. Éowyn had been looking forward to it, but her last conversation with Aragorn had put a damper on her enthusiasm. Now, instead of looking like the joyous occasion it should be, it was more closely resembling a natural disaster.

Faramir had been invited and was making his way towards Edoras from Minas Tirith to attend. Aragorn had no choice but to attend, and Éowyn had the sinking feeling that somehow she was going to end up caught in the middle. Then there was Éomer, who was so smitten with Lothíriel that Rohan could be taken over by an Easterling army and burnt to the ground before he would even notice. He had also casually announced to her the day before that he had a very important announcement that he was going to make at the celebration. He had remained extremely cagey and given no hint as to what it was, only indicating that it would be very special and very important and hopefully well received.

It hadn't taken Éowyn long to realise, despite her brother's abject denials, that he was either going to announce his engagement to Lothíriel or propose to the princess of Dol Amroth. Either way, it was fairly clear that on the night Éomer gained another year to his age, Éowyn would be gaining a sister.

She smiled at the thought, even though she knew that the emotional backlash that the evening could produce would be anything but bliss. When she had been younger, she had never understood what it was that girls saw in her brother. She had thought him most immature and painfully unattractive - probably the same way he had seen her - but there had always been a large number of young ladies who had been literally swooning over the princeling, simply dying for him to give them the smallest scrap of attention. Of course, Éomer had played this card to its full potential, so when Lothíriel came along, Éowyn had paid little attention. The princess was a lovely woman. Shy and demure, but incredibly sweet and possessing a quiet grace and a stern core to which Éowyn could easily relate. While she had known that Éomer was infatuated, she had not expected that anything serious would come of it, and she had never even entertained the notion that the day would come when she would see her stern and righteous brother as carefree and relaxed and happy as he had been of late.

While there were times when he seemed like a young lad who had simply been overcome by the loveliness of someone completely and utterly unattainable, there were other times when he was more at peace than she had ever seen him. There were times when he would be literally bouncing off the walls, declaring his love for the petite princess, saying her name over and over again like some sort of poetic mantra. And then there were the other times, the times that Éowyn found so intriguing, the times when he seemed so content, times when he would just be smiling to himself, his large arm wrapped around Lothíriel's small shoulders, his heart and mind quiet and blissful, secure in the knowledge that he had found his place in the world in the depths of her heart.

Éowyn envied him that. She envied his surety, his solid basis for being in love, the fact that he no longer needed to question his feelings or those of his soon-to-be intended. Not many days ago, she had told herself the same thing. She had convinced herself that if Faramir asked for her hand, she would no doubt give it. She wouldn't look back, she would take a leap into her future. She would allow Faramir to wrap his healing love around her wounded heart, and she would be soothed with the knowledge that he would never leave her, never betray her, and never love another. His commitment to her would be the ultimate commitment he would ever make, and he would never renege on his promise. But that had all been before her conversation with Aragorn, before the feelings she had fought so hard to hide had betrayed her and resurfaced. She had cursed herself for allowing it to happen. She had tried to reason with herself that, in all fairness, her relationship with Aragorn was worse than it had ever been. They had both declared that their relationship could never work, that there was more dividing them than ever before, that there was no longer the room in their hearts for each other. And yet, her feelings, which should have been incredibly negative towards the king, were more ambivalent than ever.

She found herself thinking often of him, replaying their conversation over and over in her mind, despite her endless promises to herself that she would move on and forget him, lead her own life, a life that she would maybe build with someone like Faramir, a life completely different from the one she had contemplated months before. But these convictions did not last because she did think of him. She did think of how it felt to have him near, his arm interlinked with hers, his hands on her shoulders, his hair gently brushing against her face. She knew that she could not trust herself around him. No matter how many times she could make up her mind about him and the strange relationship that they shared, no matter how many times she decided to forget even thinking of him in intimate terms, she always found herself doing it.

Her one consolation, which was something of a two-edged sword, was that Faramir would arrive soon from Gondor. She told herself that her feelings for Aragorn had only resurfaced as strongly as they had because she was missing the steward's company, and when he eventually did arrive, she would throw her ambiguity to the wind and allow herself to become so distracted with the handsome steward that Aragorn would pale into something just short of non-existence.

And she did find that despite her doubts and her fears about her brother's naming day, she really was looking forward to Faramir's arrival. He made her laugh, and he eased the wounds that existed under her flesh. Around him she was warm and happy and content. She could be unguarded and frivolous, and her mind was at rest.

Aragorn would learn to move on, just as she had - or at least as she had hoped to. He would eventually find a suitable match. A queen far more worthy than his first choice could have ever been. A woman of substance who could rule Gondor and be more to Aragorn than the trophy Arwen had been. The thought elated Éowyn and saddened her at the same time. It brought back all the memories, all the rage, all the love, and all the loss. Her dreams of being his wife were not yet so lost that they held no sway over her heart. She could still see them so clearly in her mind. So real that she could almost hear the laughter of their children, the feel of his body next to hers, his gentle kisses on her lips. And it still ached, it still ached to know that he had never thought the same way - that while she had thought of him, his heart had been with another. He had the same thoughts, the same dreams, the same longings, but instead of a blond-haired shieldmaiden standing at his side, there was a beautiful dark elf - a being so sophisticated and majestic that it seemed as if the flowers bowed down to her footsteps, as if the birds sang on her command, as if the very air turned sweeter in her wake.

Éowyn wanted to understand, she wanted to be able to see a way through the secrets and the lies and truly see Aragorn for the man he really was - the man who loved a woman he had thought was the embodiment of beauty and grace, who he saw as the likeness of the most beautiful creature to have walked the fair lands of Middle-earth. Truly, Éowyn wished that she could see this and understand it, but every time she tried, every time she came closer to understanding his grief, she was struck by the implausibility of their match. She was struck by the way Arwen had been so beyond comprehension, so beyond the understanding of mortals that it became hard to picture the elleth as anything other than a perfect fantasy. How Aragorn could have ever imagined that Arwen would have become part of the earth he was to rule over, Éowyn did not know. Arwen could have never understood the suffering of people, she could never have experienced the loss that they all held in their hearts. Her angst over her family and the sacrifice that she had once entertained making would be the closest thing to grief she would ever know. Her love for Aragorn would have been the only reason she could have ever had for staying and, as Éowyn knew, often love is not enough.

When Aragorn would pass on into the next world one day, Arwen would have had nothing left, for she would not have allowed it to be so. Nothing would come close to her heart, nothing would touch her or induce her continued existence. Her life would be Aragorn and yet, she would have never truly known the real man behind the king. When he ceased to have any desire for life, so would she. She would fade away into the shadows, leaving Gondor to whatever future awaited it, good or bad. It would have been a terrible fate for all, a dark and difficult time for all the people of Middle-earth. A time of mourning and unrest. A time of worry and frustration.

It was these thoughts that suddenly helped Éowyn to understand and even appreciate Arwen's decision to leave. It was then that she realised that, while what Arwen had done had been fundamentally for her own gain, she had not been completely selfish in her choice. Maybe, just maybe she had known that she could never be the queen and ruler that Gondor needed. Maybe she had sacrificed some of what she wanted for a higher morality, a "greater good" if you must. While her methods had been dubious, while her promises had all been too easily broken, and while her own desires had always been the very top of her priorities, Arwen may have had a small flash of insight, and maybe her words that it was for the best had not been as hollow as all had thought.

Not that it made the slightest bit of difference, not that any amount of talking would convince Aragorn of this. He didn't want to know, he didn't want to move on. When a person has occupied your every thought and deed for as long as Arwen had been in his life, it was difficult, if not impossible, to pick up the pieces and move on. Éowyn knew this from loving Aragorn for only a short time, while he had loved Arwen for decades. How could he move on? There was little to move on for. And yet, he must. He must forsake the grief and be the king that he was born to be.

Éowyn smiled wanly to herself at the thought. Accepting a kingship that he didn't want and no doubt a queen that he wanted even less would be no easy feat. She pitied the woman who would eventually have to fulfill Arwen's intended role. She was not sure that Middle-earth even had a woman who could do it. No doubt one would have to be found, for no other reason than the manufacturing of Gondorian heirs, and no doubt even the lowliest peasant would have been a better queen than Arwen. But, at the end of the day, whoever it was would have to deal day and night with a man that simply could not love her.

Éowyn shook her head sadly as she realised that the life she was imagining for some unnamed woman would have been the same life she had wished for herself not long ago. A life that, on the surface, had seemed perfect and was everything but when you looked deeper. It was a life she would not wish on anyone really - bereft of love and companionship, a life divided from the contentment that marriage supposedly brought.

She believed it would be easier for someone who did not know Aragorn, someone who simply knew of the brave, handsome king of Gondor and knew nothing of the man himself, someone who had never known him before Arwen left and would think that his distance, his surliness and his brooding anger was simply his way, that there was nothing before and would be nothing after. If there was someone who could see the marriage as little more than a political move, it would be easier. The woman would be able to do her duty to her king, bear him a son, and move on, be remote from her husband, find herself other pleasures and not be brought down, knowing that the man she had married could never love her, nor would he try to.

These morbid thoughts would have continued had not a tentative knock on her door drawn Éowyn out of her contemplations. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to believe that it was a servant informing her that Lord Faramir had arrived and was requesting her presence, but, to her disappointment, it was Freda, fencing stick held tightly in her small hand, dressed for training.

"My lady," the child said.

"Yes, Freda. Is it time already?" Éowyn asked, looking towards her window.

The child nodded. "You're already late."

Éowyn tried to suppress a smile at the girl's forthrightness and failed horribly. The child reminded her so of herself at that age that she could never be angry by the apparent lack of tact and respect. "Yes, Freda, I suppose I am. Is everyone already waiting?" The girl nodded gravely, and Éowyn wanted to laugh out loud at the seriousness of the gesture. Freda was nothing if not dedicated. "Well, come along," she said, slipping out of her room and starting down the stone corridor. "We don't want to keep them waiting any longer."

"Were you busy, my lady?" Freda asked as they walked.

"No, not really. I was thinking, and I lost track of time," she answered as they began to descend the stairs that would lead to the Golden Hall's antechamber.

