Chapter Text
As the smoke spiraled around like curling ivy Arwen knew it was time for her nightly prayer. Led only by the light of the stars and Ithil’s rays, she crossed the threshold of her temple and stalked across the pale green glade. The dewdrops dampened the soles of her feet and the creek soaked them even more. She stopped just in the middle, where the light wasn’t shadowed by bending trees and stooping branches.
Arwen had chosen this spot for its practicality, beauty aside. Elrond had told her to go near the sea, to praise Varda in sight of Ulmo. And Cirdan . Naturally, he had left that part out, but Arwen could see his meaning. Be near the sea, hear the gulls as they whisper the water’s song, and when it is too much to bear: sail. Sail and never look back.
But Arwen did not wish to sail, not then, not now. The woods were quiet and soft. Sweet enough for her to enjoy the loneliness she had longed for, and dark enough for her to trace Telumendil even by candlelight. It was perfection in the form of sweeping oaks and clear skies. She never yearned for much else. Middle Earth was her home, and she did not want to leave it behind.
The prayer was simple. She knelt in the glade, glad for the prickles of grass as the wind pressed them into her. Arwen raised her hands, palms up to the sky. With eyes closed in reverence, she envisioned the creation of the stars, of Varda’s desperation, of the Valar waiting in the wings with their own invocations dripping from their lips. The world was dark and growth had been paused. It was Varda who revived the land, giving Yavanna’s growing things a light to search for.
“O' Varda, sië melin lle na nórë. A calad na-vanwa. An úvaen sinome ilye mornië, tiriel ar na-Vilya. Hlaruvë.” (O' Varda, I thank thee for thou light. A luminosity most treasured. From dusk to dawn you bring shelter and protection. Bless thee.)
Arwen’s voice was lighter than the air. Her praise distinct among the calls of wildlife and swallow songs. She opened her eyes, her gaze clearing in the dark. In the woods, the bright and innocent eyes stared back at her, foxes and frogs, birds and crickets. They too made their prayer. From her lips it came. The voice of the voiceless. Even the glade in which she sat joined in, the roots beneath her knees squirmed with their own wishes and their limbs raised to the constellations.
Before Arwen knew it, Ithil had centered itself in the night sky and it was time for rest.
—
In the morning she awakes to the pounding of horse hooves and she shoots from her bed. It was not yet full-morn. The light outside her temple is a muted hue of both sun and moon–but often when devotees speaking the name of Elbereth showed, they did not care for the time of day.
Yet outside, there be no devotee, nor parishioner, nor Elf in need of help, but a lone woman atop a horse of gleaming ivory. She is fair as the sun, golden as the leaves of Lothlórien. From the temple, Arwen can see she bears a noble posture, draped in finery, a strong back accompanied by a quiver and bow. Human-made, from their dull ornamentation.
Arwen gulps down a gasp and steps out onto the grass. The maiden is still a ways from the temple, merely entertaining the freedom of the large glade, but Arwen knows the life that lives in the tall grass–biting foxes and jumping toads–it is not a place for a horse, an animal fickle and afraid.
“My lady!” Arwen calls, but already it is too late. The maiden turns to face her, the horse trotting to follow. And then, there is the red flash of a fox–fire in the green–and the horse snorts.. With a rough buck, the maiden finds herself sliding from the ivory horse, landing in a heap on the floor and a sharp cry falling from her lips.
Arwen is already half-way across the glade.
The ivory horse makes for the tree line, huddles in the boughs and birches though he cannot hide. Well trained, Arwen thinks.
“My lady,” she says again once she approaches the woman. Her worries are melted by laughter, like lutes plucked by bird wind, as the woman sits up. Still, she lends a hand, kneeling by the woman’s side. “Are you all right?”
“Well,” the woman cries. “Well, I am well, Priestess.” Her cheeks are apple-red, the smile too bright to be anything but mortification turned humor. Arwen takes her hand and helps her to her feet. It is then the pain is recognized, with a yelp the woman falls once again. She cradles her ankle, and though it is covered by boot and skirt, Arwen can see it is twisted at too odd an angle to be anything but broken.
Tenderly, she drapes the woman along her side, holding her firmly by her waist and arm. It is a slow process, but by the time the sun has fully risen they reach the temple doors.
If Arwen had the mind, she would blush at the mess, but as it is she leads her to her bed–still crumpled and warm from her broken sleep–and lays the woman in her sheets. Still, she laughs, though now they are strained and have long lost the palate of humor–it is simple embarrassment that keeps her going.
By luck it rained the morning before, though the creek is clear enough for her to collect its water, something in Arwen pales at the thought of leaving the woman alone now. Even for a moment. Arwen scoops a pot of rainwater from its collection outside, setting it to boil by the hearth. Quickly she grinds up a cup of herbs–athelas, as her father taught her, but white willow and clove as well–and as a last minute thought, chamomile for taste. While that steeps into the water, she prepares a stint.
“It will hurt,” she calls out behind her. The woman groans out an acknowledgment. “I’ll need to set the bone, but this drink here will aid in any pain.”
When she turns, the woman is staring at the ceiling–a mural of the Valar–all pretense of laughter gone. Now she is afraid, Arwen winces. “Here,” she says. The cup is murky and smells more of a garden post-spring than tea, but the woman takes it and gulps it down within moments.
“I’ll unlace these,” Arwen alerts. The woman turns her head, pressing her cheek into Arwen’s pillow with eyes closed in waiting. Carefully, she undoes her boots, it is not without pain but her foot comes out and Arwen assesses the damage. “Broken,” she murmurs, more to herself than the woman. When she hears her shaky breath, she speaks louder, speaks to her. “But not shattered. A clean break–easy to heal.”
It seems the tea has begun to settle, for the woman simply nods, drowsy-like, and lets Arwen handle it.
Her ankle is warm between her palms. “This, I’m afraid, will hurt regardless of the tea. Try to keep your breath even.” The woman nods and shifts her hands to grip the bedding. With a swift move–she yelps and the bone snaps–the ankle is returned to as it should be. Arwen latches the stint to either side, and wraps it together in twine. Her lips move in whispers, a language the woman cannot understand, but it stays the pain little by little, enough that she feels her body relax.
The woman slumps against the hay mattress, eyes falling shut. Arwen keeps an ear out for her as she leaves, returning with a cool basin of water and a clean cloth. Sighing out when the sweat is wiped from her face, she murmurs a thank you.
“What is your name, my lady?” Arwen asks, running the cloth along her neck.
“Éowyn,” she whispers. Arwen holds the name on her tongue like a wine.
—
Éowyn awakes bleary at mid-day. Arwen is nowhere to be seen in the temple, but sunlight bears witness to the unlit candles–and Éowyn can see the divinity that encompasses the space. Star maps litter the tables and walls, hand-made pottery spotted like the night sky lay in use, and in the small room she is in–set aside from the temple itself–she is surrounded by parchment upon parchment. The words are ineligible, she cannot read, and for the first time she curses that fact.
None of it represents what she knows of Elves. Mighty, clean, the embodiment of perfection. Yet, the temple draws from mannish ways–all tangled up. Besides the obvious affinity for silver, it is less Elvish than she’d assumed.
She floats back beneath the waves of herb-induced drowsiness, the sheets smell of earth and salt.
—
Midnight drips through the windows like goat’s milk. Arwen murmurs as she walks around the temple, lighting candle by candle. Éowyn goes to rise but finds resistance in her leg, reminding her of her limits. And so she rises enough to rest against the pillows, garnering more view of the temple behind the room’s door.
Beside her, a cup of water rests–she gulps it down wildly until her throat is no longer bark-rough and she can speak without fear of pain. “Priestess,” Éowyn calls. She hears the murmurs stop, and the soft padding of feet before Arwen appears at the door.
“How do you feel?” She asks. First she presses the back of her hand to Éowyn’s forehead, then moves to the bottom of the bed, peering at her ankle.
Éowyn hums, “it is not swollen, and the pain is less than it was.”
“Glad tidings, Éowyn.” Arwen refills the cup.
“You know my name–may I have yours? Or is Priestess all you go by?”
Arwen smiles, in the candlelight Éowyn thinks she blushes–but she doesn't know why. “Arwen Undómiel.”
“You are Elf?” Éowyn asks.
“I am. I hale from the last homely house east of the sea. Though I’ve been here for longer than your life span.” The bed creaks as she sits on its side. Tentatively she reaches for the twine wrapped around Éowyn’s throat, braided around a golden engraved horse. “And you are of Rohan, yes?”
Éowyn nods. Then rises with sudden thought. “Windfola!” she cries. “My horse?”
Arwen calms her with a touch. “Stabled, behind the temple. She fares well.” Éowyn breathes a sigh of relief, and lets herself be led back into the sheets. She glances around the room some more. Though Arwen blocks some of the candlelight, and the stars are hidden by clouds, she finds the ceiling once more–the Valar, nameless to her for the most part, stare down with watchful gazes. She finds the woman in the center, clothed in the blue-tint of night and painted with skin as pale as moonflowers. Éowyn glances back down to Arwen.
