"… Indeed I have heard that for them memory is more like to the waking world than to a dream. Not so for Dwarves."

- Farewell to Lórien, Book II

… the taste of thunder

A clattering sound echoed down the stone hallway, empty and silent at the late pre-dawn hour save for the occasional servant or retiring Guard. Down the darkened passage ran the Lady of Ithilien, eyes lost in a myriad of thoughts. She was about to turn down a corridor heading towards the royal bedchambers, but hesitated.

"At times like this, she would favour the gardens," she said into the gloom, and went down another way. She had visited the White City frequently over the past six years, due to her husband's friendship and duty to King Elessar, and also for her own medicinal studies. During her stay Arwen was always her companion and mentor, a teacher and an ear for her worries. And though the daughter of Elrond seldom became distressed about anything, when she needed space and peace of mind she often retreated into her private gardens.

Éowyn sighed audibly in relief at spotting the familiar graceful shape half-illuminated by the Moon, standing lost amongst darkened leaves and pale blooms. Quietly, respectfully, she approached the distraught Queen, who didn't turn but made a barely perceptible nod to acknowledge the other's presence. Head bowed slightly, Éowyn came to stand beside Arwen.

"Gimli says that Elrohir is dead," said Arwen, so softly that if the night hadn't been so still Éowyn would have not have caught it. "Do you think they are alive, Éowyn?"

She did not have to ask who they meant. Éowyn looked worriedly at Arwen. Tears stained the perfect skin of her cheeks, and looking into her eyes the Lady of Ithilien saw a weight of years no mortal could fully comprehend. "Are you well, my friend?" she asked, extremely concerned. "Why do you speak so?" A rather useless question, but she knew that Arwen needed to talk, needed to be pulled up before she could drown in her sorrows, and Éowyn needed time to digest this new bit of information.

Elrohir dead. The King, the Steward, the Half-Elven twins, the Prince of Mirkwood…

Those glorious eyes were hidden from view by dampened locks, as Arwen looked down. The common habit amongst men, indicating uncertainty, looked very out of place when employed by an Elf. "When Estel was a just a Ranger, he would disappear into the Wild for months at a time. At each departure, I did not know if I would ever see him again, but I never stopped hoping, even when he was away so long my brothers would go to search for him." That smooth, melodious voice was now constricted, as if some great need was literally forcing the words out of her thoughts. "Somehow I imagined that if he ever died, I would know. I would feel it, no matter where the other was. Though it would have shattered me, the certainty would have been a comfort. But now…"

For a while no more words were said, though Éowyn waited, sensing from the tone that Arwen intended to say more but lacked the strength to, as if the admission of her deepest fears had sapped all her strength. The Queen slowly, almost lethargically, made her way to a stone bench, and sat, shoulders slumped in a way Éowyn had thought no Elf would know how to. Shaken by Arwen's state, Éowyn joined her.

"He might have died, today, yesterday, and I never knew," Arwen finally whispered. "How can you stand this, lingering in doubt? And… time… I had not imagined how different it is to be mortal."

"Different?" asked Eowyn, curious yet at the same time desperate to keep her friend talking, keep her friend from concentrating on the despair that was ghosting the edges of her own thoughts. The pale image of her mother, wasting away in grief after her father's death, came to her mind. "What mean you by 'different'?"

Unfortunately it only seemed to deepen Arwen's distress, but the words came pouring out anyway. "It is the same, in essence, yet profoundly different. Before Estel I barely marked the passage of time, and only did so through the changes in the air and the slow aging of the trees. Methinks Elves dislike change because we- they- do not change well. In Rivendell, the feel of time was more akin to Man's concept of it, and one would be aware of the passing of each day, even if one was unaffected by it. When my mother departed, I retreated into Lothlorien, desiring no longer to feel change, yearning instead to lose myself in golden timelessness.

"But then I met Estel, and once I recognised my love for him, even the Golden Wood was no sanctuary. And when I chose the Doom of Men, in my heart, and bound myself to him, suddenly I was no longer a rock in the river of time but a flower being swept along on it, to some uncertain end."

Patiently Éowyn allowed her friend to talk, wondering herself what it must feel like to be one of the Firstborn. But then- perhaps it was due to something in Arwen's words, her tone, her expression- revelation dawned, and the words left her lips even as memory washed over her. "For the first time you feel like you do not have enough time. And then the purpose of your life is gone; you cannot even know for sure, much less do anything about it."

