This is a rewrite of the original story. (Original from September 2010. Rewritten as of May 2017.) It's about twice as long now as it was then, and hopefully the story has improved.
Èowyn swung down from her saddle, stretching and then moving up to take Dena's bridle. Dena nodded her head and blew out a frustrated sigh, and Èowyn laughed and patted her neck consolingly, picking a careful path through the rocky gully for them both.
The task was less absorbing than the ride out here, and her thoughts circled back to her irritation with her brother. Protective he might be, but ever it felt like he took it too far. She was well within the territories patrolled regularly by Èoreds, and she had both sword and horn at her side. She could take care of herself, and call for help if she needed it.
Èowyn was no fool, and even if she wished to ride freely, she wouldn't put herself - or anyone else - at risk. But she refused to stay so close to Edoras when she was needed elsewhere. Her brother and cousin were both needed on patrols, but the people of the Westfold and beyond needed to know their voices were heard.
Èowyn gathered her skirts in one hand and hiked up the slope before her, eyes tracking over the high ground, alert for threats as Dena lunged up after her. She paused, shoving her fingers through her tangled hair as the wind caught it, looking out across the plains.
She smiled, bittersweet. They might have to fight to keep their lands free of threats, and fight hard, but the plains of the Mark ever had Èowyn's heart. They were beautiful.
Èowyn stroked Dena's neck and turned her gaze to the thick, imposing wood bordering the lands of the Mark. It wasn't a . . . threat, exactly, but a chill seeped down Èowyn's spine as she looked into the deeply-shadowed land under the towering trees.
Not even as dangerous as the Golden Wood further flung, Èowyn reminded herself, where there lived a great sorceress, supposedly, deep among the silver trunks of the trees. Sometimes these dark, looming trees were said to move, but Èowyn was not sure if she believed those stories.
Èowyn froze, her nerveless fingers tightening on Dena's bridle, her eyes tracking something bright and ethereal in the thick shadows. There was a woman in the forest. . .
No, surely not. It must be her mind playing tricks, frustration and tiredness.
Dena nickered, nosing Èowyn's shoulder, and Èowyn murmured soothingly, guiding them on. Though her eyes strayed ever back to the trees, and her left hand dropped to rest on the hilt of her sword. Just to reassure herself.
Just as she had convinced herself that it had been nothing more than a trick of the mind and the light, the woman passed into view again. Golden hair that gleamed like the sun even in deep shadow, and lightly floating white only barely paler than her skin, the otherworldly creature passed between the trees without hesitation.
Èowyn couldn't keep her eyes off the woman, and as she walked further away Èowyn stepped back without thinking, bumping into Dena's side. Dena snorted a protest, shaking herself, and Èowyn had to glance away to disentangle her fingers from the now-twisted and pinching bridle.
When she looked up again, the woman was gone. She should never have been able to disappear so swiftly, not in those clothes, all but glowing in the deep dark of the forest, but. . .
Èowyn sighed, her heart still fluttering a little, too-quick. She should feel relieved, she knew, that the strange occurrence had brought no threat, but a part of her mourned for the excitement of it, the possible adventure lost.
She took a deep breath, loosening her grasp on her sword, and turned back to Dena. The mare had picked up on her tension and was shifting nervously, ears flicking.
"Hello Èowyn, daughter of Meduseld." A smooth, honeyed voice that sent shivers down her spine even as she spun, wary and alert again, looking for the source.
There was no one in sight but her and Dena, but as she searched a laugh echoed around her. It lit beautiful images in her mind - the sun rising after a light rain, when the whole world tinted golden and soft-edged - and reminded her of the pure feel of the air then, so clear and refreshing and. . .
Èowyn's eyes slipped closed of their own accord as she breathed in as though she were there on such a morning now. When she opened them again the ethereal creature was before her, smiling softly.
Her golden hair fell in elegant waves around her beautiful face, and parted around her pointed ears. An elf! Èowyn gasped, her eyes wide, though she should not have been surprised, she thought, belatedly.
