"How is she?"
The voice was deep and hoarse. It was the most beautiful sound she had heard for many days, so aching and familiar, it tormented her even in her waking dreams. Her mind was still blurred, and she could not grasp the meaning of the words, but they soothed her, somehow. Her heart began to beat faster under the soft white sheets. She kept silent, longing for the voice to speak again.
"Alive. She woke up just two days ago. She's asked for you."
"For me?"
"Well, the boy has."
"And is he in good health?"
"He seems a bit perturbed by the events, and has clung to her as he would..." Her brother's voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
She opened her eyes.
"There, she is awake. She has a fever, and it will be some time yet until she may travel, so says the physician, but she will recover," Eomer continued hurriedly.
It was Aragorn. His face loomed over hers, and she held in a breath. His hair hung in soft curls; his eyes were a calm blue, like she imagined the sea would look. He looked terrible, grimy, and it reminded her of his older days as a ranger, fearless and brave and strong. But she still had to notice the wrinkles; the furrowed brow, the gaunt cheekbones, the deep circles under his eyes, contrasting to his white skin. He had grown old since she had last seen him. The news of Arwen's death had unsettled him.
Aragorn sat down and grasped her hand in his. The touch sent a shock through her body. His hand was cold as ice, and his pale face frightened her.
"Tell me it isn't true," he whispered.
"What have you been told?"
"Enough to know what fate has decided for me," he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She could feel his breath on her face. He leaned forward and his lips came ever closer to hers...
Eowyn jolted awake. She was sweating again. She struggled to remember the dream. Closing her eyes, Aragorn's lips moved closer to hers...she shivered. It was the fever. It had to be the fever...
Nevertheless, she could not go to sleep again. It was all too disturbing. She ached for her husband, she ached to see her daughter again. She refused to admit it to herself, but she wanted to see Aragorn, and she wanted him to be here that instant. She most certainly did not want him to kiss her.
She reached for a shawl draped hastily over the chair at her bedside. Lothiriel had left it there, and it still smelled like the Queen, a soft, flowery, high-maintenance smell. She found herself randomly wondering what her scent was.
Eowyn struggled out of the dark room and through the castle's dimly lit hallways. She made her way into the Great Hall and stopped abruptly.
Aragorn and Eomer sat at a table, eating cheese and talking in hushed voices. Aragorn was the first to look up. He saw her, and his gaze was piercing. He was almost as she had imagined him in her dream—pale, with gaunt cheeks and bright blue eyes, and his face was just as grim. She felt her throat tighten.
"Sister," Eomer said. He stood awkwardly, and walked towards her, grasping her hands. "You are not well. Go back to sleep..."
She stared at him angrily. "I feel as if I could run, Eomer, even fly, and I will deem what I can or cannot do. But tell me, is it my fever or is the King Aragorn sitting at the table eating gorgonzola?"
"I am indeed here, my lady," said the King softly. He stood, and slowly walked across the room. "This is no dream. I have come to Edoras, but to bad tidings, as Eomer has detailed." Eomer stepped back and turned his head away. Aragorn was looking right into her eyes. She could not break the gaze.
"I have been informed my wife is dead. Is this true?" He asked quietly.
She had to turn away. The intensity of the gaze was too intense for her to handle. "Yes, my lord," she could barely hear herself.
There was a long silence. When she lifted her head Aragorn had turned away. "I feared so much was true. I was almost hoping you were delirious."
There was another very awkward silence.
"Excuse me, King," Eowyn murmured, "If you will pardon my interrogation, but...where is my husband?"
"He is absorbed with affairs of state. He begged to let me come, but I ordered him to stay at home. Theodwyn needed comfort. She was in the room, when the messenger came," his voice wavered, but did not falter. "We only heard that the Lady Eowyn and the Prince Eldarion had arrived at Edoras, but alone and harmed. Within an hour I was on my way. I could not have imagined..." He turned around. "An ambush?"
Eowyn nodded.
"Orcs?"
"Yes, my lord."
He looked to Eomer. "Something must be done about this. We cannot have them along our borders. We presumed they had been killed when the Dark Lord fell, but we were wrong. We will not make that presumption again.
"The hour is late. I will need a bed."
"I will speak with Lothiriel," Eomer said, and he swept from the room.
Neither Eowyn nor Aragorn could look at each other. Finally, Aragorn spoke.
"I loved her, Eowyn," it was a sad, remorseful voice: the first open sign of emotion from him.
"I do not doubt it, King," Eowyn said softly. "She was good and kind, and beautiful..."
She trailed off, her eyes averted to the ground. When she looked up, he was staring at her. She almost thought she saw a glimmer of tears in his eye, but no sooner had she noticed it than it was gone.
"You are still feverish. It is past midnight. Go to bed."
It was an order. She turned, and fled.
