Title: In The Shadow of Nienna
Author: shipperchick; shipperchick_42@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of The Lord of The Rings trilogy belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien, New Line Cinema, and Wingnut Films. No profit is being made, no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG for now. Will probably rise later.
Keywords: Drama, Angst, Romance. Aragorn/Arwen, Aragorn/Eowyn
Summary: After the events of 'The Return of The King', life goes on for the people of middle-Earth. There is joy, but also grief. Where will fate take our heroes next?
Author's note: Okay, this is lengthy, but necessary. Let me say first that I *have not* read the books. I have 'em all, and intend to read them, but for the purposes of this story I'm holding off. I think the timing works better from movieverse. Thus, this is a movieverse story and follows that timeline, but also references the books a great deal, thanks to the unparalleled resources of the Encyclopedia of Arda and others (links in references, at the bottom). Also, since this is a movieverse story, no mention is made of the Eowyn/Faramir storyline, nor (specifically) of Eowyn's time in the Houses of Healing. Lastly, let me just say that while this is an Aragorn/Eowyn story, there is obviously an Aragorn/Arwen plotline to be dealt with. I try to keep it to a minimum, but it's there, so if you're vehemently anti- Aragorn/Arwen you might want to stay away (though it gets better later)!
PS: While this is a post-ROTK story, several of the initial scenes take place during the movie, 'interleaved' between the finale scenes. I'll note the timeline in relation to the movie at the top if that's the case.
PPS: Last one, I swear. This has been read over, but not beta-read. If you like what you read and are interested in beta-reading this story for me, please email me at the address above!
Chapter 1: Two Tasks
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MINIS TIRITH: May 3019, III – two months after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields (during ROTK-- post-battle scene, pre-coronation scene)
---------------
Her steps were slow and unsure, but they were steps, and unaided. Éowyn, lady and shieldmaiden of Rohan, nearly wept with relief. Slow was her progress, to be sure, but every day seemed to put her closer to recovery… closer to the day when she could return to her people and begin to help them as was her true duty.
Five lengths later and Éowyn sighed, sagging against a convenient pillar flanking a nondescript door. It seemed that she still had some way to go before that day would arrive. Her breath came in short gasps, and her eyes shuttered close, the better to hide the dispirited tears welling beneath their lids. Once again, this weak female body had been her undoing, nearly succumbing to the Black Breath of the witch king after slaying him in the one true triumph of her life.
Fists clenched, Éowyn let her head fall back, colliding into the rough stone and causing more tears to brim on her lashes. She bit her lip cruelly, desperately suppressing the urge to scream her rage down the royal Gondorian halls. 'Sooth, but she felt so *useless*. Not able to help in the rebuilding of her home, not yet even able to *go* home until the healers gave her leave to travel – and from the way this frail heap of a body of hers was progressing, that would not be until well after the Gondorian coronation. Useless and trapped, yet again.
Her breath sounded in harsh gasps through her teeth, sawing out of her lungs with savage intensity for several minutes until she calmed. Then she stood motionless, gathering the strength to turn and retrace her path down the winding halls to her luxuriously (by the standards of ravaged Gondor) appointed chambers.
Slowly tensing to push off from the pillar and begin her journey, Éowyn froze as what was definitely a familiar male voice shouted in frustration.
"I cannot *begin* to understand how this is of import! Of enough importance to pull me from the scores of other urgent tasks demanding…"
The voice cut off as a loud murmur of several conversations rose, and Éowyn's curiosity was piqued. She did nothing, though, but remain at her place, well hidden from any passers-by.
"There cannot and *will* not be a formal coronation ceremony… nor will there be any ridiculous festival for such. We are recovering from a war, man, and the Uru-kai still roam the countryside in hordes. There is much yet to be done, and no time for celebrations!"
A brief pause as one urgent whisper sounded, the tones too low to be clearly heard. Then, a louder tone;
"I cannot allow such a grievous waste of energy and resources. There is simply no justification."
Her suspicions were confirmed; Éowyn was now sure that the voice belonged to Isildur's heir. Moreover, Aragorn seemed yet again to be making a brash decision that would not at all benefit his people. That Éowyn had been incorrect in her assumptions the last time did not stop her from standing and making her way to the door to knock determinedly.
A beat of silence, and then two. 'Perhaps', she thought with a hint of mischief, 'Lord Aragorn has forgotten that it is in fact *his* door'.
Another beat of silence, followed a moment later by a subtle cough. 'That,' thought Éowyn, 'will be Faramir, reminding Aragorn that he must give leave to approach'. Then, hastily, the familiar voice called;
"Enter!"
Opening the heavy wood door with difficulty, Éowyn put her shoulder to the metal fittings and shoved enough to slip her much-thinned frame through the open space.
She found herself on the lintel of the King's own council chambers. It was a cold, spare room, bare except for the wide table engulfing the center, covered in maps and parchment, surrounded by chairs. The King's chair, raised slightly above the rest, remained empty while the councilors sat; a fact that should have alerted her to what would happen next.
"Éowyn!"