"About the king," said Freda.

It was not a question, and it stopped Éowyn in her tracks. Heart hammering loudly in her chest, she turned to the girl who was a step or two behind her and looked her in the eye. "Why do you say this, Freda?" she asked gently, in a voice that she hoped sounded free of guilt.

The girl suddenly seemed embarrassed, as if she had revealed that she knew something of great importance that she was not meant to have any knowledge of. She looked down at her feet and mumbled something under her breath, which Éowyn did not quite hear.

"What did you say, Freda?" Éowyn felt terrible for pushing the child, who so obviously did not want to answer her, but she could not allow the words to pass by unnoticed. Any rumours about herself and Aragorn would need to be dealt with immediately. For a long moment, it seemed as if Freda would simply ignore her and remain silent.

"Freda?" Éowyn coaxed.

The child took a deep breath and looked up at the princess. It seemed to Éowyn that the girl had summoned every last scrap of courage to answer her, and just as Freda was about to speak, her eyes focused on some point at the bottom of the stairs. Disappointed by the distraction but curious as to what had caused it, Éowyn turned to follow the child's gaze and saw a man that she did not recognise making his way up the stairs. He was tall, with greying auburn hair, and he bore the insignia of the white tree of Gondor upon his breast, yet Éowyn could see by his poise and carriage that he was not a soldier. He was too sophisticated, his face too wise, his manner too regal. No doubt he was a scholar of some sort, a man of great importance, judging from the rings that he bore on his hands. And then inexplicably, Éowyn grew cold, as if someone had walked over her grave. For a reason that she simply could not fathom, this strange man unnerved her. Never before had seeing someone for the first time caused these negative feelings to well up as strongly as they did. His very presence worried her, making her stomach knot and her throat become dry.

He climbed the stairs purposefully, and even though she could see that his eyes were kind, Éowyn had the overwhelming surety that no good could come of him being in Rohan. To her surprise, he did not stop when he reached her, but acknowledged her presence with a gentle nod and a quiet "my lady" and continued his way up the stairs.

For a moment, Éowyn remained motionless. His apparent lack of courtesy towards the princess of the house indicated that he was someone of high rank and even higher importance, yet she had not seen him before, had not been present when he arrived to welcome him to Meduseld. In fact, she had not even been informed that someone from Gondor, other than Faramir, would be coming to Rohan. For some reason, the fact that she hadn't known bothered her. While it was very possible that Éomer had simply forgotten to tell her, it felt as if something was being kept secret, as if there was a conspiracy afoot. And, while later that night, she would chide herself for her paranoia and blame it on the anxiety of the last few days, she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong or out of place.

And suddenly, she realised she didn't want Freda to answer her question anymore. Something told her that she didn't want to know what it was that the girl saw. She didn't want to hear the words spoken out loud, but when she looked back at the child it was too late. Taking the princess' gaze as an indication that she was expected to continue, Freda, already having forgotton the mysterious stranger, took a deep breath and in a soft, but clear voice she stated what in her young mind was the ultimate, irrefutable reason for Éowyn's angst.

"Because of the way Lord Aragorn looks at you and the way you look at him, that is how I know you were thinking of him." She tried to look the princess in the eye, but her resolve was soft, and she looked away again.

Briefly, Éowyn closed her eyes, trying to absorb and focus on the words and simultaneously discount her worry regarding the man from Gondor. When she opened them again, she smiled sadly. "No, Freda," she said kindly, touching the child's tousled hair, "you are mistaken. There is nothing between the king and me."

"But..." Freda began.

"No," Éowyn said firmly. "The king's heart belongs to another... as... as does mine."

Freda's head shot up at that, and she looked at Éowyn quizzically, a mixture of shock and disbelief written over her sometimes pretty face. She seemed about to say something, but thought the better of it and closed her mouth. Instead, she bowed her head in a gesture of defeat and pushed past the princess, moving off in the direction of the Golden Hall, leaving Éowyn standing alone on the stairs.

For a moment, Éowyn thought about what Freda had said, trying to find some flaw in the child's thinking that could help her to discount the girl's observations, but there was nothing. And Éowyn had to admit to herself that Freda had actually been right - she had been thinking of Aragorn. Apparently, it was very obvious.

She put her hands over her eyes and tried to imagine that she was somewhere else, somewhere far away from Rohan and Aragorn and children wise beyond their years and Gondorian strangers, and when it didn't work, she bit her lip, squared her shoulders, and made her way towards her young charges, praying with every step that Faramir would not be long in arriving.

Chapter 4

But Faramir did not arrive. There was no word from him, no letter, no messenger, nothing. While she knew that he was busy and that he had more than likely started out from Gondor a day or two late, she could not shake the feeling that there was a reason why he had not yet appeared. She was a little concerned, although she doubted that any harm would have befallen him. He was, after all, the steward of Gondor and, no doubt, would have brought enough men with him to ensure safe passage – no matter what awaited him on the road between Rohan and Gondor.

Yet deep inside she did feel that there was something wrong - it was like an almost imperceptible change in the weather, which affects people greatly, despite the fact that they are mostly unaware of it. Over time she had come to trust her instincts; she relied on herself more than ever before, and she knew that something was afoot, something that those closest to her were keeping from her, a surprise that they were waiting to reveal. But she could only guess at what, and when she tried, her thoughts were usually dark and unpleasant.

The night ahead would be difficult without Faramir by her side, although she knew it would have been difficult anyway. It was just the feeling that she had nowhere to turn, no barrier between herself and the rest of the world. But she would not fail herself or Rohan. She was, after all, and at least for the time being, the most important woman in Rohan, and she would hold herself to that title as best she could until it was relenquished to Lothíriel. She smiled at the thought. She felt no jealousy or anger towards the tiny princess. If anything, she was pleased to be free of that burden and truthfully, she knew that Lothíriel would be a wonderful ruler with her fiery spirit and compassionate heart. Rohan could only improve under her guidance, as would Éomer. Her smile turned into an almost wicked grin at this - the solemn and stern king of the Mark had certainly found his match; now if only his sister could find hers.

She turned to take one last look at herself in her mirror before going out to face whatever the evening threw at her. She found herself surprised at the image that looked back at her. Gone was the roughened shieldmaiden, and in her place was a lady, a beautiful and strong and powerful lady, but a lady nonetheless. Éomer had insisted that she get a new dress for the occasion, and despite her protestations that the money used for the dress should go towards the rebuilding process, he would not be budged. Stubbornly, he had commissioned a seamstress, whose icy hands and grave demeanour had made Éowyn shiver as she was prodded and poked for fitting after fitting, until the insipid woman had finally been satisfied with the result. And, despite herself, Éowyn had to admit that she had never expected the woman to have been so talented. The dress was truly exquisite - made from a deep crimson velvet with a V-neck that plunged slightly lower than Éowyn would have liked. The long fluted sleeves bore a delicately embroidered gold trim depicting the equine symbols of Rohan. Her hair had been left loose, and a small, fragile tiara placed on her head.

In short, she was a woman she barely recognised, and she wasn't sure how that made her feel. She wished for Faramir's reassurance, but deep in her heart she knew it would not be forthcoming. For whatever reasons, the steward too had decided to desert her.

Briefly, she felt tears welling up in her eyes, and she blinked hard to stop them from flowing. She would remain strong, she would have to for everybody's sake. She would not allow her emotions to overwhelm her again. She was stronger than that. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then, courage barely renewed, she exited her room, footsteps echoing on the hard stone floors.

***

Aragorn stood in the shadows, all but hidden from view on the balcony of Meduseld. The smoke from his pipe sent twirling tendrils and delicate patterns into the freezing atmosphere. It was colder outside than it had been in a long while - snow had started to fall again, and the air was crisp and biting.

But he had no desire to go inside the hall to the festivities that would soon begin. Already the townsfolk had started making their journey to the Golden Hall in preparation for the festivities. Luckily his hiding place had proved effective, and none had seen him yet, but he knew that it would not be long before he would have to face them all.

He found it difficult being surrounded by people all the time, especially people who were happy and filled with the joy that the fourth age had brought, excited about the transition from despair to hope and from war to peace. But, even though he had been critical in ensuring this new world, he felt isolated, lost, as if there was a great "Age of Men" festival occuring to which he had not been invited.

But, if he was to be completely truthful, he had to admit that this was only part of the reason that he sought solitude, only a small fraction of the reason for his distance. The real reason was… Arwen.

Absently, he turned in the direction of the sea that had taken her from him. It felt like he had gone for years without her, as if the week he had just endured had been a lifetime of pain and longing. He cursed himself for believing in the impossible dream of them for so long. He cursed himself for believing that the tragic and beautiful story of Beren and Lúthien could ever be repeated. He felt foolish, as if he had been nothing more than a young lad nurturing an impossible infatuation for decades, a lad who had never become the man he was supposed to be, a lad who had never realised that love was mutable.

And what if he had? he asked himself. Would he have been any less impetuous? Would he have walked away before Arwen could have seen him in the gardens of Rivendell all those years ago? Would he have realised his own limitations and thereby hers too? Or would he have still enticed her with his words, still fought for years to be worthy of her? Would he have still believed the love of Arwen Undómiel to be the greatest achievement a man could make?

He was weak - he had known for years that he was weak, yet he had thought she made him strong - that her love would guide him, but now he saw that it was not the case. That you could not invest so much in another with no regard for your own heart.

He inhaled deeply and watched as the snow fell lightly on the ground.

Then, there was always the other problem - the problem of pride. He couldn't help but feel that he wasn't the only one who saw himself as a failure. Every single one of the people that would be at the celebration knew of his love for Arwen and subsequently, of her desertion of him. He felt like a fool in front of them, a man who had had impossible dreams and had watched them fall flat in front of a huge audience. What kind of a king could he be if he couldn't hold on to what was most precious to him? If the woman who was believed to have loved him beyond her own life was the first to desert him in his time of need? What kind of a man did he seem to them, let alone a king?

His pain, his embarrassment was so difficult to face, so difficult to contextualise. He wanted to carry on, but he was held back by his own feelings of inadequacy, his own uselessness.