At this Arwen stilled, sensing even in her depression that Éowyn was talking from more than just a hypothetical situation. "Was this how you felt when…"

"Yes." It was a part of her life that she tried to forget. Those had been dark days for Rohan, under the influence of Grima, and even darker times for the niece of the King. She remembered the empty halls, the lonely corridors, the endless waiting. She knew Éomer hadn't meant to leave her alone so often, but he couldn't stand being around Wormtongue. And she had thought herself to be strong, strong enough to stand alone, to hope for herself and for Rohan that the King would somehow come to his senses. The ice that her husband had so eloquently described her encasing herself in had grown, layer by layer, each time she watched her beloved brother ride out.

She wanted to say, to believe that the ice, the bitterness, the shieldmaiden, had been long extinguished, but she knew deep in her heart that it was not true. Deep inside, that Éowyn lived still. It was Faramir, dearest Faramir, who realised finally that the best way to keep that part of her dormant was to give her the freedom to let it out.

How she loved that man, for loving her so unconditionally! The only man she had ever known to embrace fully not just the warmth, but the fire of her being. And because with him she could be whatever she wanted, shieldmaiden or wife, she had willingly turned her back to wrath and ruin.

Losing him would destroy her. Already she could feel the fear worming through the crevices of her composure, weakening her moment after uncertain moment.

"Nay, I do not think they are dead," she eventually voiced, in her most reassuring tone. A lie, but a needed one. "Our husbands are the best of men-" at this they shared a sisterly smile, between women who had grown up in a household of males "- and they will return to us."

And in the meantime we'll sit here, worrying, never knowing, always fearing the worst, she thought bitterly. As always. Earlier, Éomer had grudgingly agreed to let her go with them, but that was when she had asked in front of others, and he had not wanted to undermine or embarrass her. Once he awoke he'd probably seek her out; even the old Éowyn had not been able to stand up to his heartfelt concern and pleas to her sense duty.

Then the idea came to her, so strange, so wild, so dangerous that even the other Éowyn gaped. She would have dismissed it if it weren't for Arwen catching her sudden change of expression, and asked, with an unreadable face, "What is it?"

Éowyn, younger by centuries from her companion, couldn't help wondering if somewhere in that wise mind the idea had already occurred to Arwen. But of course, the Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms would never get such ideas. Later, if there would be a later, people would shake their heads and say 'No, it must have been that wife of Prince Faramir's. Unpredictable, those maidens of Rohan.' Maybe Arwen didn't mean for it to be that way, but that was how it would be seen. The ball, blood, blame would be on Éowyn's hands.

The temperature seemed to drop several notches. It was all she could do not to glare in suspicion at the other woman. Convenient, isn't it? Perhaps she had been spending too much time in the court of Minas Tirith. The old, ice-Éowyn would not have even considered that level of deception to be possible. But don't I know, she thought cynically, better than anyone how well Arwen understands the heart of men? But she could not believe that her friend would play her like that, as if she was but a pawn. No, something was not right.

Those beautiful eyes regarded her, red-rimmed from crying. But Éowyn had looked into those magnificent orbs many times in the past, had learned to read them, if only in a very basic sense. And she had seen enough eyes of newly-widowed Rohirrim to recognise what she was seeing.

The grief was there, floating on the outside, like a dark cloud. Grief for all her brothers, and one who was also her husband. A part of it had been expressed through the tears, or relieved by their conversation. But the rest… the part that transcended into pain, the part that hurt most deeply, deeper than any words could reach, it had been transformed and mutated by fear. Into something dark, and dangerous.

Éowyn repressed a shudder. She knew about the effect of grief on an Elf. Granted, Arwen was no longer, technically speaking, even a Half-Elf. But in a way, in her heart and soul, she was still one. Over six years, had she embraced the fate of Men enough to be shielded from the devastating effects of Elven grief? She had lived the life of the Firstborn for over two thousand years. Remembering her own mother, Éowyn wondered if there really was any protection. Yet it was more than grief and its effects. That would have been straight-forward, almost. No, Arwen suffered because of doubt.

Aragorn, Elrohir, Elladan. All the family Arwen had left in the world. And Éowyn knew that she was still not fully over her father's departure. Now the Lady of Ithilien fully appreciated the ambiguity of Arwen's words to her when she had first arrived at the royal gardens, and how the questions had hinted at this. By 'them' Éowyn had automatically assumed she referred to Aragorn and Faramir, but perhaps she had meant the twins as well.

