AUTHOR NOTES: Here you are. It's the moment you've all been waiting for so
I finished it ASAP. I hope you like this as I worked very hard on getting
the tone and feeling right. It's hard and basically impossible to capture
true love, especially when one player is an immortal. All that said, things
are really starting *now*. Get excited.
Book Two: The New World
* * *
Chapter XII - Eowyn of the Rohirrim
It was the trees that told him something was gleaming within.
There were not many trees in Rohan: mostly there was grass, tall and slender, silvery-green like a rippling sea. But here, by the gateway of Edoras (* What a strange tongue! * he thought) two pear trees grew. They were not well kempt or properly pruned, but there was beauty in their awkwardness. The smell of decaying fruit wafted from the fallen pears near the bases of the trees. It was heady and intoxicating as any Elven perfume. But Edoras was far from Elven: it was something utterly new and different.
The Rohirrim were tall and golden-haired, like many of the people of Lorien and the few Vanyar he had seen in Rivendell, but their faces held an original quality altogether. Their eyes (blue or gray for the most part) held ample courage and strength, in the few women he saw as well as in the sturdy men. There was freshness there as well-after all, these were humans. They were less than children to him. They were barely breathing out of the womb before that wonder of Death took them all away.
Legolas tried hard not to stare at all the newness that he saw. It was overwhelming. He tried to keep his head down, letting both Aragorn and Gimli go before him as they followed Gandalf into what seemed to be the heart of the little, rural city. He felt eyes watching, and heard whispers that sounded fearful. The coldish breeze was dry here, and he noticed that the smell of salt, as distant as it had been, troubled him no more.
A voice interrupted his observant seclusion: a door warden was speaking in a less than polite tone to Gandalf of all people. "Leave your weapons behind."
Legolas unstrapped his Lorien bow, though not happily. He gave the warden a precise glare as he handed him his weapon and its accompanying quiver. Then he said in the most ominous tone he could muster, "They are gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood. I will not have anyone else touch them."
"None shall," the warden promised, though his voice shook slightly upon touching the bow's smooth, enameled wood. Legolas felt a little sorry for this man, who would then have to demand of Aragorn his most sacred family heirloom, and of Gandalf his talisman of earth-shattering power. Let alone Gimli, scowling to himself.
* * *
In time, they were reluctantly let in.
The gold-carved doors were pulled open by two blonde guards with braided beards, and they swung with the groaning sound of old lungs that have not taken in new breath for a long, long time. There was the soothing smell of food and wood smoke, but Legolas was troubled by a faint scent that was, he knew, the essence of human old age.
*This heartbreaking figure dwarfed by his own throne must be Théoden.*
Still, three seconds time was all that passed in that hall before a shocking force took hold of the young Elf and rooted him to where he stood.
There was a moment of utter stillness, save for a light breeze that glided through the Hall though the day had been mild and windless. All noises ceased. All motion stopped in the room, save in one place: upon the dais of Rohirric royalty, gleaming beside King Théoden's throne. For there, carved in ice and liquid fire, a vision of Tilion, the moon, and Arien, the sun, combined in utter perfection, was the woman of his reveries, the lady who haunted his psyche, who had called to him from afar and drawn him here to come to her, naked and powerless before the blue-gray seas he saw in her eyes.
So it was for the first time outside of his dreams, Legolas Greenleaf looked upon the White Lady Eowyn of Rohan.
She was so young! He could not guess her age exactly, but he knew that she had to be no more than twenty autumns old. Her hair was the gold of a finely crafted pendant's chain, it's waterfall sheen accented with the slightest wave: the cool bend of flowing rivers. Her skin was golden pale and utterly flawless, and she wore a simple dress of white stitched with green thread as vibrant as the grassy fields beyond. Her mouth was full and not quite closed as her masterful eyes blinked in what looked like disbelief.
He saw how dark her lashes were as she returned his gaze with fierce intensity.
Then Legolas exhaled.
He realized that he had completely fallen into his own thoughts, forgetting all around him. A fierce exchange was in progress between Gandalf and some wiry little man perched near the old king's throne. Legolas did not like that small creature so near his Ithilwen. He wanted to say her name aloud to see what she would do.
Ah, but now was not the time. How precious time was to them all: to Legolas, to the intensely beautiful girl, to Aragorn stiffened with apprehension by his side, to Gimli glowering at the Rohan guards lining the hall, to Gandalf, his short temper being tried like the steady plucking of a tightly-wound bowstring.
"And what does the wanderer bring: three lowly vagabonds clad in gray!"
Legolas realized that he was suddenly frightfully embarrassed. He hoped that the shining young woman did not see the fire he felt raising in his face. Did he look a mess? He had not thought so, before that hour...
The woman's eyes were on him again.
He lifted his eyes to look at her, but the hideous little kneeling man stole his gaze and spat: "And here? An Elf! A creature of eerie power, *here*, let in to the very hall of our good king!" Grìma sneered a sickly sneer. "They have had dealings with the sorceress of the Golden Wood, no doubt. He is probably one of her spies. Wicked is the Stormcrow who brings the Eldar hither!"