And then there was Éowyn. The beautiful princess of Rohan whom he still could not fathom. He had not lied when he had told Gandalf that he knew not how to speak of her, for he still did not. He had lost her too, her smiles, her laughter, her determination. He wanted to be near her, to know that she was close and that he could depend on her when the time came, but at the same time he wished to never see her cool grey eyes, her flawless skin, and her golden hair, ever again. Her presence, although so deeply desired, brought him only pain. Of every person he knew in this world, she was the one who had the most right to judge him for what had happened. She had the most right to point out the flaws of pairing an elf and a man, she had the most right to revel in his loss. And yet she did not. When he looked at her, he could see no avarice, no hidden truths. More than anything he saw pity and worry - as if she wished to reach out and ease his pain - in many ways avarice would have been better.

In his heart he knew he had treated her badly. Despite all the lies he had told himself, he knew that he had played with her emotions and that deep down, despite his overwhelming love for Arwen, he had been drawn to Éowyn. There was a time, not too long ago that, his own actions had become foreign to him, his own thoughts clouded. He knew not why he had played into her obvious belief that he could love her. He could not explain even on pain of death why he had allowed his relationship with her to become as out of control as he had. He told himself that it was because he believed Arwen had left already, that he believed he had to start a new life without the elven lady, but it was not true. Somewhere he had known that Arwen was waiting for him, somewhere he had been sure that she would not leave. He had been proved right and wrong on both accounts.

But even now, even with all that had passed, he could not understand why he wanted to be near Éowyn when she was the physical embodiment of nearly everything that he had ever done wrong in his life. It made no sense and yet, he knew that he searched for her face every day of his life, that he longed to hear her voice, and that in those few times when his thoughts were not of Arwen, Éowyn's beautiful face lingered in his mind.

But it was not to be. In his dark and gloomy world, nothing was right anymore. He could never love again, would never love again. His love had died the day Arwen had left, his ability to love had been gone long before even then. And now, he was just Aragorn, king of men. He would take no wife, bear no sons. When his time was over, Gondor would once again fall under the rule of the stewards. He smiled mirthlessly at the irony. One day Faramir's son might rule Gondor - Faramir and Éowyn's son if the steward had his way - a child born of a union with a woman that Aragorn himself had rejected. He realised then that his treatment of the White Lady would be repaid in many ways.

He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. The world was neither a friendly or familiar place anymore, and now that he had lost all that he held dear, he had no motivation to change that. Life would carry on at a slow and steady pace, but he would take no part in it. He would see the world through distant eyes, where colours would be dull and sounds muted.

His dark thoughts would have continued to overwhelm him if he had not become aware that his hiding place had been discovered. Slight footsteps and a subtle change in the air warned him of someone's presence, and quickly he turned to see the intruder, finding himself almost angry at the interruption.

But his anger dissipated instantly into a kind of candid surprise when he saw that it was Éowyn. She too stood in the shadows, and he could percieve little else than the starlight caught in her long blond hair.

"My lord," she said, bowing her head gently, hoping that he hadn't seen her expression of shock at discovering him hidden in the dark recesses of the balcony. "I am sorry to have disturbed you," she said softly.

"No, my lady, you have not disturbed me. I had merely sought a quite place to smoke... and think," he answered gently. He could sense her smile.

"You had found a good place then, my lord; that is, until I found it too."

"Not so, lady, it had started to get somewhat lonely, and your presence is never unwelcome." He brought his pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply, looking away from her towards the mountains.

"Thank you, my lord," she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

He smiled but still did not look at her. "I thought we had done away with the formalities."

"Well then, we are both guilty of not complying," she answered, following his gaze to the mountains.

"Aye, that we are."

She smiled again, a small part of her warming to his presence as she quashed her desire to leave him as soon as it would be proper to do so. Instead, she found a small amount of comfort in staring at the snow-covered peaks that seemed closer than they were. She felt strangely calm and content standing here with him, as if somehow it was the right place for her to be.

"What brings you here, Éowyn? If you do not mind my curiosity," he asked suddenly.

She bit her lip. She had known this question would be forthcoming, and still she was not sure how to answer. Telling him of Faramir would seem almost as if she were gloating, and yet she had not the energy nor the inclination to lie to him. He deserved more than that. "I had hoped that Faramir may have arrived. He should have been here days ago, yet there has been no word." At saying these words, she turned her attention towards the gate of Edoras in the hope that she would see the steward making his way towards Meduseld.

Her words produced no visible effect on the king that stood a few feet away from her. "I had also thought him arriving soon," he mused nonchalantly. "I have heard nothing to the contrary."

Briefly, she looked at him, his words making her stomach roll. "Do you think something ill has befallen him?" She barely dared to ask the question.

"No, lady, I do not," he said kindly, looking towards her and shaking his head. "A man from Gondor arrived a few days ago. He would have said if something was amiss."

His words gave her little comfort, but she found herself temporarily distracted at the mention of the man from Gondor. "What man is it that you speak of?" she asked steadily, as the image of the strange Gondorian she had seen and the way he had made her very bones go cold with his presence, filled her mind.

Aragorn didn't notice her sudden change in tone and turned away to continue staring out into the distance. "An advisor, nothing more. I have seen little of him. I thought him here at Éomer's request."

Éowyn nodded slowly, although she doubted very much that Éomer would have called in an advisor from Gondor when he had the very king of Gondor staying in his own house. She moved closer to Aragorn and further into the shadows as more people made their way up the steps of Meduseld, bearing gifts for their king.

"Have no fear, lady," Aragorn said, still not looking at her. "Faramir is not so foolish that he would abandon one such as you."

His words were a shock to her, and quickly she looked to him, but he seemed oblivious of the implications of what he had said. A brief silence ensued, making her wish that she had something to say, anything to fill the yawning gap that she was sure only she felt, but the words did not come. She wished that she could question him on his meaning, demand that he speak plainer, but before she could say anything, he turned to her, tapping his pipe against the wall.

"However, lady," he said, his tone slightly teasing, "he may be foolish enough to be late, in which case the princess of Rohan would find herself attending her brother's naming day celebration alone. As well you know, lady, this would be completely unacceptable, and therefore I feel I am duty-bound to accompany her."

He held his hand out towards her.

For a moment they both stood there in silence until she looked up at him, her ambivalence written all over her face, as she desperately tried to see if he was joking, hoping both that he was and that he was not.

He smiled gently. "Please? Abandoned souls should always look out for each other."

Yes, she thought, indeed we are both abandoned, by each other and by those we love. She looked briefly at his outstretched arm and then back at him. "Of course. It would be an honour," she whispered as she took his cold fingers in her own.

Sliding his arm into hers, he looked down at her, catching his breath at seeing her in her full radiance for the first time. "The honour is mine, my lady. The honour is truly mine."

Chapter 5

And the honour was indeed his, for in time to come, many would say that the king did not deserve their princess at his side, that the king should have let her go when he had the chance, that the king did not deserve the prizes that had been bestowed upon him, and especially not the greatest prize of all – their own beloved princess. They would say that he was weak where she was strong, that he was cruel when she was kind, and that they were both fools for different reasons. But those dark times had not yet begun to reveal their true façade. For now they lay waiting in the shadows of the king's heart, allowing place for the radiant princess of Rohan, more beautiful than the light, to have the handsome king of Gondor, calm and steadfast, at her side.

Although he cursed himself for his weakness, Aragorn could not help but look towards her as they made their way to Éomer's empty throne. She was lovely, her beauty so regal and yet so incredibly tangible it made him want to weep. He desired so deeply to touch the golden waves of her hair, caress the smooth porcelain of her cheek, and kiss the gentle curve of her lips. He was aware of her arm tucked firmly into his, the heady smell of her subtle perfume filling his lungs, and the wave of tenderness that washed over him as he watched her.

For a moment, a brief and fleeting instant, he felt content, as if he had found a small haven in the rough seas of his emotions, a respite from his anger and turmoil. Somehow this woman, little more than a girl really, calmed him, giving him something that he had not felt in years: warmth – the kind of warmth that Arwen had never been able to give, the refuge that she could not provide.

The feeling left as soon as it came. There was no respite and there was no haven. Not for him, not for the king, nor the man. The woman at his side, although wonderful and unique, was not Arwen. She never would be. She was steadfast and loyal, beautiful and kind, and yet she could never be the woman he so deeply desired, the woman he had waited sixty years to attain and less than sixty days to lose.

In his treacherous mind's eye, he saw the elleth, imagined that it was her at his side. Arwen, Evenstar of the elves, clad in shimmering blues, her dark hair piled high on her beautiful head, her arm loosely draped through his. Her hands would feel soft and smooth in his, hands that had never held a sword. Her skin would be flawless. There would be no scars, no imperfections, and she would be happy. Happy to be with him, proud to stand at his side, despite her higher birthright, despite her superiority.

And then in a brief moment of clarity, he saw her as she truly was - in Valinor, singing among the elves, smiling with a joy he had never seen, a joy he could never bring her. Not here in his world when men died and wars waged, not here among sickness and death, torture and suffering. He was a man, that was all, and a man was not good enough for an elf no matter how noble he could be. A man grew old and feeble, a man was capable of the most vile acts – it ran in his blood, it lived in the air that he breathed. A man could never be equal to an elf, no matter how long he strove to be worthy. And yet, despite all this, an elf was what he wanted. Arwen was all he wanted.

And then, as he always did when he was near Éowyn, he felt the all-too-familiar guilt and loss. He knew he should not compare her to Arwen. The two were like day and night, and he should not dishonour the White Lady by wishing her replaced by another. But he could not help but judge the woman who had loved him so unconditionally with the woman he had loved in the same way. How did she feel about him now, now with all that had passed, now with Faramir in her heart?

He smiled at her, a smile Éowyn had become used to, a smile that never reached his eyes. She wished that just once, for just a split-second in infinity, she could see the ranger that laughed with her on the road to Helm's Deep, the ranger who had sat by her side, telling her stories of his life, the ranger who had given her the freedom to trust her own heart. But that man was gone, and in his place was the king that had broken her heart. For a moment, looking at his sad handsome face became unbearable, and she turned away, feigning interest in a juggler. She knew that she needed to compose herself, to stop dredging up all these memories and desires that could never be, that would never be real. She could not be a shy, blushing maid every time the king was nearby, and yet she could not bear looking at him, seeing the way he saw her, knowing that he knew how fast her heart was beating, feeling her tremble against him. She knew that he knew of her weakness for him, how could he not? She had confessed it to him months ago and yet, still she felt that he had no right nor reason to be so close, no justification for his presence in her heart. But she would not wish it away - not for the world, not for herself.

