Disclaimer: I'm not JRR Tolkien, nor am I any of his opportunistic mooching offspring. Therefore, sadly, I hold no rights at all to Lord of the Rings.
A/N: Non-Canon. Way non-canon. This is an idea that's been in my head for quite some time now. The first chapter is short, but if I ever get around to completing it, there are going to be a large number of chapters. It's very much femme slash. People die. Now that that's been said, on to the story! You may have seen some of this before, I decided to add to the first chapter so it's longer now.
Chapter First
Along with her heart, Eowyn felt her legs begin to throb with prolonged misuse. It had been hours since the guests had begun to fill the sunny courtyard to the sound of the cheery songbirds of spring, and now many guests were shifting uncomfortably in their splendorous leathers and silks, their feet clearly sore, even as soft, silky white petals from the White Tree of Gondor swirled gently throughout the setting. Even as she watched the other guest's pampered discomfort out of the corner of a coldly grey eye with no little amusement from her space in the front row, she refused to move an inch herself. That would be a symbol of weakness, and a warrior did not show weakness. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, where, on the dais in front, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor, had just been bound to Lady Arwen Undomniel, Evenstar of her people. Trying not to let the bitterness flood her heart once again, she smiled falsely, weakly, as she saw Aragorn smile brightly, love shining in his eyes only for his ever graceful elvish bride, who was...who was looking straight at her.
If Eowyn had chosen not to move before of her own volition, now she had no choice in the matter. It seemed as if those clarion eyes looked through and at her all at once, and every thought, every insecurity she had was laid bare for the beautiful elf; the shieldmaiden was held riveted by the new Queen of Gondor's eternal stare. Determined once again not to show the weakness and vulnerability she had always hidden deep inside herself, she held the elvish woman's sapphire-like eyes with her own orbs of stormy grey. Indeed, a battle of wills it was, she told herself; in actuality, Eowyn felt as if it wasn't her holding Arwen's gaze, but Arwen seizing the entirety of everything that Eowyn believed made herself who she was, and more besides, and read her like a tender lover caressing the familiarity of creamy skin.
Seemingly having looked, taken, possessed her fill, Arwen gave Eowyn a smile, melancholy in its grace, indolent in the promises it seemed to bestow to Eowyn's feverishly fascinated mind. Eowyn couldn't control herself; reflexively, she smiled in return. Satisfied that she had seen what she needed to see, Arwen half turned to take Aragorn's calloused but gentle hand in her own pale, slender fingers and came close to whisper in his ear. If at all possible, Aragorn's brilliantly white smile grew wider. His fingers tightened in Arwen's gentle clasp and they turned, the couple ready for some time alone. In unison, the large crowd burst into rowdy cheers, lords and soldiers alike joined in revelry at the promise of a glorious future. The shieldmaiden craned around to get a look at the motley crew assembled; Prince Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood cheered at the side of Gimli, son of Gloin, appearing even more elegant and beautiful compared to the rowdy and gruff dwarf. 'Yet,' Eowyn thought to herself, 'Prince Legolas' beauty pales in comparison to the dark, polished richness of Arwen Undomniel. It is as a common flower, attractive in and of itself, pales in comparison to the sultry appeal of a dark rose.' Shocked to find herself thinking such thoughts, she tried to sort her mind out to see where this sudden admiration of the elvish lady had come from. She had loved Aragorn, in all his brash and oblivious courtesy, his wild courage, and his noble blood. It made no sense for her to appreciate Arwen's uncannily beautiful eyes, facial structure, and rich black hair, nor her quiet strength. Underneath all that gentle pacifism, Eowyn sensed, was a true warrior.
Abruptly, her musings were interrupted by a strong, large arm coming to rest gently across her shoulders. As the crowds cheered wildly about her, Faramir, Steward of Gondor, had eyes only for her. Her. He looked at her with such an unshakable love, and she was so ashamed that she could feel nothing in return. He kissed her chastely, and she accepted it, but felt no emotion, save for regret. She knew she did not love him, and what was more, he knew it too; perhaps over time, love would bloom. That seemed to be enough for Faramir. Perhaps over time, love would come, and that seemed to be enough for Faramir, and Eowyn? Eowyn was desperate for any connection to any human being, someone to hold on to.
Faramir slowly broke the kiss, and Eowyn realized that the crowd had begun to break up, relieved at finally being able to get off their feet. Offering his arm to Eowyn chivalrously, he wanted to walk her to her chamber. Slowly, Eowyn shook her head. Throughout the ceremony she had wanted nothing more than to get away from the courtyard and off her screaming feet, but now, her legs were itching for movement, for someplace where she'd be alone.
"I..wish for some time spent alone, Faramir. You do not mind terribly do you, my lord?" Silently she pleaded. She wanted to be alone, but she did not wish to hurt this kind, gentle man.
"Of course not, lady. You'll come to dinner tonight?"