What torture it must be, said the thoughts swirling in the confused cocktail of her mind, to fear the death of all you hold dearest, yet be held on the cusp on uncertainty? To suspect, to fear, but never truly know that your loved ones are dead. Aragorn is out there, somewhere. Elrohir's death would explain Elladan's condition. But… what if, just what if, we don't presume cause and effect? Now that she recognised it for what it was, Éowyn could practically feel the fear, the uncertainty radiating from Arwen. She doesn't know. One of her brothers is probably dead, yet Gimli had been the one to tell her.

Let's assume that Elrohir is not yet dead, and whatever is happening here has struck down Elladan in some way. Gimli could have been mistaken. But where does that leave us? Another realisation. Am I just finding excuses for them to be alive?

Yes, said the shieldmaiden. You cling to hope because if you admit the death of one, you admit that all the others may be dead. Including Faramir. You are floundering in the sea of doubt yourself. You cannot rest, can barely eat and drink, for worry over one man who means the world to you. Arwen fears for three.

Ai, it would have driven me mad.

She gazed into Arwen's eyes, and felt a tinge of fear at what the nearly imperceptible fire in those chaotic depths meant.

She knew she would say it. Knew because she sympathised and feared for her friend, feared the gleam in those once-serene eyes. Because her own sanity needed something to cling to. Let the blood be on her hands. Let the blame for whatever fate befell lie at her feet. She had sat and thought for too long; the shieldmaiden inside screamed for some action. For Faramir, for Arwen, for Gondor.

She surrendered, to fate and history. For Faramir. "We can go ourselves. Slip out into the night before anyone notices. Search for them." Insanity, and vain hope, but there were no answers to be found here. It was no longer a matter of 'Is this the right thing to do?" but more of 'Can I forgive myself if I did not try?'.

Arwen was nodding before she had even finished; eager, oh so eager. "That is dangerous," she said, though her voice hinted that there was nothing bad about it being so. Had Arwen hesitated for at least a moment longer after saying that, like she was giving the idea proper consideration, Éowyn would have been able to convince herself that what she had seen in those eyes wasn't real. But she didn't, and Éowyn felt something cold tingle down her spine. "We will go."

It was unnerving that Éowyn was the one to say, "But who will be left to take care of the City?"

~*~

Elladan wandered the barren wastelands of desolate hope. Had he walked there in flesh, his feet would have been burnt by the baked earth, his drooping head scorched by the unrelenting heat. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. There was only an endless plateau, stretching out from horizon to featureless horizon.

There had been no sound in the emptiness before, but now his clear voice rang through the uncaring air. Elrohir had been a better singer, and it was for this reason that he sang, hoping to draw his brother back to at least grimace at his screechings.

But there was nothing.

Elrohir was gone.

But his bereaved mind could not accept this. He had paced across the path of their shared dreams, his sole footsteps and lone shadow seeming wrong, out of place. In thought he had scoured all of Middle-Earth, from the deepest pits to the highest mountain, and did not encounter his brother's thought. And in his grief, in this state where his body was but a forgotten shadow, he reached back, into the twilight, drawing on a power akin to that used by his foremother, Luthien the Fairest. Though in these latter days and in his much distilled blood, the potency was a bare shadow of the strength that had touched even the heart of Namo the Judge, Elladan began to truly sing.

The eldest son of Thranduil and His Highness the Heir of Mirkwood was trudging through a myriad of confused emotions as he sat beside Elladan's bed, after he replaced the fair-haired woman who he vaguely knew as the Lady of Ithilien. He had needed the space to think, and concluded that he might as well be useful and watch over Elladan as he did so. It was hard to believe that the night had barely passed, Ithil only about half-way through his journey across the sky. He could distinctly feel the weight of several Ages resting upon his slender shoulders.

"All is quiet.

