1. Aftermath
The young noblewoman rounded the corner and, satisfied that she was alone, collapsed against the wall, her back sliding down the cool marble stone until she met the ground. Inhaling and exhaling shakily, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, willing herself not to let the tears of exhaustion, horror, and hopelessness undo her. She had work to do, and needed to be stronger than her doubt. A moment's respite and then she would return to bring for the hordes of men that were still being brought in to Minas Tirith, though the battle on the Pelennor had ended hours before. There were many healers and volunteers like her out in the field, marking those wounded that needed aid quickly with red cloth, those that could wait with white, and those that were beyond aid, with black. A strange system, but effective.
So many were beyond any mortal means of help. Those that could be helped screamed in pain and horror as limbs were amputated and wounds cauterized with no way of easing their suffering. The Healing Houses of Minas Tirith had run out of medicines to dull the pain almost as quickly as the first round of wounded were brought in. Now, the screams and cries continued, dulled to a buzzing chorus that was ever present but no longer truly heard, at least by those amidst them.
The young woman had been on her feet for what seemed like an age, numbly following the orders of the practiced healers, bandaging wounds, giving sips of water and dispensing words of comfort, closing eyes that stared but would never see again. Had she eaten? She could not remember, nor could she stomach the thought of food.
Oh, Illúvatar. Help me.
But Illúvatar had other prayers to answer that night. She opened her eyes and with a sigh of resolve stumbled to her feet. She would go on. There was no other choice but to continue, numbly and mechanically, going where she was told.
A pot of hot water and clean bandages were thrust into her hands and she was sent out into the streets, streets lined with wounded warriors and citizens who awaited aid. She cleaned and bandaged wounds, marking those wounds that were beginning to fester with strips torn from red fabric. Some spoke to her, or asked her questions she seldom could answer, but most simply stared into nothingness with haunted, shadowed eyes, numbed into silence or delirium.
Upon her return to the Healing Houses, she nearly walked straight into the head matron, who was briskly exiting a chamber. The woman looked her up and down in quick appraisal, then said briskly, "You'll do. There is a woman brought in from the Pelennor and they say it is she who stayed the Witch King."
"A woman?" she stammered in confusion, then awe. "From the battlefield?"
The older woman's mouth deepened in what might have been a smile, although when she spoke her words were urgent. "A shieldmaiden. She is the sister of Éomer of Rohan, to whom the crown of Théoden King has passed. Aragorn of the Dunedain, yes, the one they say is Isildur's heir - has undertaken to call her back from the shadow. There is much that hangs upon this, girl. You must do as you are told, without question and quickly. First, fetch steaming water, clean cloth, and the Athelas herb and bring it to this room. I am needed elsewhere."
The young woman quickly rushed to fetch the supplies needed, numbly following her feet along their path, which they had trod countless times over the past hours. Upon returning, she steadied herself as best she could, and entered the room quietly. The room was strangely silent, cool and peaceful compared to the chaos of outside. The tall dark-haired man must have been Aragorn, for he knelt beside the bed of the shieldmaiden, his hand on her brow. Beside him, crouched in attentive apprehension, sat a bearded giant of a man, with long braided hair the color of cornsilk. This must have been Éomer of Rohan, sitting vigil at his sister's side. Neither Éomer or Aragorn looked up to acknowledge the new intruder, but the white-robed, silver-bearded man standing opposite them glanced in her direction and gave and h a slight bow of his head, bidding her come in.
The wizard, Mithrandir.
She bowed her head and hurried to place the covered bowl of water on the little table beside the bed. She stepped back a few paces and awaited further instruction as the men continued to talk. Their voices were strange and low, and she strained to hear, her face dutiful and passive but her ears alert.
"Few other griefs… have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned. Sorrow and pity have followed me ever since I left her desperate in … and rode to the Paths of the Dead…" Aragorn said to Éomer. "And no fear upon that way was so present as the fear for what might befall her. And yet, Éomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought…"
The young woman glanced up in thinly-veiled surprise at the nature of this conversation. She wondered that there was time for such talk when a woman lay in peril on the bed, and impatiently waited for someone to tell her what to do. She tried not to fidget, but so accustomed was she to the relentless chaos of the past hours that this peaceful strange chamber seemed likely to suffocate her. Before she had sought an escape, not now she found she could not bear to stand in such idleness.
"I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know," Aragorn continued more emphatically. "And if to despair, than she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown."
