A/N : Hey everyone! So, I have been thinking about some things relating to this story . . . first of all thanks to Lena and tommyginger for your support! To anyone questioning... that is okay, because after all the only truth you really need to take away from my story is the up and down swing of someone's humanity . . . after trauma and so forth. Somehow stories begin to tell themselves, and this is what this one is about . . .

I didn't mean to have Eowyn break down in tears at the end of the last two chapters . . . it just kind of came out that way. Don't worry, more badass E is to come! :) I think Tolkien created such a complex, interesting character in Eowyn, that needless to say there is SO much to explore with her. The Eowyn that has come forth through me is both sharp and sensitive; as she was also portrayed via Tolkien's style in the books. I have followed and absorbed canon closely, never discounting ANYTHING from source material, (That I know of) and am only painting the 'missing scenes' so to speak. Anything that is AU is fairly minimal. This story has been awesome fodder for me, so I hope you continue to follow what Eowyn is asking to be shared . . .

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The candle was guttering on the mantle. Beregond watched the dripping wax running down the taper, heart heavy, and mind flooding in many directions at once. He hadn't been able to move much in any direction since his passionate kiss with Eowyn and her news of her betrothal to Faramir. Now in the night, he wished he could move on, but there was no where to go, everything pressing in on him. He was shocked to find out he could love another woman after Lyara. It had been five years, but the pain of her passing had never really gone away. He was more shocked to know that this new love was doomed to be unrequited, buried, quelled. Beregond burned with the knowledge of his honor.. given for so much in relation to Faramir... then in one moment, it was all destined to be threatened by this ardent, strangely pure and truly blunt Rohirrim warrior princess of the north! What a fool he was! But weren't they all just trying to survive and understand the ironic, myriad threads of life? Beregond held Eowyn blameless. He longed to see her and put things to right. They owed each other forgiveness.

Beregond rose quietly, as to not disturb the healer who had fallen asleep in a chair by the fireplace. In the dim light he pulled on a cloak and slipped through the door. He desperately needed fresh air. Meandering out to the main doors, he opened them and went out from great the Houses of Healing to the garden.

A still, serene moonlight graced the paths, and the further he retreated into the foliage, the sense of nature pervaded. No hovering flies and the stinks and chaos of people; no here there was the smell of sweet leaves after rain, the ground chiming with crickets, and moths fluttering away as phantom visitors. Beregond could imagine he was far from the city that had long been his home and station, and visualize the country where he belonged, the woods and meadows of his boyhood where he had once walked and longed someday to return. Beregond could understand the mysticism the Elves had with the natural environment; it was nourishment for the soul and deeply healing. A silent, understanding friend when there was no one else to speak to.

He paused in the quiet reaches of the garden, where some purple lilacs were, and beyond that a grove of white aspens, shuddering intermittently in a soft breeze. Beregond leaned against the trunk of one, listening to its whisper. "If I were to die, I would only want her to know how she comforted me. I just want the best for Eowyn... " He murmered. He remembered a snippet of folklore that told of the blessing of secrets given to trees. Whether it was true or not he decided to be authentic and pour out the emotional contents of his head, giving free rein to visuals, wishes and a few words. "I loved Eowyn, and I both lost and gained something in her," he said against the bark of the tree. He thought of her lips opened in laughter, her eyes fierce with a hard-won inner strength, the freckles on the bridge of her nose, the slight prominence of her upper teeth, and the weight and mass of her falling hair to his touch. Everything in detail swam heavily though him. It was there and overtaking . . . and then gone, pushed aside in clarity of the situation. "Wherever you are tonight Eowyn... I will not forget you, but I will let you go. It is done for now... we go on in our separate lives and worlds. I will be your friend, but not burden or bother you ever again if it is part of the plan in store for us."

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Eowyn woke once, blinking through the haze of sleep to the ceiling of her bedchamber. Even the weight of her emotion was languid, dulled, as she strained her ears for . . . a voice? No it was a dream she'd had... and then palpable awareness radiated through her. Heat had been in her dreams, thick as the guilt, the fusion of her kiss with Beregond entering even into the silky fabric of her dreams. Thunder and lightening... Why had this overtaken her? Why could she not be content? She had to let this go... or she felt she would scream, dissolve, melt right through the floor. Could she bear the twisting of her heart, divided in love, and do the right thing? Could she have clear communications? Could she let both Beregond and Faramir go? I would survive somehow. Eowyn realized. 'I know that now. Yet there is poignant destiny here, trilling its song, and I can't interfere with what has been won from the horror of the war. There will be no more casualties of blood if I have any say in the manner! No more...'