She startled, for the voice had come, warm and strong, from directly above her right shoulder. She whirled, and found herself nose-to-chest with the man himself. Leaping back, Éowyn stammered her apologies, cheeks flushing rose in mortification. Why oh *why* must this man always put her to the blush?
Too late now she remembered the last time they had met, the night before she had ridden off to battle, and the cutting words they had both exchanged. Too late, for now she stood before him, and, she realized as she swept her wide gaze across the room, his entire temporary council.
Gathering herself, Éowyn attempted to salvage what dignity she could. She swept a low curtsy before him, wobbling only a little as she went almost to her knees, head bowing and back straight as a blade.
"My lord." The words were breathy, but calm. She silently gave thanks to mother-brother Theóden , whose insistence upon proper protocol training had seemed so wasteful then and was her saving grace now. She was even more grateful for that training as it enabled her to maintain an impassive façade when large hands came to clasp her upper arms. Swiftly, Aragorn raised her to her full height, holding her away from him; the better to study her from tip to toe with an intense gaze.
"It is good to see you up and about, my lady. Last I heard, the healers were most zealously guarding your privacy; so much so that even a soon-to-be King cannot garner a visit. I am glad to find you on the road to full wellness."
The words, though warm in meaning, were stilted in tone. Indeed, his entire presence seemed formal and artificial, as unlike the sure and sincere Aragorn she had last seen as chalk and cheese. Even in the worst of times between them, he had never seemed so ill-at-ease. She wondered at the change, hoping her rash and revealing words what seemed like a lifetime ago were not still the cause of the awkwardness.
"It is good to *be* up and about, milord. The walls of your keep are a welcome change indeed from the ceiling of your guest quarters, beautiful though they may be."
Her gently teasing tone and the smile that accompanied it were answered by the slow unfurling of a like expression on his face. She was startled by the stiffness of it, as if he had lacked reason to smile in a great deal of time. Looking about her at the glaring countenances of disgruntled councilmen, some of them murmuring resentfully amongst themselves, she began to understand how it was possible, even in this time of great rejoicing.
Clearly, the declaration she had overheard was not a popular one, and for good reason, Éowyn thought. Apparently the rough former Ranger was approaching his claim upon the throne as he set about all things; with an eye to the most efficient and least ceremonious route. Though that tactic would at times prove useful to him as a ruler, there was a great deal more to being a king. Now the question was, who would tell him so in a forthright manner, rather than indulge in the shilly-shallying of councilors attempting to jockey for the future King's ear?
Deciding to do something about the dilemma was no decision at all; the shieldmaiden Éowyn never balked at action when a clear route presented itself. Leaning forward, she made herself so bold as to tug on the future King's tunic, hoping that he would see her request as it was intended, and not as a schoolgirl attempt to be near him. 'As well he might', she thought with mild disgust and a great deal of mortification, 'given my previous behavior.'
Battling on the fields of Pellenor had changed the White Lady, and she could think of her enamored words and lovesick glances for the Ranger with nothing but deep chagrin. True, those feelings still lived in a darkly buried place of her heart, but looking back now, she could see that Aragorn could no more love her than she could love the honorable Faramir. Just as her heart was filled with Isildur's heir, there was no room in *his* heart for her. The Evenstar held it all – Undying Lands or no. What Aragorn had shared with her in the dark halls of Methuseld and Helm's Deep were as he said -- nothing but a shadow and a thought. She knew this now but her tongue shied from saying it, from admitting her foolishness and immaturity. She could only hope that time and distance would cause the memory of those words to fade, and allow them to rebuild on the fragile remnants of the understanding they had once had.
"Milord Aragorn, I would speak to you for a moment."
The look of thinly veiled alarm on his face would be comical, were it not for the shaft of pain and chagrin it sent shooting through the pale lady's heart. It appeared that the memory of her words had no more faded from his mind than it had hers. Hastily, she rushed to assure him:
"I only wish to speak to you about some matters of state, milord. Nothing… nothing of a personal nature."
A shadow passed over her eyes as she spoke the words, and his features tightened as he saw it go. With a brief nod, he turned to his councilors and spoke to them in a low voice.
Several of the men looked over at her appraisingly, others curiously, still others with open disdain. Éowyn stared them down, refusing to lower her gaze despite the heightened color on her cheeks. The tale of her exploits was legend now, especially since she had taken up temporary residence in the rebuilt castle. Not all those who heard it were approving, though. Many were still shocked and appalled that a woman would be so forward, so unseemly in her actions, especially in the more-traditional Gondor. Though her innards roiled with anger and impotent rage, Éowyn remained outwardly impassive.
Yet another reason to give over these foolish feelings of hers; she was no more able to be Gondor's queen than she was to win the heart of its king.
Aragorn turned back to her, and though her profile was as inscrutable as stone, still some of her anger and mortification was obvious to him. Engulfed in a morass of unrequited, unresolved, and unactionable feelings though they might be, still he understood her in a strangely visceral, instinctual way. He moved to her and took her arm, shielding her from the intent gaze of his advisors as he ushered her across the room to his private withdrawing chamber.
The door sounded loud behind them, and suddenly they were alone in the small, echoing chamber. Éowyn made for the far wall and the small slit window created for defense. It served its purpose now, allowing Éowyn time to glimpse the aching beauty of Gondor's plains and suppress the resentment, anger, and other unsavory emotions that seemed to flow so freely within her these days.