At this, the woman thought that perhaps she understood a small morsel of such despair. She watched with curiosity, wondering how Aragorn would heal the body, let alone the soul, of the cold, pale woman who lay upon the bed. Her arm had been tended to, but there was little sign of life in her face. What could this ranger from the North do that the adept healers of Minas Tirith could not?
Aragorn bent and kissed Éowyn on the brow with great tenderness. "Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!" he called softly.
At first there was no change, but then suddenly Éowyn began to breathe deeply, her chest rising and falling perceptibly. From where she stood, the young woman found herself inhaling breath as well.
Glancing up at her, Aragorn beckoned her forward. "Girl, have you brought the athelas herb?"
"Yes, my lord," she murmured quickly and offered the plant into to his outstretched hands, wondering what he would do with it. She had heard that the herb was useful against headaches, but what could do it do for a malady of the soul? How could it help who was passing into the Darkness?
"Open the pot of water."
She rushed to comply with Aragorn's order. He crushed the athelas leaves between his palms and dropped them into the steaming water, and then took a cloth and wet it, wringing out the excess before washing Éowyn's arm and brow with the mixture. He moved with great tenderness as he did this, and the young woman watched him with curious eyes. Just then, a breeze blew through the window and swept about the chamber, stirring the linens and the folds of her apron. It was as if a brand new season had entered therein, fresh and clean and as new as springtime. She blinked, for it suddenly seemed then that all would be well. What elven magic was this? And if it was indeed magic, would it work?
"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" said Aragorn then, taking Éowyn's wounded hand in his. "Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!" He then laid Éowyn's hand in the hand of her brother, who was weeping. As Éomer called his sister's name through his tears, Aragorn left the chamber.
The young woman wondered if she ought to remain, After a moment, she thought it would be best to follow, and she did, but not before glancing back at Éomer. Éowyn's eyes were open, and she was looking at her brother as if returning from a long and horror-filled sleep.
It was but the next day that it was decided that Aragorn, along with the other lords of Westeros, would lead a great host out to battle at the Black Gate of Mordor. The young woman's father would be among them, and her brothers. She bid them a tearful farewell and threw herself into her work, unable and unwilling to fathom that they would be gone so soon from her.
That night, as the final task of her shift, she tended to Éowyn, the shield-maiden, changing the dressings on her wounds and bathing her. She appreciated the moments in the quiet of Éowyn's chamber, a respite from the chaos of the other wards, which were still packed with wounded, with trauma, with blood, with dying and pain. As Lothíriel tended to her charge, Éomer, who had scarcely left his sister's side apart from being summoned to Aragorn's council, left the room to give them privacy. When Lothíriel left her patient, however, she found him leaning against the wall just outside the door, staring into nothingness.
"You should seek some rest," she said, after a pause. "Your sister is in good hands and she has passed out of danger."
"I will find no rest tonight," Éomer replied evenly, "I can never sleep on the eve of battle."
"Nor I," she murmured before she could stop herself. He flicked his eyes to hers as if surprised that she had spoken to him again.
"That is to say," she continued, flushing red under his direct gaze, which somehow thrilled and intimidated her, "When my father and brothers are to war, I fear for them. I sit up and await the dawn. It is only myself left behind, when they ride away. It is why I… why I came with them when they rode to fight on the Pelennor. I knew I could not bear to watch them ride away again and me do nothing. I camped not far away and rode into the city as soon as the battle was over to help."
"Do your father and brothers ride away from you tomorrow?" asked Éomer, studying her as he had never done before. Indeed his eyes had scarcely seemed to notice her prior to this moment.
She bowed her head and nodded solemnly. "This time I cannot go with them."
He shook his head, affirming it. "No one goes who plans to return."
She inhaled sharply, for although she had known it in her heart, the truth sounded much more real when spoken aloud.
"I am sorry," Éomer said a bit drily, his tone betraying his lack of true sorrow, "I know I ought to speak more tenderly, for your sake —"
"Don't!" she stammered as fiercely as her trembling voice could muster, "I am no child, nor witless lady. I know the truth and can face it. Indeed I have seen more pain and suffering these past weeks than I knew could be, and I have borne it. You cannot shock me, my lord, and it would be an insult to me were you to pretend that all would be well."
"You have no hope, then," he remarked after a time, studying her with an unreadable expression.
"Do you?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. I think not. The time has come to set aside hope and go forward knowing that this will be the end."