“I shall leave in a fortnight,” she promises. Arwen shakes her head.
“Nay, thrice that. A fortnight will leave you half-healed, and I suppose you will need to return.” She smiles then, and brings the cup to Éowyn’s lips. She tastes the herbs, thick as the night, full of bitterness and the promise of sleep. “The pain will subside by tomorrow, I’m sure.”
She sips and sips, until the tea is gone, and falls away into sleep.
—
This time she dreams of that Vala. She streams through the clouds as the starlight would, resting on the pale fields of Rohan in wisps of seafoam and wind. She sits atop a horse, not ivory like Windfola, but black as the night. Something in the air gives way to the scent of smoke and salt, of drawing, gasping breath. Éowyn stares up at the Vala–and the wind whispers her name.
“Elbereth.”
The Valar– Elbereth –cocks her head to one side, and smiles. It is gentle, kind, and whatever fear Éowyn might have had dwindles.
Something rests in Elbereth’s eyes. Éowyn does not understand it.
—
Éowyn rises in the morning to a storm. She is glad to find Arwen already beside her, asleep on a faux mattress atop the floorboards. The room is heavy with the aura of rain, somewhere the drips have already conquered the temple’s floors. Arwen shivers slightly, and so Éowyn drapes another blanket over her.
Her ankle is hateful, fiery, but the pain does not radiate up her leg anymore. With careful steps, she hobbles from the bed, to the desk in the far corner where she all but collapses into the chair–grateful the wood’s groans don’t wake Arwen from her rest.
The parchment has begun to roll with the wetness, back into the scroll it once was. They are all hand written, the penmanship a mass of careful black-ink swirls Éowyn presumes all Elves to have. Still, she cannot make sense of it. Rohan is devoid of books and readings, all their stories hale from the mouths of elders, documents come not to the Meduseld so much as couriers do.
Her fingers run across the dry ink, feeling the etchings in the parchment. A star map sits beyond the mass of parchment and Éowyn knows they are attached. Her curiosity burns, a sick embarrassment twisting in her gut. She barely notices–so focused on the unintelligible writings–Arwen’s awakening until a palm meets her shoulder, warmth radiates from the skin there.
“Teach me to read,” Éowyn asks before Arwen can say anything. But then the ask seems too much. “Or, at least, teach me your stories.”
Arwen huffs a laugh. “I can do both, if you’d like.” She frowns for a moment, peering down at Éowyn. “First, I’ll need to make you a crutch, if you are to be wandering now.”
—
Arwen paves a path through the temple, clearing the clutter she has collected in the decades since she’s settled here. Pots are moved, chairs and lanterns placed to the side. A clear walkway for Éowyn, who grumbles at the clunkiness of her crutches–still half covered in moss and lichen, a sorry pair of tree branches knocked down by the storm. She is glad at least the beetles and worms have fled.
They begin at sundown, for Éowyn is too full of herb-induced sleep and want to rest anymore, and Arwen never sees slumber until the moon reaches its zenith.
Arwen sits with a bound book, the leather sun-bleached and beginning to fray. The parchment itself–not parchment but vellum– complete with an arrow hole and the slickness of past-life. It is old, unbelievably so. Éowyn wonders how she can learn from something that is ancient. But, Arwen pries the leather from the page–no dust comes, though it is expected–and presses Éowyn’s fingertips to the first figure.
“I learned from this book, ages ago,” explains Arwen. Éowyn feels the warmth on the back of her hand and eagerly traces the lettering. “Shape it with your hand–it will help you remember how the letters go.”
“Common?”
“Oh, yes.”
Éowyn hums. “Could I learn Elvish?” Arwen stills, Éowyn continues to map the first letter, tracing it over and over.
“In time,” Arwen answers finally. “You want to read my work.”
The letter is imprinted in her fingertip, so she begins to trace the next one–she will ask what they mean eventually. “Yes,” Éowyn says, then asks. “Your work?”
“The creation stories have often been written only for the viewing of the Eldar. I feel it is my duty, and pleasure, to share them.” She pauses, and brings Éowyn’s hand back to the first letter. “Focus, Éowyn.”
“So you are writing them down?”
“Documentation is impertinent to the process, I am also translating. I regret to inform you that I know nothing of Rohirric, nor is it a language I can write. I have translated most to Sindarin and Westron.”
“What do I read now?”
“A book of tales. Come now, I should think the first letter is burned into your fingertips.” Éowyn pulled her hand back, making way to read the line.
Arwen clears her throat. “This reads: In the first age —“
Éowyn, knows enough common to understand, yet still finds herself falling short of all the wonderful words Arwen speaks. There are some words that remain unfamiliar, prodding at her mind with the sharp ends of their calligraphy. She hurries to follow the point of Arwen’s finger, but even that seems foreign as it moves along the slickness of the vellum. Éowyn breaths out a sigh, and Arwen pauses.
“Let us end here, you are tired—“
“It is only a fractured bone, Priestess.”
“The tea is still in your system, it can make one drowsy.”
Éowyn goes to roll her eyes but stops short, she hardens her gaze along the glade now grown dark and shaded by the trees. Even the moonlight is hesitant to bestow an opening in the air. In truth, she is tired, but whether that is due to the herbs, or her frustration, she does not know.
“Come,” Arwen lays a hand to the small of her back, helping her rise from the grass. “A little rest is due. In the morning we will continue the lesson.”
They clunk unsteadily into the temple, the thunks echoing through the room and bouncing off the stories gathered all around. Again, she sees the parchment as she is laid onto the bed. When Arwen lights a candle, Varda twinkles as a star.
Éowyn reaches for her hand before Arwen pulls away. “You need not sleep on the floor. I have taken your bed, much to my dismay, I see no reason why we cannot share it.”
“Nay, I could injure you more—“
“It is elevated, you can do no more harm than I could with my thrashing.”
Arwen laughs, a soft huff no louder than the gust of wind in the temple. “You do garner a rather restless sleep,” she jests.
“So I’ve been told,” Éowyn joins in the laughter. When it ends, she raises her palm once more in asking. Arwen sighs.
“I have my prayers to do.”
As disappointed as Éowyn is, she still smiles. “Will you at least tell me a tale? I very much want to hear more.”
Arwen stands a moment, before kneeling onto the bed. Éowyn can feel the heat of her body pressed against her hip, it sends a surge of energy up her body. She suppresses the urge to squirm.
“Very well,” says Arwen. Softly, she grasps into Éowyn wrists, palms upturned as if to pour the tales into her hands. Éowyn would gladly receive them, would gladly soak them up.
When she begins to speak, Arwen says the words as if she is singing spells.
The words carry that sweetness of tree sap, lined with ancient knowledge that Éowyn has no true way of understanding alone. Instead, she watches Arwen’s lips form the words, watches as her chest fills with air, and the hollow of her throat dips in and out with every sentence she speaks. It is a vibrant read, a tending to words that seem to have been always written–Éowyn surrenders to it, bares her head, bending it low, and allows herself to be draped in Arwen’s precious, devouring words.
In the end, Éowyn keeps her gaze trained on Arwen’s lips, shaping them until they are burned into her eyes. If she had the energy—which slowly drains until she is half-lidded, and as close to sleep as she is to death—she’d reach up and trace the pouring of words with her fingertips. Instead, she closes her eyes with no great effort, and sleeps.
—
Deep into the night she awakes as Arwen climbs beneath the sheets beside her. Her skin is warm, despite the fact that she has been outside—Éowyn knows, for she smells of candle wax and the deep breath of wind. She becomes aware that she has dreamt of nothing so far, and eager to learn more of the Vala Arwen praises, she trains her eyes on the dark gaze of Varda above her, listening to the gentle breath grazing her ear.
—
Her vision is hazed in a plum-purple, as deep as a sea of bruises. Éowyn all but collapsed onto the grand floor. No longer in a field, nor in bed where Arwen rested warm against her side, but in a hall of moonlight silver, with floors that glinted like chainmail and a ceiling tall enough to be called a sky.
It is disorienting, but healing regardless, for the air is fresh and clean and the world is bright.
Wind brushes against her skin, a whip of hair falling golden into her gaze. A hand comes to the small of her back; it is pale, and though far from cold, forces a shiver from her body. It rounds, until the body attached stands before her.
Varda—Elbereth—once again. Her cheeks are brushed with the purple of night, a cosmic blush, and when her eyes flicker between Éowyn’s—they appear as a shooting star, worthy of a wish. Varda’s palm rises, a soothe on her skin, until she cradles Éowyn’s cheek as a mother would (as she imagined her mother would, a thousand times over, forgetting if such an action ever took place).
Éowyn presses into the palm, aching. Letting the light of Varda and her hall fill her.
Neither of them speak, words too much for the hall. Éowyn’s throat is hallowed, frozen, caught as a moth flying into the sun. But the wind–the wind has not forgotten sound, nor speaking, and vibrant as the stars it does not let Éowyn forget either.
It speaks, in rushes and whistles, and Éowyn listens.