Legolas stared in disbelief at the sniveling advisor. He was utterly speechless. What had he done to deserve *that*?
There was another change in the air. There was the soft, gentle sound of silk brushing against silk. The woman behind the throne moved a little, staring the dumbstruck Elf right in the eye, and she spoke her first words to him:
"Lord of the Elder Folk, do not let your heart be troubled. Master Grìma does not speak for us all."
His heart exploded with awe.
The little man hissed up at the maiden. "Youth blinds you, Lady Eowyn."
*Eowyn*, Legolas realized. He knew her name! What a lilting name!
Grìma was not finished. "This is a far more serious matter than any of you realize!"
Yet Legolas found his voice, and said, "A wonder it is to find such hostile words among our own allies. Are not all Free Peoples enemies of the Dark Lord?"
The woman, Eowyn, stared at him hard. Momentarily, he regretted his words, thinking her look to be one of reproach. Then he realized it was not. She was searching his face for a sign that he was like her. She had found it.
In that small period of time, they had been united in their apparent hatred for Grìma Wormtongue.
* * *
Two guards in the room were in love with Eowyn. There was not a young man in Rohan who had not dreamed of her icy touch, of running their fingers through the liquid of her hair. But these two men, young but slightly older than she, were truly infatuated.
They were also horribly threatened by the Man who had strode into the room behind Gandalf.
One whispered to the other, "Look how the Lady regards this Aragorn!"
The other agreed. "Indeed. She's already smitten."
"He seems far too old for her."
"Yet part of him does not look it. There's something uncanny about him: about all of them."
"Look at her eyes!" the first one hissed. "She is right in love with that Man. She is staring at his face!"
This was but one source of the rumor of Eowyn's yearning for Aragorn. Yet if those two guards had stood at a different angle, they might have seen the person Eowyn truly regarded. But they were simple soldiers of Rohan. The idea of the Quendi and their beauty was so intense, that neither had thus far dared to look at the Elf's legendary face.
* * *
She did not smile. She lifted her chin and looked at him again, full force, unashamed to catch his eye. Her pride stirred something deep within him: a part he had forgotten he possessed. The walls could have fallen, the ceiling could have born down upon him, and he would have been happy to die.
The poetry of Gelmir of Gondolin ran through his head, but this time, it was set to a beautiful, alien tune.
* * *
Gandalf tensed, though his ears were focused on the soft, gruff words of Théoden. He sensed a great focusing in the room: the careful, cautious honing of two opposing forces coming together. There was a vibrant power here.
He felt the rhythm of two races as they danced in secret silence.
-Fin-
Review, please.
Continued in Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue (Eowyn and Legolas become officially acquainted, the advisor doesn't like it one bit)
Book Two: The New World
* * *
Chapter XII - Eowyn of the Rohirrim
It was the trees that told him something was gleaming within.
There were not many trees in Rohan: mostly there was grass, tall and slender, silvery-green like a rippling sea. But here, by the gateway of Edoras (* What a strange tongue! * he thought) two pear trees grew. They were not well kempt or properly pruned, but there was beauty in their awkwardness. The smell of decaying fruit wafted from the fallen pears near the bases of the trees. It was heady and intoxicating as any Elven perfume. But Edoras was far from Elven: it was something utterly new and different.
The Rohirrim were tall and golden-haired, like many of the people of Lorien and the few Vanyar he had seen in Rivendell, but their faces held an original quality altogether. Their eyes (blue or gray for the most part) held ample courage and strength, in the few women he saw as well as in the sturdy men. There was freshness there as well-after all, these were humans. They were less than children to him. They were barely breathing out of the womb before that wonder of Death took them all away.
Legolas tried hard not to stare at all the newness that he saw. It was overwhelming. He tried to keep his head down, letting both Aragorn and Gimli go before him as they followed Gandalf into what seemed to be the heart of the little, rural city. He felt eyes watching, and heard whispers that sounded fearful. The coldish breeze was dry here, and he noticed that the smell of salt, as distant as it had been, troubled him no more.
A voice interrupted his observant seclusion: a door warden was speaking in a less than polite tone to Gandalf of all people. "Leave your weapons behind."
Legolas unstrapped his Lorien bow, though not happily. He gave the warden a precise glare as he handed him his weapon and its accompanying quiver. Then he said in the most ominous tone he could muster, "They are gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood. I will not have anyone else touch them."
"None shall," the warden promised, though his voice shook slightly upon touching the bow's smooth, enameled wood. Legolas felt a little sorry for this man, who would then have to demand of Aragorn his most sacred family heirloom, and of Gandalf his talisman of earth-shattering power. Let alone Gimli, scowling to himself.
* * *
In time, they were reluctantly let in.
The gold-carved doors were pulled open by two blonde guards with braided beards, and they swung with the groaning sound of old lungs that have not taken in new breath for a long, long time. There was the soothing smell of food and wood smoke, but Legolas was troubled by a faint scent that was, he knew, the essence of human old age.
*This heartbreaking figure dwarfed by his own throne must be Théoden.*
Still, three seconds time was all that passed in that hall before a shocking force took hold of the young Elf and rooted him to where he stood.
