"We went down into the silent garden. Dawn is the time when nothing breathes, the hour of silence. Everything is transfixed, only the light moves."
~Leonora Carrington

A Fool's Gamble

Silence was lonely. Èowyn didn't quite know exactly when she had stumbled upon that concept, but she had nevertheless. It had likely been in the midst of a crowd, the kind that was loud and high-spirited, all smiles, handshakes, and brotherly affection. Perhaps it had driven her into a corner. She couldn't completely deal with such nonsense anymore, especially on the precipice of war. The world she had known with all its plains, swaying grasses, and blistering breezes was about to collapse into a pile of burning rubble. It was doubtful that all the pieces could be salvaged once the dust had settled down. Memories would become the only evidence of peace that remained.

So naturally Èowyn had chosen to retreat. She wanted to encase her heart in silence, an all-knowing sense of loneliness and isolation until she couldn't even think straight. She didn't want her chest to ache with longing for something better. Indifference would make her stronger.

Still, it came as a surprise when Èowyn entered the infirmary. She found herself starring at Lothìrìel, the crown jewel of Dol Amroth. The lady was an enigma, even in her sickened and ill state. She had thrown Edoras into chaos by arriving in a red hue of blood and disease, somehow perched delicately in her brother's arms. Rumours fled in every direction, many implicating Èomer in some star crossed scheme. Èowyn knew the truth however.

Lothìrìel's stay in Rohan was supposed to be temporary, a visit purely dictated by matters of diplomacy. She was well aware of what that one word, a phase often whispered in hushed tones, meant in families surrounded by the legacies of powerful kings and queens. This princess, a ball of wicked foolishness, was expected to present herself in a manner that would ultimately lead to marriage. Èowyn could not determine Lothìrìel's opinion on the matter; the woman was poised and perfect, the image of cultivated nobility at its finest. She was a picture stone, although the distress of others appeared to quickly pick away at her façade. When villagers close to the Snowbourne called for aid as a result of severe fever, Lothìrìel chose to respond without elicit permission.

Whatever compelled her to do such a thing, Èowyn would never know. When she returned in Èomer's arms only sickness seemed to define her countenance. The stone had transformed into ash. Now she was stuck in the halls of Meduseld inherently facing an unfortunate twist of fate.

The situation only served to frustrate Èowyn to no immediate end. The reason was simple; her fool of a brother had somehow managed to sum up enough emotions to care for Lothìrìel. The changes were subtle, but they were there. A slight curve of the mouth, an outstretched hand, witty remarks and insults—Èomer loved her. She didn't know when these feelings had come to pass, but they were there nevertheless. Èowyn feared for his lack of wisdom and carelessness. There was much to loose in such ill-fated times.

It was odd, but her thoughts appeared to alter something within the air. The shifting of light, maybe a slight brush of fabric—whatever the cause, something clearly changed; one moment Èowyn was gazing at Lothìrìel's sleeping face, the next grey eyes clashed with brown.

"You're awake," Èowyn breathed in disbelief.

The silence was broken.

Lothìrìel's eyes were open, but they remained clouded and hazy with fever. There was an intelligence present however, a sly, morose intellect that sliced through the air like a knife. Èowyn could suddenly recall what one of the kitchen hands had said days in advance; those from Dol Amroth were descended from elves. The ties were old and many lost, but Lothìrìel was the exception. Her presence spoke more loudly than any simple set of words. It lingered in the air like a faint perfume.

"More or less," Lothìrìel said, her voice cracking under strain.

Èowyn winced. "You should not be awake."

"Is that a statement or a wish?"

"My lady—"

"You grieve me."

The declaration was abrupt. It was not meant to illicit offence, but Èowyn felt the fingers of anger slither down her back. "Pardon?"

"I fail to see why you must carry a heavy burden over your heart. War is not yet upon us, but you act as though the battle has been lost."

"You must rest," Èowyn said softly. "Your fever has not yet passed."

Her laughter, more like a series of dry coughs, filled the air. "Must you be so elusive? It is not my intention to cause you harm. I only seek to relieve whatever doubts plague your thoughts."

"And what of your own?"

Brown clashed with grey yet again. The silence returned, tugging at Èowyn's heartstrings until she could barely breathe.

"I expect that you know?"

She blinked, drawing in a quivering gulp of air. "How long have you been awake? Truly?"

"Three days."

"And you thought to tell no one?"

"There was no one to tell."

The statement was sickening. She had said those words so casually, as if they carried no bearing in the world. They simply existed on a plane consumed by the weightlessness of air. It only served to elevate Èowyn's frustration.

"He was with you every day."

"As I said, there was no one to tell."

"My brother remained by your side for hours, my Lady," Èowyn began dryly. "Only his duty to the Mark managed to pull him away. It would appear as though your evaluation of the situation is incorrect."

A smile, the ghost of a grin, appeared along her mouth. "You fail to account for my foolishness."

The fever was certainly playing a role in her madness. "Is that so?"

"What is it you wish to hear from me, fair lady of Rohan? That I take pleasure in ignoring matters of the heart?"

"So you know."

Lothìrìel's eyes softened. "All too well."

It was difficult for Èowyn to even consider accepting what she had said. The look within her gaze, as hazy and foggy as it was, screamed out a declaration bursting with unrequited understanding and emotion. It was pure and untainted from the evils of the world. Her words remained on a distinct platform however, one that was almost seemed to touch the very stars. Before she believed that Lothìrìel's walls had crumbled, but the tailored and well-manicured princess continued to live on.

"I'm only human, Èowyn," she whispered. "Don't think too harshly of me."

"As is he. What right do you have to pretend otherwise?"

Grey conquered over brown. Lothìrìel's eyes slipped shut in submission. "Fear."

"What could possibly terrify you?" Èowyn asked almost impulsively.

There was that smile again. The tired slant of her mouth, the faint glimmer of teeth—although this time it was despondent and entirely consumed by pity. "A sensible question, but I'm uncertain as to whether you'll like the answer."

"I will ask it of you nevertheless."

Her eyes opened once again, the presence of sadness only intensifying until Èowyn could hardly breathe. "That he may die and I shall never live again."

The silence returned with a symphony of confusion and madness. It was not lonely, nor as isolating as Èowyn had expected. It was powerful and only served to drive her innermost values into the ground with a blinding momentum that was impossible to trace. Her turmoil must have been apparent; Lothìrìel's stare softened, her eyes melting into pools of russet brown.

"Must we be so similar?"

"I misjudged you," she finally managed to say.

"From one fool to another, it was rightly done. I can only hope that your worries are now put to rest."

Èowyn's anger had long vanished. Only a deep sense of sorrow remained, the kind that pulled at her strength, levelling her constitution into it was nothing but weariness and regret. "Will you tell Èomer? For his sake?"

"Only if you concede to one request," Lothìrìel said gently, her elf-like gaze continuing to appraise her form as if it were nothing but piece of glass.

"Anything."

"Remain as you are, Èowyn of Rohan. Be what I cannot."