Elbereth
Elbereth
Elbereth.
—
Éowyn comes to with the name still on her tongue, lips dry from their countless murmurs. She has yet to open her eyes, but the cool touch of cloth against her forehead sends them open. Arwen stands above her, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “You speak her name.” She says calmly.
“I dream of her.” Éowyn answers.
“So do I.”
Éowyn wants to ask what she tells her. If it is anything at all like the dreams she has, the ones where she feels the darkness inside of her, and only the Vala can breathe the light into her. The stars welling up inside, one by one, clearing the meat and bone, pushing her lungs and heart aside—cracking open ribs to make room for only starlight. Instead she says nothing, relishing the coolness on her warm cheeks.
Eventually, once the sweat cools, Arwen pulls the cloth away.
“It is mid-morning,” she comments. “Let us read. There is much to learn.”
—
And so it goes. For a month, two months–as Éowyn heals, they take turns reading from Arwen’s book of tales. Éowyn traces the letters, and soon learns to sound them out–her tongue feels foreign in her mouth at times, but the ink scribbles soon resemble the words she often speaks, and that is a thrilling thought. And then, Arwen hands her a quill.
Arwen is the first word she learns to spell. Followed by her own name, and then Elbereth , the name she has repeated over and over until her mind is naught but that sound. Now, she imagines the letters taking shape, great swirls of writing mapped across her memory. Éowyn always returns to the image of the Vala. And after, watches as Varda morphs into the priestess, carefully forming like the spirals of lettering.
“My ankle feels better,” Éowyn says one morning. The light of the sun is warm, warmer than it should be on a spring day. Though, perhaps, that is the doing of laying beside another in the grass. Arwen sits up, the book falls from her hand, pages and stories strewn along the linen of her skirts.
It is the truth. The bitterness Éowyn’s ankle had raged–a war blocked by skin–is now gentle and soothed. With only the slight tenderness of a bruise. It is still far from healed, but with her crutches, she feels close to invisible.
Arwen presses her fingers into the yellowed skin there, watching for signs of a wince. Éowyn holds back a traitorous flinch–Arwen smiles, oblivious. “Yes,” she nods. “The break is not completely healed, but it is no longer fresh.”
Éowyn looks to the dark woods, tree limbs thick and spindly, flowers and leaves in full bloom. She feels a rush of air leave her lungs and looks longingly to the tree line.
“The forest floor will only injure you farther,” Arwen says. Éowyn deflates. “But you may help around the temple.”
Inside, the hall is a rage of cobwebs, half-lit candles, and ink splatters. As night falls, Arwen takes to relighting the remaining candles and lanterns. Éowyn, with less grace than she should have, stumbles to aid her. Together, in a sweet silence, they fall from wick to wick, and the temple grows golden.
The sun has yet to set, the sky strewn in the colors of a woven rainbow. Éowyn watches Arwen kneel down into prayer and a soft compulsion tells her to follow suit. It has been days since Varda last came to her, last whispered in her dreams. Though she has felt her presence now more than ever.
Caught in this in between, Éowyn instead takes to watching Arwen. Who whispers nearly silent, basking in candlelight so buttery Éowyn thinks she could begin to glow. Arwen’s hair falls down her shoulders like drips of wind–her eyes flicker back and forth behind their lids. Something tells Éowyn to kneel again, and it is not for Varda, nor for prayer.
A soft neigh in the distance calls her attention, and she forgoes collapsing onto the wood–leaving Arwen to her own praying.
Windfola bristles when Éowyn enters the stables, turning her nose up into the air. In a stable further down a horse dappled in cloud-grey rests. Quiet besides Windfola’s own restlessness.
“Oh, dēorling. Has it been that long?” Éowyn laughs aloud. Despite the attitude, Windfola accepts Éowyn palm, and the brush that combs through her fur. (Darling).
“I have much to tell you.” The horse neighs once more. Éowyn’s ankle gets the better of her, and so she sinks into the hay beside Windfola, laughing again when she gets a swift lick to the cheek–another check from the horse, and a reminder of home.
Éowyn begins. “The priestess–Arwen–is very kind.” Kind and sweet. Éowyn thinks. The temperament I would look for in a husband. Gentle, caring, learn-ed.
“Uncle asked me to consider marriage soon. Éomer thinks it absurd.” Windfola watches, wide-eyed as if she was actually listening.
It was the reason she had taken Windolfa, her kind understanding eyes. Galloping at the start of day through fields and plains until trees came into sight. So few reside in Rohan that the sight pushed her faster–staying away for more than a night was not what Éowyn had planned. But she was glad she did.
The words come out swiftly, but as soft as the setting sun. She speaks of the forest, and the glade. Her wound (Windfola licks at the ankle, tongue rough against the bruises), and reading. And Arwen. Mostly, she speaks of Arwen.
—
The slumber Éowyn falls into his sweat-filled, Windfola nestles against her. She dreams of nothing, for it is only a short time that she rests.
—
“Mae govannen , Priestess.” (Well met).
The voice belongs to a man, and though it is distant, it jolts Éowyn awake. Slowly stumbles from the stables, hay caught in her hair, out into the glade. Where, through the haze of freshly fallen sun, the moon not yet high enough to cast any light, she sees an Elf towering above the threshold. His hair is nearly milk-white, silver like a ring. He wears cloth rich in greens and browns and silvers. His horse bears a similar superiority.
He bows. Arwen returns the gesture. “Prayer?” She asks. The Elf nods and enters the temple.
Éowyn feels the sense of guilt eat at her gut, but she follows them anyway. A priestess has devotees. It is a simple thing, a well known thing. Still, Éowyn feels a surge, like a tithing, lapping wave, deep as the ocean and just as strong inside of her. She grips her crutch, until her knuckles grow pale, hobbling forward.
The words they exchange fall silent to her ears. Éowyn sits on the porch, inhales the growing night, and listens. And listens and listens. Until it becomes clear that nothing they say–if they say it, for she thinks now that the Elf is quiet in prayer, the Priestess as witness–will be for her ears.
It takes only a few moments before Arwen comes out again.
“You need not hide outside,” she says from the doorway. Éowyn is grateful for it, for the wood has begun to dig into her thighs, and she recalls rest as a warrior recalls home.
“Nay, I do not. I am simply giving… him privacy." She says the word like it stings.
“That is also not needed.” Arwen reminds again. She grows closer, kneeling down until she rests up against Éowyn's side. Without meaning to, Éowyn allows Arwen to hold her body weight, to take on her burdensome body.
They say nothing, but the question hangs in the air. Éowyn answers it. “It is not the same in Rohan–divinity is a quiet thing. Prayers are not spoken so much as thought of. Our temples are dark, hidden, smelling of fire-wrought stone and amber. Not like here, where worship is freeing.”
“It is different in the world of Men,” Arwen reaches out, wraps her palm around Éowyn’s wrist. She feels the blood pump there, as Éowyn feels the cool pad of her thumb. “Please,” Arwen says, something in there pleading. “Do not feel so ashamed here. Do not be quiet.”
The breath leaves her then, and Éowyn turns to find Arwen already facing her. Her eyes flicker around Éowyn’s face, making sense of it in the dark. She looks at her as if she is the most precious thing in the temple, worthy of all prayer. They are close enough for their breath to mingle, for Arwen to see the sun freckles splattered across Éowyn’s cheek, for Éowyn to see the intensity in her eyes.
Éowyn does not recognize her own leaning, until her forehead touches Arwen’s, and there she closes her eyes and sighs. Do not be quiet. Arwen had said. Not a command, and though touching on a plea, Éowyn had believed it to be more of a want, a desire, a prayer.
Do not be quiet.
Éowyn opens her mouth–
“Ah,” the Elf says from the doorway. Éowyn turns, frazzled, and Arwen is left half-leaning. The Elf is brighter up close, overwhelming Elven–the kind in the tales, tall and regal, shining like silver light dripping down leaves. It is the first time Éowyn notes how…human, Arwen felt.
The Elf dusts off his shoulders, the lantern in his hand swings from the temple light to the darkness. It only just illuminates the two, and Éowyn lets out the stuck breath, lungs relaxing when she realizes he did not see anything.
“ Novaer , Undómiel.” The Elf continues, bowing once more to Arwen. Then, he turns to Éowyn. His smile is genuine, though a little weary. “Farewell, my lady.” (Farwell, Evening star).
He makes for his horse, who had taken to grazing in the glade. The dark parts for him.
“Come,” Arwen breaks the silence. Strong as the wind she pulls Éowyn from the ground, helping her along. The air is heavy, but it is not uncomfortable–Éowyn is glad, for moments before she had been as near to sudden joy as she was to rejection. Both of which put fear inside her heart.
She stumbles over the doorway. Arwen is there to guide her. “There is stew inside.”
—
That night, Arwen climbs into the bed after Éowyn. For the first time, she holds her.