She nodded, then laughed suddenly as a strange thought came to her that seemed quite incongruent to the subject at hand.
He looked at her strangely, for indeed, she must have looked absolutely mad. "What is it?"
She chuckled, tears in her eyes, and shook her head, unable to speak. "It's only that - " she managed to say, through her laughter, "I have spent my whole life planning for a future that shall never be! I have set aside present happiness for future happiness. I have done as a good young woman should - never worn bright colors, never galloped too fast, never spoken my mind in public, never fallen in love, never — " she stopped, unable to continue, for it was too brash to say, and the lump in her throat threatened to overwhelm her laughter and make way for tears.
"Never what?" Éomer pressed, curiosity ebbing in his voice as he regarded her, no longer strangely, but rather tenderly.
She sighed. After all, why not? Why not say it? Propriety had gone out with the tide. She exhaled, then made her decision. "Never lain with a man."
He looked taken aback, but not shocked by her words. "Never?"
"It is not done," she explained hurriedly, wondering what he must think of her. "Not without marriage. A young woman ought to guard her virtue." She shook her head, now embarrassed. Why was she saying such foolish things to him?
"And you have guarded yours well."
She blushed and met his eyes reluctantly. "I do… I regret it, now. I would have liked to know what the fuss is all about."
He looked torn between laughter at her words and graveness. "Indeed, it is a pity," he said softly, and she froze, for now he was regarding at her with a new light flickering in his eyes, eyes that had until now been quite sober. He looked her up and down and she suddenly felt that he undressed her with his eyes, even though her clothing was serviceable and shapeless. It was a behavior she had noticed so many men do to other women, but never toward her, not so brazenly, at least.
"A pity?" she managed to stammer, grown breathless at the way he was looking at her now. He nodded.
She flushed, but she could not look away, and it seemed as if it was an age and a second all at once of this moment between them, until astonishingly he reached out and took her hand. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brought it to his mouth, kissing her palm as unabashedly as if it was as common a gesture as a wave hello.
She shivered and inhaled at the brush of his lips across her work-torn palm, a palm that only days before had been smooth and unmarked by hard labor. He stepped closer to her, never letting go of her hand, which she did not try to withdraw.
"The night grows long." His eyes probed hers with a look in them that spoke of all that he could not say. "There is a comfort to be had…"
She understood the offer. She leapt at it, for nothing else made sense.
"Yes."
His hand tight around hers, he led her down the corridor. When he was certain they were alone, he turned to her, his hands coming to cup her face, claiming her and drawing her to him in a kiss that was unlike any of the clumsy, boyish kisses she had known from childhood sweethearts and lighthearted suitors, young men she had danced with who had stolen a kiss or two after a ball. So long ago.
This was a kiss that should have brought her to her knees, and indeed her knees buckled, but he had her firmly in his arms, lifting her and pressing her up against the wall and his mouth returning to hers before she could even catch her breath. Her legs came up to rest on his hips as he pinned her against the cold marble stone. Oh, he was warm and his body like a rock, shoulders broader than any she has ever seen. He had lifted her before him easily. The scent of him was strange and overpowering, not unpleasant, but foreign. The last boy she had kissed in her youth had smelled of perfumed soap and his lips had been chapped and tasted of salt. Éomer's mouth, for all his body's taught and chiseled hardness, was soft and yielding, a pleasing contrast to the thrilling roughness of his beard. His tongue teased her lips before gaining entrance, and a soft moan escaped her unbidden.
"Ahh, lass," he murmured against her mouth with a groan of his own, pulling away and running his hand down from her jaw and over her throat and past her breasts, almost to the pit of her belly, before returning up to her breasts to caress and rub them almost possessively. "Your mouth is sweet."
His lips found her throat and her body trembled, hips pressing wantonly against his for desire to be closer to him, to somehow alleviate the throbbing heat at the center of her. She wondered vaguely if he would take her there and then against the wall. She understood now how quickly it could happen, how a young woman ended up flat on her back with her skirts around her waist and, if she was not careful, a baby in her belly. She understood also how promises were made as quickly as they were broken, and how hearts were wounded as quickly as they were lit aflame. She understood with clarity, for this feeling of unchecked desire, both in her body and in her mind, was perhaps the strongest, sweetest thing she had known.