She remembered now with an intensely painful twinge every time... she had been with Faramir since the betraying kiss only a few days ago. She had been retreating back into a cold reticence that was more and more difficult to hide from him. They had not yet wed... but she was worried about so much, and not all of it was guilt. Some of it was doubt. Elfhelm the Marshal had come to her having heard the betrothal rumors, the gruff man appearing slightly disgruntled by her supposed arrangements with Faramir. "Deserting us to Gondor, eh? YOU are- officially the most important Lady of the Eorlingas... have you forgotten your own people, chorusing with the Gondorians? Forgotten your discretion?-"

"Never! Only returning their kindness." Eowyn's face flared hotly as she spoke.

"Would you leave Rohan for Gondor? Our people still have need of you... "

"I know that," Eowyn said sharply. "I would leave my homeland only if I felt it was neccesary and important. And yes, I feel this particular matter might be so!... Do not fear, I will not forsake or shirk my duty again.. to Eomer, Rohan and Théoden... I will take up counsel with my brother and the king when he returns."

"Mind that you won't forsake us again.. and that you do take counsel! And who exactly is YOUR king?" Elfhelm had left her flustered and incensed by his implications. He did not wait around to hear her answer, and instead he haughtily stalked away. He was arrogant and insolent, but he was also undeniably patriotic and cared for her and the good of the Riddermark, she knew somewhere in her heart of hearts. But his lack of support still put her teeth on edge. What would her brother think of all this?

She needed guidance in this confusion. She closed her eyes tightly, seeing Faramir's sad tenderness, Beregond's warm acceptance, and the puzzling question for everyone else. A princess, a steward, and a soldier due for trial... what a motley lot they all were! 'My heart is breaking again, but I have to sleep on it, I just can't think anymore...' Her fingers curled, rubbing against the blanket. The hand that had slain the Witch-king had lost its numbness and regained circulation, healing as her broken arm was healing. 'Because I allowed myself to feel, I allowed myself to love. And I am loosing it all again- for being such a desperate fool, damn this!'

Thoughts gnawing and biting at her, she forced herself to relax as Lothiriel had advised so many times before. One breath then the other... Her foot kicked against the sheets as she was jolted into more dreams. They reared into focus as proud horses, both distinct and shadowy in movement; the past where she had dwelled paying her a visit... but with gentleness.

"Eowyn..." The strong yet gentle voice greeted her ears as any such one would for Eowyn, who felt in need of salvation. It was the voice of her beloved deceased uncle. She approached the upright Théoden through the swirling mist of her dream, her hand curving into his gladly, as though they were not separated by the veil between the worlds.

"Uncle, how happy I am to see you whole and renewed! I have needed you... I have missed you greatly. I still grieve everyday that our time was so short... "

"I see very much, Eowyn sister-daughter, from this retrospect. Be assured how proud I am of you!" He pressed her hand with a substantial yet ephemeral feeling that made Eowyn look up at him with wonder.

"What would you have me do at this time of indecision, Uncle?"

"Wisdom can be objective Eowyn, even up here." Théoden gazed off into the cloudy distance. Then he locked glances with her again. "Your time has come," He said with a smile that warmly covered his features.

Eowyn was taken back in time to her farewell with Théoden before the epic riding of the Rohirrim to Gondor. He had spoken to her in a serious, similar way. Am I remembering... or hearing the new? The question in her mind intruded into the dream. She roughly pushed it aside. She turned her full attention back to the proud, magnificent apparition of her uncle. He stroked her cheek. "Do not despair Eowyn, please do not despair anymore... live for us who couldn't, live for you... and dare to love. Don't turn away, but take care, dearest one."

"I will." The air spun around them and they began to separate... Eowyn fell softly back into her bed and body, her heart nonetheless pounding with the angst of their parting."Guidance... " she whispered aloud to the empty, silent room.

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A day dawned where Eowyn thought of what she must do. The sun seemed to wash away the demons that had gathered to snag her progress, tingling her skin and breathing a sigh of movement over her. Even the intensified itching and ache of her broken arm had abated today. "I have so much left to do... " she realized, mouthing aloud.

She loved her country; but she had never known she had real choices before she left the Mark. Her premonition of war and destiny had become stark reality before the walls of the White City, where she had taken her oppression and fought it to the moment she collapsed and Aragorn pulled her back from under the shadow. "I have grown up so much and I still have so much maturing to do." Eowyn had passed a window earlier that day and upon glimpsing her reflection thought: 'So old, so young, am I... it seems.'