—
Arwen is, again, the first to wake. Éowyn lays warm against her chest, having rolled into her arms in sleep. She wishes to reach out and place a palm to her golden stream of hair, like a poppet doused in sunbeams. The thought itself sends a thousand bumbling bees into her breast—to card her fingertips or even a carved whale bone comb would be the delight of her spring. How dastardly, Arwen thinks, I've become an eager, red cheeked fool.
She picks herself up, ignoring the desire to stay abed. The wood is warm against the soles of her feet, a reminder that spring is underway and summer is close at hand. From the window she can see the glade, whipped by wind, colored by the welcomed season–and sets to invite it in.
Before she can rise from the sheets entirely, a hand grips her wrist. “Where do you go?” Éowyn murmurs, face pressed into the pillows. Her eyes blink like a cat’s.
“To pick flowers.”
Éowyn smiles, something like a memory crosses her face. “May I join you?”
“Hm,” Arwen hums. “Of course.”
She lets Éowyn dress, helping when she needs it. The glade outside burns like a sun-red sea–the flowers are far from wilted, even as the heat begins. It is a gleam of gold, and blues, and spiraling green stems. So suddenly they seem to have risen. And sweet do they smell.
Éowyn picks the first flower, a milkweed, and then a lily, and then an aster. Until her hand is bursting with the wildness of nature. Arwen adds a few stalks of yarrow. “For beauty,” she says. But her tongue falters: “too add to yours,” is left in her mind.
—
Éowyn fixes her eyes on the bouquet, a hand consumed by flowers, and then she raises her gaze to Arwen’s back as she walks in front. The sunbeams halo around her. Here she appears as more than a priestess. More than just Arwen. Something Éowyn cannot name.
Perhaps it is blasphemy, Éowyn does not truly understand the workings of the Valar quite yet, not the way the Elves do. But to her, Arwen is more Vala than she is Elf.
Do not be quiet.
—
“There is something in you–” Éowyn begins, words cowed by the way Arwen turns around. For now the wandering sunbeams drench her face, pale as the night, in this faint, sunny glow. Dappled blue water, starlight freckled among the atmosphere.
Arwen cocks her head, and the words burst forth. “There is something within you that I have fallen for.” Éowyn gulps. Arwen’s eyes soften, but it is not rejection, and so it only spurs Éowyn onwards, like a galloping, free horse. “It is unspeakable, something I do not quite know how to name. Yet, I feel it, as deep as a river, as swallowing as a forest. I do not–” And it is here her words fail.
The beat of her heart fills the glade. Arwen hears it, the steady thump coursing through her veins. Éowyn’s gaze falls from her seafoam eyes to the picked patch beneath her boot. Arwen is silent, which means…which means–
Éowyn’s face is lifted by a soft hand, fingers gentle against her chin. “Oh, Éowyn.” Arwen whispers. This time, when she leans in there is no one around, save the earth and the stars hidden by the sun.
“Éowyn,” she says again, the name a breath on her lips. And when they meet, a mingle of breath and a sharing of two thrumming hearts–Éowyn is sure nothing will ever be the same.
—
They stay like that, kissing and pulling back. Dissolving into each other and solidifying once again–until they are both dizzy. Yet, before Éowyn could surge forth for another kiss, she pauses Arwen's hand.
“Are you not chaste? In Edoras our priests swear an oath of celibacy.”
Arwen pauses. “We Elves do not think kindly of oaths. I've sworn to nothing. My pleasure is mine alone.” Not alone , a part of her thinks.
Éowyn nudges her cheek, bringing her back to the present. “Glad tidings,” she laughs. And kisses her again.
A kiss that seems to last weeks, and weeks. When they pull back they have grown sweaty in the humid heat, the sun beams down with ferocity. The air tastes like something bitter yet sweet–a blink of time, lost and savored.
Éowyn flushes when she catches Arwen watching her, there is kindness in her eyes, the breathless kind, deep as the sea, gasping.
And something else too, something–
—
The first night of summer her sleep is restless. She dreams of her uncle, ill, rotting upon a shroud-gold throne. Her brother, sick with worry, a cousin upon a battlement–fighting without hope, without love. And the grave of her mother.
Varda raises her eyes in question.
—
It is Arwen who awakes her, and not the dream itself. She is kissing away her tears, soothing the redness on Éowyn’s face and the salt that streams like an inlet. “Calm,” she says into her skin. “Breath.”
“I must–I must–” Éowyn can hardly get the words out, tongue sticking like tree sap, words unraveling in her mind. The dream fades little by little, but she remembers well how doe-eyed her family was, their pleading strong in the dream’s air. Arwen shushes her again, gathering her in her arms in an effort to calm her shaking body.
“Éomer,” Éowyn" gasps out. “Oh, Brother.”
“Éowyn, Sîdh please, Gurenín.” Arwen brushes back her hair, a mangled mess of gleaming gold grown wet with sweat and tears. With enough pressure, Éowyn’s body breaks from its never-ending shakes. Enough so to catch her breath, for her heart to end its incessant, harsh beats, and for Éowyn’s mind to find some semblance of calm. Enough for her to speak. (Calm, my heart)
Arwen releases her hold when Éowyn pulls back–it is only then that she notices she is shaking as well.
“I must–” she gulps, determined to fulfill the quest of finishing a full sentence. “I must return home–”
“It is late–”
“My brother will have grown sick with worry,” Éowyn says. “Uncle is ill, far more ill now I imagine then when I’d left. Oh, Arwen, I must see to them.” She does not mention the grave she was shown, a tomb she visited more often than not, surrounded with simbelmynë and the treads of her growing feet. She does not mention her mother, who lies in that tomb. If Arwen notices Éowyn’s shame, she does not mention it.
—
Éowyn, somehow, falls asleep once more. Locked in Arwen’s arms like a gem, floating in the abyss between reality and dream. Whether Varda visits once more, or the sleep in her eyes animate the painting on the ceiling–she doesn't know. What Éowyn does know is that she loathes the muted urging, Varda’s unspeaking mouth and vibrant, expressive eyes. How long will she go on visiting, silent, but demanding something from Éowyn?
In her delirium, Éowyn grows bitter.
—
Éowyn leaves in the early morning before dawn could grow. She presses a kiss to Arwen’s fluttering lashes and sighs a goodbye into her skin.
The glade is heavy with rain, Windfola stomps childishly in the mud but Éowyn is glad she does not lay down to roll in it–an injured gallop towards an injured home is enough woe to start this day.
Arwen steps onto the porch behind her, warm tea pressed into her palms. She offers the cup to Éowyn, and though the tea leaves no taste on her tongue, she relishes the warmth spreading out into her body.
She thinks of Varda’s star eyes, catalyst colors of purple and ivory. She stares into Arwen’s, soft, blue, and sad. Éowyn’s mind rumbles like a hungry stomach, she furrows her brows and gulps down more tea. “You are content?”
Arwen cocks her head, confused amusement graces her face. “I am-“
“With your candles, and stars, and prayers that go unanswered?”
“Varda cannot grant all my wishes, but if my asks are of consequences, then may the stars shine a little brighter.” Arwen grins. “My sweet Éowyn, if there is anything I should pray for, do tell me. I cannot ask for that which I do not know of.”
Éowyn scoffs, but the anger simmers to embers. “You know my quarrel! May you pray my longing stays its hunger? That my love for home grows larger than my love for you? Pray, Priestess, pray for my going.”
“Oh dear,” says Arwen. “I dare say I cannot pray for what I do not want.”
“No. As goes the will of the Priestess.” Éowyn’s face feels warm to the touch, she crosses the space between them to capture Arwen's hands in hers. “I had hoped for your denial.”
“Still,” Éowyn says after a beat. Again, her mind conjures the image of Varda’s face, the question in her eyes, the fate that lies fields away. “I must go.”
Though Arwen does not see the meaning in her words, she understands the bitterness in the departure. So she takes Éowyn’s hands, holds them in her palms, and kisses the lines there.
“Will you wait for me?” Éowyn asks suddenly. “If you know I shall return as soon as I am able?”
Arwen's eyes are kind and gentle, with a stoking fire beneath them. When she smiles, it is at once calming. Éowyn feels the rest of her wrath fall–the urge to kiss her all consuming. So she does, her anger cushioned by Arwen’s lips, cold water on a wound.
Arwen smiles into the kiss, breathing into her. Breathing from her. “I swear it.” The Priestess says.
It is the only oath she will ever take.
Notes:
i knew i wanted to write something long for them,,,whats crazy is i was so concerned it wouldn't even meet like 7k words,,,and here we are. sos long and took me like two months to write in full, but they infiltrated my brain and i couldn't stop writing.
I recognize that priestess/priests wouldn't exist in canon, but as i said--tis an au, and also I rarely keep to canon. most of what I write is non-lore compliant so who gaf honestly. it just makes the story much more emotionally impacting methinks. also I just want to write pretty women kissing.
comments and kudos are my reason for breathing--i'll also kiss you on the forehead if you do so.
thanks for reading, my friends >o<
Chapter Text
The tale of the Snowfall Sea is an embellished, fictionalized account of Éowyn's greatest—in her opinion atleast—foremother, Éadwine. Éowyn learned it whilst sprawled in the hay, smelling the cheap wine flavoring her maid, Olswith’s, tongue. Even then, still dulled by childhood and forgiving of slip-ups and inaccuracies, she found she adored stories. It was only in the temple that she found she could recount them as well.