"Is something troubling you, my lady?" he asked gently.

Forcing a smile onto her face, she turned away from the juggler and back to the king. "No, my lord. There is nothing troubling me."

She could see that he did not believe her, but he simply tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her a little closer, and said nothing. Somehow she felt supported with him at her side, and yet she also felt as if everything could crumble at any moment, as if he would be gone before she even noticed, lost forever to her as he once had been, as he still was.

Slowly, he led her through the dimly lit hall of her ancestors. People moved aside to let them pass. Was this what it would be like, she wondered. Was this how things were when you were a queen? Is this how it felt? She had no desire to become a queen, then, no desire to live a life of awe and power, and in her heart she knew that the man beside her felt the same. He wore his kingship as a burden that weighed heavily upon his shoulders, a cruel rope that bound him to a responsibility he would not have. And now he did not even have the woman he loved by his side to help him. His fate was a lonely and labourious one, and would remain so until he decided to make it otherwise.

But for now, she would enjoy his brief attention, his warmth and closeness. For now she would try and forget the hurt and disappointment of the last few months, and maybe if she changed, the world would change too.

When they had finally negotiated their way to the throne, Lothíriel was waiting to greet them. Dressed in emerald green and silver, already looking every bit the queen, the tiny princess fell into a low curtsey before the king, bowing her head, so that her dark shiny hair covered her face. "My lord," she said formally.

"My lady," Aragorn answered, holding out his hand towards her. She ignored it absently and rose up to grab Éowyn's hands, a radiant smile adorning her pixie-like face. Instinctively, Aragorn released Éowyn's arm, and briefly she felt a twinge of disappointment – as if someone had removed a warm cloak from her on a freezing day, leaving her with nothing to protect her from the seeping cold. She looked at him briefly, hoping that her regret did not show, and then turned her attention back to the tiny princess of Dol Amroth.

"I must thank you Éowyn," Lothíriel said almost breathlessly. "You have truly outdone yourself. Everything is so beautiful."

Éowyn smiled. "My brother deserves only the best, Lothíriel."

The princess coloured at her words, her pale chinks becoming a deep red, which only added to her charm. "He will be most pleased," she said softly, her eyes twinkling.

Suddenly, she turned her attention to the king. "My lord," she whispered, "I forget myself in my excitement. I would thank you for honouring us here with your presence today."

He smiled kindly and took her hand, kissing it gently. "The honour is mine," he answered, but his eyes were on Éowyn.

Lothíriel coloured again and bowed her head to the king. "Your words are kind, my lord."

He smiled again and looked at Éowyn, his eyes dark and unfathomable in the dim light. She wished she could know his thoughts, see through the walls he had built around himself. But she could not. He was still an enigma, and even the pain and anger she knew that he felt could make no less a mystery of him.

He turned his attention back to Lothíriel. "My lady, I fear I must excuse myself for a brief moment. I have just seen someone with whom I must speak. I will return shortly."

"Of course, my lord," Lothíriel answered.

"Éowyn," he said, inclining his head towards her.

She lowered her eyes. "My lord."

He lingered a moment too long, as if unsure how to take his leave. He raised his hand, and it seemed as if he might touch her cheek, but he seemed to get a hold of himself, and instead he simply took her hands in his own and kissed them, his lips gently brushing against her skin.

When he raised himself up, his eyes caught hers. "My lady," he whispered, and Éowyn thought she heard him placing a slight emphasis on the word "my." And then he released her hand and was gone, lost in the ever-increasing crowd of people.

When Éowyn turned to face Lothíriel again, the princess' eyes were dark with concern. "He is a reckless man," she whispered, "reckless on the battlefield and reckless with hearts."

"That he is," Éowyn answered quietly.

"He has broken your heart once, Éowyn. Is that not enough?" she asked.

"His heart has also been broken, Lothíriel," she answered. "I cannot deny him now."

"As he denied you?" Lothíriel pushed a dark strand of hair from her face.

Éowyn closed her eyes and did not answer. She had not the strength to explain. Lothíriel's words were wise and true, and she knew that she should heed them. But there was a part of her that still had hope, a part of her that still believed that she could be loved. An image of Faramir welled up in her mind then and briefly, she felt a lump forming in her throat. She knew that her feelings were not solely those of a jilted lover and that her pride - or what had been left of it - was suffering too. After that night at Dunharrow when all her dreams had been shattered, she had hoped to find someone who could restore her faith in herself, and she had. Faramir had helped her to regain her lost pride, and she had thought she was beyond feeling that kind of self-indulgent pity. But apparently, she wasn't, and she berated herself for it.

"Éowyn?" Lothíriel asked gently, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I mean… Faramir, I know that you and he…"

"Do not concern yourself," she answered, opening her eyes. "I have always appreciated your forthrightness."

Lothíriel smiled and squeezed Éowyn's hand. "Soon we will be sisters, and it would bring me great joy to see you happy."

Éowyn nodded but said nothing, fearing that her voice would betray her. She loved Lothíriel dearly, but sometimes the princess seemed as if she were more like a mother than a friend.

Lothíriel smiled wanly, and then unexpectedly raised herself up on her toes, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the king. When she could not see him, she focused her attention back on Éowyn. "He should stop wearing that jewel," she said absently, as if her previous apology had never occured.

Éowyn did not look at her. "He will always wear the Evenstar," she said softly.

Lothíriel shook her head. "He can never move on as long as he keeps it so close to his heart."

"He will never move on, my friend. He does not want to," Éowyn answered.

Lothíriel tossed her head indignantly. "Well, then, he is a fool," she declared.

Éowyn smiled wanly, amused by the tiny spirited princess.

"Not to mention," Lothíriel went on, "it makes him look like a fop. A grown man wearing some pretty lady's trinket... By Eru, who would ever have thought?!"

Although Éowyn knew that she should not find it amusing, she simply could not feign shock or indifference and began to laugh. She had never thought about the Evenstar in any terms other than a symbol of her and Aragorn's loss, the final bittersweet gift of a woman who had nothing else to give. It had always been a symbol of sadness and death, and not the hope that she had been told it represented; and now finally a new perspective, albeit bordering on the ludicrous, was most welcome.

"You are incorrigible," she said eventually.

"And you are smiling," Lothíriel answered.

Éowyn was about to respond, but a sudden quietening of the crowd distracted her. It was then that she noticed Éomer, clad in dark blues and browns, making his entrance into the hall from one of the side doors. Purposefully, he made his way towards the thrones where the two women waited. She watched as Lothíriel's eyes lit up at the sight of him and smiled inwardly. For all her self-righteous anger and practicality, the princess had also fallen under the spell of her own heart.

Éomer came to his sister and kissed her forehead. "I am not worthy of all this, Éowyn," he said formally and gestured vaguely to the hall.

"There are none more worthy, my king," she answered.

He smiled at her gently and somewhat sorrowfully before turning to face the crowd from his rightful position at the throne. "My people," he said in a loud and booming voice that Éowyn had barely heard him use, "as you well know, today is my naming day. Many will say that this is a special day, and one that should see me giving lengthy speeches and basically bringing you all to tears. But today, I will do no such thing. Today I will leave you to your own devices, allowing you to indulge to your heart – and stomach's – content. But before you do, I must ask for just one thing. Some may think it presumptuous of me, but there is something that I deeply desire for my naming day."

He hesitated a moment, and the crowd collectively held its breath in anticipation, and then he fell to one knee before Lothíriel, a hand outstretched towards her. The princess gasped and took an involuntary step backwards.

Éowyn smiled, knowing what was to come, knowing that no matter how he loved Lothíriel, no woman would ever know Éomer as well as his own sister did. He was so predictable in her eyes, and yet it seemed that he was so spontaneous to others. She moved slightly to the side and out of the way of her brother and his lover.

"Would you be my wife?" he was asking Lothíriel humbly. "Would you bear that title and be my love?"

For a moment that stretched for eternity, Lothíriel did not answer, too overwhelmed for speech. And then, no longer knowing what to say or do, she fell to her knees and threw herself into his outstretched arms.

"Yes, my lord," she said breathlessly, "yes, I will be your wife, yes, I will be your queen..."

"You need only be my love," Éomer whispered, pressing his lips to her hair, his voice betraying his obvious relief, "only my love."

She buried her dark head against his chest as they clung to each other. "Your love, then," she said softly before reluctantly extricating herself from his strong grip and turning to face the people whom she would come to rule. Her face, although blotchy from her tears, was exquisite, as if her very happiness was moulding her already delicate features.

After hesitating briefly to wipe a tear away from his betrothed's face, Éomer lifted his goblet high. "Hail Lothíriel, lady of Dol Amroth - soon of Rohan."

"Hail," came the thundering response from the crowd.

As she raised her goblet high in her brother and his intended's honour, Éowyn became aware that someone was staring at her. Turning slightly, she caught a glimpse of Aragorn standing a few metres behind her, his face obscured by the crowd of nobles. There was a smile on his face, but that smile did not reach his cold eyes as had been the way of things for a very long while. She turned away quickly and tried to focus on her brother and his new-found love, watching with joy and the slightest twinge of good-natured jealousy for his happiness, as he wrapped his strong arms around Lothíriel's small shoulders and stole kisses from her delicate lips.

It warmed Éowyn's heart to see her brother so happy after all these years, after all his hardships, all his loss. To see him filled with the elation of love was one less burden on her shoulders. Would that she too could feel that sense of joy and happiness one day. Instinctively, her eyes went to the entrance of the Golden Hall, searching for any sign of Faramir, but, as she had come to expect, there was none. In her heart she knew that the handsome steward of Gondor would not come. That for some unfathomable reason he had decided that they both would be better served by his absence. Or maybe not, maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe his reasons for staying had been purely selfish, purely for himself. Maybe, in his times of quiet reflection, he had thought of the roughened Rohirrim princess and realised that a wife such as she would be most unsuitable. She did not have the guile nor the inclination to survive the court. She did not have the skills of a princess.

