A/N: This song is a little more obscure and might require a listen. It is "Don't Cry Out Loud," recorded by Melissa Manchester, used in the Broadway musical The Boy from Oz, and also recorded by John Barrowman of Doctor Who/Torchwood fame. This is based around JB's version.

Valinor:

"And the second incident?" Eönwë demanded. "Was that necessary?"

"Of course," responded Alassë's empty patch of air pityingly.

"But she wasn't even awake to hear it."

"Sometimes," snarled the air, "the expression is what counts, not the reception."

The Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith, Gondor, shortly after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields

This was a ridiculous thing to be doing. And if he were caught – Aragorn shuddered at the thought. And yet, something had driven him to forego sleep and to remain hidden away in this darkened sickroom, watching over its occupant. He supposed this was because he had unfinished business here. They were not square, he and this woman. There was misunderstanding, pain, and a horde of what-might-have-been's and what-could-never-be's between them.

And so he sat in a chair by Éowyn's bedside, his dark gray eyes tracing over a face lined by grief, exhaustion, and illness. There was some dried athelas in the pouch at his belt, and a bowl of water on the small chest by the bedside. Just in case the shadow-sickness returned.

The woman stirred in her sleep, and Aragorn had to consciously prevent himself from reaching out to her. He could sing her a lullaby, however, and so he did.

"Éowyn cried the day the Grey Comp'ny left town

Cause she didn't want the war just passing by her.

So she saddled up her horse and rode to find renown.

And she danced without a fear of foes or fire.

I know a lot about her, 'cause you see

Éowyn is an awful lot like me."

The woman stirred again, and this time Aragorn allowed himself to touch her. He took her thin, pale hand in one of his heavily, callused ones.

"Don't cry out loud. Just hold it inside

And learn how to hide your feelings.

Stand tall and proud. And if you should fall,

Remember you almost had it all."

He traced the tendons and veins on the back of her hand, lowering his voice as he continued to sing,

"Éowyn saw that when they reached Pelennor Fields

The city stood besmirched, besieged, and breaking

She spurred Windfola on, refused to yield.

To save Minas Tirith - a risk worth taking

But even Éowyn could be broken, 'cause you see,

Rescue came too late because of me.

I wish that...

She would return

From the darkness inside, from her bruised and broken feelings

To fly high and proud, never again to fall.

And never to almost lose it all."

Aragorn stopped to purge the emotion from his voice. Éowyn's fidgeting had become more active. He leaned forward even further in his chair as the woman's hand curved around his own, then resumed his song in a calmer voice.

"Don't cry out loud

The battle is won, even with our great losses.

Théoden would be proud. Even though he did fall,

Remember his valour saved us

Don't cry out loud

You are not alone, among all the walking wounded

You are still proud. I wish I could fall.

I wish I were free to give you all."

This . . . this he had not expected. The words had simply slipped out, born of some dark recess of his heart that not even Aragorn knew of. He hesitated, examining the words for truthfulness. They were not entirely false, he realized.

The Dúnadan finished his song with a deepened sense of loss and longing.

"Éowyn cried the day the Grey Comp'ny left town

'Cause she didn't want the war just passing by her..."

He laid the shield-maiden's hand gently across her stomach and rose from his chair. Wrapping his great elven cloak around him, Aragorn strode silently from the room and back into the city streets.

A regretful sigh emanated from behind the chair. "Why?" it asked the emptiness shakily. "Why?"

Valinor:

"And that," Alassë concluded bitterly, "was the last time I visited either of them – for over a decade, anyway."

Eönwë glared at the troublesome Maia's corner. "What is wrong with you? They both married more fitting people and lived long, fulfilling lives. Your concern is wasted, as usual."

The air growled, and with a quiet pop, Alassë popped into view. The scribe gasped in surprise.

This, the prisoner's favorite form, was tall and thin, all encased in ropy muscle. It was remarkable for the prominent adam's apple, the blazing red hair that reached his chin, and the hazel eyes that smoldered fiercely deep in his skull. He could have been anyone, elf or man, warrior, farmer, or court jester.

"You try my patience, Eönwë," snapped the red-haired figure. "You have no understanding of real emotion. Or stories. All you care about is the 'Plan.' – that Eru's works are carried out, that good triumphs over evil, that important bloodlines are preserved. You care nothing for individuals, for the intricate, meandering pathways from point A to point B, for feeling.

"And that is why you will never understand what I have done or why it was important. We're finished here," the Maia added dismissively, turning his back on the both of them. He became invisible once again with a wave of his little finger. "Don't bother coming back. I'm done."

A/N: Any thoughts on the final Hobbit movie? See you next week a bit before Christmas!
AiH