She remembered her innate impetuousness back in Edoras, during those heavy dark days, when her uncle was lost to them, her brother often gone, and she had no one to rely on but herself. Grima Wormtongue would try to dampen her spirit then, steal her strength, but she never allowed herself to be broken by his draining abuse. In her room at night she would curse the failings of the Mark, the treachery and tyranny of Grima, and vow her vengeance. The only solace and release she had to stave off the terror hanging over her head. "You are always looking to cause trouble," Grima would say to her. "You need to be put down. You are not worthy of the house of Eorl."

"But I am, you snake! I'm the only one who dares to say that all is not well in the land... that you have poisoned us!" Eowyn would rail against him when she could, her fear of him overcome by her sense of justice. Sometimes it wouldn't matter the price. She had to speak the truth over his censure.

Fate however, was not always discernible or fair. The house she had wanted so much to protect, she had left, perhaps ultimately forever. Oh why had Grima insulted and curtailed her so much in the house of her forefathers?- On some visceral level, it had caused her to flee, to run into the arms of a Steward whose culture was unsure of a woman's ruling power in recent memory. Why did she have to be treated with suspicion, distant courtesy by most of the Gondorians? They owed her a lot, but she was also indebted to them in an unusual bond. She did not want to rub them the wrong way... but her very nature seemed to trigger folk. Either way the dice and bones had been thrown. She had never fallen for a man of her blood, one of the Eorlingas, but instead been swept beyond her understanding by several Numenorean men of Gondor! Was it a kismet that encompassed all of this earth and time?

She did not want to lose all the courage she had battled for in her life. However there was still only one narrow way to go when it came to Faramir and Beregond. Eowyn could accommodate more inside her growing, healing heart. She saw herself as a traveler, a burgeoning healer, and yes... still a fighter! She saw her role as a bridge between Rohan and Gondor. A spear of alliance to break any remaining icicles of the past.

She was still uncertain to share anything of her kiss with Beregond to Faramir. Her fear was Faramir couldn't see her in any way faithless and false, especially not now when he was still reeling from his father's death and the loss of much of his family. She was determined never to abandon him to such crushing loneliness again. Eowyn was fully ready to repent of her feelings towards Beregond, and commit herself to this noble, reflective man, who scared and thrilled her all at once. Beregond, she knew she could never forget, he was... perhaps a rash man after her own character at times, but bestowed with a golden, good heart of generous proportions. No matter how difficult it was, since she was ashamed of her actions... she knew she had to talk to him. She had avoided him with some luck, thus far in the Houses. 'If I don't see him today, I will seek him out later,' she promised herself, biting her lip.

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Beregond purposely walked through the twisting gardens, drumming the paths as he searched for Eowyn there on Lothiriel's suggestion. The king's return was imminent; he did not want all the loose ends in his life to be left undone. He carried a gift for her, one a long time in coming, and he was more sensitive to every sound as he walked past willows, lilacs and aspens and to a small circular courtyard where there was a repaired bubbling fountain on an expanse of paved stones. He had raked through the entire garden, and if the White Lady wasn't here, then she was not anywhere near the Houses of Healing. Then he saw her. She was allowing trickling water to flow over her hand from her seat on the edge of the fountain. Wispy tendrils of fly-away hair were escaping her braid, and where her skirt was gathered up around her calf, spots of mud clotted her boot. As he stopped, Eowyn heard him and her eyes snapped to his face. Their eyes dilated then retreated carefully. It brought it all back.

"Beregond." His name sounded like trumpets in his ears from her lips. There was a staunch coolness masking her as Eowyn moved to approach him. Their bows, and his "My Lady-" were the sums of gracious courtesy, but the way their eyes flew anxiously together was something more. Beregond wondered if and rather doubted, if she knew how lovely she was. He laid his heavily wrapped package on the side of the fountain, and sat down beside it with her a little farther away, maintaining a distance from her but absorbing her presence still.

Eowyn felt that she was awash with heat and then acutely embarrassed. She noticed little things, like the color of his hair and eyes in the sun and the line of his scar trailing down his cheek. "What happened between us..." she began.

"Was wrong..." answered Beregond with a sigh.

"Yet... " She twined her hands on her lap.

"It was wonderful."

