Eowyn awoke from the nightmare gasping with panic, her shift twisted up around her waist and her injured arm throbbing terribly where it lay awkwardly underneath her. With a shaking hand she reached for the cup of water on the table beside the bed.
The terrifying images would not leave her inner eye: the worm; pink and drooling; the Dwimmerlaik; black and mocking. She shuddered with relief. Gone…they were both gone and she need not be afraid again.
It was not easy with one hand, but she arrayed her shift and blankets properly around. It was still mid-night, she must get back to sleep and did not wish to call for help. Laying her head down upon the pillow, arm cradled across her chest, Eowyn settled herself again to sleep, but it would not come. Counting horses, reciting recipes, none of it seemed to work.
Long hours past and finally, as the faintest glow could be seen through the white and gauzy curtain, she drifted back to sleep, the predawn chorus of birds lulling her mind and heart. Eowyn dreamed again, the hazy, hastily jumbled dream of shortened sleep. This time it was no nightmare but confused, erratic and tortured: with meaning she did not understand.
She was dressed in white and silver, her golden hair bound in braids and threaded with silver ribbon. All around were dancers, whirling about the great forecourt of the fountain in the City. The strains of lute and viol could be heard rising on the warm evening air. It was the Midsummer's ball and, as was the custom, the revellers all wore masks. She knew she held a mask of silver tissue; a fox it was, delicate yet fierce.
She searched urgently through the throng. Aragorn must be here, she had to find him; she wished to dance and was certain that when they did he would come to know his heart for true. She pushed her way past couples laughing, ladies waving painted fans and teasing gallant officers in Gondor's livery, bevies of Swan Knights in blue and silver with fierce bird masks. Aragorn must be here but seemed always to be just beyond her reach. Where was he? There were other tall and black-haired nobles here, if only she could guess his mask.
Her way blocked by a broad and drunken lord, caparisoned in gold and Mumak mask, she turned and bumped into another. At once she found herself held steady by fine strong hands. A warmth and peace seeped through a sable doublet where she was held fast against a lithe and lean body. Looking up, she spied black hair and a tawny mask. A hart, he captor was a hart.
'Sirrah..who are you?' she asked breathlessly. He smelled of pine and sandalwood, an intoxicating scent. A Dunadan, she thought, he must be a Dunadan.
Beneath the mask, a pair of expressive lips curved into a gentle smile. "At last, my Lady, I have you captive in my embrace. Will you not hear my plea?" His voice was muffled by the mask, but its low and cultured cadence was not that of her countrymen. The eyes behind the mask were the clearest grey, transparent with a luminescent depth that held the torch light and made it shine as starlight on a mirrored pool.. She felt surely they were eyes for one to drown in.
Frightened and thrilled in equal measure, she had to know who held her fast. With his height and hair and eyes surely he was a true scion of Numenor? A drift of fine black hair was barely visible above his shirt, the laces at the neck open against the warmth of the evening air.
The hart's hands moved to clasp her shoulders. A warmth and yearning built in her womanly core, tuned like a minstrel's lyre to his scent and strength and a potent sensuality she could not ignore. Her pulse beat wildly at her throat, whether more with fear or fascination at his unvoiced intention she could not say.
Her voice quavered as her body trembled, "Yes…yes I will, but first you must tell me who you are?"
The torchlight flickered ever more brightly within those eyes; avid and deeper grey now with desire. The smile that had been gentle became sensuous and knowing. The slightest breath of anticipation brushed her cheek as one hand unclasped from her trembling shoulder. Without its warmth she suddenly felt bereft, exposed, incomplete as if one half of her soul had fled her body.
The fine long fingers raised the mask…
With a cry of longing Eowyn bolted wide awake. This time, unlike her nightmare of the earlier chill hours, the dream faded almost instantly. The hart! Who was the hart? She knew she had started to make out a face but could not call it again to mind.
The Princess threw back the coverlet. She had slept late and the sun was streaming through the curtains. Unsettled by the disturbing and taunting dream, she felt hot and grubby from sweat and too little sleep. Rising slowly, she went to ring the bell upon the wall. She would need help to bathe and dress, and must ask Ailinn what toiletries the ladies of Gondor used. She felt more than a little uncouth; her legs were no longer properly smooth and she really needed to find someone with some discrete paint and powder; she looked so pale. Finding a tray of bread and fruit had been kindly left outside her door, Eowyn drank thirstily and picked lightly at the food. She needed to cool herself, the dream had left her hot and fevered.
What should she do with her day, once again? Unused to sloth, she wanted to keep busy. Ioreth had suggested the day before that she visit in the wards and help cheer the sick and ailing men. That had been disaster. Sickened by the bloodied bandages and relentless cries of pained and dying men, she had bolted. She had felt more than a little offended when the old woman had pursed her and pronounced that clearly she was unsuited to be a healer.
Resigned to another day of aimless wandering, Eowyn headed to the garden once again. This time she left off the Steward's cloak. It was unusually warm with a brisk and foetid eastern wind. Surely that was the source of her fevered state. An eastern wind. Would it be hot from the fires of Orodruin? A shiver of fear ran through her at the thought and at once she wanted nothing more than to be held safe. There would be no respite though she knew; her brother, her fiercest protector and loving shield, was marching forward into harm.
Aimlessly she strolled past the fountain and wandered slowly along the garden paths. At this late morning hour the benches were mostly taken, with other patients sitting in the warm sun. She walked farther around the garden's end, searching for a place to sit and collect her thoughts. Puzzling the meaning of her dream again, she did not notice for a minute that the path ahead was occupied. She looked up and found the Steward standing quietly, arm in a sling and gazing at a majestic cedar tree, a gentle, half-smile of longing on his face.
All at once her bosom heaved, she could not catch her breath as the air around her felt ripe and warm and close, as shimmering with promise as it did on the summer plains.
Her nipples were achingly taught, they yearned desperately to be touched. Dizzy with need, she watched as his long and fine-boned fingers touched idly the great cedar's branches. Were a Ranger's hands rough, callused from the bow? It seemed they should be, but also nimble, they could be gentle with the fletching after all. She licked her lips, mesmerized as his hands brushed the soft fronds of new spring green, imagined them gliding lightly across her breast. How could this be? How could this reserved and gentle man ignite a raging fire within her, far beyond her yearning for valiant Aragorn? She had never pictured his hands upon her or his lips trailing wandering fire across her skin.
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A/N Thank you soo much to Immy, SisterofBattle, Annafan, Aryaputra and HeartoftheArtsari for reviews and to everyone who fav'd and followed. I am so thrilled you like it. Sorry it has taken so long to update..life has been crazy. I promise the next chapter will be longer.