Yet, that had not seemed to matter to him. He had stood by her side, knowing what she had done, knowing of her deeds and her manner. She had told him of her needs, her passion, her willfulness, and still he had declared his love, still he had told her that he would love her always – even if she would become the blissful queen of Gondor. And yet, here she was - alone - after weeks of his written promises. Weeks of planning and hoping and anticipating… and she was still alone. She could not get it over her heart that he would have deserted her with no warning, that he would suddenly find her lacking in some way. But then, it was not the first time that a man had acted this way towards her. It was not the first time that she had been found lacking in one way or another. It was not the first time she had been deserted. Briefly, she looked back at Aragorn, who caught her gaze quickly before looking away.

Maybe Gríma was right. Maybe she would always be alone, walking in his shadow, cursed to a life devoid of companionship and love. Maybe in some way Gríma's corruption had tainted her too, his foulness made her unclean and sullied to others. She shivered at the thought and the memories that it brought. Gríma had never attempted to dishonour her in any overt way, but it had always been there. The veiled threats, the innuendo, an easily avoidable brush past her in the corridors. The way that she always knew she would be lost if he had ever asked her to give herself to him in order to protect those that she loved. The power that he could have had over her body was long past, but the power that he possessed over her mind and heart was still there. Still lurking evilly below the surface, waiting to strike, threatening to break her.

She realised that there were tears forming in her eyes and blinked rapidly to clear them. She was a woman of Rohan, and she would not give in to such pathetic emotions. She was stronger than that.

It was then that she became aware that the musicians had begun to play. The song was foreign to her ears and infused with a gaiety that she did not feel. She looked for a refuge, but as usual she was not to find it. For before she could move, before she could hide away as she so desired, a strong hand grabbed her arm and the all-too-familiar voice of the king of Gondor whispered in her ear.

"Would you dance with me, Éowyn? I can think of no greater honour this night."

She turned to look into his eyes, cursing herself for knowing that she would say yes, knowing that she would like nothing better than to be held in his arms, to feel his body close to hers, his cheek resting against her temple. Knowing that all she wanted was to be loved.

She knew she should not, but she placed her hand in his and allowed herself – if only for a moment – to believe in an impossible dream.

Chapter 6

It was over before it had even begun. She knew that she had been stupid, so incredibly stupid and so blinded that she had not seen it before getting caught up in the moment. Or had she? Had she not known right from the beginning that behind Aragorn's sad eyes and inside his wounded heart there existed not even the smallest, most insignificant, trace of love for her? Indeed, she had known this. She had, she knew that now. Despite not wanting to know it, despite the wall of ice she had shrouded herself in, despite her endless promises that she would not let him break her again. If she had been thinking rationally, she would have known. It would have been so glaringly obvious – even to her eyes, so untrained in the dynamics of love.

But none of that mattered now. She had refused to see tonight what had been so obvious months ago at Dunharrow. She had not seen that there was no way that a man such as he could ever love a woman such as she. She had allowed herself to dream, to be reckless with the tiny bit of self-esteem she had left, the tiny bit that she had tried so desperately to protect.

Never before had the old adage of none being so blind as those who would not see, rung truer for her. But she had been unable to help herself. Her desperate and sometimes overwhelming need to let someone touch the frozen heart of the shieldmaiden of Rohan had betrayed her. She could not withstand the onslaught of her emotions, could not help but believe that her hopes would be fulfilled, that somewhere, somehow Aragorn, the king of men, would see her for who she really was, would care about her enough not to use her emotions as recklessly as he had once done. She had not been looking for anything from him other than that simple understanding, the simple commitment that he would treat her as an equal and not as a feeble replacement for the woman he had loved.

A wave of guilt had welled up in her at that thought as she remembered the words that Faramir had spoken to her only a few moons before. How he had declared his love for her, with a look that she had recognised as her own whenever Aragorn had been close. His face had been so full of joy, his touch so gentle and warm, and she had felt so loved. For the first time in many, many years she had felt a sense of belonging, a feeling of being important in someone else's world and not an afterthought to be left, discarded in a corner somewhere when she was no longer of use. But then, that is exactly what had happened. Yet again she had been discarded. Discarded by the very man that had promised his undying love to her. With no word of warning he had left her alone, lost and saddened in a world that had never taken the time to understand her.

And now, alone and cold, huddled on her bed, she wondered why she had allowed herself to be drawn in so many times by men who obviously had only as fleeting an interest in her as a child may have in a colourful daisy she sees along the roadside.

Was she so desperate for love that she had stopped being discerning in her choices? Was she so base that any man giving her more than a small smile was immediately put onto a mental list of potential husbands? When had she lost the proud and cold woman she used to be?

At these new dark thoughts, she felt fresh tears welling up in her eyes. Suddenly she no longer wished to rationalise her feelings; she just wanted to cry for as long as she needed to, for as long as it took to cry Aragorn out of her heart.

But she could still barely believe how right it had felt – especially when it had truly been so wrong. It had seemed as if somehow, despite all odds, Aragorn of Gondor and Éowyn of Rohan were meant to be. But it would never be, not for her or him, not for them. It could never be. She knew that now with the same calm certainty that she knew her own name. She knew it as she lay there on her bed in the dark, not having bothered to undress, fresh tears drying in black rivers on her pale cheeks. It could never be.

Rolling over, she closed her tired eyes and tried to fall asleep, hoping that somehow the evening would be erased in the black washes of her dreams or nightmares. But to no avail. Every time she closed her eyes, crystal clear images of the night welled up before her. Aragorn had seemed so gracious, so charming, and so sincere she would have sworn that he had felt something for her, that deep in his heart there was the smallest trace of love for her, but she had been wrong as she aways had been. There was no love, there was no emotion - there was nothing but a void, a chasm so deep that she could never fill it.

She did not fight the visions. She was too exhausted and their onslaught too precise, too refined. She watched the evening unfolding before her eyes with frightening accuracy, exactly as it had happened – only now her spirits were low, there was no warm comforting glow of expectation to cushion her. But she did not try to turn away. She had no strength left.

When he had led her to the dance floor, he had been slow - taking his time with her, as if trying to savour every moment, every second that he had with her. Or was that just the way she had wished to see it? Was she just projecting her hopes onto him? She was so confused she no longer knew.

His body was pressed close to hers, his large hands clasping her arm tightly. Briefly, she had allowed herself to lean against him, sure that he could hear the sound of her heart hammering against her chest. He had looked down at her and smiled gently, a smile that she thought had seemed happier than his usual wan expression. But she found that she was unable to meet his eyes for long. Beneath their cool grey surface, emotions raged like the sea in a terrible and dangerous storm, threatening to spill free at any moment. She looked away, frightened by what she had seen, desperate to find some small way of diffusing the incredible tension that was building by the second - a tension that Aragorn seemed oblivious to as he placed his arm around her waist and took her hand in his own.

She had stared down at her feet as they started to dance, hoping that he would not notice and she would not have to look at him. But he did notice. He always noticed.

"Lady Éowyn of Rohan," he teased, "I would think that a princess of Rohan is an accomplished enough dancer to not have to stare at her feet when she dances with a friendly neighbouring king."

She had smiled in spite of herself and forced herself to meet his gaze, only to find that he was not looking at her. Instead he seemed to have noticed something of great interest near the entrance to the Golden Hall.

"There is your friend," he whispered to her, inclining his head in the direction of the door. She followed his gaze and was surprised to see the mysterious Gondorian stood engrossed in a conversation with Éomer and Lothíriel. Éomer looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he were desperately trying to rationalise something, but was somehow unable to do it. But Lothíriel looked positively furious, her pale skin flushed, and her mouth set in a cold line. She was looking angrily from Éomer to the stranger, her dark hair coming loose from its pins and whipping about her face.

"His name is Angor," Aragorn continued. "He is an advisor. He was once an important advisor to Denethor before--" he cleared his throat "--before the steward was claimed by madness."

Suddenly, all thoughts of being in Aragorn's arms, feeling his closeness, had been erased from her mind, erased and replaced with the same foreboding to which she had been accustomed whenever the Gondorian stranger was near.

She stiffened. "Why is he here, my lord?" she asked, concerned. "In Rohan?"

He had smiled at her tone and had touched her hair softly before continuing. "I expect it is simply some Gondorian administrative matter. I spoke with him briefly earlier, but he said little. I shall speak with him again later."

She nodded slowly, wondering why Lothíriel seemed so unhappy so soon after her engagement, and why she and Éomer should even be worrying over some advisor on the very night on which they had been betrothed. She turned back to the king.

"Did he..." she began, but Aragorn placed a finger to her lips.

"Please, Éowyn," he said kindly. "Can we not try to enjoy each other's company without discussing the motivations of some aged advisor who most likely fears for his position in Gondor's administration?"

She was about to answer but found that she could barely speak under his piercing gaze.

"Please?" he said softly, and she had known that she would do whatever it was that he asked.

And despite her worries, she felt herself smiling as she nodded. It was probably nothing anyway, and she did not want to ruin her evening and that of Aragorn's with pointless worrying. She was not going to distress herself over things she could not control. For now she was going to lose herself in the night and give herself over to whatever emotions the man before her – his arms wrapped around her waist - inspired.

"Of course, my lord."

He drew her closer to him so that her head rested against his shoulder. "Aragorn," he said gently.

"Aragorn," she smiled.

And so had the king of Gondor and the princess of Rohan danced all night, despite mumbled protestations from a number of naïve peasant girls, who it seemed had spent the last few weeks preening for the occasion – on the off chance that the king of Gondor was on the prowl for a new wife.

But he had not seemed to notice. More so, he seemed not to care.

It was towards the end of the evening when Éowyn's hopes were soaring, and it seemed as if nothing could destroy her elation, that the minstrel began to sing an old song of Rohan. It was a song she had not heard in many years, a song of such sweet sincerity and sadness that many found it difficult to believe that it was created in the roughened land of Rohan. A land that existed almost without sentiment, where young girls would ride wild horses and old women would forge swords of the sternest steel. Where children learned to wield swords as soon as they could walk, and men could kill with their bare hands.