Elladan lay unmoving upon the mattress, his fair face pale and expressionless. Derinsul had been gazing at it for some time, and as minute after heavy minute passed a veil seemed to thin, gradually revealing a beauty to the Peredhel he had never seen before. There was strength there, the light of the Elves, but enhanced rather than hindered by a most un-Elven spirit. This spirit burned with a searing passion, resembling more a Man's innate desire to stubbornly cling to life rather than an Elf's more passive acceptance of the way things were. It occurred to Derinsul that this fire was perhaps all that was keeping the son of Elrond from the Halls of Mandos, when another Elf would have fully succumbed upon the first shock of the twin-bond being cut. But Elladan could never be mistaken for a Man; though of a generation past the Doom of Mandos, yet even in his unconscious state there was a sense of unending sadness from his Noldorin heritage, and beneath that Derinsul could sense the majesty and strength of a fruit of the Calaquendi.

As still as stone.

His mind went over what Gimli had told Arwen and himself earlier. Derinsul had met Elrond's younger son, Elrohir, several times before during various errands for their respective fathers. In fact, recalling all his memories of the two, this was the first time he had seen one without the other. Legolas, who had known the twins better, had mentioned once that they were nearly impossible to separate. Yet upon arriving at Minas Tirith he had learned that only Elladan was there. This he had attributed to the call of duty; with the departure of their father, the lordship of Imladris had passed onto the twins, and thus they could no longer wander freely through Middle-Earth as they had done before. Elrohir, he had learned, had stayed at Imladris whilst Elladan visited their sister.

Never before.

Not having seen his own brother for a long time, Derinsul could feel a small measure of empathy with the twins. Only a small one, he told himself. It felt foolish, in the face of the catastrophe that had befallen them all, but he still had not forgiven the half-Elf for presuming to withhold him from Legolas. Yet this feeling was slowly but surely ebbing away. Now that he was calmer, he acknowledged that he wouldn't have reacted well at seeing his youngest sibling injured to the brink of death, and he knew that Legolas much-preferred the company of the Dwarf (something that still hurt him a little to think about).

Have I stood alone.

Derinsul sighed. The happenings of the past few days were a great mystery, and surely not just to him. Something serious was afoot, yet even the children of Master Elrond, wisest of lore-masters, did not seem to know what was going on. In fact, though he would never willingly admit this to anyone, the only one who seemed to have any clue was the Dwarf!

Red sun rises

Now there was a dilemma. Derinsul was barely amiable with the stunted creature, but he was a soldier as well as the son of a King, and knew when one's own grudges often had to be buried for the sake of greater matters. Having already lost their closeness, Derinsul wished to at least remain on speaking terms with his brother. And, though he was yet to speak with Legolas about this, he had changed significantly over the years Legolas left Mirkwood. The many desperate battles against the forces of Sauron during the War of the Ring had made him reconsider his prejudice against mortals. He had even attended the funerals of Dáin and Brand, after the War, when his father was occupied with matters at home. Hopefully Legolas would approve of the fact that he was at least trying.

A reluctant dawn.

Smiling wistfully, the son of Thranduil remembered the times when Legolas had been but an Elfling. Of all their siblings he had been closest to Derinsul, and Derinsul in turn had been overly protective of him. Admittedly, far too protective. In the end, he could claim being completely blameless of Legolas leaving home. In a way, he had left home long before, when he had first met a certain Man that often went by the name of Strider.

That I shall not meet.

Elladan was fading. Derinsul could feel it in his heart, in his blood. He had seen it several times before, in the family of warriors who had been struck down by the Shadow. And not all warriors died from physical battle wounds. He wasn't sure if Gimli was aware of this. Perhaps not, though the dwarf- in Derinsul's opinion- certainly knew a great deal more about Elves than his whole Race put together. With each second he knew that Elladan's hold on the world, his fea's hold on the hruin, was weakening.

Derinsul had never wished for the sunrise more.

For my soul has gone."

~*~

Éomer's eyes snapped open with a start. A quick glance to the window and the direction of the moonlight told him that it was approximately several hours before dawn. He would have to depart with the éored soon. He still thought that the postponement of the start of the search was not a very good idea, costing them precious time, Arwen had been worried about the King's Advisors asking questions about a considerable number of men suddenly riding out in the dead of night, and had convinced him to wait until after midnight.

Wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve, Éomer realised that he was shivering slightly, and not from cold. Unfortunately he could still remember the… nightmare… too well

He frowned. Could it be really called a nightmare? He had not really experienced anything painful or terrifying, yet se had received a great deal of grief and sorrow from… that person on the horse. Now that he was awake he realised how strange and unbelievable it sounded, putting the blame on a non-existent character from his dream.

