I would split open my heart

with a knife, place you

within and seal my wound,

that you might dwell there.

A ballad of Khand.

On the day of the coronation of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the sun broke through the clouds to remain there, above the once dark mountains. The city of Minas Tirith was alive with music and song and the air was filled with the smell of flowers that the returning families brought with them.

The great bells of the city rang near continuously in joy and banners of the White Tree were hung from many a window.

Éomer rubbed his eyes as he adjusted to the sounds. His window was wide open as usual and he had woken to the sound of harps playing in the nearby courtyards of the nobility who lived so high above the ground.

He sat up, drinking in the feel of the sun on his face and the floral smell in the air. It was already a blessed day, as if the elements themselves were celebrating the return of the King. Perhaps they truly were, he mused.

He rose quickly, eager to begin the festivities. For while he still carried the dark shadow of grief, today was a reminder of their ultimate triumph and he would not taint it with sadness.

After Éomer had bathed and eaten, he donned the royal clothing of his office. His cloak was a deep green, embroidered with bold golden threads in the traditional style of the Mark. Under it he wore a long tunic of the same design that split at his knees with matching dark trousers. It was completed with his armored chest plate, which now shone after a much needed polish. At his hip rested Guthwine, the Battle Friend, now rarely needed but a symbol of the strength of Rohan.

"My Lord?" a guard poked his head through the door. "The men are almost ready, do you require anything?"

"Nay, Elfhelm, I myself do not. But let us make haste, I would not miss this day for anything!"

His guard grinned and nodded, hurrying away to finish readying the Riders who would be representing Rohan on this glorious day.

Arwa had elected not to attend the coronation. Privately, Éomer thought that a wise decision as he did not particularly wish to defend her if questions were raised about her involvement. But Aragorn had bid him to bring her to him before the group was due to depart for Rohan and the time was quickly approaching so Éomer had been frustrated to have her decline the invitation. Aragorn had already received a number of letters from various groups that had fought with the Enemy, and he wished to see if the daughter of the Black Serpent would make peace with him as well.

The evening before, Éomer had decided to request her to join them on their journey to Rohan. The roads were largely safe, but there was still a risk that those once loyal to Sauron could attack, as they had against Éothain. He had asked Aragorn whether he had knowledge of the herbs of the South but neither he nor Imrahil had much knowledge of the techniques of their distant neighbours. They had reached a tentative agreement to send a party to Harad, to learn of such treatments, but that would not happen until a good amount of the tribes pledged peace.

And so it had been decided that Arwa would accompany them as both an official representative of the tribe of the Black Serpent and a healer, under his protection. The journey ahead would be interesting, he thought. At the very least, his sister would have something to say about it. He wondered if she had realized that a certain item of hers was missing yet…

"My lord!" Elfhelm had returned and opened the door wide, standing to the side to allow him to pass.

Éomer strode out and surveyed his men. He was filled with a bittersweet pride at the sight of them in full armor – would that his uncle could have seen this day! But he quickly shelved the thought and nodded to the Riders.

"My friends," he addressed them, "today we join the celebration of the dawn of the age of Men. I would have no others beside me now than you all, my brothers, who have defended our people so bravely."

A cheer rose up among the crowd and he grinned. "Let the day begin!" he cried, his men responding with strong, clear voices: "Hail Éomer King!"

The men fell into formation around him and as the great doors of the courtyard were opened to the streets of Minas Tirith, he swore he would remember this day.

A light knock at the door caused Arwa to jolt in surprise. The King had left the house hours before and she was not expecting them to return until the late evening.

She had been sitting at her dresser, examining her face. Not in vanity, but in curiosity. The last time she had really looked at herself was before they had left their tribal lands. Now, she studied the face before her with surprise – it seemed more youthful, more content than the angry woman she had been mere weeks before. The lines of her face were softer, her cheeks and lips fuller than she remembered. She was beginning to think that perhaps the whispers had been true – that with the fall of Sauron, darkness had been lifted from his follower's hearts. But Arwa had never really followed the Eye… had she?

