The Weight of Choice
Arwen sniffed as she rummaged through Éowyn's wardrobe. Someone had to choose what the Princess of Ithilien would wear in her grave, and for some reason Arwen felt compelled to do it. Éowyn's daughter Morwen, had elected to help the Queen, and though Arwen was determined to complete the task, she was glad for the support.
Her fingers trailed over the gowns, the sensations delighting her - the slight drag as she touched the velvets, the smooth slip of the silks. She had helped Éowyn choose many of them down through the years - and it seemed a terribly cruel irony that now she would choose for her friend even in death.
Morwen moved silently about the room, gathering items - for what purpose Arwen knew not. She had never known this child of Éowyn's particularly well, though as for that, this child was a woman grown, married and a mother. In many ways Morwen was the most like Éowyn of the three - or at least the most like what Aragorn said Éowyn had been while still a Shieldmaiden. Not in appearance, for she had black hair that only have come from her father, but in manner. Fair and cold, her manner had had all the elegant hardness of a court lady by the time she was fifteen. Arwen paused as she considered the woman in front of her, for she remembered Éowyn telling her once, that "It is a ploy my dear Queen - she does not wish others to know how much she cares".
Arwen had not understood at the time, it was not until many years later, when all Morwen's work in Gondor for the good of the unfortunate had been revealed, that she understood what Éowyn meant. Morwen wanted neither praise nor notice, but to do what she did without unwelcome attention - like her mother she was a healer.
Arwen looked at the dress she now held - yellowed with age the white lace still fell magnificently to the floor. Tears gathered in her throat, Éowyn had kept this dress through all the years. Her memory brought her back to that golden day when Éowyn and Faramir had been wed, and the happiness they had all felt, and she came close to weeping. Why must it end like this? Why had the White Lady been given such a short span of life?
She moved to the next dress, her fingers tightening convulsively on the sleeve. It was velvet, in a deep, royal blue. She knew instinctively that this was the gown. Softly she pulled it from the wardrobe. Éowyn had always loved that colour - many years before she had told Arwen that it was the colour of the mantle Faramir gave her on the day the shadow fell.
Morwen looked at the gown, "She would have liked that one", she said softly. Coming to stand beside her Queen, she said, "She left this with me for you." She carried a letter in her hand, the name written in Éowyn's smooth, flowing script. Arwen took it, and sat upon the bed, saying, "I thank you". Morwen nodded, and left the room, hugging herself. Arwen remembered absently that it is no easy thing to lose a mother, be you elf or mortal.
She opened the letter, breaking Éowyn's seal - a horse rearing in front of a waterfall. It was a short missive, barely covering a page. She read.
"My dearest friend, for dearest thou wilt always be, I write to thee now, knowing that my time will soon be spent. I would reassure thee if I could, but I know that there are no words for a grief such as yours. Your husband tells me that when we die, we go beyond this world, to a place where there is more than memory. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that not even death can destroy the love I bare thee. Arwen Umdomiel your friendship is one of the greatest blessings I had in my life. Thou were more than my Queen to me, a sister and friend I never thought to have. Never think that thou hast lost me, that because I have gone beyond I have forgotten thee, I think of thee ever. My hand begins to shake and soon I shall put down my pen for the last time, but my dear friend, remember me! No woman could ever have dearer or truer friends than you and your husband, and I thank theeu from the bottom of my heart for all your kindnesses. Fare thee well my sister. Éowyn"
Arwen sat upon the bed for a long moment. Faramir entered the room, as she took a long breath. Tears started to stream from her eyes as she looked up at him. Faramir too had aged - his hair was softly snowed, and his figure, once tall and proud, was starting to bend. Must she lose him too?
He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept, and she could not but think it strange that he comforted her. Yet he seemed glad to hold someone, and that at least she understood.
Eventually she looked up. Her husband stood in the doorway, and she could see the grief he bore. She stood and went to him. Aragorn opened his arms to her, and she buried her head in his chest. The sobs she had attempted to restrain came pouring out, and she wept in his strong embrace.
* * *
Aragorn had gone to the Silent Street. There Éowyn would be buried, beside the great of Gondor. It seemed that truly she did belong to him after all.