Finally, after allowing herself the precious luxury of several moments to compose herself, Éowyn turned to face him.
She nearly exclaimed in both relief and pain, for here was the Aragorn she knew, the kindness and surety emanating from him in waves… this was the man that had so drawn her in the golden halls of her home. Bitterly, Éowyn castigated herself. Foolish yet again, stupid beyond measure to think she could wall up her heart and stem the flood of tender feelings he had inspired in her from the first.
Her eyes wide with distress, pale fingers reached to cover cold lips, and he stalked quick strides to her side, carefully leaving space between them but allowing the warm safety of his presence to engulf her.
"What troubles you Éowyn? Is ought amiss with your healers or quarters? Is there anything you desire?"
Still and again, Éowyn found herself falling into the pit, the warm but hopeless chasm that gave her into his keeping for good or ill, and once more the White Lady found herself fighting every fiber in her body, each screaming that *this* was the man worthy of, nay, *destined* for her heart.
She coughed, a raspy weakling sound so at odds with the fierce woman who had stood toe-to-toe with him on more than one occasion, it made him jump.
"Nothing, milord. It is simply this body, taking precious time to heal enough that I might remove myself and the burden of my care from your hall."
The words were quiet and devoid of emotion, but Aragorn bristled at the implication behind them.
"Burden? Milady, you are an honored guest. Moreover, an injured warrior that deserves nothing less than the best of treatment from the people you helped save. To suggest that you are worthy of less or that we are capable of offering less is an insult to us both."
Her eyes shuttered beneath translucent lids, Éowyn turned her head. Everything in her body stilled, as she considered her next words carefully.
"No, milord, I did not mean to imply that the people of Gondor, nor their future king could be anything but utterly hospitable, or respectful. 'Tis only…" here she hesitated, until an eyebrow cocked and tilted head gave her silent demand to continue. "I feel that I am wasting resources that are far too precious at such an important time in Gondor's history. After all, preparations for your formal ascension to the throne must be well underway, and every able hand must be necessary."
Her head tilted down, nevertheless Éowyn could watch expressions cross Aragorn's face as they flew across his face. A sheaf of blond hair fell, and her face was lost to him. His voice when he answered was slow and careful, a sixth sense suggesting that perhaps the conversation had taken a sudden turn.
"There shall be no formal ascension. A few words from my steward returning power, and Gondor shall go about its business. You need have no fear that you are interfering, Éowyn."
Her head came up fast, and if her expression of surprise seemed manufactured, Aragorn did not comment upon it.
"No formal ascension? Surely you joke, my lord Aragorn."
"Please, Éowyn… simply Aragorn. … I am not King yet, and already I weary of being 'lorded' to death."
She nodded, but still her gaze remained questioning, steady and demanding. He sighed, hand reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose, grown tight with listening to the clamor of several opinions.
"No, my lady, I do not joke. Look about you, and see the state of this kingdom… of all Middle-earth. There is no room for festivals or frolicking. What crops were planted have been ravaged, and there are not among us enough able-bodied men to plant what is needed. Winter comes, and you know as well as I that so ill-prepared, the kingdoms of Men shall find the season to be even a greater threat than all the armies of Mordor. I have no time for useless ceremony."
Sensing the direction of his argument, Éowyn barely let the words drop from his mouth before rebutting;
"All the more reason for ceremony, Aragorn. You came to these people in their darkest time and led them out to the light. But now you must show them how to live in that light; to rebuild and become yet again the great kingdom of your grandfather and father's time. But you must give them reason also to believe that you can do so."
His answer was just as swift, and she wondered how many variations of this argument had occurred in recent days.
"Should not my actions give them reason, rather than some foolish performance?"
She hesitated, wondering if her thoughts were too cutting. But still, she knew him to be a man of strong mind, not easily swayed. Perhaps cutting words were what would be necessary.
"You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son's son of Arador. You come from a line of greatness, your people have led the people of this nation for centuries. You are Isildur's heir, and Gondor's true and rightful leader. But…"
Again she hesitated, wondering if her words would cause an even greater rift between them.
"Yes?"
Looking at his questioning face, she knew that it mattered not. The words needed to be said, and any damage to the remaining tatters of their burgeoning friendship were simply the cost. Indeed, perhaps it was for the best, to give him a disgust of her with her forward ways. It seemed up to him to keep seemly distance between them, as her wayward heart refused to be disciplined and subside into reasoned silence.
Jutting her chin out and fixing him with the curiously frank gaze that had fascinated him from the beginning, did she but know it, Éowyn of Rohan spoke the words that would most probably destroy all chance of friendship that remained between them.
"How many people, milord, truly know this? How many of Gondor's citizens remember only the rule of stewards, pale reflections of true leadership? How many people only remember that their true king abandoned kingship?"
His sharp intake of breath echoed in the chamber, and he turned on her with fire in his eyes.
"I was a *child* when I was taken from Gondor. A child under attack, in a time before your birth. How you can accuse me of cowardice…"
Her outstretched hand and the clear distress on her face stayed his words. Her voice when she spoke was pained, but determined.