Upon her return, she scours the land for ink, for feather tips not used in hair dressing, for animal skin not yet leathered and not yet eaten. When she finds it, Éomer does not breathe a word of question, not when he sees the fire in her eyes. What he does question is what exactly she writes. It is another look that silences that wonder as well. Théodred laughs in the background, a mumbled goad lingers as they walk the halls, leaving Éowyn to her lettering.
The vellum unrolls. Théoden King fares well, Éowyn writes. Éomer hates my going but knows better than to stand in my way. Théodred…there is unseen black blood on his hands. But he will not speak. Then, when she realizes Arwen would not know their names, scores them out and rewrites.
In truth, Théoden fares far from well, spreading like mold across his grand hall. Gleaming not from sun and glory, but from the harsh spray of spittle and worm-like words. Yet, it was Éowyn’s return that sobered the King up, enough so that he sent his advisor on a diplomatic venture, far far from his hall. Éowyn feels all the better for it, Éomer thinks it is not the end. Her cousin, somewhere, sharpens a blade.
Regardless , she continues. Her penmanship is sprawling, great jagged edges like a blade, smearing the vellum in a spill of water-like ink.
Éowyn loves it.
It is joyous, the pain in her wrist, the ache from the stretch in her palm. As the ink spills, she writes and writes and writes. Until the vellum is filled, and her mind not yet satisfied.
I have a tale to tell, in repayment for your many stories. Éadwine, she was called, a daughter of Lords, a Lady in her own right, a fierce face to behold. The first, and last, of the Rohirrim to meet the sea.
Perhaps it is from her that Éowyn learned to love the salt air, despite never seeing it. Seafoam eyes and storm hair, fair as the lightning when it strikes the waves. Perhaps Olswith is to blame for her wandering, for her mind set to roam.
With the limited space left, she signs.
I will return, expect me.
Your devoted friend, Éowyn.
—
A courier comes, drenched in rain, splattered in mud and foliage. His golden mane rises in the west and by the time he approaches the temple Arwen is on the porch with an outreached hand. It takes her no time at all to shred the wax stamp, vellum still wet from the kill. The words inside are scratchy, ink drips, with more misspellings than not but their intent is clear enough.
The man waits, and as quickly as she can Arwen returns the letter with her best wishes and a hope for Éowyn’s own health. The tale refreshes her, a lady of the sea. In return, though Éowyn did not ask, Arwen writes of the one story she has yet to tell. Varda’s creation.
Much too long for a simple letter, she tells it blasphemously short. Arwen hopes it is enough to quicken Éowyn’s return.
When Varda made the stars the wind stopped. No leaves were rustled, no dew rattled from its home. The birds batted their wings faster and the air settled in a honey sweetness previously unknown. Manwe stood still, watching in amazement as she lifted the ghosts of glory, pulling the gems of light up, up into the darkness. When the wind returned it wiped the tears from his cheeks.
The ink is smudge on the side of her hand, her neck bent until the wood of her desk is close enough to kiss her forehead. Outside the courier grumbles.
Arwen signs.
My heart waits for you.
Your faithful lover, Arwen.
—
The courier blends back into the horizon, horse tail wagging with the wind.
She lights a candle in the mid-day brightness kneeling on the sun-warm earth. Arwen prays, this once, for something other than peace and quiet starlight. She prays for patience.
—
Ink drips onto her bedding, staining the linen with splotches like a map. Éowyn thinks of a response, but as it is now, her mind is dazzled with images. Lifting lights and salt-like wind. And most of all, she pictures Arwen, bent like an elder signing the words.
Éowyn falls asleep somewhere in this, mapping the world, stretching her vision until she can see everything laid out like a tapestry. But sleep crawls in. Clean and warm. Dreams following close behind.
And it is, for the first time, a dream of the Priestess. Éowyn smiles into her pillow, lost in between reality and the longing of the dream. Somewhere, Arwen dreams of her too.
—
A fox calls in the forest, dancing through the weaving vines and reddening floor. The trees groan and bend in the damp wind, in the grass lay the patter of gentle, fury feet stumbling around for a place to settle. Here, Arwen kneels, a kettle sucking in the creek water, a jar of milk cooling in its stream. Beyond all of this, is a sound only an Elf would hear.
Windfola neighs from afar, and it is only for fear of frightening off the gathering wildlife that Arwen does not take off. Instead, as a patient and timeless Priestess would, she rises in a steady movement and glides to the tree line.
In moments Éowyn bursts from the forest, Windfola glowing ivory. The grass holds her fall, this time, she does not snap a bone, and bounces all the way to Arwen’s waiting arms.
“Ai!” Arwen yelps when Éowyn jolts her into a hug, her feet nearly leaving the earth. But she pushes the surprise away and melts into her, pressing her face into her golden hair.
Once she has caught her breath, Éowyn moves to pull away but Arwen’s arms are frozen and unforgiving. “My love! I smell of horse,” Éowyn cracks, blushing.
And while it is true, Arwen cannot help but remind her of the other things she smells of. Sunlight and sunbeams, and the whisper of rain on the horizon. The scent of horse, yes, but mixed with sweet spring barley and deer kisses. Amber found in a well of water, fire on a winter night, sticks of vanilla warmed by a summer sun. And the stars! The stars just as they were made, tinged with the salt of Varda’s tears, Manwe’s birdmade wind lapping at their light, stoking the fire. Burning and burning and burning.
When she grows quiet she finds Éowyn crying. Her tears are hued everything but sadness. “You unravel me,” she says.
Arwen kisses her cheeks until the blotchiness fades and they grow crimson for another reason entirely.
“How is your ankle?”
“Perfectly well,” Éowyn says, though when she shuffles by her body shifts along the earth oddly. Arwen dips a kiss to her brow when she passes, taking the moment to pull the reins from her hands.
“I’ll stable her,” she nods to Windfola, who is grazing on a squirrel’s winter preserves. One tug moves her muzzle from the pile–Arwen swears she hears the pinchy squeak of relief somewhere in the trees.
Once fed and housed, she returns to the temple. Éowyn sits cross legged, riding pants creased and sun-bleached. She spoons more herbs into the hissing pot in the fire, before reliving the kettle of its spot. “It is getting colder.”
Arwen hums. She had noticed how the wind began to bite and the glade’s grasses paled and sloughed. But she had also lived through many winters, and the sight of a season’s changing was as slow and unheeded as a slug’s journey. With Éowyn, she needed to keep track of the passing time, for who knew how long she would–
“It may be best for me to stay until spring,” Éowyn says, a coy smile growing as she plays with a spoon. The tea flushes a sunset orange, only a shade away from Arwen’s face. “Being that Rohan is a few days' ride, and who knows when the first snow will fall…”
The fire is no match for the heat thumping away in Arwen’s heart. “That is the smart choice,” she says, but her tongue is like a raving wave and to keep the monstrous joy in, she presses her lips to Éowyn’s.
“The tea is warm,” Éowyn whispers into the kiss. “So is the fire, so are you.” Arwen doesn’t pull back.
—
Éowyn is correct in her assessment, as little as it had to do with proper weather watching. The first snowfall, light as feathers on the arm of wind, fell four days later. Arwen awoke before the sun had risen, and the chill in the temple had layered her skin in frost. She rose quickly to bring the fire back to life, and brought her near-frozen limbs back around Éowyn to bring warmth to them both.
In the hush of a dark morning Arwen whispers a prayer. Though Varda is distant, and the stars surrounded by a cold far more piercing than a winter, some kind of light could bring a cozy heat back to the wildlife outside.
The words come softly, murmured into Éowyn’s crown. Arwen is nearly back into slumber when the temple doors are pushed open. She thinks, at first, it is only the rush of cold wind, for it is what spreads out into the temple, the bite creeps down her back. But she hears the curious step inwards, and at once is on her feet. Arwen throws a gown on, thick to keep from the chill, and steps out into the temple.
The Elf there, blinking owl-like at the fire and wax candles, at the maps and drawings, the paintings of the Valar who stare back just as curious, turns once she enters.
Arwen sighs. “Siora?” her whisper bites just as much as the wind. She pushes past the brief anger. “ Amman ? Man siniath?” (Why? What news?)
“Mae govannen, Arwen.” Siora chooses to ignore the sudden questioning, and inside gives a playful smile. From her gloved hand she produces a letter. “From Lord Elrond.”
Arwen pries the wax stamp off, the letter is short but wild with feeling. “I am summoned,” she says aloud.
“I figured. It has been ages since last you returned to Imladris.” Siora takes a look at the room. “Such grand halls…”
Arwen hums and places the kettle into the fire.
“I will wait,” Siora settles onto one of the chairs.
“It will take me some time to pack. It is not as if I can just leave the temple so quickly.”
“There are other temples, Arwen. Besides, I am patient. It will take twice as long for you to get rid of your companion.”