Her visitor knocked again and she rose to open the door.

"Éothain?" she asked in surprise at the familiar face.

He shrugged with a grin. He was dressed in full armor, with a dark green cloak fastened at his shoulders. It was painful how the commanding stature of him was so similar to the way her own father held himself.

He trusted a dark bundle towards her. Frowning, she held it out, stunned to see a dark, plain dress.

"Éothain, I am sorry but I will not attend." Arwa repeated her words of the evening before.

He smiled at her apologetically. "Sorry. But," he continued in seriousness as if he had practiced the sentence (which he probably had), "you should see the new King. It's important."

Arwa studied the face of her patient. After giving him another dose early in the morning, she had decided he needed no more and he now stood tall before her. He still held his arm stiffly but his pride at being able to attend the day was unmistakable. He was a handsome man, she thought with a smile.

Letting out a sigh, she quickly whispered a soft prayer for her father before clutching the dress to her chest. "Alright."

She closed the door on Éothain's amused face and replaced her tunic and trousers with the dress. It was a green so dark it was almost black and much too long, but it fit her body well. Returning to the mirror, Arwa had to let out a laugh at the sight of her. In Harad, the women wore beautiful dresses of silk that were loose yet hinted at their shapes beneath. Any woman could glow in the dresses of the desert. To her, she looked comical in the Rohirric dress. The tightness of the bodice and sleeves only reinforced her awkward slenderness and the length of the fabric at her wrists pooled near to the ground as if laughing at her height.

But she was not attending to look well, she reminded herself. Éothain had been more than considerate by bringing her a dress so close to her usual black colours that she was too touched to bother with the outcome of it.

Turning to her saddlebags, she fished through them before producing some small pins. She deftly rolled the hem of the dress and fastened it higher, pleased with the look that it seemed to suggest a second skirt rather than a woman shorter than most of her peers.

At last, she took her usual scarf from the end of the bed. It would look unsuited to the dress if she covered her hair completely, so she twisted her braids in a knot at her neck and brought the covering loosely around her neck and shoulders before pulling it up over her hair like an open hood.

Squaring her shoulders, Arwa marched to the door and flung it open. Éothain raised his eyebrows but she put a finger to her lips. "Do not say a word!" she muttered.

Secretly, as the Captain guided her out of the courtyard, he thought that only his sweet wife could match the allure of the young woman on his arm today.

Arwa breathed in deeply through her nose, her eyes closing involuntarily at the intoxicating floral scent in the air. People were streaming through the streets around her, seeming not to notice the long Haradrima amongst them. She caught a few angry glares but the dominating stance of Éothain beside her protected her from animosity. She did not have her armor on today but strangely felt safe next to the older man and she squeezed his arm in gratitude.

He met her glance with a grin and continued to walk. They followed the crowd as it carried them along twisting corridors between towering houses and up stairs, skirting around gardens that had so quickly grown again after the assault on the city. In Harad, the people strongly believed that events of nature were the result of the pleasure or displeasure of the Spirits and Arwa could not help but wonder if their victory (and her loss) was preordained after all.

Her thoughts were interrupted then, as they reached the very top of the city. There was a great platform, stretching across in a shape that reminded Arwa of the boats on the sea not too far from the White City. The crowd was thick and she craned her neck, not being able to make out anything from their position at the back of the crowd.

"Make way!" Éothain commanded loudly and to her surprise, the crowd parted at the sight and sound of the Rider of Rohan. Some even called out blessings to the man, before cutting off in confusion as they caught sight of her on his arm.

They made their way through the crowd slowly and she let out a soft "Oh!" in wonder at the sight before them. Éothain had managed to get them a spot at the front of the crowd, at the very end of the contingent from Rohan.