And yet it was not a song of rogueish wanderers and bawdy barmaids. It was a gentle ballad that sang of a knight of great courage who had been brought to his knees when his lover had died. A man who had believed himself invincible and was then shattered by a woman from a foreign land. After her death, he had wandered aimlessly through the wilds, wishing for his own death, begging Eru to grant him freedom from his torment, to take his pain away and let him find freedom in death. But Eru had not granted him this freedom. Eru had forced him to live through his pain. Many times the knight had wanted to take his own life, but there was no honour in suicide, and he had laboured on. Every night he had cried out for his lost love. Every night he had dreamt of her until he could stand it no longer. He could no longer live in a world devoid of the woman he loved so deeply. He ached for death, and then one day during his travels, he had found a wounded woman lying in the streets. Gently, he had helped her and taken her to an apothecary where she would be cared for. He had wanted to leave again in search of death, but she had begged and pleaded that he stay, and he had given in, promising that he would only leave when she was capable of looking after herself. And in time he had found that he did not want to leave. In time he found that through healing her, he had healed himself. He found that her love had restored him and raised him above the despair he had felt, made his heart whole again.

It was a song that Éowyn had almost forgotten but always loved, and as she rested her head against Aragorn's shoulder, she had felt his arms tighten around her, his hands twining in her hair.

Briefly, she had caught sight of Angor watching her intently and had found that she did not care. Let him do what he would with his secrets and hidden purposes. Let him lurk in corridors and linger in doorways if that cheered him. Let him watch her with that knowing expression, his gaze as dark and intense as the night. She would not allow herself to worry.

She closed her eyes, blocking the world from view, listening to the music and wanting only to feel Aragorn's arms around her, not wanting to even acknowledge the bawdy crowd of half-drunk celebrators from the most esteemed noble guests to the lowliest peasants. She would take this moment for her own, claim it as one claimed land. It was hers and hers alone.

She tensed briefly as she felt a gentle kiss on her head and then, as if she had no control at all, her own arms wound themselves around Aragorn's neck. The masculine smell of smoke and leather filled her, the smell she had come to know and love. All she knew was him, his touch, his voice, his heart.

When she felt his lips brush her forehead, she had forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. She would not be a blushing maid if he wished to kiss her. She was beyond all that silliness.

And then she had seen it... and her world came crashing down around her.

The king was not looking at her; instead he stared off into the distance over her head, lost in his own world, his eyes red and shimmering with unshed tears.

"Aragorn?" she asked. "My lord?"

A moment passed before he looked at her.

"Are you well?" she asked, moving away from him just enough so that she could see him properly.

He swallowed and smiled wanly. "I am sorry, Éowyn. My mind was elsewhere." He touched her cheek gently. "Arwen is ever present in my thoughts."

It felt as if she had consumed a lead weight that had just hit the very pit of her stomach.

"I suppose it was just the song," he went on, oblivious. "It reminded me of her – the woman that died, the woman that he wanted to die for."

Éowyn was too flustered and too embarrassed to say a word. He had not even noticed what had been happening between them. His mind had been on Arwen, dreaming of his lady love who had deserted him as soon as she had become unattainable to him.

And when he had been kissing her? What of that? Had he allowed himself to believe that she was Arwen? Were those kisses nothing more than stolen touches meant for another woman? An elleth who had never truly understood what it meant to love the king anyway? Was she forever to live in the shadow of a woman who had proved herself unworthy from the first day he had met her? Was that her fate?

All these thoughts whirled around in her head at once, and she stood before him, listening to him tell her of his deep and sacred love for another woman, a woman from a different life, a woman from a different world than their own. And suddenly she felt a wave of hot rage welling up within her. How could he have not noticed that all of her desires, all of her feelings, all of her secrets had been laid bare to him, served up to him like a silver plate of delicacies. How could he have not seen the trepidation with which she had originally accompanied him? How could the look in her eyes have gone unnoticed? How could he be so cruel? So unfeeling as to use her so badly?

But he had. It had all meant nothing to him. It was only her, the silly, girlish princess of Rohan who had been naïve enough to wish for more. Looking to him again, she could see that he was still talking; she thought that he was apologising, but his words seemed unintelligble and formless, as if they were not truly words at all.

Suddenly, she needed to leave before her own tears sealed her complete and total humiliation. The room seemed to spin and she felt nauseated, her legs threatening to give way beneath her.

"I am sorry, my lord," she interrupted him in mid sentence. "I must go now."

"Éowyn?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head vigourously. "No, but I must go." And then, louder than she intended, the words simply slipped from her mouth: "You seem to have enough company anyway without me."

"Éowyn!" he began, but before he could say anything, she was already striding towards the door, pushing through the drunken crowd, gulping back the lump in her throat, and forcing herself not to give into the tears and drown in the humiliation that seemed determined to forever be a part of herself and the king.

And now, lying on her bed, she knew she could not bear these visions any longer. She may be tired, but her exhaustion seemed secondary to her need to be free of him.

Sighing deeply, she rose from her bed and walked over to her full length mirror.

Even in the muted moonlight, she was shocked by what she saw. Gone was the vivacious-looking woman from only hours before, gone was the anticipation and the fear and the hope that had shone in her eyes. Instead, she saw a haggard girl, eyes red and brimming with unshed tears, cheeks flushed from weeping. The makeup that had been so painstakingly applied ran in black rivers down her cheeks, dripping off her chin like some kind of foul dark raindrop from Mordor. Her hair was a mess, and the dress she had thought so beautiful now looked to her like nothing more than a cheap and lowly attempt at seduction.

She hated it, and more than anything, she hated herself in it. She had tried to steel herself against the tears when it happened, she had tried to tell herself that it was all that she had expected. But she couldn't. Somehow that brief moment of hope that she had felt when Aragorn had asked her to accompany him, the way he had looked at her, the way he seemed so kind and so lost, had let her open up her heart, and allow him once again to enter it. But it had all been for nothing, as she knew it should have been. She knew that he did not love her, she knew that she could never heal his heart from the torment of Arwen. How could she, a mere princess, ever compete with the most beautiful woman in Middle Earth? How could she ever have dreamed that she could make him forget? And yet, she realised that she had. She had believed the impossible, and despite all her attempts to protect herself from falling in love with him again, she had failed. There was a part of her that would always love him, as a king and as a man, but she had thought that that part of her was guarded, that she was safe from her emotions.

She told herself that Faramir was a better man, a man that would love her unconditionally, a man that she loved with all her heart. But it had not been enough – in Aragorn's wake nothing was enough. He was so much more than the sum of his parts, so much more than she had ever dreamed of, and she hated the hold he still had on her, the way he could make her feel, so loved and warm and understood one minute, and so lost and lonely the next. He had no idea of his power, of his ability to change a life with little more than a look or a word. And because of this she could not hate him, she could not blame him for the raging emotions she was feeling.

Suddenly angry, she tried to undo the dress' fastenings, wanting to rid herself of all the memories that it now held, but the catches were stiff and difficult to work without help, so, impatient and angry, she ripped it off, seams tearing and biting into her flesh as she did. It landed in a sad-looking crimson heap on the floor, and knowing that she could not bear to look at it a moment longer, she lay down on her bed again and turned her back to the door, allowing a fresh course of hot tears to overcome her.

She was not given to this type of childish self-pity, but she no longer cared. There was no one to hear, and the tears would not stop, so she let herself be overwhelmed and hurt and angry, she let herself relive her naivete, her stupidity, her pain of the evening. And it felt good to cry, it felt good to let it out.

And that was when she heard a tentative knock on her door. At first she ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away and bother her tomorrow when things looked a little clearer, but it came again - more insistent and demanding this time.

"Éowyn?" came a low-pitched whisper, which she instantly recognised as Lothíriel. "Éowyn, please open the door."

Éowyn sighed. The last thing that she felt like was having to explain the events of the evening to Lothíriel. But she knew the princess well enough to know that she would not leave until Éowyn answered her knocking. Taking a deep breath, she rose from her bed and made her way to the door, praying that Lothíriel would be able to see the redness of her eyes in the darkness.

But to her surprise, the princess herself looked flushed, her own eyes hard with anger, her mouth a grim, hard line, and then Éowyn remembered that she had seen Lothíriel and Éomer looking most unhappy talking to Angor earlier.

"Lothíriel," Éowyn said, concerned, "are you well?"

Lothíriel looked towards her as if only noticing her for the first time. "You must come with me, Éowyn," she answered flatly.

Éowyn was about to ask if something was amiss, but Lothíriel held up her hand and shook her head.

"No questions, Éowyn." Her voice was quieter, kinder, but tinged with an unsettling edge of desperation. "Please just put a gown on and come with me."

For a moment Éowyn studied this woman who was soon to become her queen, trying to understand what lurked beneath the barely contained rage, but to no avail. As angry as Lothíriel was, her thoughts were unfathomable.

"Éowyn."

Although Lothíriel sounded stern, Éowyn could hear the high pleading sound that had crept into her voice.

She nodded slowly, deliberately. "Very well. Give me a moment."

---

As the two women made their away along the cold stony corridors, Éowyn could no longer deny the sense of dread that threatened to overwhelm her. There were too many secrets, too many deceptions of late, and it made her uneasy. She knew that things were being kept from her, and while deep in her heart she feared the truth, it angered her terribly to know that after all this time, people were still trying to protect her from some unnamed foe. Had she not proven her own fortitude already? Her ability?

But Lothíriel had remained stoically silent regarding the impending situation as she strode determindly towards their destination.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, they stopped outside a smallish room. It was a room that Éowyn had only ever been in once when she had been a small girl. It was the chamber that Théoden King had received them in when they had been brought, frightened and wounded, from their parents' home in Aldburg on the Eastfold, shortly after their mother's death.

To her horror, Éowyn realised that it was the chamber that the king used to sit with his advisors, but she had little time to dwell on this frightening realisation or wonder at its significance, for Lothíriel was already rapping loudly on the door.

"She is here," she said in a loud, clear voice that echoed horribly off the walls.