"Believe me my lord when I say that I could never think of you as anything other than one of the bravest and strongest men I have known… and I have known many brave and strong men. I only ask you to see yourself through the eyes of your citizens… the people of Gondor who have suffered because of your absence, and who have no knowledge of the man I know you to be."
"*That*, my lord, is why you need a formal coronation. To give people hope, a sense of belonging. They will in time see your actions, and know you to be both wise and brave. But right now, in these crucial first days, they need to be reminded that you are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son's son of Arador… the next in a line of great kings. They feel abandoned, and need to know that you are truly willing to take on the mantle of kingship, with all of its onerous and trifling duties, before they can give their utmost trust and loyalty to you as their ruler… their true King."
Silence filled the room for several minutes. Éowyn could hear their combined breaths, drawing in tandem, as he thought and she waited. His voice when it came startled her.
"And pomp and circumstance shall accomplish this?"
Éowyn shrugged, at ease with the strange demands made upon royalty.
"You are in the unenviable position of attempting to reach your thousands of citizens without utterance, and trying to tie them together as a nation with but a few words. You need to fly the flag milord, and that flag must for now carry your face."
He seemed to consider her words, turning to his window and staring down at Gondor's seemingly endless territory, stretched out in all directions before him… land filled with people whose care was now his responsibility.
Finally, with a weary grunt, he turned again. He found her pale, a delicate tracery of veins clearly visible at her temples where golden hair met lucent skin. Clearly tired, still she stood resolute, and he knew that she was firm in her belief.
"You truly feel that this is necessary?"
Her blue eyes were piercing, glowing with a simple fervor as she answered.
"Truly, milord."
"Very well then, Éowyn of Rohan. I know not where we shall find the resources, or yet even where to begin with such an event as this, but I find your words to be reasoned and sure, and I place my trust in you. Four months from now, all in readiness, I shall ascend to the throne of Gondor with due ceremony – in front of all the people shall I shoulder willingly the golden shackle of my fate."
This last was in a low tone, but clearly held. Moved against her will by sympathy, Éowyn found herself behind the troubled lord, and reached a comforting hand to his shoulder.
"Shackle it might seem right now, milord… and again shall it be in times during your life. Yet still, I am sure, you will find great joy in leading these people… these brave and marvelous people that have stood as the last bastion for light against the gates of darkness, and triumphed time and again. Have faith, Aragorn. Your duties shall taste more of sweet than bitter… or at least, I have always found it so."
His hand reached to cover hers, fleetingly, before startling away as a mongoose beholding a snake. Sighing, and cursing yet again the impetuous words between them that made this great man so afraid of her, Éowyn removed her hand, overwarm and tingling from the feel of his flesh, to hide it in the folds of her skirt.
Clearing her throat briskly, Éowyn moved around him, facing his conflicted gaze with an impassive expression.
"I would be greatly honored, milord, if you would allow me to show my …respect and gratitude for the people of Gondor by permitting me to arrange for the ceremony."
He looked a measuring glance at her, shadows flying across his face. Clearly she could see his doubts and misgivings, and quickly did she seek to assuage them.
"Come, my lord. As I am the one to turn your mind in favor of such a ghastly ordeal," and here her smile was answered by his own peculiar twist of lips, "it is only fair that I be the one to arrange for it. And still, it shall give me good practice, for immediately after your ceremony I ride north and homeward to place my brother under the same torture."
His smile widened at that, a brief chuckle sounding at the somewhat wicked gleam in the lady's eye, and he found himself nodding in agreement. Too, he found his doubts relieved at her mention of home, knowing that she was well and resolute enough to plan her leavetaking of his halls. The lingering shadow of her declared feelings and his fear of them faded another degree. No clinging dependence or woebegone countenance from the slayer of the Nazgul King. Suddenly, he found himself heartened, lighter than he had felt in days.
"Very well, lady. You have, to the relief of my Council, convinced me. I leave all in your hands, with the feeling that you have just arranged much suffering for yourself. Consider it your just rewards for eavesdropping at the door of council chambers."
She flushed and looked down, mortified that he had discerned her actions. His chuckle sounded louder, and tentatively, he chucked her beneath the chin; an avuncular gesture before he strode to the connecting door.
With a word of leave, Aragorn removed himself from the room to inform his council of the arrangements. Éowyn was left to stand beside the window, staring north towards Rohan over the golden plains of Gondor, wind whipping her hair behind. After a time, she turned, to begin the two tasks she had set herself; the coronation of a king and the fettering of her foolish heart.
One would mark the end of an old life, as she wished Aragorn goodbye and welcomed Elessar into her world. The other would start a new life… somehow, she would find a way to recover from this malady of the spirit and begin again. A woman whose heart was burnt to cold ash by love, but a woman who could still live. With everything within her, Éowyn prayed. She prayed for swift recovery, and the safety of her people. She prayed for prosperity and light to once again fill the land of middle-Earth. But most of all, Éowyn prayed for the strength to be equal to these two tasks.
----------
End Chapter 1
References:
The Encyclopedia of Arda: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/
(More references to be added later when I'm at my home computer.)