He remembered the day clearly. The Harad delegation had arrived for negotiation. In the eighth year of his reign, there had seemed to be an opportunity to avoid the war that had been brewing. During one of the banquets, the Harad Ambassador, Madoc, had spoken to him.
Watching Éowyn as she danced Madoc said, "She is very fair your Princess. I see why they call her the White Lady of Ithilien." Aragorn had felt obliged to protest, "She is not my Princess. Faramir's, or perhaps her brother's, but not mine."
"Who is her brother?"
"Éomer, King of Rohan."
"I see, in any case Elessar, she is one of the Rohirrim is she not. You are her king. Does that not make her yours till death?"
Aragorn had agreed, an acquiescence he would come to bitterly regret. He said, "It is for those such as her that we wish to avoid another war. Once was enough for the Shieldmaiden."
Their efforts at peace had failed, and Éowyn had paid the price for it, Aragorn thought as he found the place he sought. There was only once, tiny grave. Éowyn would lie beside it - her son, Mardil. It had been many years since Aragorn had thought of that poor babe, but his current quest had reminded him. Many years had passed, and most had forgotten the tragedy that had befallen Ithilien. But he would not think of it now.
He returned to the palace after giving orders to the workmen. Morwen met him on his way, and recommended that he seek his wife. He thanked her, and went swiftly to Faramir's, not Éowyn's any more, chambers. What he saw nearly tore his heart. His steward held his wife as she wept. Arwen was attempted to hold her sobs in, but the pain was too great, and when she saw him she broke down completely.
He wished that it did not have to be this painful. As his fingers stroked her hair he wished that the price of friendship was not such loss. But he could not change the loss and silence, nor make them any easier for Arwen - he could only hold her through the grief. Aragorn hoped that was enough.
Author's Note
I know I haven't been updating often, but I hope you can bear with me. I've just started back in college, and fitting this in around it is quite tough. The exact details of the attack on Ithilien will be made clear, and Legolas and the rest of Éowyn's children will make an appearance I promise.
Arwen sniffed as she rummaged through Éowyn's wardrobe. Someone had to choose what the Princess of Ithilien would wear in her grave, and for some reason Arwen felt compelled to do it. Éowyn's daughter Morwen, had elected to help the Queen, and though Arwen was determined to complete the task, she was glad for the support.
Her fingers trailed over the gowns, the sensations delighting her - the slight drag as she touched the velvets, the smooth slip of the silks. She had helped Éowyn choose many of them down through the years - and it seemed a terribly cruel irony that now she would choose for her friend even in death.
Morwen moved silently about the room, gathering items - for what purpose Arwen knew not. She had never known this child of Éowyn's particularly well, though as for that, this child was a woman grown, married and a mother. In many ways Morwen was the most like Éowyn of the three - or at least the most like what Aragorn said Éowyn had been while still a Shieldmaiden. Not in appearance, for she had black hair that only have come from her father, but in manner. Fair and cold, her manner had had all the elegant hardness of a court lady by the time she was fifteen. Arwen paused as she considered the woman in front of her, for she remembered Éowyn telling her once, that "It is a ploy my dear Queen - she does not wish others to know how much she cares".
Arwen had not understood at the time, it was not until many years later, when all Morwen's work in Gondor for the good of the unfortunate had been revealed, that she understood what Éowyn meant. Morwen wanted neither praise nor notice, but to do what she did without unwelcome attention - like her mother she was a healer.
Arwen looked at the dress she now held - yellowed with age the white lace still fell magnificently to the floor. Tears gathered in her throat, Éowyn had kept this dress through all the years. Her memory brought her back to that golden day when Éowyn and Faramir had been wed, and the happiness they had all felt, and she came close to weeping. Why must it end like this? Why had the White Lady been given such a short span of life?
She moved to the next dress, her fingers tightening convulsively on the sleeve. It was velvet, in a deep, royal blue. She knew instinctively that this was the gown. Softly she pulled it from the wardrobe. Éowyn had always loved that colour - many years before she had told Arwen that it was the colour of the mantle Faramir gave her on the day the shadow fell.