A moment passed before Éowyn heard Éomer's voice calling out for them to enter. His voice also displayed the same tightness as Lothíriel's, except there was something else hidden in his tone. Something that sounded almost like contrition.

Intrigued yet fearful, Éowyn entered the dimly-lit chamber. Éomer sat by himself at a rectangular table that took up most of the available space, nursing what seemed to be a glass of strong spirits. He did not turn to look at them; his gaze remained fixed on his own hands.

"Thank you, Lothíriel," he said formally. "You may leave now."

Lothíriel did not answer but simply cast a long and meaningful look at Éowyn before moving to the door.

Just before the princess exited, she turned to glance back at Éomer, and Éowyn could not help but notice the look of pure hatred that Lothíriel reserved for him as she left.

Chapter 7

The room was cold and forbidding, and Éomer's surly silence did little to ease the tension in the air. For a few long moments she said nothing and simply watched as her brother stared intently at his drink, swirling the contents and intermittently taking large sips, which he gulped down noisily.

After what seemed like an eternity, she moved to the table and sat down in front of him. His brow was creased, and he seemed almost oblivious to her, and suddenly Éowyn felt that familiar rage welling up inside of her. Had he called her here to this dingy, miserable room simply so she could have the joy of watching him get drunk? Had he taken her away from her own grief and anger just so that he could ignore her? Why all the subterfuge? Why had Lothíriel been so unlike herself? And why, of all places to choose a meeting, had he chosen the advisor's chamber?

"Éomer?" she said, trying to add a hint of the kindness she did not feel to her words. She could see that he was distraught and knew not to make her words harsh or uncompromising, but at the same time she was annoyed by his silence. "Brother, what has happened?" she asked quietly. "Why have you brought me here?"

Still he did not look at her, his eyes fixed on the dregs that lingered in the bottom of his glass. He sighed and downed the remnants in one swig and banged the glass back on the table. It was then that he focused his attention on his sister, and the harsh determination that she saw reflected on his face caused a nasty twinge in the pit of her stomach.

"Éowyn," he began, "I am now king of this country, and it is my duty to protect its people and its lands to the best of my ability."

"Of course," she agreed, her discomfort growing. "Why are you telling me this, Éomer?"

He sighed and looked away from her for a moment before continuing. "Sometimes, Éowyn, I will need to make decisions that others would not like, but I have to put Rohan first, even if that means--" he paused and took a breath "--doing things that I would not normally do. Things that could cause those I love to become angered or hurt."

He looked at his glass again, as if hoping that by some miracle it would be full again.

"Éomer," Éowyn said softly, her heart going out to him. "Éomer, I am sure that whatever quarrel you have had with Lothíriel, it can be mended. She loves you greatly and would not want to throw what you have asunder..."

"Éowyn," he interrupted, but she continued as if she had not heard.

"I realise that, even for you, it is quite a feat to have ruined the evening of your engagement, but she will not remain angry for long..."

"Éowyn!" he said loudly so that she stopped in mid-sentence. "I speak not of Lothíriel."

Momentarily, the harshness of his tone left her dumbstruck, and then the old rage welled up again. She stood up, accidently knocking her chair over. "Well, brother," she said, her voice slightly raised. "I would ask then that you speak somewhat plainer, for I did not come here from my warm bed at this hour to listen to you speak in drunken riddles."

"I am not drunk, Éowyn," he answered testily.

"Well, what is it then, Éomer? Tell me now, or I swear I will leave you here to sulk mysteriously by yourself. I have neither the time nor the inclination for your games." She made towards the door.

"Éowyn, wait," he said, his voice gentler. "Please do not leave. There is something of great importance that we need to discuss." He gestured to the fallen chair. "Please."

Eyeing him warily, she moved towards the table but did not sit down. "Speak your mind, Éomer," she said, hoping that there was not too much malice in her tone. "I am listening."

"Éowyn, it has come to my attention that an opportunity has arisen for us, an opportunity that seemed impossible a few months ago, but now is so prosperous that we cannot simply dismiss it." Éomer glanced guiltily towards the eastern corner of the room, where the shadows were deepest. "Unfortunately," he continued, "this is not something that I can do alone. It is something that I need you to do."

"Ask, brother," she said gently. "You know my love for Rohan runs deep and true."

"Yes," he said, brightening visibly, "I know that it does." He rose from his chair. "Éowyn, in truth it is barely a hardship that I ask of you. I hope it to be something that you yourself desire..."

"Éomer," she said flatly, her irritation rising again, "you are boring me. Tell me what it is that you want so that I can go to bed."

For a moment she thought he would not say anything, that he would back down again, but he seemed to regain his courage and looked at her across the table, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes grave.

"Éowyn, I want you to marry Aragorn."

---

It seemed like an eternity that she stood there, rooted to the floor, staring at Éomer's face in the hope that she would see the all-too-familiar twinkle that his eyes held when he was teasing. But it was not there. His face was stony, his eyes hard.

Suddenly, she felt that same feeling of being overwhelmed that she had experienced earlier. Her legs felt weak, and the room began to spin. She put a hand against the wall to steady herself, but it helped little. Somewhere she could hear Éomer speaking. She thought he was saying something about alliances and good matches, but it seemed as if he spoke from a faraway place, or even as if he were underwater. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep. The respite that had previously eluded her opened up like a great, warm, and comforting chasm in a world that had suddenly become foreign, strange, and twisted. As if somehow in a moment of her own oblivion, the world had suddenly changed into something she no longer recognised. Something that existed to mock her and her feelings.

Distantly, she heard someone declaring over and over again that it was madness and she wondered who it was that had come to her aid, but then realised that the voice she could hear was her own. She realised also that Éomer was talking to her, trying to reason, but his words seemed empty... as if somehow he was no more true than the strange and foreign land she had found herself existing in.

"Éowyn!"

The sound of her name spoken so harshly jarred her, and she staggered backwards, grateful to find the support of the wall nearby. She took a moment before opening her eyes, hoping that she would find herself back in her room and that this had all been a nightmare. But it was not to be.

Éomer stood close by, staring intently at her. "...the perfect match," he was saying, but she barely heard him.

"This is insane," she said quietly, still struggling to take in her bearings. "Madness."

"It's not madness, Éowyn," he answered. "It makes sense. The king needs a wife, and you need a husband. Your affection for each other is obvious. It is the only possible scenario that makes sense."

She looked around, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. "How?" she whispered quickly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"How what?" he asked, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone.

"How does it make sense, Éomer?" she asked, her voice sounding stronger as she pushed herself away from the wall so that she could stand upright.

"How can it not?" he answered incredulously. "The princess of Rohan and the king of Gondor. How can it not make sense?"

And suddenly her head cleared, she found that she was able to focus, her momentary lapse felt as if it were long gone, and she looked her brother directly in the eye, hating him in the moment.

"Because I will not," she said forcefully. "I will not marry him. Not now and not ever."

"Éowyn, you love him," Éomer said kindly, placatingly. "You have always loved him. You loved him so much that you wanted to die when he denied you. And now you can have what you have always wanted..."

"No," she answered in a tightly controlled voice, "I cannot have what I want, because he does not love me. He never has."

Éomer sighed, and she could see that he was trying to figure out a different argument. When he spoke again, his face, previously so hard and unyielding, was saddened. "Unfortunately, Éowyn, love has very little to do with it."

"What?" she said quietly, between clenched teeth.

Éomer looked away, lost for words, knowing that this was not a fight that he could win. It was then that she noticed that they were not alone; they had never been alone.

"My lady, it is really quite simple," said a voice from the shadows of the room's east corner. As she had already guessed, it was Angor.

Long she had wondered of his presence, and now she knew. He was not here on "official" business and had not been called to Rohan by her brother either. He was an advisor to the throne of Gondor, and he was here to find a suitable match for his king. Suddenly, all the long, meaningful looks, the secrecy, the deceit all made sense. This "alliance" had been Angor's idea all along.

"I asked not for your company," she answered stonily as he walked towards her, a glass of water in his hands.

"Please, Éowyn," Éomer said softly, "listen to what he has to say. His words are wise."

For a moment she closed her eyes, as if somehow that would help her to absorb everything that was happening. But when she did, all she saw was Aragorn's face, looming up in front of her, wearing the same distant and lost expression he had when he held her in his arms and danced with her, the expression that had shown her that she could never have his heart, no matter how deeply she desired it.

"Say what you will, advisor, and then begone with you, from my home and country," she said softly.

Angor did not flinch at her words - a man in his position was used to the irrationality and disdain of royalty, and even though he had not marked the Lady Éowyn as one who held herself above others, he remained indifferent to her scorn. He had a job to do, and do it he would. The angry woman that stood in front of him was not important in the long term.

"My lady," he said gently and firmly - a tone he used often in a potentially difficult situation where emotions were high and people's thoughts were tempered.

She looked to him, her eyes piercing and angry. "Go ahead, advisor. The sooner you and your manipulations are out of my home, the better."

"Éowyn!" Éomer said, shocked, but Angor held up his hand to the young king, indicating that it was nothing more than what he had expected.

"My lady, as you well know, this is the Age of Men. An age which is marked by three great events: the downfall of Sauron, the retreat of the elves to Valinor, and..."

"...The return of the king," she finished for him. "I know my history, Angor, you need not remind me."

He nodded graciously and continued, "Of course, my lady. The people of the land have long looked forward to the return of the king and the age of men that he would herald. When Aragorn's true identity was revealed as well as his courage in the face of Sauron, courage that even Isulder had not shown, the people were overjoyed to finally be free of Denethor's madness and to be able to embrace a true king. A king of men. And yet, what was the first thing that the king did? He sought to make an elf his wife. Can you imagine the feeling of the people of Gondor? After years of being denied aid from the elves, years of bearing their scorn, they would now need to accept an elleth as their queen. A woman who has lived thousands of years, a woman who could never be the queen that they need. She was so hopelessly wrong for the position in the first place, but added to this was the problem of you."

"Me?" Éowyn snapped out of complacency.