It was a splendid sight, to rival the best events in Harad. Flowers were everywhere – in large urns, hanging from brightly coloured poles, wound through women's hairstyles. Even some of the young children sported garlands on their heads. The nobility wore fine gowns and even Arwa, the one who only donned a dress if it was absolutely needed, could appreciate the beautiful materials.

Her eyes slid over everyone as if to drink in the sight. She met a few curious glances but overall people were as spellbound by the event as she was. She felt Éothain's amused gaze and turned to offer him a soft smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I do not deserve to be here, but you brought me all the same."

She knew he didn't understand everything, but he seemed to gather the general gist of it as he nodded in acknowledgement. "You need to see that he is not what you might think."

Before she could ask who he meant, a loud trumpet sounded and the crowd was silent.

A tall man with black hair, clad in black mail and a mantle of white walked purposefully into the centre of the vast platform. He was handsome, she thought, and stood before the people with such a natural air of authority that he must have been the new King.

Another man, fair with dark hair, stood before him and knelt. "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office." He held a white rod, but the other man took it and handed it back. The new King spoke softy, but his words carried to her easily: "That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall list. Do now thy office!"

The Steward stood back and spoke to the crowd. "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward! Behold! One has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dunedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Numenor. Shall he be king and dwell in the City?"

The crowd replied with a resounding "Yes!"

A small man carried the crown to the White Wizard. "A Halfling," Éothain whispered close to her ear. She sucked in a breath as she realized this was the very one who must have destroyed the One Ring. It was a marvel that one so small could overcome something powerful.

The Wizard lowered the crown onto Aragorn's head slowly. He stood for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before turning fully to the crowd and began to sing.

"Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien, sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"

She recognised the language as that of the Elves but was unsure of their meaning until a woman near her translated for her children:

"Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place I will abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

It was a poignant moment to her. She had witnessed many claims of power over the years. She had even seen men challenge her own father. But she had never seen this sort of absolute power – power that was not taken, but given. Given by subjects who truly loved the man they chose to rule them. Her father was loved by their tribe, that much was true, but they were an anomaly – the norm in Harad was power through fear, not power through love or even destiny.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

Arwa shivered suddenly, grateful for the Captain's arm that she still held. How she wished her people would know stability like this! A thought came unbidden to her mind of the image of her father uniting the tribes of Harad and she had to cough to mask the sudden thickness of her throat.

Éomer stepped forward to greet the new King, clasping his arm before standing to the side, allowing Aragorn to walk along the line for a moment among for people. He greeted men, women, children and the elderly all the same, with kindness and grace. His subjects were beside themselves with joy, throwing flowers on the ground before his feet.

He crossed the wide space and came to the line of Riders, greeting each one individually. She held her breath as he continued, coming ever closer to her. Éothain moved a light hand to her back when she moved to stand behind him, keeping her in place.

At last he was before her. His grey eyes were puzzled for a moment, before he seemed to connect the pieces of her strange appearance. She gripped the Captain's arm in earnest now as her knees began to weaken at the force of his gaze. She was not afraid, she decided, but confronted. What was she supposed to do? The crowd was silent as he appraised her but she held her head high, meeting his gaze and feeling grateful for her kohl rimmed eyes – they would make her seem confident, when her mind was curiously blank.

With a slight nod, he moved to greet Éothain. Arwa closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself and sighed with relief when the King moved further on.

"You're the Harad woman," a flat, female voice stated next to her.

Arwa started in surprise and opened her eyes, taking in the sight of the White Lady of Rohan now standing beside her. She hadn't noticed her so close, having caught a glimpse of her standing earlier beside the tall, dark haired man she now knew as the Steward. Arwa had seen the King of Rohan's sister a number of times, though only with glimpses as she visited her brother.

"The Haradrima, yes," she confirmed.

Éowyn's cool eyes assessed her. "The King and several others wish to see you after the ceremony, to discuss the path ahead."

"Which king?" she retorted with an eyebrow raised and could have sworn there was a ghost of a smile on the tall woman's mouth.