Perhaps I am receiving the dreams that Gimli has been getting. The thought only worried him further, because it meant that the dream foretold something, probably something unpleasant. He hoped that the image of Éowyn plunging into deep darkness was only a message hidden in subtext, and not an actual event. This was likely, as in his experience one never got what one actually saw in dreams.

But, knowing his sister only too well, he did not want to take any chances.

On his way down to the kitchens to grab something to eat before departing, he encountered Éowyn. A lifetime of experience immediately set off alarm bells in his head at the expression on his sister's face, but unexpectedly the anger did not seem to be directed at him. In fact, when she saw him she forced a smile.

"Is ought wrong, sister?" he asked, deciding that if he was going to give her a lecture about her duty than it was best to start off on a good note. But she only puzzled him further, as she shook her head with a resigned sigh. Perhaps six years of living apart had made him completely out of touch with his only sibling's moods.

He might as well be honest. "Éowyn, I know you are not going to be pleased to hear me say this, especially as I said earlier that you could,-"

"- but you do not want me to go with you," she finished for him. It wasn't her accurate prediction of his words that bothered him, for truthfully he had said them far more times than any man in Rohan had probably ever had to, but rather it was the unreadable look in her eyes when she gazed at him. She has been spending too much time in Gondor; that's a look I've seen on Faramir's face before.

"Éowyn?" he asked, uncertain.

"It is nothing, brother." To his surprise she enveloped him in a tight embrace. "Go. I fear that there is as much danger within the Walls as without."

"What mean you by that?" he asked, worried, but she did not seem to hear him. Instead she said, "Find my Lord and the King with all due speed- Lord Elladan has succumbed to some Elvish malady, and I fear only the Elessar has a chance of bringing him back."

A quick kiss to his cheek, a whispered word of fortune and speed in their native tongue, and she was gone.

~*~

Author's Notes:

Hopefully I haven't upset anyone in my portrayal of Arwen in this chapter. I'm exploring the idea of how grief affects Elves and how being in a sort of 'transition' between Elves and Men could put more stress on her already burdened mind. There was a discussion in the Advanced Lore forum of the LOTR Plaza on how Elves and Men sense the passage of time differently, and I'm including some of the ideas in here.

*beats self repeatedly over the head* I've given up on being any kind of organised writer. Those of you who even remember this story, my sincerest thanks- you don't know how annoyed I am at myself for never having the time to write. So instead of making promises I'll probably not keep, I'll just say a great big THANK YOU to all who're still reading, and I hope everyone enjoys ROTK!

Reviewer Responses

iynkang- Thank you very much, and I'm sorry about the huge time gap between updates. Sometimes I just don't have time to write, other times I agonise for days over a chapter before deciding to post it.

Littlefish- *blushes* Yes, I do read Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time. I didn't actually base the 'dream' concept on Eye of the World, but there's a hint of Tel'aran'rhiod (World of Dreams) in how I am going to use the dreams. I'm a bit of a romantic too, but I need a truck-load of angst before fully appreciating a happy ending. Hearing such compliments from you is truly ego-boosting, thank you sooo much! *hops off to give Elladan some ice-cream*

Elvenesse- yay, you're like me too! To be honest, I didn't actually intend for this to be such a mystery story, and I think the Genre is still under 'Action/ Adventure' *g* Still, call me a sadist, but it's so much fun leading you guys around now and seeing if anyone will guess *evil cackle* Anyway, I'll try my best to not disappoint you guys.

Thundera Tiger- *hugs* There is nothing wrong with lurking (especially as I'm even more guilty of it concerning your fics *apologetic grin*) You actually touched on something that will come up later. I'm relieved you like Éowyn, and hopefully you still like her after this chapter, because I'm sort of experimenting with her and Arwen's character. And yes, I was actually thinking "Stay away from the light!" when I wrote the Éomer section. And a big THANK YOU for pointing out that error in my summary. Yes, it was Pippin, but for some reason I wrote Merry in the summary. Will change it once I get the chance *cringes at how long it would probably take*

chris- another loyal reader! You don't know how grateful I am that you're still interested in this, especially because it takes me so long to update. Thank you very much.

Tintalle1- Your review spurred on this update! Thank you!

ziggy- Thank you, it really cheers my up to see people desparate to read more. After so long without writing, I hope I will not disappoint.

Daylight- Thank you, will try my best!