There was a moment of utter stillness, save for a light breeze that glided through the Hall though the day had been mild and windless. All noises ceased. All motion stopped in the room, save in one place: upon the dais of Rohirric royalty, gleaming beside King Théoden's throne. For there, carved in ice and liquid fire, a vision of Tilion, the moon, and Arien, the sun, combined in utter perfection, was the woman of his reveries, the lady who haunted his psyche, who had called to him from afar and drawn him here to come to her, naked and powerless before the blue-gray seas he saw in her eyes.
So it was for the first time outside of his dreams, Legolas Greenleaf looked upon the White Lady Eowyn of Rohan.
She was so young! He could not guess her age exactly, but he knew that she had to be no more than twenty autumns old. Her hair was the gold of a finely crafted pendant's chain, it's waterfall sheen accented with the slightest wave: the cool bend of flowing rivers. Her skin was golden pale and utterly flawless, and she wore a simple dress of white stitched with green thread as vibrant as the grassy fields beyond. Her mouth was full and not quite closed as her masterful eyes blinked in what looked like disbelief.
He saw how dark her lashes were as she returned his gaze with fierce intensity.
Then Legolas exhaled.
He realized that he had completely fallen into his own thoughts, forgetting all around him. A fierce exchange was in progress between Gandalf and some wiry little man perched near the old king's throne. Legolas did not like that small creature so near his Ithilwen. He wanted to say her name aloud to see what she would do.
Ah, but now was not the time. How precious time was to them all: to Legolas, to the intensely beautiful girl, to Aragorn stiffened with apprehension by his side, to Gimli glowering at the Rohan guards lining the hall, to Gandalf, his short temper being tried like the steady plucking of a tightly-wound bowstring.
"And what does the wanderer bring: three lowly vagabonds clad in gray!"
Legolas realized that he was suddenly frightfully embarrassed. He hoped that the shining young woman did not see the fire he felt raising in his face. Did he look a mess? He had not thought so, before that hour...
The woman's eyes were on him again.
He lifted his eyes to look at her, but the hideous little kneeling man stole his gaze and spat: "And here? An Elf! A creature of eerie power, *here*, let in to the very hall of our good king!" Grìma sneered a sickly sneer. "They have had dealings with the sorceress of the Golden Wood, no doubt. He is probably one of her spies. Wicked is the Stormcrow who brings the Eldar hither!"
Legolas stared in disbelief at the sniveling advisor. He was utterly speechless. What had he done to deserve *that*?
There was another change in the air. There was the soft, gentle sound of silk brushing against silk. The woman behind the throne moved a little, staring the dumbstruck Elf right in the eye, and she spoke her first words to him:
"Lord of the Elder Folk, do not let your heart be troubled. Master Grìma does not speak for us all."
His heart exploded with awe.
The little man hissed up at the maiden. "Youth blinds you, Lady Eowyn."
*Eowyn*, Legolas realized. He knew her name! What a lilting name!
Grìma was not finished. "This is a far more serious matter than any of you realize!"
Yet Legolas found his voice, and said, "A wonder it is to find such hostile words among our own allies. Are not all Free Peoples enemies of the Dark Lord?"
The woman, Eowyn, stared at him hard. Momentarily, he regretted his words, thinking her look to be one of reproach. Then he realized it was not. She was searching his face for a sign that he was like her. She had found it.
In that small period of time, they had been united in their apparent hatred for Grìma Wormtongue.
* * *
Two guards in the room were in love with Eowyn. There was not a young man in Rohan who had not dreamed of her icy touch, of running their fingers through the liquid of her hair. But these two men, young but slightly older than she, were truly infatuated.
They were also horribly threatened by the Man who had strode into the room behind Gandalf.
One whispered to the other, "Look how the Lady regards this Aragorn!"
The other agreed. "Indeed. She's already smitten."
"He seems far too old for her."
"Yet part of him does not look it. There's something uncanny about him: about all of them."
"Look at her eyes!" the first one hissed. "She is right in love with that Man. She is staring at his face!"
This was but one source of the rumor of Eowyn's yearning for Aragorn. Yet if those two guards had stood at a different angle, they might have seen the person Eowyn truly regarded. But they were simple soldiers of Rohan. The idea of the Quendi and their beauty was so intense, that neither had thus far dared to look at the Elf's legendary face.
* * *
She did not smile. She lifted her chin and looked at him again, full force, unashamed to catch his eye. Her pride stirred something deep within him: a part he had forgotten he possessed. The walls could have fallen, the ceiling could have born down upon him, and he would have been happy to die.
The poetry of Gelmir of Gondolin ran through his head, but this time, it was set to a beautiful, alien tune.
* * *
Gandalf tensed, though his ears were focused on the soft, gruff words of Théoden. He sensed a great focusing in the room: the careful, cautious honing of two opposing forces coming together. There was a vibrant power here.
He felt the rhythm of two races as they danced in secret silence.
-Fin-
Review, please.
Continued in Chapter XIII - The Deceits of Grìma Wormtongue (Eowyn and Legolas become officially acquainted, the advisor doesn't like it one bit)