Main Characters: Aragorn, Éowyn, Éomer
Rating: PG
Pairings: Aragorn/Éowyn unrequited
Genre: Drama
Length: Vignette
Summary: Aragorn brings Éowyn back in the Houses of Healing
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He has always been careful not to touch her. It's dangerous to touch things of power.
The room is filled with the sweet scent of athelas. She lies senseless on the soft white bed, the Tree of Gondor embroidered above her slender body. Her skin is pale even against the white coverlet; she is paler than a frost-touched lily, pale as Arwen Undómiel, and no human should ever be so. She is very near death. One small arm is flung out, the wrist extended past the edge of the bed. She has always reached for perilous things.
She offered him a wine goblet once: and once, a bowl of soup. He accepted her gifts, ever mindful lest his fingers brush against hers. He is very strong, but still a man.
Aragorn takes a deep breath. He will do this thing. She wanted to follow him into death; now he is following her. He puts a hand against her cheek, feels the distant tread of her heart running beneath his fingers. He thinks of horses galloping across an empty plain. The smell of kingsfoil is everywhere. He is lost.
His fingers gently trace the long lines of her throat. Her skin is not perfect; there are small lines beneath her eyes. Her nose is somewhat large. Her mouth is slightly crooked. She is so flawed, so reckless and so proud. She thinks she has the right to give her whole heart where she will.
He does not remember leaning in, only the moment when his lips find her skin. Her brow is cold against his mouth. Her breasts rise and fall, white beneath the white sheet. He is suddenly conscious of Éomer beside him, leaning anxiously over his sister, pressed in so closely that a lock of his wheat-blond hair has fallen across Aragorn's arm. These Rohirrim! he thinks.
Not trusting his voice, he reaches with his free hand towards the nurse who holds the athelas. Mercifully, she places two more sprigs in his hand. He looks at Éowyn's unresponsive face, and crushes the leaves in a sudden fierce gesture. Come, he calls silently. Come. Éomer your brother, your liege lord calls you. And I call you by the Oath of Eorl. I bid you live!
But she is done with duty; and she is not bound by the old oaths. There is something in her that has grown to hate Rohan, yes, and even the house of Eorl; a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among their dogs! He senses it, and at the same time he knows she hears the refrain of his own heart. Her soul is cold and broken. He wraps it in warmth and carries it back home.
Her eyelids flutter. Éomer catches his breath in hope. Aragorn returns to himself: full of love, full of sorrow, full of a longing for some nameless windswept barren place of Rohan, where oath nor duty nor title has any meaning. His hand brushes her hair as he leans away.
He leaves the place quickly, before she opens her eyes. It is dangerous to look at things of power.