"Both," she replied and made her way back across the space that people were now beginning to fill.

Arwa was uncomfortable with the notion that she was to represent her tribe. She was not her father, nor was she her brother that she now presumed led what was left of them. But the new King seemed to think her words carried meaning. Perhaps they did? Strangers so often assumed that the women of Harad carried no power, because they were rarely party to official discussions. But they did not know that behind closed doors, it was often the females that wielded the most influence. Had the new King realized this, when he looked at her so seriously? What was this man, who seemed to know her thoughts at a look?

She noticed now that the crowds had begun to mingle. The royal parties had left the area while she had been lost in thought and only the more common people remained to discuss the events of the day.

Éothain nudged her. "Shall we?" he asked and she nodded grimly. The idea of appearing before the most powerful men in the North and West was unnerving but she was not a Haradrima for nothing. She raised her chin and took a deep breath, allowing the Captain to lead her away from the celebrations.

Éomer entered the study of the newly crowned King with a smile. The coronation had gone well. Even the Haradrima had been well behaved, though her face had been curiously blank for the most of it.

He moved to greet those who had arrived before him: Aragorn first, of course, with a slight bow of his head and a grin, then Legolas, Gimli, Faramir and finally Gandalf. It was not lost on him that the most powerful people now left in Middle Earth were together in this one room. His sister also joined them, for he had named her his heir before he had left for the Black Gates.

"Well," Gandalf began, his voice as commanding as ever, "you have truly outdone yourself, Faramir. It was a splendid ceremony."

The Steward nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. "I am sure it will be remembered for years to come," he replied.

A knock on the door interrupted more pleasantries and Aragorn bid the newcomers to enter.

Éothain came first, his expression serious. Arwa followed closely behind him and Éomer's eyes widened. He had not had the chance to take much note of her during the day's events and now her appearance took him by surprise.

She was wearing the old dress he had 'borrowed' from Éowyn, though it must have been far too long on her. She was as slender as his sister, though her body was softer somehow. Her skin was the colour of the raw sugar he had seen glistening on Gondorian sweets against the almost black gown and she looked every inch a Haradrima, despite the Rohirric dress. Her eyes were still rimmed with black and she had wrapped her head covering loosely around her, as if to remind them that no matter what they decided, in the end she was a woman of Harad and would keep to her own ways with pride. She faltered slightly as she took in the people in the room but quickly pressed her lips together and came to stand in front of Aragorn.

Without her normal loose tunic and pants, she seemed far less threatening. But Éomer wasn't sure that was an improvement.

He watched as she bowed her head and touched her right hand to her chest. Aragorn mirrored the movement with a slight smile, before greeting her in the strange, liquid language of the Haradrim.

Éomer was not surprised that his friend could speak her language, given he had lived many years longer than he, but Arwa's expression changed from the almost haughty expression she had on before to one of delight. She took one of the King's hands in her own and launched into a tirade of flowery speech, pausing only when he invited her to sit.

They continued their conversation, though it quickly moved to more serious tones. Aragorn was frowning and seemed to be questioning her. Arwa responded in a similar tone but threw her hands up in a familiar gesture of frustration that he had seen before. She repeated words she'd spoken to him before while making the same shape of a triangle with her hands and he guessed she was explaining the power dynamics of their Southern neighbours. Gandalf cut in then with his own speech, which led to Arwa's shoulders sinking as she held her head in her hands.

To Éomer's annoyance, everyone except he and Éowyn seemed to be concentrating on the conversation. Even his own Captain had at one point laid a comforting hand on Arwa's shoulder. He had obviously learned more than Éomer had thought. His sister, on the other hand, was studying the titles of books on the shelves and he squeezed her hand with a small smile.