Author: shipperchick; shipperchick_42@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of The Lord of The Rings trilogy belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien, New Line Cinema, and Wingnut Films. No profit is being made, no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG for now. Will probably rise later.
Keywords: Drama, Angst, Romance. Aragorn/Arwen, Aragorn/Eowyn
Summary: After the events of 'The Return of The King', life goes on for the people of middle-Earth. There is joy, but also grief. Where will fate take our heroes next?
Author's note: Okay, this is lengthy, but necessary. Let me say first that I *have not* read the books. I have 'em all, and intend to read them, but for the purposes of this story I'm holding off. I think the timing works better from movieverse. Thus, this is a movieverse story and follows that timeline, but also references the books a great deal, thanks to the unparalleled resources of the Encyclopedia of Arda and others (links in references, at the bottom). Also, since this is a movieverse story, no mention is made of the Eowyn/Faramir storyline, nor (specifically) of Eowyn's time in the Houses of Healing. Lastly, let me just say that while this is an Aragorn/Eowyn story, there is obviously an Aragorn/Arwen plotline to be dealt with. I try to keep it to a minimum, but it's there, so if you're vehemently anti- Aragorn/Arwen you might want to stay away (though it gets better later)!
PS: While this is a post-ROTK story, several of the initial scenes take place during the movie, 'interleaved' between the finale scenes. I'll note the timeline in relation to the movie at the top if that's the case.
PPS: Last one, I swear. This has been read over, but not beta-read. If you like what you read and are interested in beta-reading this story for me, please email me at the address above!
Chapter 1: Two Tasks
---------------
MINIS TIRITH: May 3019, III – two months after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields (during ROTK-- post-battle scene, pre-coronation scene)
---------------
Her steps were slow and unsure, but they were steps, and unaided. Éowyn, lady and shieldmaiden of Rohan, nearly wept with relief. Slow was her progress, to be sure, but every day seemed to put her closer to recovery… closer to the day when she could return to her people and begin to help them as was her true duty.
Five lengths later and Éowyn sighed, sagging against a convenient pillar flanking a nondescript door. It seemed that she still had some way to go before that day would arrive. Her breath came in short gasps, and her eyes shuttered close, the better to hide the dispirited tears welling beneath their lids. Once again, this weak female body had been her undoing, nearly succumbing to the Black Breath of the witch king after slaying him in the one true triumph of her life.
Fists clenched, Éowyn let her head fall back, colliding into the rough stone and causing more tears to brim on her lashes. She bit her lip cruelly, desperately suppressing the urge to scream her rage down the royal Gondorian halls. 'Sooth, but she felt so *useless*. Not able to help in the rebuilding of her home, not yet even able to *go* home until the healers gave her leave to travel – and from the way this frail heap of a body of hers was progressing, that would not be until well after the Gondorian coronation. Useless and trapped, yet again.
Her breath sounded in harsh gasps through her teeth, sawing out of her lungs with savage intensity for several minutes until she calmed. Then she stood motionless, gathering the strength to turn and retrace her path down the winding halls to her luxuriously (by the standards of ravaged Gondor) appointed chambers.
Slowly tensing to push off from the pillar and begin her journey, Éowyn froze as what was definitely a familiar male voice shouted in frustration.
"I cannot *begin* to understand how this is of import! Of enough importance to pull me from the scores of other urgent tasks demanding…"
The voice cut off as a loud murmur of several conversations rose, and Éowyn's curiosity was piqued. She did nothing, though, but remain at her place, well hidden from any passers-by.
"There cannot and *will* not be a formal coronation ceremony… nor will there be any ridiculous festival for such. We are recovering from a war, man, and the Uru-kai still roam the countryside in hordes. There is much yet to be done, and no time for celebrations!"
A brief pause as one urgent whisper sounded, the tones too low to be clearly heard. Then, a louder tone;
"I cannot allow such a grievous waste of energy and resources. There is simply no justification."
Her suspicions were confirmed; Éowyn was now sure that the voice belonged to Isildur's heir. Moreover, Aragorn seemed yet again to be making a brash decision that would not at all benefit his people. That Éowyn had been incorrect in her assumptions the last time did not stop her from standing and making her way to the door to knock determinedly.
A beat of silence, and then two. 'Perhaps', she thought with a hint of mischief, 'Lord Aragorn has forgotten that it is in fact *his* door'.
Another beat of silence, followed a moment later by a subtle cough. 'That,' thought Éowyn, 'will be Faramir, reminding Aragorn that he must give leave to approach'. Then, hastily, the familiar voice called;
"Enter!"
Opening the heavy wood door with difficulty, Éowyn put her shoulder to the metal fittings and shoved enough to slip her much-thinned frame through the open space.
She found herself on the lintel of the King's own council chambers. It was a cold, spare room, bare except for the wide table engulfing the center, covered in maps and parchment, surrounded by chairs. The King's chair, raised slightly above the rest, remained empty while the councilors sat; a fact that should have alerted her to what would happen next.
"Éowyn!"