"Yes." Eowyn looked up into his eyes. "I was curious, that was why I kissed you." And with that kiss she had known... "I do care very much about you Beregond, but I now know what I must do. I must do what is right and just. Many a man has kissed in their days of youth, to just 'experiment', but women are held to other ways and perhaps... to stark double standards. I just know I could never do anything to hurt Faramir." For he needed her, and she needed him for their deepest healing, this much was apparent.

"With the moral implications and the love I bear him, neither could I intentionally or willingly hurt Faramir, son of Denethor," said Beregond. "I Forgive you, and I sincerely hope you can forgive me."

"Yes!" said Eowyn in a louder tone. " I have no reproach. Know that you mean very much to me."

"I do not want to loose something as valuable as our friendship; however I know we must maintain a distance," said Beregond, pushing a strand of hair away from his forehead and leaning forward in pensive reflection.

"You are the greatest friend to us!" Eowyn turned herself closer to him, eyes hazy and luminous all at once. "You are Faramir's friend and rescuer, and I will be his Lady... so we must put these feelings aside to take the path given to us."

"you are worthy and honorable of one another. I am happy for you... Faramir has seen altogether too much pain in his life." Beregond paused considering his thoughts, and then he directed a piercing glance towards Eowyn. "Do you love him?"

Eowyn put her shoulders back and glared at him. "What gives you the right to ask such a thing?"

Beregond remained still and wary.

She sighed. "I do, Beregond... he is a wonderful man. I am lucky to receive his affections. Happy now?" She swallowed deeply, re-positioning herself on the fountain.

"Yes, Eowyn." Said Beregond, wishing he could dissolve the space between them. "Before we wish eachother good day and bid so long...I have a gift for you. I may receive the death penalty as in the days of old for spilling blood in the Citadel... and I can think of no one better to inherit this extra weapon of mine."

Eowyn's eyes glittered as he brought forth his package and presented it to her. "This was a new, extra one that I had, and it is not needed by anyone else, so I wanted it to rest in capable, useful hands," Beregond told her with the beginnings of a smile.

Eowyn eagerly gripped the long, bulky wrappings with her good hand. With her nod of assent, Beregond held it as she tore through the package. A thrill rose in her heart as she grazed inlaid metal with her fingertips. She unearthed a gleaming scabbard with twisting runes and designs, and her fingers moved to feel the black hilt of the... sword. Eowyn looked at Beregond with wonder. "This is for me?"

He nodded, overcome by her wildly heightened joy. "For saving the people of Minas Tirith from the Ringwraith; a hero and soldier you are... of both your people and mine."

Eowyn began the slow draw of the sword, her ears tuned to the delightful sound of melded steel. The last time she had held a sword she had been flushed with the heat of battle, a warrior. Now her strength was less, her body not as conditioned, but her instinct was of her lineage; she handled the sword with grace and power. As the blade slid free, she brandished it in the air, the polished metal humming in the wind of the sky. The weight of it fueled her blood and pain, but she remembered and the feeling was a marvel to her. "I was always meant to wield a sword..." Eowyn said with the force of newfound energy coursing through her.

Her eyes were on fire as she turned to Beregond. "Thank-you." She laid her hand on his and clasped it after she had sheathed the light of the sword. Her sword... Their silence was comforting and consuming as they shared the moment. "King Aragorn... will certainally pardon YOU!-" she told him.

Beregond smiled sadly over Eowyn's bent head, examining the part of her hair, the curves of her eyelids, taking every inch of her to his consciousness. "There is Something in the firmament of the stars," he murmured.

She lifted her head. "Do you believe that?" asked Eowyn.

"Of course. It is the only thing to really rely upon." Eowyn watched the curve of his face as he spoke, breathing in and out; she carefully smoothed the hair on his forearm, down to the pulse of his wrist.

"I know there has to be something watching over us; although there was a time I severely doubted higher existence." Eowyn said, removing her hand and scrutinizing the roughness of her nails. She felt his eyes upon her.

Eowyn stalwartly raised her head. "I will treasure this always." She gripped the sword again and pulled back the tears stinging her eyelids. "I'll always remember your kindness," she said.

He smiled, his bright teeth offsetting the shadow in his eyes. "I could think of nothing better then the slayer of the Witch-king of Angmar telling me such a thing."

"I wouldn't mind the title Eowyn Wraithslayer." Eowyn's lips curved in mischief.

