((AN: I know I said this in the summary, but I thought I'd reiterate it...this does portray slight A/Eness, and Arwen (depending on how you look at it, I guess) is not necessarily portrayed in a positive manner. If you're an A/A fan or Arwen fan who's just looking for poor A/Ers to flame, try and get a life. Other than that, I'd really appreciate any feedback, even if it isn't positive. Just do it in a tactful and constructive manner, not "ur dum i luv arwin" type stuff, 'k? It's my first fic, so try and keep it gentle if at all possible.
Oh and (disclaimer)I don't own any of the characters, the plot references, etc. They all belong to the genius Tolkien, whose brilliance lapsed but once when he edited out the marriage of Aragorn and Eowyn. Sorry, my little joke. Seriously, though,I don't own anything except the thoughts I have added to the already created characters. Here goes.))
Her heart was changed.
Èowyn sighed into the darkness. Had she truly felt those words? She had wanted, just then, so terribly to believe them. How quickly she had thrown herself into that moment he expressed his love! Out of pity (or was it loneliness?) she returned his feelings, all the while knowing the man she loved wasn't he. Faramir…was a good man. Kind, and loving, as any husband should be. But her own? For the briefest of moments, she wished she had said to him what Aragorn—Elessar—had said to her. If it was her heart in its entirety the young Steward sought, it could never be his. It was not true to him. For him she held a feeling of a different sort, a detached, not quite mutual one—the bittersweet sensation of merely second best. She could not deny that she felt something for him; gratitude, friendship, more. But it was not "love"; it was not what she felt for Aragorn—Elessar—nor what the King felt for the lady Arwen.
Lady Arwen. The pristine, pure, untouchable elf-maiden who had given up the gift of her kind to be with the man she loved. Èowyn knew that with this she could not compete—a lonely, rough young shieldmaiden against such a lovely and innocuous presence? She could not intrude on their legend, nor would her pride allow her to. Her foolishness in revealing her heart had already merited Aragorn's—Elessar's—pity. She would have no more of it. The arrogance of him to think he knew her heart better than she, as though it was an awkward child to whom he spoke! She was still that child to him; she saw the sympathy in his eyes when they had fallen upon her at his wedding. Had it not occurred to him that age oughtn't be measured in years but experiences? For in that she was his equal, or near to; Arwen but an infant in comparison for the thousand years of her time…
"Will you not be joining in the celebrations, Èowyn? I have not seen you since the King's wedding." It was Faramir at her side.
She managed a rather watery smile. "Not just now, Faramir. I am a bit—tired," she replied. "I think perhaps I will take some rest if I do not offend you by leaving so quickly."
"Nay, go—I did not mean to prevent you from taking your leave," he answered hurriedly, placing his hand on top of hers for just a moment. He watched her retreating figure with some concern. The lady looked far too sorrowful, still, and he had no desire to rejoin the celebration if she was not present.
Èowyn wished she could sob quietly in her chamber, but tears were not something she was accustomed to. After bearing her entire young life without tears, it seemed hardly possible to start now. It was Aragorn she needed just now. Aragorn. For as Elessar, he was the reminder of what could never be hers. As Elessar, her love for him was terribly, eternally caged.
End Èowyn
It is everything I have wanted and dreamed of. The Dark Lord's time has ended, my love is King and I his queen; today marks the bright dawn of our lives together. There is but one cloud to mar it, and that is the departure of my kind, my kin. But I will not think of that just now. I will not ruin this night's rejoicing with sorrows I have chosen to bear. Tonight is for Estel in every sense.
Yet in his hour of glory my lord looks weary and with grief. His laugh is not true; his smiles do not kindle their normal flame in his eyes.
"What troubles thee, love?" I take his roughened hand in mine. "Your weary is apparent, and saddening to see." At our touch he smiles, though it looks touched with regret.
"It is nothing to sadden you, my lady. I grieve for those dear to me I have lost in the dark times. If only they, too, could share in our rejoicing!" The look of grief in his eyes deepens as he speaks.
"All is not lost, my love. For we are here, together, and that is far more than we once dreamed of having!" I reply.
"Yes, Arwen. For that I am very thankful," and his smile is true. He turns away as another engages him in conversation, and I am left on my own once more. Were it not for my love I would feel very lonely in the White City for the rest of my days. There are no elves other than Legolas, and most of the humans do not approach me. They seem a rough lot besides, without the valor and grace of their king. My gaze travels to the guests, as if to assert my assumption. I know few of them, only my lord's companions of his quest and advisors of the throne.
Yet one in particular catches my attention, for her face is utterly cheerless. Unless I am mistaken, there is evidence of tears upon her face, though they are subtle. She stands alone, to the side, not taking part in the celebrations. I wonder who she is, for through her gloom I sense a noble air. But that is nonsensical; she seems a much too roughened female to be nobility. She is slender, though her figure is hardly feminine, and tall for a human. Her skin seems impure, her hands coarse from toil, but she is young, very young. She senses my gaze suddenly, colors slightly, and looks away.
I turn to inquire her name of my lord but he has left my side, speaking with the many guests. I am aware of the woman's gaze now upon me, a subject under her quiet scrutiny. Could it be that this is what life will truly be like—the King about his business and I, alone, watched and studied like some impassive creature? The thought does not appeal to me. Perhaps I could find something to embroider, to occupy myself somehow. A quiet life will suit me.
End Arwen
This is meant to be the greatest day of my life. As heir of Isildur it is my right, for at last the race of men are united once more. My love is beside me, and she appears as lovely as she did the day we met, when she had walked in the likeness of Lúthien so many years ago. But I am no longer the carefree, impressionable youth I once was. Arwen does not seem to understand this, and no words of mine could make her. The Dark Lord is gone but not Middle-Earth's tribulations; the city is gay now but a time may pass when there is sorrow. Not all is well, not all of the obstacles of Middle-Earth have been overcome. But this my love cannot see. She only perceives my sadness, and questions me as though surprised.
I am no longer the untroubled young man who fell under her spell, as she expects me to be. I have seen much mourning; I myself still grieve, for on the path to this throne and Sauron's defeat, much has been lost. I yearn to wander to the Wild again, for it was then I best overcame my troubles. I never realized the extent to which I valued such freedom. I recall so fondly fighting alongside Boromir, riding with King Theoden, traveling freely with Èowyn. Now I have lost all three—though only one of my own accord.
Even now I cannot comprehend the cruelty, heartlessness I showed to her when she came to me in her young, desperate love. It was no shadow or thought she felt, this I know, though I was forced to call it so to end it. I was not blind to her attentions; it was the fact that Èowyn was gaining my affection in return that was worrisome. I could not allow myself to let her love intensify, as I knew it would if I did not cut it off. The mere fact that I even dreamt of what might have been was fearful. The most beautiful maiden in the realm had promised to bind herself to me, had shared my love, and yet I felt attraction to this roughened lady of Rohan? A shieldmaiden versus my passion and pride, Arwen? The very thought should never have entered my mind.
It was inconceivable. I glance at Arwen, sitting alone at the high table, not speaking to any or being spoken to. She is observing someone across the room, her expression impassive, her stance prim.
She is not wild, or free, but queenly, silent, lovely.
My love for her is unquestionable, but it has become known to me that that does not mean I feel nothing for another, though it be a feeling I will not allow myself to act upon.
And at last I understand Èowyn's fear of being caged.
End Aragorn
((Again, please please please review! Remember, I'll be more likely to review your story if you review mine...))