She startled, for the voice had come, warm and strong, from directly above her right shoulder. She whirled, and found herself nose-to-chest with the man himself. Leaping back, Éowyn stammered her apologies, cheeks flushing rose in mortification. Why oh *why* must this man always put her to the blush?
Too late now she remembered the last time they had met, the night before she had ridden off to battle, and the cutting words they had both exchanged. Too late, for now she stood before him, and, she realized as she swept her wide gaze across the room, his entire temporary council.
Gathering herself, Éowyn attempted to salvage what dignity she could. She swept a low curtsy before him, wobbling only a little as she went almost to her knees, head bowing and back straight as a blade.
"My lord." The words were breathy, but calm. She silently gave thanks to mother-brother Theóden , whose insistence upon proper protocol training had seemed so wasteful then and was her saving grace now. She was even more grateful for that training as it enabled her to maintain an impassive façade when large hands came to clasp her upper arms. Swiftly, Aragorn raised her to her full height, holding her away from him; the better to study her from tip to toe with an intense gaze.
"It is good to see you up and about, my lady. Last I heard, the healers were most zealously guarding your privacy; so much so that even a soon-to-be King cannot garner a visit. I am glad to find you on the road to full wellness."
The words, though warm in meaning, were stilted in tone. Indeed, his entire presence seemed formal and artificial, as unlike the sure and sincere Aragorn she had last seen as chalk and cheese. Even in the worst of times between them, he had never seemed so ill-at-ease. She wondered at the change, hoping her rash and revealing words what seemed like a lifetime ago were not still the cause of the awkwardness.
"It is good to *be* up and about, milord. The walls of your keep are a welcome change indeed from the ceiling of your guest quarters, beautiful though they may be."
Her gently teasing tone and the smile that accompanied it were answered by the slow unfurling of a like expression on his face. She was startled by the stiffness of it, as if he had lacked reason to smile in a great deal of time. Looking about her at the glaring countenances of disgruntled councilmen, some of them murmuring resentfully amongst themselves, she began to understand how it was possible, even in this time of great rejoicing.
Clearly, the declaration she had overheard was not a popular one, and for good reason, Éowyn thought. Apparently the rough former Ranger was approaching his claim upon the throne as he set about all things; with an eye to the most efficient and least ceremonious route. Though that tactic would at times prove useful to him as a ruler, there was a great deal more to being a king. Now the question was, who would tell him so in a forthright manner, rather than indulge in the shilly-shallying of councilors attempting to jockey for the future King's ear?
Deciding to do something about the dilemma was no decision at all; the shieldmaiden Éowyn never balked at action when a clear route presented itself. Leaning forward, she made herself so bold as to tug on the future King's tunic, hoping that he would see her request as it was intended, and not as a schoolgirl attempt to be near him. 'As well he might', she thought with mild disgust and a great deal of mortification, 'given my previous behavior.'
Battling on the fields of Pellenor had changed the White Lady, and she could think of her enamored words and lovesick glances for the Ranger with nothing but deep chagrin. True, those feelings still lived in a darkly buried place of her heart, but looking back now, she could see that Aragorn could no more love her than she could love the honorable Faramir. Just as her heart was filled with Isildur's heir, there was no room in *his* heart for her. The Evenstar held it all – Undying Lands or no. What Aragorn had shared with her in the dark halls of Methuseld and Helm's Deep were as he said -- nothing but a shadow and a thought. She knew this now but her tongue shied from saying it, from admitting her foolishness and immaturity. She could only hope that time and distance would cause the memory of those words to fade, and allow them to rebuild on the fragile remnants of the understanding they had once had.
"Milord Aragorn, I would speak to you for a moment."
The look of thinly veiled alarm on his face would be comical, were it not for the shaft of pain and chagrin it sent shooting through the pale lady's heart. It appeared that the memory of her words had no more faded from his mind than it had hers. Hastily, she rushed to assure him:
"I only wish to speak to you about some matters of state, milord. Nothing… nothing of a personal nature."
A shadow passed over her eyes as she spoke the words, and his features tightened as he saw it go. With a brief nod, he turned to his councilors and spoke to them in a low voice.
Several of the men looked over at her appraisingly, others curiously, still others with open disdain. Éowyn stared them down, refusing to lower her gaze despite the heightened color on her cheeks. The tale of her exploits was legend now, especially since she had taken up temporary residence in the rebuilt castle. Not all those who heard it were approving, though. Many were still shocked and appalled that a woman would be so forward, so unseemly in her actions, especially in the more-traditional Gondor. Though her innards roiled with anger and impotent rage, Éowyn remained outwardly impassive.
Yet another reason to give over these foolish feelings of hers; she was no more able to be Gondor's queen than she was to win the heart of its king.
Aragorn turned back to her, and though her profile was as inscrutable as stone, still some of her anger and mortification was obvious to him. Engulfed in a morass of unrequited, unresolved, and unactionable feelings though they might be, still he understood her in a strangely visceral, instinctual way. He moved to her and took her arm, shielding her from the intent gaze of his advisors as he ushered her across the room to his private withdrawing chamber.
The door sounded loud behind them, and suddenly they were alone in the small, echoing chamber. Éowyn made for the far wall and the small slit window created for defense. It served its purpose now, allowing Éowyn time to glimpse the aching beauty of Gondor's plains and suppress the resentment, anger, and other unsavory emotions that seemed to flow so freely within her these days.