He spoke of the feast to celebrate...well nigh everything, of course. The defeat of Sauron, the return of Isildur's heir to Gondor, and of course, the joining. The cursed joining. As the sister of the new King of the Mark in Rohan, and, by all accounts and appearance, the soon to be bride of Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, it was expected that she should go. And who was she to refuse? There was no reason to; Eowyn didn't think jealousy and bitterness would be accepted as a sufficient excuse to miss out on the festivities, although pleading sickness would be true enough. Around her, the shieldmaiden who feared living in a cage above all else felt something shifting into place; a gold gilded cage, an inescapable net woven by obligation and social expediency, and she wanted to vomit of the feel. Instead she smiled gently at Faramir. She knew the smile showed her fatigue and sadness, but she was thoroughly tired of putting up the false smiles, barriers used to divert attention. Surrounded by the signs of hope and renewal, happiness and levity, Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, had no more ability to deal with such inconsistent fallacies of the human emotion.
"Yes, Faramir, I will be there." Immediately, she noticed a marked change in the steward's face; his eyes lit up, and a smile took over his face. After bidding her farewell with fanciful phrase and a gentle kiss, he departed, heading for the citadel.
With a gusty sigh escaping her lungs, Eowyn dropped all pretenses; she was alone at last. Feet that were ever so slightly unsteady led her without conscious thought or direction led her to the center of the courtyard built atop the jutting cliff; to the base of the might tree of Gondor, now in full bloom. Bypassing the slightly elevated rim holding the soil from which the tree bloomed with a step of her foot, she was at the base of the ancient growth, staring up at the gnarled bark, extended branches and flowering canopy.
Hard pressed though she was to conjure up any feelings of goodness at the current moment, she was forced to admire the purpose and beauty of the White Tree. By all outward appearances, it was naught but a normal tree, albeit of uncommon beauty; the singularity of its purpose clear, to lend an speck of life to an otherwise non organic place, to produce those white petals that flowed in their efflorescence at the ceremony. Why then, did it also act as a compass by which all fixed their hearts? 'Because its beauty attracts followers like honey does bees, like the Lady Arwen.' Sinking down to lean against the comforting solidarity of the tree, she tilted her head back; thoughts sorted themselves in her mind as she fell asleep to the gentle caress of silken petals gliding easily over her upturned face.
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She woke with a surprised start; her lap was nearly covered with the soft petals of the tree sheltering her; from what, she did not know. Sitting up with a jerk, petals cascaded down her robes as she stared at the quickly setting sun. Cursing, she calculated, figuring that if she hurried now, she could get to her chambers, get prepared, and still arrive at the feast on time. Standing, she brushed herself off, causing more petals to whip about in the breeze. Walking briskly across the abandoned stone courtyard, her robes whipped in the breeze.
From a chiseled window of the citadel, blue eyes regarded her at length with interest. Living sapphires watched the slightly disheveled, but always stoic Shieldmaiden of Rohan sweep out of the courtyard, white petals following her in her wake like thunder to lightning. With a slight smile, the figure turned, robes of palest blue trailing her as she exited her chambers.
In her own chambers, Eowyn was distinctly harried. It was one of those logical sequences where a long chain of unfortunate events had to occur before something good would happen, like: The One Ring is forged, Isildur becomes craven to it, so on so forth. It was a tale that all of Middle Earth was beginning to absorb, rote by rote writ on the lines of the hearts of the people. Self deprecating, she made a face in the mirror at herself. It was almost ludicrous to compare an event of that magnitude to her silly troubles; her chain more closely resembled this: Silly sap of a shieldmaiden falls in lust with scruffy heir dodging his duty for as long as he possibly could, gets insanely jealous of said heir's bride, and then in the next instant, jealous of said heir, and now, no dress fits well enough nor any color to be found that goes well with Shieldmaiden's appearance.
One by one, robes flew unseemly across the room, each one an undignified sort of bird flapping clumsily and abundantly on its way down. She began to despair of ever finding a suitable garment for the all-fired important feast; her eyes locked on a bright patch of color in an otherwise darksome wardrobe. Taking it out, she saw that it was certainly, what was the word for it...yes....unconventional. A fiery scarlet red in hue, it would highlight her cheekbones and hair to good effect. Quickly divesting herself of her slightly soiled and more than slightly wrinkled robe, she donned the scarlet number, feeling the cool sensation of fabric sliding over her flesh. Fully sheathed in the new gown, she turned to regard herself in the mirror.
"Not bad..," she mumbled, squinting critically. "Now the hair and face."
Braiding two of the foremost locks hair on either side of her face level with her eyes, she brought the braids together in the back. Repeating this process again and again, there was an intricate pattern woven of hair atop more hair that cascaded down her back. It was a pleasing effect, she decided. A slight touch of carmine on the lips, too much would not do anything but take away the impact of the gown. Perhaps a little bit of kohl? Yes, kohl could even make men more alluring. Just a little bit though...too much had a tendency to make her eyes look sunken like that of a walking dead. There.
Again, she stared at the image in the mirror. It was, she was, passion in all its forms. At once confined and wild, faint and overwhelming, but always heady and ripe, with a lust for life. She had felt that once, and she wanted desperately to feel it again. To grasp that almost tangible thread of sensation and ride with it.
In one swift motion her closed fist struck the mirror. It cracked in many myriads of directions, but no shards fell out of place; in the image now presented she was fractured in so many pieces she could not count them, each section hazy, almost touching but never quite there. This, she found, was the true image of herself. What had happened? she wondered. It had never been this way before.
As she left her chambers for the festal hall, she decided something.
Things change.