Morwen looked at the gown, "She would have liked that one", she said softly. Coming to stand beside her Queen, she said, "She left this with me for you." She carried a letter in her hand, the name written in Éowyn's smooth, flowing script. Arwen took it, and sat upon the bed, saying, "I thank you". Morwen nodded, and left the room, hugging herself. Arwen remembered absently that it is no easy thing to lose a mother, be you elf or mortal.
She opened the letter, breaking Éowyn's seal - a horse rearing in front of a waterfall. It was a short missive, barely covering a page. She read.
"My dearest friend, for dearest thou wilt always be, I write to thee now, knowing that my time will soon be spent. I would reassure thee if I could, but I know that there are no words for a grief such as yours. Your husband tells me that when we die, we go beyond this world, to a place where there is more than memory. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that not even death can destroy the love I bare thee. Arwen Umdomiel your friendship is one of the greatest blessings I had in my life. Thou were more than my Queen to me, a sister and friend I never thought to have. Never think that thou hast lost me, that because I have gone beyond I have forgotten thee, I think of thee ever. My hand begins to shake and soon I shall put down my pen for the last time, but my dear friend, remember me! No woman could ever have dearer or truer friends than you and your husband, and I thank theeu from the bottom of my heart for all your kindnesses. Fare thee well my sister. Éowyn"
Arwen sat upon the bed for a long moment. Faramir entered the room, as she took a long breath. Tears started to stream from her eyes as she looked up at him. Faramir too had aged - his hair was softly snowed, and his figure, once tall and proud, was starting to bend. Must she lose him too?
He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept, and she could not but think it strange that he comforted her. Yet he seemed glad to hold someone, and that at least she understood.
Eventually she looked up. Her husband stood in the doorway, and she could see the grief he bore. She stood and went to him. Aragorn opened his arms to her, and she buried her head in his chest. The sobs she had attempted to restrain came pouring out, and she wept in his strong embrace.
* * *
Aragorn had gone to the Silent Street. There Éowyn would be buried, beside the great of Gondor. It seemed that truly she did belong to him after all.
He remembered the day clearly. The Harad delegation had arrived for negotiation. In the eighth year of his reign, there had seemed to be an opportunity to avoid the war that had been brewing. During one of the banquets, the Harad Ambassador, Madoc, had spoken to him.
Watching Éowyn as she danced Madoc said, "She is very fair your Princess. I see why they call her the White Lady of Ithilien." Aragorn had felt obliged to protest, "She is not my Princess. Faramir's, or perhaps her brother's, but not mine."
"Who is her brother?"
"Éomer, King of Rohan."
"I see, in any case Elessar, she is one of the Rohirrim is she not. You are her king. Does that not make her yours till death?"
Aragorn had agreed, an acquiescence he would come to bitterly regret. He said, "It is for those such as her that we wish to avoid another war. Once was enough for the Shieldmaiden."
Their efforts at peace had failed, and Éowyn had paid the price for it, Aragorn thought as he found the place he sought. There was only once, tiny grave. Éowyn would lie beside it - her son, Mardil. It had been many years since Aragorn had thought of that poor babe, but his current quest had reminded him. Many years had passed, and most had forgotten the tragedy that had befallen Ithilien. But he would not think of it now.
He returned to the palace after giving orders to the workmen. Morwen met him on his way, and recommended that he seek his wife. He thanked her, and went swiftly to Faramir's, not Éowyn's any more, chambers. What he saw nearly tore his heart. His steward held his wife as she wept. Arwen was attempted to hold her sobs in, but the pain was too great, and when she saw him she broke down completely.
He wished that it did not have to be this painful. As his fingers stroked her hair he wished that the price of friendship was not such loss. But he could not change the loss and silence, nor make them any easier for Arwen - he could only hold her through the grief. Aragorn hoped that was enough.
Author's Note
I know I haven't been updating often, but I hope you can bear with me. I've just started back in college, and fitting this in around it is quite tough. The exact details of the attack on Ithilien will be made clear, and Legolas and the rest of Éowyn's children will make an appearance I promise.