Finally, after allowing herself the precious luxury of several moments to compose herself, Éowyn turned to face him.
She nearly exclaimed in both relief and pain, for here was the Aragorn she knew, the kindness and surety emanating from him in waves… this was the man that had so drawn her in the golden halls of her home. Bitterly, Éowyn castigated herself. Foolish yet again, stupid beyond measure to think she could wall up her heart and stem the flood of tender feelings he had inspired in her from the first.
Her eyes wide with distress, pale fingers reached to cover cold lips, and he stalked quick strides to her side, carefully leaving space between them but allowing the warm safety of his presence to engulf her.
"What troubles you Éowyn? Is ought amiss with your healers or quarters? Is there anything you desire?"
Still and again, Éowyn found herself falling into the pit, the warm but hopeless chasm that gave her into his keeping for good or ill, and once more the White Lady found herself fighting every fiber in her body, each screaming that *this* was the man worthy of, nay, *destined* for her heart.
She coughed, a raspy weakling sound so at odds with the fierce woman who had stood toe-to-toe with him on more than one occasion, it made him jump.
"Nothing, milord. It is simply this body, taking precious time to heal enough that I might remove myself and the burden of my care from your hall."
The words were quiet and devoid of emotion, but Aragorn bristled at the implication behind them.
"Burden? Milady, you are an honored guest. Moreover, an injured warrior that deserves nothing less than the best of treatment from the people you helped save. To suggest that you are worthy of less or that we are capable of offering less is an insult to us both."
Her eyes shuttered beneath translucent lids, Éowyn turned her head. Everything in her body stilled, as she considered her next words carefully.
"No, milord, I did not mean to imply that the people of Gondor, nor their future king could be anything but utterly hospitable, or respectful. 'Tis only…" here she hesitated, until an eyebrow cocked and tilted head gave her silent demand to continue. "I feel that I am wasting resources that are far too precious at such an important time in Gondor's history. After all, preparations for your formal ascension to the throne must be well underway, and every able hand must be necessary."
Her head tilted down, nevertheless Éowyn could watch expressions cross Aragorn's face as they flew across his face. A sheaf of blond hair fell, and her face was lost to him. His voice when he answered was slow and careful, a sixth sense suggesting that perhaps the conversation had taken a sudden turn.
"There shall be no formal ascension. A few words from my steward returning power, and Gondor shall go about its business. You need have no fear that you are interfering, Éowyn."
Her head came up fast, and if her expression of surprise seemed manufactured, Aragorn did not comment upon it.
"No formal ascension? Surely you joke, my lord Aragorn."
"Please, Éowyn… simply Aragorn. … I am not King yet, and already I weary of being 'lorded' to death."
She nodded, but still her gaze remained questioning, steady and demanding. He sighed, hand reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose, grown tight with listening to the clamor of several opinions.
"No, my lady, I do not joke. Look about you, and see the state of this kingdom… of all Middle-earth. There is no room for festivals or frolicking. What crops were planted have been ravaged, and there are not among us enough able-bodied men to plant what is needed. Winter comes, and you know as well as I that so ill-prepared, the kingdoms of Men shall find the season to be even a greater threat than all the armies of Mordor. I have no time for useless ceremony."
Sensing the direction of his argument, Éowyn barely let the words drop from his mouth before rebutting;
"All the more reason for ceremony, Aragorn. You came to these people in their darkest time and led them out to the light. But now you must show them how to live in that light; to rebuild and become yet again the great kingdom of your grandfather and father's time. But you must give them reason also to believe that you can do so."
His answer was just as swift, and she wondered how many variations of this argument had occurred in recent days.
"Should not my actions give them reason, rather than some foolish performance?"
She hesitated, wondering if her thoughts were too cutting. But still, she knew him to be a man of strong mind, not easily swayed. Perhaps cutting words were what would be necessary.
"You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son's son of Arador. You come from a line of greatness, your people have led the people of this nation for centuries. You are Isildur's heir, and Gondor's true and rightful leader. But…"
Again she hesitated, wondering if her words would cause an even greater rift between them.
"Yes?"
Looking at his questioning face, she knew that it mattered not. The words needed to be said, and any damage to the remaining tatters of their burgeoning friendship were simply the cost. Indeed, perhaps it was for the best, to give him a disgust of her with her forward ways. It seemed up to him to keep seemly distance between them, as her wayward heart refused to be disciplined and subside into reasoned silence.
Jutting her chin out and fixing him with the curiously frank gaze that had fascinated him from the beginning, did she but know it, Éowyn of Rohan spoke the words that would most probably destroy all chance of friendship that remained between them.
"How many people, milord, truly know this? How many of Gondor's citizens remember only the rule of stewards, pale reflections of true leadership? How many people only remember that their true king abandoned kingship?"
His sharp intake of breath echoed in the chamber, and he turned on her with fire in his eyes.
"I was a *child* when I was taken from Gondor. A child under attack, in a time before your birth. How you can accuse me of cowardice…"
Her outstretched hand and the clear distress on her face stayed his words. Her voice when she spoke was pained, but determined.