"Lass," he said in a low voice, drawing away from her slightly as if he sensed her wandering thoughts. "If… you would like me to walk away from you now, I will, but you must say it now before…"
"I am certain," she whispered, looking into his careful, questioning eyes, and while before she might have blushed and looked down, this time her eyes held his and her voice did not tremble. "I want to know what it is like, before…it is too late."
"Is there a place we can go?" he asked, "For it would be better if it was not here, against this cold stone wall, where anyone might see… it would be better for you."
She nodded, understanding, and took his hand, leading him to the little room that had served her a place to rest in quick bursts of sleep. While at first she could not sleep there, her mind too haunted by the sights and sound of the wounded, as of late her body had won out and she slept when she could, and deeply.
The little bed. It would do.
He stripped off his clothing hurriedly, and she tried to do the same, her fingers and hands shaking as she undid her apron and the ties at the shoulders of the loose kirtle. It seemed to take an age, and she found she could not look at him as she struggled with the simple task. Finally, she stood there in her shift, shivering slightly although the air was not cold, and returned her eyes to the mercurial gaze of the foreign bear of a man before her. She sensed that he had been watching her, and his eyes darkened with a longing that made her heart beat still faster as she pulled her shift over her head. She stood there clutching it for a moment, breathless and not sure how to proceed, though longing to. Her eyes darted over him, and widened at the sight of all of him, and thankfully he did not let the moment linger. He moved straight to her, taking the garment from her hands and tossing it aside carelessly before taking her in his arms assuredly and kissing her, which comforted her, for this kissing was at least familiar by now. One arm encircled her waist while the other tangled in her hair at the back of her head, drawing her to him like a missing half, joining them together, skin against skin.
Gratefully, her apprehension washing away as if by a rapid tide and her hunger somehow abated by the rejoinder and yet still constant at the same time, she let him guide her to the bed and lay her down, kissing her, moving over her, his mouth exploring her body as she explored his with her hands. His mouth found her breasts and then her belly and then her sex and she gasped and moaned in surprise and need. This she understood was for her pleasure and not exactly necessary for his, and yet she sensed he too enjoyed it, that he took pride and satisfaction and enjoyment in her body and in bringing it to a peak of agonizing need, pleasure, and withholding and ebbing and building again and-
Oh. Oh. Sweet release.
As her body recovered from the agonizing pleasure of her climax he drew away, watching her all the while, and she instinctively turned her head to hide her face, for he had seen her at her most vulnerable. But he did not let her linger long in embarrasment, and quickly crawled up over her, warming her body with his body, and placed his arms on either side of her head, turning her face back to his and kissing her gently. She smiled, forgetting her embarrassment and kissed him back, and it was barely a moment before she felt him pressing up against her entrance with his cock, gently and tantalizingly, over and over again, and the slick wetness there coupled with the warm, throbbing pleasure assured her that she was ready and eager for him, and she reached down and practically pulled him inside her. This gesture was all the assurance he needed, for he thrust fully in, and in again, and it was a strange new feeling to her but utterly welcome. There was no pain, only pressure and fullness as her body adjusted to him, and she clung to him and let him take her, finding his rhythm and responding in kind with her own body. She did not quite know if there was more that she should do, but he did not seem to notice or mind, and she gave herself blissfully up to his control.
When it was over, he held her in his arms and stroked her hair, her head resting on his chest, one leg drawn up over him. Neither of them spoke - for what was there to say that had not been said already with their bodies, with their eyes, with the unspoken understanding that had passed between them? This was not love, and there would be no promises made, but it was something honest, and it was tinged with sorrow, and it was raw, and it was tender as if each had drawn from the other what was needed for them to go on, and to accept what was to come.
It would be too much to think of love. Still, if ever she were to love someone, she mused as she lay there in his arms, it might have been someone like him.
He did not even know her name.
She would not give it. Somehow she knew that it was best they did not bother with more information than was necessary.
At last, her body spent and more tired than she knew, she felt a heavy weight of sleep rest upon her eyelids, and when she awoke early in the morning, he was gone.
[A/N:
Disclaimer: The dialogue between Aragorn and Éomer and the events of Aragorn's healing of Éowyn are decidedly not mine and taken directly from Tolkien. I do not own those words and I do not own these characters
I just can't get enough of E + L. I have three separate storylines in the works for them, and here is the beginning of one. And we know my track record when it comes to finishing stories… I finish them but sometimes it takes six years. I'm not quite sure how or if this will turn out, but I look forward to seeing what happens! I appreciate your reviews. ~ GB]