"Yes, the people had heard of the princess of Rohan who had been so crucial in winning the war. They heard of how the king had laughed and joked when he was with her, how he had held her on the stairs of Helm's Deep, how he had comforted her in Edoras. Yes, lady, they knew all of this, and it seemed that an alliance between Rohan and Gondor was inevitable. They loved and respected you and looked forward to the day that you would be their leader. And then out of the blue, there arrives an elvish maid who, though beautiful, was not ever intended to be queen. The people said little, for they felt that they should not force their king one way or another, so grudgingly they accepted it. But, as you well know, the Lady Arwen displayed a typical elvish fickleness and absconded to Valinor, where truly she belongs. Middle Earth is no longer a place for elves, my lady, and Arwen knew that. I can only wish that she had thought about this a little more before agreeing to marriage." He stopped and took a drink of water, watching the princess intently.

He knew that she had already come to the same conclusion that he was driving towards. He knew that she could see the logic in his words, but he could also see that she fought it. Somewhere in her stubborn core, she was still lashing out like a child wanting her own way, fighting against being forced into anything.

He gave her a moment to collect herself and then placed his glass on the table. "So, lady, I now have a problem. A king without a wife and therefore without an heir, a country of malcontents who want their lives and country ordered, and a man that has been openly declaring that he will have no son. Oh, and I doubt you knew this, lady, but an Easterling army has taken up residence on Gondor's northern border," he said gravely. Éowyn looked at him quickly at the mention of the Easterlings, but he shook his head. "It is not a matter of concern at present. For all the world they seem more like nomads really, than an army, although the number of spears they have does seem worrying. To be honest they do not appear to be an outright threat, but imagine the unease of the people when they don't have a king who is strong enough to protect them..."

"Lord Aragorn is very strong, Angor," she replied coldly.

"Indeed, princess, but does he appear strong? That is the question. And the answer is no, he does not. In order to give the people the security that they desire, he needs a wife. They want a king and a queen, my lady. And you are the only woman who can live up to that. You, my lady, can stop a rebellion against the king and build up a nice little bridge between Rohan and Gondor at the same time."

"Your words matter not," she said. "Your logic matters not. All your cloak and dagger persuasions matter not. And do you know why? The King – he will never agree to it. He loves Arwen still and will not marry another."

"Oh, on the contrary, lady," Angor answered smugly, "he already has agreed."

She felt her calm slip further away from her, and she struggled not to give over to her rage. "You lie." It was a statement, but to her horror it came out more like a question.

"No, my lady." Angor shook his head. "He agreed to it soon after you left Éomer's celebration. He saw the sense in it."

She shook her head, unable to take in what was happening. "I don't believe you," she whispered. "I do not believe you."

"It's true, Éowyn." She heard Éomer's voice. "He agreed. It would not be wise to reject the most powerful man in Middle Earth."

She closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying with all her willpower to stay in control of herself – fighting her own anger. "Where is he now, then?" she asked tightly. "I must talk with him."

"You can't," Angor answered, still sounding smug. "He left for Gondor an hour ago."

Somehow she did not find this surprising or shocking. She had been completely outmanoeuvered, without even realising that she was involved. She sank to the floor, her back pressed against the wall, wishing for an escape, a release, anything, but there was nothing, just the cold stone of the room and the two men who were sealing her fate.

"Is this what you would have for me, Éomer?" she asked quietly. "Is this what you desire for your sister? A man that has not the courage to ask for my hand himself? A man that disappears in the dark hours of night the same way that his love left him? Is this what you want?"

Éomer remained silent, not daring to look at her, his guilt written all over his face. She buried her face in her hands, her hair falling like a golden wash about her. Minutes that seemed like an eternity passed and all was silent.

Eventually, she looked up. Éomer had not moved, his expression had not changed. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her eyes hard and cold. "Why do you manipulate me so?"

He sighed. "Éowyn," he implored, wishing that he could draw her to him as he used to when they were small children hiding from the world, but he knew her as she was now, remote, cold, untouchable. "Éowyn, can't you see the possibilities? The benefits?" he asked, knowing that he had done nothing to further his cause.

"Benefits?" she said incredulously as she pushed herself to her feet. "What benefits? A loveless marriage for both of us, a position and responsibility that neither of us would have. No, brother, I see no benefits in this."

Éomer sighed again and shook his head, looking out of the chamber's only tiny window as if somehow the night sky would provide an answer. When it didn't, he turned back to his sister, whose eyes were now a harder, steelier grey than he had ever seen them.

"Politically, there is no better match, Éowyn. As I said, politically, this is the only match that makes sense." His words sounded hollow and trite, as if he had just summed up his sister's entire future in one unfeeling sentence.

"Politically?" she said, nodding her head angrily. "Politically, it makes sense to marry me off? Is that what you are saying, Éomer?"

He turned his head away from her, unable to bear her gaze.

"I earned my right, brother, my right to choose for myself. I earned it in blood and death on the battlefield. I proved myself, not to you, not to Aragorn, but to myself. I proved what I could do. I earned the chance to make my own way. I earned myself, Éomer." Her voice, though steady, had risen to a nasty pitch, a sound that gave him goosebumps. "And now," she went on through gritted teeth, "now you would take that from me. You would lower what I have done and turn me into a broodmare for a king that does not love me?"

"No, sister, that is where you are wrong. He does love you. I... we... myself and Angor have seen it."

"When, Éomer? When did you see that he loved me? Because I missed it certainly. Was it while he was mourning Arwen? Maybe it was when he was telling me that he could never be what I needed? Was it before or after he lost the love of his life?"

Éomer had never seen her so angry before. She was not a woman to give into rages easily, and yet here she was, angry as a snake and cutting his calm and collected logic into tiny pieces.

"We saw you, Éowyn. We watched as the two of you walked in the snow that day. We saw how he touched you, the look on his face when you spoke. We saw that, Éowyn. There was no denying it. And tonight again. He escorted you to the celebration. He held you in his arms and danced with you, he kissed you..."

"He was thinking of Arwen. He told me as much, Éomer. He held me, and his mind was on a woman as unattainable to him as he is to me." And then she seemed to slump as if the fight had gone out of her. "He does not love me, Éomer, no matter what you and Angor saw, no matter who the two of you spied on. The man does not love me," she said quietly.

"As I said," Éomer answered dejectedly, "unfortunately, it has little to do with love and much to do with alliances."

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why do we need an alliance with Gondor? Aragorn is loyal to us, you are to marry Lothíriel. Rohan's future is secure."

Éomer was at a loss for words. He knew that somewhere there was a logical explanation, that somewhere he had the perfect answer, but his mind was clouded and he could not think of it. His sister's rage was too much for him. The look in her eyes, her overwhelming disappointment. It was too much, way too much. For years he had been the only person on earth she was able to rely on, the only person she could turn to, and now he was betraying her, forcing her into a lifelong encumbrance she would have never desired. He had no right and he had no words.

But Angor did, as he always did. "My lady," he began, ignoring the withering look that he received, "Rohan has always been an ally to Gondor, and as things are right now it would seem that things will always be that way. However, the king must wed. It makes very little difference how he feels about the matter – he must wed or else he will have a rebellion on his hands."

"I know this, Angor," she snapped. "Do not waste my time by repeating yourself."

He nodded graciously. "Of course, my lady. If, as you say, the king has no feelings for anyone besides Arwen, it makes very little difference whom he marries - he won't love her, regardless. So what is to stop him marrying an Easterling princess or, Eru forbid, a Harad?"

He waited a moment and was about to continue when she interrupted him. "The people, Angor. You said so yourself."

"Yes, lady, so you say. But the people did not outwardly object to Arwen. They were not happy, but there would have been no rebellion. They want to please their king, and in return they want him to please them. If he chooses to marry an Easterling, they won't be happy, but they will not object. They would have a king, he would have a wife, and soon a child would be born continuing the line. Everybody is happy except for the fact that his bond to the East or to Harad would be stronger than his bond to Rohan. While this does not mean that he would turn his back on your country, he may have some difficult decisions to make in the future, and there is a serious possibility that Rohan could find itself on the losing end."

He stood back a minute, waiting for his words to sink in. He wasn't surprised or even particularly moved when he saw a tear roll down the princess' cheek. He could see that the fight was almost out of her, she had been beaten.

She moved away from Angor as if somehow by distancing herself from him, everything would seem less real. She felt like a frightened weak animal that had been caught in a nasty snare and had no way out, could do nothing but wait for the hunter's final mercy blow.

Desperately, she turned to Éomer, to her brother, hoping that he would give her an alternative, hoping that he would see the pain that he was putting her through. But to no avail.

"Think, Éowyn," Éomer urged, "think of your responsibility, your duty to Rohan."

The words were out before he could stop them, and he was not at all surprised or even offended when he felt the sharp sting of her palm against his cheek, her last tiny bit of willpower crumbling, her last piece of rage seeping out of her. Éomer closed his eyes for a second, not wanting to have to face her again, not wanting to see her anguish, but he knew he would not have that privilege.

When he looked at her, she was white with rage, her eyes harder and colder than the stone of Mordor, her mouth a thin grim line. "Do not talk to me of duty, brother." Her voice was low, and she spoke through gritted teeth, yet still she sounded defeated. "I know of duty. I learnt it well while I cared for a sick and ailing man - a man old before his time. A man who did not know or want me near, a man so poisoned and near death that it took all my strength to keep him from falling into the abyss. Oh yes, Éomer, responsibility is something I have long been acquainted with. While you and your Éored got drunk in taverns and bedded pretty maids, I was here, enduring the attentions of a man that held more power over me than you knew, caring for a man who barely knew me. Where was your responsibility then? Where was your sense of duty? You did not protect me or Théoden; you did not protect Rohan."

If she had moved him, he gave no outward sign of it. "Your words are cutting, Éowyn - cutting because of the truth that is ever present, but mostly because of the hatred that lies behind them. I can ask you no more, I have no right to ask you any more. But I do. I ask you to become queen of Gondor. I ask you to protect your country one last time. I ask you in the name of our father and our uncle to do this." He stopped and took a deep breath before looking at her.

She stood absolutely still, not moving a muscle, her face contorted in a mask of hidden rage. "You are right, Éomer," she said slowly, carefully. "You have no right."

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned on her heel and left the room, slamming his door behind her so that the echoes reverberated off the cold stone passage walls in her wake.

to be continued...