The voice was deep and hoarse. It was the most beautiful sound she had heard for many days, so aching and familiar, it tormented her even in her waking dreams. Her mind was still blurred, and she could not grasp the meaning of the words, but they soothed her, somehow. Her heart began to beat faster under the soft white sheets. She kept silent, longing for the voice to speak again.
"Alive. She woke up just two days ago. She's asked for you."
"For me?"
"Well, the boy has."
"And is he in good health?"
"He seems a bit perturbed by the events, and has clung to her as he would..." Her brother's voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
She opened her eyes.
"There, she is awake. She has a fever, and it will be some time yet until she may travel, so says the physician, but she will recover," Eomer continued hurriedly.
It was Aragorn. His face loomed over hers, and she held in a breath. His hair hung in soft curls; his eyes were a calm blue, like she imagined the sea would look. He looked terrible, grimy, and it reminded her of his older days as a ranger, fearless and brave and strong. But she still had to notice the wrinkles; the furrowed brow, the gaunt cheekbones, the deep circles under his eyes, contrasting to his white skin. He had grown old since she had last seen him. The news of Arwen's death had unsettled him.
Aragorn sat down and grasped her hand in his. The touch sent a shock through her body. His hand was cold as ice, and his pale face frightened her.
"Tell me it isn't true," he whispered.
"What have you been told?"
"Enough to know what fate has decided for me," he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She could feel his breath on her face. He leaned forward and his lips came ever closer to hers...
Eowyn jolted awake. She was sweating again. She struggled to remember the dream. Closing her eyes, Aragorn's lips moved closer to hers...she shivered. It was the fever. It had to be the fever...
Nevertheless, she could not go to sleep again. It was all too disturbing. She ached for her husband, she ached to see her daughter again. She refused to admit it to herself, but she wanted to see Aragorn, and she wanted him to be here that instant. She most certainly did not want him to kiss her.
She reached for a shawl draped hastily over the chair at her bedside. Lothiriel had left it there, and it still smelled like the Queen, a soft, flowery, high-maintenance smell. She found herself randomly wondering what her scent was.
Eowyn struggled out of the dark room and through the castle's dimly lit hallways. She made her way into the Great Hall and stopped abruptly.
Aragorn and Eomer sat at a table, eating cheese and talking in hushed voices. Aragorn was the first to look up. He saw her, and his gaze was piercing. He was almost as she had imagined him in her dream—pale, with gaunt cheeks and bright blue eyes, and his face was just as grim. She felt her throat tighten.
"Sister," Eomer said. He stood awkwardly, and walked towards her, grasping her hands. "You are not well. Go back to sleep..."
She stared at him angrily. "I feel as if I could run, Eomer, even fly, and I will deem what I can or cannot do. But tell me, is it my fever or is the King Aragorn sitting at the table eating gorgonzola?"
"I am indeed here, my lady," said the King softly. He stood, and slowly walked across the room. "This is no dream. I have come to Edoras, but to bad tidings, as Eomer has detailed." Eomer stepped back and turned his head away. Aragorn was looking right into her eyes. She could not break the gaze.
"I have been informed my wife is dead. Is this true?" He asked quietly.
She had to turn away. The intensity of the gaze was too intense for her to handle. "Yes, my lord," she could barely hear herself.
There was a long silence. When she lifted her head Aragorn had turned away. "I feared so much was true. I was almost hoping you were delirious."
There was another very awkward silence.
"Excuse me, King," Eowyn murmured, "If you will pardon my interrogation, but...where is my husband?"
"He is absorbed with affairs of state. He begged to let me come, but I ordered him to stay at home. Theodwyn needed comfort. She was in the room, when the messenger came," his voice wavered, but did not falter. "We only heard that the Lady Eowyn and the Prince Eldarion had arrived at Edoras, but alone and harmed. Within an hour I was on my way. I could not have imagined..." He turned around. "An ambush?"
Eowyn nodded.
"Orcs?"
"Yes, my lord."
He looked to Eomer. "Something must be done about this. We cannot have them along our borders. We presumed they had been killed when the Dark Lord fell, but we were wrong. We will not make that presumption again.
"The hour is late. I will need a bed."
"I will speak with Lothiriel," Eomer said, and he swept from the room.
Neither Eowyn nor Aragorn could look at each other. Finally, Aragorn spoke.
"I loved her, Eowyn," it was a sad, remorseful voice: the first open sign of emotion from him.
"I do not doubt it, King," Eowyn said softly. "She was good and kind, and beautiful..."
She trailed off, her eyes averted to the ground. When she looked up, he was staring at her. She almost thought she saw a glimmer of tears in his eye, but no sooner had she noticed it than it was gone.
"You are still feverish. It is past midnight. Go to bed."
It was an order. She turned, and fled.