"Believe me my lord when I say that I could never think of you as anything other than one of the bravest and strongest men I have known… and I have known many brave and strong men. I only ask you to see yourself through the eyes of your citizens… the people of Gondor who have suffered because of your absence, and who have no knowledge of the man I know you to be."
"*That*, my lord, is why you need a formal coronation. To give people hope, a sense of belonging. They will in time see your actions, and know you to be both wise and brave. But right now, in these crucial first days, they need to be reminded that you are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son's son of Arador… the next in a line of great kings. They feel abandoned, and need to know that you are truly willing to take on the mantle of kingship, with all of its onerous and trifling duties, before they can give their utmost trust and loyalty to you as their ruler… their true King."
Silence filled the room for several minutes. Éowyn could hear their combined breaths, drawing in tandem, as he thought and she waited. His voice when it came startled her.
"And pomp and circumstance shall accomplish this?"
Éowyn shrugged, at ease with the strange demands made upon royalty.
"You are in the unenviable position of attempting to reach your thousands of citizens without utterance, and trying to tie them together as a nation with but a few words. You need to fly the flag milord, and that flag must for now carry your face."
He seemed to consider her words, turning to his window and staring down at Gondor's seemingly endless territory, stretched out in all directions before him… land filled with people whose care was now his responsibility.
Finally, with a weary grunt, he turned again. He found her pale, a delicate tracery of veins clearly visible at her temples where golden hair met lucent skin. Clearly tired, still she stood resolute, and he knew that she was firm in her belief.
"You truly feel that this is necessary?"
Her blue eyes were piercing, glowing with a simple fervor as she answered.
"Truly, milord."
"Very well then, Éowyn of Rohan. I know not where we shall find the resources, or yet even where to begin with such an event as this, but I find your words to be reasoned and sure, and I place my trust in you. Four months from now, all in readiness, I shall ascend to the throne of Gondor with due ceremony – in front of all the people shall I shoulder willingly the golden shackle of my fate."
This last was in a low tone, but clearly held. Moved against her will by sympathy, Éowyn found herself behind the troubled lord, and reached a comforting hand to his shoulder.
"Shackle it might seem right now, milord… and again shall it be in times during your life. Yet still, I am sure, you will find great joy in leading these people… these brave and marvelous people that have stood as the last bastion for light against the gates of darkness, and triumphed time and again. Have faith, Aragorn. Your duties shall taste more of sweet than bitter… or at least, I have always found it so."
His hand reached to cover hers, fleetingly, before startling away as a mongoose beholding a snake. Sighing, and cursing yet again the impetuous words between them that made this great man so afraid of her, Éowyn removed her hand, overwarm and tingling from the feel of his flesh, to hide it in the folds of her skirt.
Clearing her throat briskly, Éowyn moved around him, facing his conflicted gaze with an impassive expression.
"I would be greatly honored, milord, if you would allow me to show my …respect and gratitude for the people of Gondor by permitting me to arrange for the ceremony."
He looked a measuring glance at her, shadows flying across his face. Clearly she could see his doubts and misgivings, and quickly did she seek to assuage them.
"Come, my lord. As I am the one to turn your mind in favor of such a ghastly ordeal," and here her smile was answered by his own peculiar twist of lips, "it is only fair that I be the one to arrange for it. And still, it shall give me good practice, for immediately after your ceremony I ride north and homeward to place my brother under the same torture."
His smile widened at that, a brief chuckle sounding at the somewhat wicked gleam in the lady's eye, and he found himself nodding in agreement. Too, he found his doubts relieved at her mention of home, knowing that she was well and resolute enough to plan her leavetaking of his halls. The lingering shadow of her declared feelings and his fear of them faded another degree. No clinging dependence or woebegone countenance from the slayer of the Nazgul King. Suddenly, he found himself heartened, lighter than he had felt in days.
"Very well, lady. You have, to the relief of my Council, convinced me. I leave all in your hands, with the feeling that you have just arranged much suffering for yourself. Consider it your just rewards for eavesdropping at the door of council chambers."
She flushed and looked down, mortified that he had discerned her actions. His chuckle sounded louder, and tentatively, he chucked her beneath the chin; an avuncular gesture before he strode to the connecting door.
With a word of leave, Aragorn removed himself from the room to inform his council of the arrangements. Éowyn was left to stand beside the window, staring north towards Rohan over the golden plains of Gondor, wind whipping her hair behind. After a time, she turned, to begin the two tasks she had set herself; the coronation of a king and the fettering of her foolish heart.
One would mark the end of an old life, as she wished Aragorn goodbye and welcomed Elessar into her world. The other would start a new life… somehow, she would find a way to recover from this malady of the spirit and begin again. A woman whose heart was burnt to cold ash by love, but a woman who could still live. With everything within her, Éowyn prayed. She prayed for swift recovery, and the safety of her people. She prayed for prosperity and light to once again fill the land of middle-Earth. But most of all, Éowyn prayed for the strength to be equal to these two tasks.
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End Chapter 1
References:
The Encyclopedia of Arda: http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/
(More references to be added later when I'm at my home computer.)