Arwen blinks, half-turning towards the closed chamber door. What advanced hearing she has, she should know Siora has better. Arwen takes in her knowing smile, and glares. “I will not be rid of her.” She closes her eyes for a moment in thought, when the kettle begins to hiss she opens them with conviction. “She will come with us.”
—
The beginning of the ride is awfully quiet. Windfola, as always, neighs with as much heart as she can, lungs bursting with song. Celebhith, the dappled horse in the stables, shuffles along, high upon the falling snow. Ahead, Siora rides atop of a silver horse, as bright as her eyes, and with all the stoicism of a king.
Éowyn rides softly beside Arwen, eyes straight. The Elf ahead rides with her back to them, hair coal-dark, but not as the blanket of blackness that Arwen possesses. No, not at all like a night under a new moon, but as the slickness of ink dripping. It is both beautiful and foreign. She leans closer when Siora moves up farther. “Who is she?”
Arwen knows Siora can hear, which is why her words come out none the softer. “A courier of atar –my father–and an old childhood friend.”
“She seems…” Éowyn fumbles for words, but Arwen reaches to lay a hand on her thigh. The warmth reaches to her heart.
“Siora did not like my going.” Is all Arwen says.
“The ride is only a threeday or so.” Siora calls from up front. Her horse stomps along the snow, but seems not to make any dent. “Imladris will be warm.” This she sends to Éowyn, who is swaddled in a thousand furs. “It almost never snows in the valley, it is swathed in magic!”
Arwen huffs a laugh. “Would it be my father’s blessing it would certainly snow. As it is, he defines winter as a ‘blanket of misery dredged from the depths of Manwe’s hateful nightmares.’ Pity. For I so like to run upon the surface.”
“How do you do that?” Éowyn asks, a pointed look is sent to both Celebhith and Siora’s stallion—both mounted on the snow in a thrilling show of strength and balance. Windfola seems not to mind her hooves are hidden by the fall.
“Easy,” Siora says. “You lift the reins.”
“Don’t mind her.” Says Arwen, Éowyn notes that this time her words are cradled in this soft nostalgia, gone is the bitterness. Her heart batters against her rib cage. Éowyn turns to the sky.
In the trees owls sit in slumber, hidden in their alcoves, feathers white as wind and just as quiet. If she strained she’d hear their hibernating breaths. One breaks open a piercing eyes—purple as a bruise.
“Ai!” Éowyn gasps, Windfola halts to a stop, as do Arwen and Siora.
“My heart,” Arwen reaches out, she threads her fingers through Éowyn’s and even through the leather of her gloves, she is warmed instantly. “What is it?”
Éowyn darts her gaze through the trees, eating up the bark and frost trailing up limbs. Owls sit, asleep, but none stare as that one bad. None show their gaze returned “I-“ she starts. But something churns in her gut at the way Siora has turned to look at her—contempt pulling at the edge of her vision. A curious shaded blush, not belonging to the wind as Éowyn’s does, rushing against her cheeks and ears. “Nothing. Nay, it is nothing. Windfola slipped in the snow I believe.”
Arwen’s eyes narrow, she squeezed Éowyn’s hand harder, warm palm digging in. But when the moments pass, and Siora kicks to begin again, Arwen lets go and follows.
The ride passes slowly, soon the sky darkens in a whisper of night. Still they go on. It is only when Éowyn nearly steers Windfola into a tree that the Elves halt.
“We shall shelter here.” Arwen says. A cave sits indented into the mountain side, the tree line shadowing it parallel. It is small, barely concealed but easily unheeded. The fire goes on, and Éowyn can see why.
“The wind will not be kept out fully, but the worst of it will be.” Siora crouches to warm her hands. “How about a song?”
Arwen laughs, solemn but grateful. Siora picks up a melody Éowyn could not know, and follows with words she is only beginning to learn. Arwen scoots closer, and Éowyn is glad for the cold is truly a menace this night.
“Is all truly well?” Arwen whispers in her ear. The purple eyes, deep against the white feathers, flash through her mind. She knows Arwen sees the jump, the wince. But she nods all the same.
She presses her forehead into Éowyn’s furred shoulder, her next words muffled. “Do not be quiet, dear heart.”
Éowyn sucks in a cold, biting breath. Her lungs feel like rock, frigid and solid. “I won’t,” she says.
Siora picks up a new song. Words in common this time. Éowyn does not hear it over the crackle of fire, and Arwen does not follow in song.
—
The journey passes in a haze of white. The ground soaks her to her knees when riding becomes too hard—Éowyn carries Windfola’s reins and guides them through the snow. Thankfully, the snowfall has stopped, but the remains have yet to melt.
It is hard on her, to feel so cold when warmth is but a step away.
Arwen journeys just beside her, finally the snow has beat her and she too walks with her horse.
But soon the snow seems to melt off, and they are left cold and wet standing before a glorious city. Siora tapers off, handing another letter to an Elf with a face full of seemingly unnecessary worry. Éowyn feels a pressure release, as if she had been wound tight with just the Elf’s presence holding her joints in place. Alone with Arwen her body relaxes, this is until she grabs her hand and pulls her along a narrow stone bridge. Windfola and Celebhith are reined in by a stable master, Éowyn pinches her horse’s snout and whispers goodbye.
“We ought to meet my father,” Arwen breathes out. She sounds confident but the grip she has on Éowyn’s hand reveals the nervousness hounding through her bones.
“I have heard of him,” Éowyn says. Arwen sends a shocked sort of look, cocking her head to the side. “In tales,” Éowyn explains. “He is a returning figure.”
“Ah, yes. That would be I.” Éowyn stops short at the voice, the looming statue of Lord Elrond sits upon a cushioned chair in a garden just at the end of the pathway. Arwen lets go of her hand, but not before giving it another squeeze, and almost skips the rest of the way. Éowyn is left wondering at her mystical balance.
“Atar!” Arwen takes the seat beside him, hands in his. “Tell me, why have you called?”
Lord Elrond clears his throat, the look he sends Éowyn is brief but it says much. “In time.”
Éowyn takes this moment to introduce herself, her bow low and noble. She hopes it speaks volumes to her thankfulness, for the lack of cold and snow, for the respite, for the daughter he raised like a bright flower. “Éowyn of Rohan, my lord.”
When he stands, Lord Elrond is shorter than she had imagined. Surely less imposing than the few Elves she had seen so far, but the furrow of his brow is less delightful. And though his eyes are kind, they hold a sadness she had never once seen, not even in the tombs of Rohan.
“Éowyn,” he says warmly. “I am glad to have you here, please take this time to rest. There will be a feast tomorrow, it would be wonderful if you’d join us.” The way he says it, soft but commanding, tells Éowyn this is not just a suggestion. The Elf that joins her at her side confirms this. She bows and sends one more lingering gaze to Arwen, who nods and holds her eyes, as if to send a calmness through the air.
The Elf, the one she had seen earlier with eyes of storm blue and just as somber, guides her through the halls to a chamber set with two hearths. When he leaves she lights them both eagerly, soaking in the flames lapping in the afternoon air. A maid brings in a plate of cheese and bread, a pot of tangy but warm tea, and a palette of something dark and bitter. When it is done, and her tongue is as heavy as her eyes, she lays long across the bed and sleeps just as the sun colors the sky purple.
—
It is night when Arwen asks again about Lord Elrond’s summons. The eagerness hidden in such limited, simple words. His study is swathed in the feeling of home, glass paintings from her youth hang from the walls, Elladan’s reforged blades sit slanted against the wall, a few wood carvings touched by Elrohir’s hand populate the shelves. But it is the sketches of them all, shades in charcoal and perfect in their many flaws, that make Arwen let out a shaky breath. She imagines Celebrian’s steady hand, sees it clearly, watches her mother sketch her face as she tries to keep her antsy feet still. Even so, her legs seem slightly blurred.
Lindir has come and gone, off to lurk in a corner until he can be of aid once more. In his place, a pot of tea simmers on the table before them, the firelight swims in the murky liquid. Elrond places his teacup back on the saucer with a distinct clank. “It is folly…to love a mortal.” Elrond mumbles into the room, forgoing whatever original reason he had to speak with her. Arwen can hear the exhaustion in his voice, can see, as clear as the image of her mother, how deep it goes.
“I-“ Arwen begins, and what she has on her tongue like a wine is a sweet rebuttal, something she is much too grown for. Alas, it is on instinct, a construction of childhood antics and a brother’s pointed fingers. So close does an “I don’t love her” sit, but it does not come out, does not leave her mouth and even if it had, neither her nor Elrond would have believed it. Instead, she falls into herself, the shadows of day lining her evermore, and whispers. “Folly indeed, but I cannot think of it so.”
Lord Elrond grumbles something she cannot hear, and takes an agonizingly long sip of his tea. Arwen follows, the bitterness something to rest her mind on.
“I had thought you safe, alone in your glade.”
Her smile is sad. “So had I. But it is not my hand alone working the world, the Song must perform even the most minute of details.”