Arwa stood suddenly, raising her voice slightly. She nodded at Aragorn, for what Éomer had no idea, and turned to leave the room. She stopped in front of him and hesitantly reached her hand to his face as her eyes began to water. Éomer flinched in surprise but she took hold of a lock of his hair, giving it a gentle tug as she looked back and said something soft to Gandalf. The wizard nodded seriously and she turned back, muttering short words to Éowyn and then left the room.

He coughed to collect himself and faced the group. "Well?" he asked, spreading his hands. "It seems as if even Gimli understood more of that than I."

Gimli let out a gruff laugh. "There are some common words, aye."

Éomer nodded before raising an eyebrow expectantly at Aragorn.

The new King stood slowly, leaning on his desk. "She has an interesting story…" he began with a pensive look. "Gandalf knew of a strong resistance among the Haradrim. A number of tribes had joined together to stand against Sauron. It seems that her father was the leader of them."

Éomer and Éowyn locked eyes in surprise. "You mean not to say he has some redeemable qualities?" Éomer growled. "By all accounts, he fought like a man possessed!"

"That's because he was," Gandalf said gently. "They fought with Sauron for many years. Arwa has seen twenty three summers, yet she cannot remember a time of peace."

Éomer sat down slowly, absorbing the tale.

"Her father led the resistance strongly, but it was not enough. My knowledge ends there, but Arwa tells me that her father lost his patience in the end, believing that he had no choice but to form an alliance with Sauron's forces."

"An alliance with the Enemy? Surely we were right to kill him then!" Éowyn cried.

Aragorn held up a hand. "Theoden was not wrong," he said to placate her.

The room was silent.

"And what of his daughter?" Éomer asked finally. "She is under my care, what am I to do with her?"

"You have told me you mean for her to accompany you to Rohan," Aragorn said, "and I have advised her of that. She is not the monster you may think she is, Éomer, she did not join the war to kill. Her father was clear to their tribe that he took the task on himself alone and forbid them from being a part of it. She came only to protect him."

"Then why have we suffered so many losses!" Éowyn ground her teeth in anger.

"Because they are simply a handful of tribes amongst many," Gandalf said. "While she does not carry the hate towards us in her heart, many others do. Arwa explained the… resentment that many Haradrim feel against the wrongdoings of the past."

The wizard continued on quickly, noticing Éomer's mouth opening in a bid to retort. "In the laws of tribal warfare, a survivor of a battle is often accepted by the victor because they have demonstrated their skills in battle. Arwa accepts that due to her survival, you have the right to command her as you wish."

Éomer nodded slowly. "Perhaps it would indeed be wise, then, to take her on. She has the knowledge of the tribes – she would know who still holds animosity towards us, would she not?"

"She would," Aragorn replied. "Although she was adamant that her tribe does not carry the same power that it did before, now that her father and the stronger fighters have been killed. But she has agreed to assist us."

"Then I accept her assistance," Éomer decided finally. "I do not forgive the actions of her father, but I will not hold them against her."

Gandalf nodded approvingly. The rest of the men stood and began to leave, eager to rejoin the festivities.

"Aragorn?" his sister put a light hand to the arm of the new King. "What did she say to us? Before she left?"

His friend looked down for a moment before meeting their gaze with a sad expression. "She said it is painful to be living among the golden haired warriors who remind her so much of her father's death, but that she would grow to accept it." He coughed awkwardly before turning fully to Éowyn. "And she thanked you for the dress."

Éomer suppressed a laugh. It seemed the Haradrima was full of surprises, although it was a welcome one to see Éowyn lost for words for once.

As he too moved to leave the room, he wondered what the woman was thinking now. And a very, very small part of him wondered if she could feel the same heat under her fingertips that he still felt now, on the cheek that her soft hand had brushed against.

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Author's Note:

Sorry for the massive chapter! I hope it has answered some questions about Arwa. The words at the coronation are almost straight from the scene in the book, although I used the same location style as the film.

Thank you very much for the reviews, it's always so wonderful to read them!

The excerpt at the beginning is from a poem by Ibn Hazm.