Though Èowyn thought to back away, she found herself effectively frozen where she stood, unable to tear her eyes away from the elf-woman. Amazingly, though, Èowyn felt no fear of her, as unsettling as her sudden appearances and disappearance might be.
"Very wise, young nís." The beautiful voice sang to her again, though she noticed distantly that the elf's lips did not move as she spoke. Her voice was . . . only within Èowyn's mind. "You need not hold any fear for me, Èowyn, nor any of my people."
"What. . . What are you, Golden Lady?" Èowyn managed shakily, though still unafraid.
The elf smiled, a soft laugh spilling from her lips. "I am of the Eldar, shield-maiden. My name is Galadriel." This time the sweet voice was truly spoken, and this time it sent a different and strange warmth curling through Èowyn, settling in her belly.
". . .Galadriel." Èowyn murmured, licking her lips.
Galadriel's blue eyes - bright and clear, more beautiful than any eyes Èowyn had ever seen - widened and then focused more intently upon her. Èowyn felt almost as though those eyes were laying her out more than any blow had ever done.
"You surprise me, Èowyn. . ." Galadriel's whispery-soft voice seemed to slip and wrap around her like a physical thing, and she blushed. Galadriel made a quiet, calming sound, stepping forward and raising a hand. "You need not feel shy before me, nís." she stroked Èowyn's cheek. "Nor . . . embarrassed."
Èowyn's eyes fluttered shut, and she mirrored Galadriel's step blindly, leaning into the silky brush of the cool fingers on her cheek. "I feel. . ."
Galadriel's laugh was louder this time, but warm and close, and though it was intensely alive and present, it made Èowyn think of bells. "I know what you feel." Galadriel spoke deliberately, her fingers trailing down Èowyn's face and her neck until they reached the neckline of her dress.
Èowyn shivered, opening her eyes to see Galadriel's face. She turned her hand and tugged softly at Èowyn's dress. "May I?" she asked, eyes rising to meet Èowyn's once more.
Èowyn nodded, breathless.
Galadriel smiled, then shifted her attention. She reached out beyond Èowyn, murmuring words that she didn't understand, and Dena paced forwards, looking entranced. Galadriel slid away her bridle with what seemed little more than a touch, and the mare shook herself and trotted off a small distance, seemingly content.
Galadriel's hands returned to Èowyn, sliding over her shoulders, tracing the thin skin over her collarbones. Galadriel put aside Èowyn's sword, then sought out the clasps of the dress swiftly and easily, the heavy fabric falling away.
Èowyn stood there, bathed in the sunlight, nude and somehow unashamed.
Galadriel's eyes traced her form, and Èowyn lifted her jaw, proud and no longer blushing. Galadriel smiled and met her eyes, stepping so close her dress fluttered against Èowyn's bare body, sending shivery sensations across her skin.
Èowyn reached for Galadriel to return the favour, but the elven clothes were strange. After a moment Galadriel's hands smoothed over her own, releasing the fine clasps and thin cords herself, the gauzy white layers drifting away from her body like a midwinter snowfall in the sun.
Galadriel stood tall, the sun burnishing her golden figure lovingly, and her silky curves put Èowyn's slimly muscled, spare form to shame, though she felt none.
Èowyn stroked the pale skin, soft and smooth, her eyes intent on Galadriel's face as her smile widened. Galadriel returned the caresses, trailing a strong hand up Èowyn's waist and ribs, skirting the swell of her breast and stroking her neck, drawing her close.
Èowyn fell into her hands, willingly swaying as she was led by the elf's touch.
Galadriel's mouth was sweet and light as honeysuckle as she caught Èowyn into a kiss she had to lean up into. Warmth seeped, slow and thick and heady, through Èowyn's body, and she moaned as she pushed a little more fiercely into the kiss, her hands curling into Galadriel's silken hair.
Galadriel made a soft, low sound of pleasure. Her hands came down to clasp Èowyn's hips, and she encouraged Èowyn down to lie back on the soft elf-cloak.
This was written for a challenge with the prompt of 'Lord of the Rings, Èowyn/Galadriel, strange', and is also one of my first femmeslash stories.