“You have already made your choice. You must know that, she must know that. You cannot follow her in life.” The tea clinks down again, but the force from earlier is gone. The night drags heavily, a whip of wind blows through the window and presses against the angry fire. Beneath his weariness. Arwen can see–the sight alone sends a wave of sorrow down her bones–a deep fear. Fear that Eru will grant her another chance, that her choice to stay immortal will somehow grow null and void. And in the midst of it all, she, his only daughter, will slump away old and grey into another’s home, never to be seen but in books and tales.
“She does not know of any other way.” Arwen reaches forward to grasp his hands. “Oh, Ada. It will be painful, but I must feel it. There is no other way.”
Lord Elrond settles in his chair, woe shared between the two of them. The room blue with the settling of night and clouds, the fire whipping like a flag.
—
Éowyn awakes to the sheets brushing against her cheeks. The fires have gone down significantly, and the light is a cross between gold and a dim red. In the light, Arwen looks as if she is aflame. The look on her face adds to this warmth—such calmness, tinged with familiarity and fondness. Éowyn realizes she has been moved from the edge of the bed where she had laid, to the pillows, and buried like a babe beneath a bundle of heavy blankets.
“Keep warm. I will stoke the fire,” says Arwen.
In this delirium, Éowyn forgets whatever distance she had imagined along the journey. The need for warmth, for love and feeling, takes over. She pushes one pale hand out from beneath the blankets and immediately feels just how cold the night is. Arwen quickly envelopes her hand. “Join me,” she whispers, and is surprised at how pleading her voice is. “Please, join me.”
“Arwen laughs so silently it sounds only like a whistle of wind. “I will, my love.” When she pulls away Éowyn holds strong. “Just let me tend to the fire,” she laughs again, louder. “I will always join you.”
And when she does Éowyn is immediately enveloped in the warmth she has missed. As she wraps herself around Arwen, she can see through the window the beginnings of another snowfall, pale petals floating down onto the shining river.
—
It is no wonder when Éowyn stumbles along the training yard. There is no surprise when Arwen finds her in the armory, hand to hilt, and studying a tall, sturdy blade.
“It requires two hands,” she says as a way of greeting.
Éowyn laughs. “Which is why I shake,” she lets the weapon rest against the wall. Taking in the rest of the blades, and more–maces line the wall, wooden arrows marked with different designs and colors, their matching longbows beside them. A hand comes up to trace the sharpness of a blade nearest to her. In truth, Arwen is surprised Éowyn comes away uninjured.
“I know my way around a blade,” she explains. Then pauses, as if the idea needs more clarification. Arwen smiles and lifts a sword from the wall, it is light, a shining silver with leaves encrusted in the handle. She swings it around, twirling it upon her fingers, listening with pleasure at the whoosh that sounds out.
Éowyn stands in slight awe. “As do you, it would seem. I would ask that your boasts be lessened, so as to not hurt my dear, human feelings.”
“Too much?”
“Far too much. How like a peacock!”
Arwen lets her laugh ring out, sure and bell-like. When she returns to herself, Éowyn is closer and reaches to grab the hilt. She lifts the sword, holding both the handle and Arwen’s wrist, looking at her through the reflection of the blade. “It is different here, once again. Your women wield swords without your men feeling frail in comparison.”
“A sword is a sword, no matter whose hand holds the hilt,” says Arwen.
“Yes,” Éowyn mumbles. Her gaze holds through the blade, eyes deep and true. Reverent in the way they squint beneath golden lashes. Arwen feels herself flush and immediately feels foolish for it. It was entirely too easy to blush in her presence–all Elves burned in the sun, even those with prayers for starlight.
Éowyn breaks the stare and her smile turns teasing. “Well, come along then, let's test your Elven skills.” She lifts her original sword, two handed this time, and lightly clashes it with Arwen’s. It is light enough for her to keep her hold, but the potential is there, and Arwen feels her opponent is a worthy one.
“When I win,” Arwen says. “I should like a kiss.”
—
Arwen slices through the air with no real intent to hurt, but the breaking of blades is a fortunate thing, and so when Éowyn smashes her blade in retaliation the reverberation in her bones feels like butterflies. She catches another hack from the blade and smiles through the pain it sends down her arm. It is like a dance, this fight, Arwen twirls through the yard feet barely touching the ground as she moves. Éowyn follows her lead, circling, cavorting in a way that is bordering sophisticated. She speaks true , Arwen catches herself thinking.
“Such knowledge can only come from years of practice,” she says aloud. Another move, and she strikes Éowyn’s sword nearer to the hilt, she curls a smile when her hold does not break.
Éowyn huffs a laugh. “It is frowned upon in Rohan for a noble lady to wield a blade,” she lunges forward when Arwen steps back, thrusting the blade to the side. It is with great difficulty that Arwen dodges in time. Her heart hammers, thumping like a caught bird in her chest. “But it is not within the power of many to stop me. Especially once my skill grew.”
Another step back, this time Arwen is able to both dodge and raise her own sword. In a blink she clashes the blade with an Elven strength, and casts both Éowyn’s hands to the side. Éowyn gasps out, but keeps her hold. “And you?” she says once she catches her balance, glad Arwen has given her the time to do so. “Was it much trouble to learn?”
“Not at all.” Arwen’s breath comes out in a fog of cold air. Éowyn’s determination puts a wrench in her usual strategy of side stepping. She lunges forward this time, catches the blade on one side. Éowyn is pushed back with a sharp gasp. Arwen continues. “My brothers had me out in this field the moment I could balance on two feet. My father grumbled but made no move to end such training.”
When she pushes forth again, Éowyn follows once more, stepping back and back until her shoulder blades collide with the armoury’s exterior wall. The brick is cold, even through her layers and despite the heady blood pumping through her now. “You have had ages of training.” Éowyn says, but lifts her blade to block nonetheless. The clang is crisp, ringing out like a bell as Arwen’s sword collides. Together, they slide until both blades separate them at the neck.
“Many, many ages,” Arwen breathes out. The fog of air surrounds them, this close their breaths mingle and it is only then Éowyn realizes the chill that has blanketed her face. Her cheeks are rosy from the wind and exertion, her nose cold to the touch. Arwen smiles, her blade falls. “I believe this is my win.”
“Take your prize, Priestess.”
Arwen leans forward, nuzzling into Éowyn’s frozen skin before connecting their lips. Chapped and wind-weary, the kiss taste of winter on the cusp of spring. Éowyn jolts when Arwen’s bare hand comes to rest on the side of her neck, surprised by the warmth of it, then relishes in the way her skin seems to defrost. When Arwen pulls back Éowyn chases her as if the kiss was not enough, her loss forgotten now.
Arwen presses another quick kiss, nipping at her shining lips. She laughs into her. “You are far too cold,” she says. Then reaches a hand to dab at the sweat beading at her own temple. “A bath?”
—
The bathing house is all but empty by mid-day, and so it is only Éowyn and Arwen who slink into the hot water rising with fragrant steam. Éowyn feels her body end its chill shake, the water so deliciously warm her skin begins to turn a pale pink under the surface. Arwen sits beside her against the slick rock, head tilted to stare at the wrapping vines along the ceiling. Éowyn chooses to place her gaze against the statue from which water pours–an Elven woman draped in stone skirts adding to the bath. Sprigs of elderflower and chamomile float along the surface, and every so often a white flower bobs by carrying its sweet scent like a sail.
When her body is sufficiently warm, Éowyn rises slowly to the surface letting her the cold air burden only her shoulders. The priestess rests above her, the water lapping against the skin of her waist.. She brings her hand to Arwen’s arm, watching the water run down the same stone-like skin.
“It snows like we’ve caught Manwe’s ire outside the valley,” Arwen whispers, eyes blinking open. “It would be wise to bear the winter here, and to bring you to Rohan along the way back.”
“You would dispose of me so early?” Éowyn jests, but she cannot bring herself to smile with her words. Something stings within her, as if she has swallowed a blade and waited for its torture to enter the rest of her mortal body. She has not dreamed since entering the valley. But her sleep has been far from blank–night is filled with dreams of Arwen, so real when she wakes she does not know which reality she lies in. And yet, by day she feels even more fevered. A season ago, she had never known Elves outside of tales. Fanciful, raving tales woven by those who had themselves never seen one. Here, she was surrounded by them. And, in love with one.
Arwen watches, observant as ever she does not laugh. “ Gurenin, ” she places a wet hand to Éowyn’s cheek, bringing her back from her mind. “It is not disposal. Far from it. Only a wish to have you in comfort, in home. I would ask that you return me in time–for I shall miss you greatly.” (My heart).
Éowyn smiles slightly, pressing into Arwen’s palm. “We should enjoy the time now, winter is only just beginning. We needn’t think of the after.”
“As you wish,” says Arwen, sinking further into the water. More steam rises up and Éowyn can’t help the way her pulse jumps when Arwen is hazed in the fog–skin bare and satin. She swims forward, grazing her skin along the rock beneath her, until she feels her legs meet Arwen’s.
“Speak to me,” she bares herself, her desires, to Arwen.