Beregond laughed. "Hopefully we'll meet again, Eowyn Wraithslayer." He gave her a hand and helped her to her feet. The parting of their hands were the hardest thing they had to do. Eowyn felt a cavernous mourning, as if a sweet wind had passed them by and left them ensconced in hollowed stone. They looked long at one another and then turned to walk back into the green garden. Eowyn tossed her braid over her shoulder, hefted the sword scabbard, and curtsied low at the waist once they had reached the thick foliage of the garden.

"Farewell... Beregond the brave." Then in a flash she was gone, booted feet drifting over grass and stone, a wraith in the trees, flowers rustling in her wake.

Beregond lifted a hand. "Farewell... dear Eowyn... "

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"I have to go Lothiriel, I have to meet Faramir in a few minutes."

"I know... you're pleased with the garments we've chosen?"

Eowyn smiled. "I never thought I would care so much; but a coronation like this hasn't happened in ages."

Eowyn and Lothiriel had been choosing dress designs and considering their attire for the upcoming coronation. Lothiriel felt that there was a dream-like quality to choosing beads and materials and finery; she had been clothed in the healers raiment for so long that it felt foreign to her. She suspected Eowyn felt much the same.

"Those beads are lovely on your headdress." Eowyn fingered the fabric of Lothiriel's veil. "I must look so much more stern in my circlet! At least I like the golden hue of my gown."

"I can't remember the last time I wore such a bright color." Lothiriel turned to Eowyn wide-eyed and rather desperate.

"You'll be fine Lothiriel. After all, don't we have to give the king his proper due?"

"Kings and Captains!"

"A gathering of fine dignitaries! Well you have to drag yourself out of the Houses at some time, and this is the best opportunity there is."

Lothiriel nodded and hugged Eowyn. "Thank-you. Go on and give that cousin of mine love!" She pushed away, and Eowyn left, shaking her head at Lothiriel's apprehension. Who would have thought she would be encouraging another woman in such a way?

She had been feeling bolder and happier, even if Beregond still nagged in her thoughts. She had been considering, with intense discretion, whether it made sense to tell Faramir what had happened between them. She wore the sword he had given her, to some raised eyebrows, but she wanted to give it a proper name and then condition herself back to fencing capacity. And she was determined not to be forbidden! The sword was purely ornamental now, but she enjoyed its solid presence at her side. Why did her broken arm have to take so long to mend? It was quite frustrating!

It was April 30th, and she was going with Faramir back to the Citadel, to leave ceremonial flowers before the empty throne that had long been lying in wait of the king. It was a protocol that she knew Faramir would enjoy and also dread. Once they met, they walked up the street to the Citadel in a deja-vu type sequence. The standard of the Stewards snapped upon the White Tower, and their feet echoed over the floor as they entered the long hall. They walked towards the dais, already layered in garlands of flowers. Théoden king was now no where to be seen, as his body had been placed in Rath Dinen.

As Faramir and Eowyn reverently laid their twining sprigs upon the dais, Eowyn noticed Faramir reaching for something in the folds of his cloak. It was the severed horn of Boromir, his dead older brother. Eowyn stared at its ivory, silver-bound shell as Faramir laid it upon the dais with gentleness. "Boromir would have wanted this; oh I wish he was here to see these days!" Faramir inclined his face, the line of his jaw clenched, his voice labored.

"He is... Faramir."

"What makes you so sure?" Faramir turned to her enfolding arms, his eyes dark, strange and emotional. Eowyn could feel his tension. "Sometimes I think I should have passed as well," he whispered in her ear.

Eowyn winced. "Don't ever say that," she breathed. "I am so sure... Because our loved ones do indeed watch over us from the depths of the sky. I had a dream..."

"It was probably only a dreams simple fancy, Eowyn."

"Not to me." Eowyn stepped back and stared directly into his grey eyes.

Faramir lowered his eyes first, and only maintaining his pressure on her hand, he turned and gazed back at the dais and the vacant throne. "Someone is coming in their stead."

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The painted skies of evensong fell . . . heralding the rise of the next days glorious sun. The Captains and Kings who had set up their pavilions and were thus encamped on the fields of the Pelennor, looked up at the glory of Minas Tirith and Mount Mindolluin in the dimming light. Their return to the White City felt like some devotional, hushed memory of a dream- and a long awaited victorious hope of past, present and future.

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A/N: Wow/Woo! What a chapter! I hope it wasn't too long for you all. :) Here are some songs that rumbled through my head during this chapter: For Beregond and Eowyn "The Scientist" by Coldplay . . . and "The Mummers Dance" by Loreena McKennitt came into my mind randomly later on! Till next time!

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