“ Guren min gain lín, ” Arwen whispers, tracing her lips along Éowyn's temple. Finding it easier to convey her love when Éowyn knows so little of what she says. “ Bainloth, glîrnín . You mean everything to me.” Arwen continues, her face pressed into Éowyn’s cheek, lips near her ear. “And I shall love you—“ (My heart is in your hands). (Beautiful flower, my song).
“Even when I grow white? When the moons grow in number and I am nearing my end?” It is the wrong thing to say, Éowyn knows this as soon as she says it. To bring up her death when such a moment had been light. Yet, the thought itself is so sudden she cannot keep it from escaping, not when her mind is liquefied by Arwen’s very presence.
To her surprise–and appreciation–Arwen does not lessen her smile, does not let the terror in her own heart bleed out into the room. Instead, she lingers. “Even then. Oh, Éowyn, the best stars glow like elderly heads in the night, the moon himself an enigma of swan feathers and jasmine petals. I will love you until the end, and even then, my star, even then.”
Éowyn sighs out, feeling warmer than she had, and collapses into Arwen. Sweet steam rises around them like a cloud.
Notes:
was absolutely cheesing when i wrote the sword fighting scene,,,
hope you enjoyed!!!!!
Chapter Text
It is past the worst of the winter–little of it seen inside the valley, which save for the first night, has not once snowed or been frighteningly cold–by the time Éowyn’s slow and savory exploration of Imladris takes her to the library.
The floor is marbled and awfully slippery, Éowyn catches herself on the cusp of falling too many times for her mind and motor, as she directs her focus on the capacious hall. Bookshelves made of red brick rise to the high ceilings, where the heads of colorful glass windows let in an array of sunbeams–pouring down like honey on the dusty old books. Chairs sit unused beside many of the windowsills, tables and cushions surround the hearths–many filled by scholars and guests alike–and as the library continued, artifacts laid hidden behind glass panes.
Éowyn slid once more, this time to a stop. This aisle of books held a wooden side just above it, swinging lightly in the room’s wind. The carvings were in Sindarin–at least to her knowledge–but beneath held the Common translation for her and other guests’ understanding.
Poems W-Z.
She runs a finger along the shelf as she goes along, plucking the first book to catch against her nail. It’s smaller than the rest, leatherbound but not cracked and sun-bleached. The cover barren but for a name engraved into the spine: Arbane Yelfiel it read, and she finds herself proud that the name brings her no difficulty. High on this feeling, Éowyn takes the book to one of the open chairs, resting her head against the warm window, and opens the first page.
From the few poems Arwen has shown her, Éowyn expects a long-winded portrayal of Elven propriety, the stings of mortality, and a waxing tale of the beauty of both tree and leaf. In fact, in all the time she and Arwen had been discussing the subject of Elven poetry, they had only read one, and were still in the meat of it when they left for Imladris. A ludicrously lengthy admiration for the courage of the life of weeds in the Southlands. Precarious. Not at all like the poems of Arbane Yelfiel, whose first page was short by Elven standards.
The words of the first poem are not at all overlong—a simple poem of a few stanzas in length–and only of love. Éowyn runs a finger along the words, just as Arwen taught her, though now it is more of a tradition than it is a necessary requirement for her reading. The words sound just fine on her tongue, not clunky as they had been, or foreign like Sindarin terminology still is. Éowyn takes in the empty space around her, nothing but sunbeams and particles of dust floating along them, before reading the poem aloud in a breathless whisper.
“Lover, doth thou know how I/pray over thou soul/thou every move a lick against the harshness of thy life/soothing the ache of being/as a vice I can never surrender/and though our love may not be forevermore/I know more than anything that it shall bloom and hold a space in the world/as proof of hallowed goodness.”
Éowyn drinks it in as one would air, swallows the words and their meaning. Again, she burns them into her fingertips and dredges up the person beyond them. Arbane, she thinks, whom do you love? The answer lay in the remainder of the book, surely. And so, Éowyn turns the page.
The remainder of the morning is spent like this, saddled up with Arbane Yelfiel’s undusted book of poems, knees pulled taut in an oak chair near a sun filled corner. Page after page, she devours Arbane’s love, soaks up what remains of this centuries old romance, and turns the page once both mind and hand have taken in what is written. It has been so long since Éowyn learned of another's love, few tales in Rohan covered it, and Arwen kept to creation and adventure literature. But once, when she was but a wee girl, Olswith–feigning not to have a flush down her neck–told her of the meeting between her and her husband. It had been nothing like these poems, a rather bland tale in truth, but Éowyn could not deny how it made something gallop within her heart.
She returns to herself when her stomach says something fierce. The sun has bent along the sky, turning her seat sunless–the world around her is once again in motion, the library’s inhabitants rise from their seats and close their books, turning to the doors. It must be about lunch, Éowyn ponders, if not a bit later, for she has read most of the day away. She traces one last line before placing a loose thread from her gown to hold her place. Then, with her stomach leading her on, rises with the others.
Turning the corner of one of the lengthy shelves, she spots the darkness of Siora’s hair, stark against the marble. It takes her half a second too long to register who it is she peers at–not enough time to avoid the Elf’s eyes.
“Éowyn!” Siora calls, voice far too loud for a library, and descends upon her. Keeping pace beside her is the quiet, high-strung Elf from earlier. He pinches a brow, but does nothing to leave Siora’s side. “Éowyn,” Siora says again once closer. “I am glad to have caught you.” Éowyn has half a mind to believe it.
“I am easy to catch,” she jests half-heartedly.
“How are you liking Imladris? Is all to your tastes?”
“Very much so.”
“Ah! See, Lindir?” Siora pats the shoulder of the Elf–Lindir–who quickly slides from her grip. “No need for such worries, all new guests have enjoyed their time here so far.”
Lindir composes himself, tugging against Siora’s hand and fixing the collar of his robes. He pulls his lips into a fine line, but smiles in a way that tells her he truly is glad she fares well. Lindir bows perfectly–an age of restrained proprietary showing. “Glad tidings,” he says. Then, draws his gaze to the book Éowyn clutches in her hands. “Poems, yes? A marvelous pastime, may I?” He holds out a hand, in which Éowyn places the book a bit reluctantly.
“Ah,” Lindir says, a finger traces the spine. “Yelfiel. Witty in reality, lovesick in her pages.”
Siora gasps. “Arbane! Why, it's been an age since she was here. Did she bind that herself? I cannot remember…”
“For the most part, Erestor might have helped. She was always writing, it was a tad difficult to bind but one book of hers.”
“You knew her?” Éowyn interrupts. She takes the book back into her hand when Lindir offers it. Again, she traces the name, and this time feels she can put an actual person to it. Lovesick, Lindir had said.
“She stayed here for a few years. Half-elven,” Siora looks for agreement, to which Lindir nods. “Nay, but not the blessed kind. Mortal, which is why I think she spent half her life quill in hand. A way to immortalize her love for…” Siora pauses. “Forgive me, I’ve quite forgotten her lover's name. Lindir?”
He too pauses, and furrows his brow. “Something with an ‘M’ I believe. A quiet woman. Not all at like Arbane.”
“Opposites attract,” Siora says.
Éowyn stares through all of this, but her mind is elsewhere. White-knuckling her book of poems she glances towards the open doors, and hopes that her run will be afforded some grace–and that the marble floor will not take her down. “Truly, she sounds lovely. I have enjoyed my time lost in her writing. I did wonder of who she wrote. Their love must have been great.”
Siora sighs, a bit of the earlier humor and overwhelming exuberance fleeing like the wind. But she swallows, and sucks in whatever vulnerability had tried to seep out. Éowyn unconsciously cocks her head, and Siora snaps back to a smile. “Great indeed,” she bows." Arwen favored such poems, perhaps she would enjoy your reading them.”
“We are beyond lucky to have such a show of devotion in our library. You are welcome to borrow Yelfiel’s poems while you are here.” Lindir places a palm to Siora’s back. He nods once, a slight bow. And then, they are gone.
Éowyn tucks a finger back into the spot she had left off on and draws the book inside her robes. She heads towards the great, wide doors, careful not to slide across the marble.
—
In Rohan, Éowyn had grown accustomed to boisterous meal times. Even as one of the nobility, she sat shoulder to shoulder with her people, loud and mead-filled. But the crowdedness of Imladris dining hall is different, for the Elves are quiet in their words–silent in fact. The few mortal guests are strewn across the hall. People pick at a great pile of food like birds to carrion. The Elves stare into each other’s eyes as if conversing in some unique way. Éowyn shivers, but is thankful that Lord Elrond is not there to witness, and Arwen is absent as well. There is no need for her to stay.
Her stomach grumbles regardless, and to appease it she glides towards the table. She fills a large plate with an assortment of food–steamed buns and soft butter, olives, grapes, with slices of sweet cheese. Éowyn cuts into a roasted pheasant, and nabs a few figs. Finally she places a dollop of some kind of pudding on the remaining spot in her plate. While the plate is quite heavy, she does not think she need go far with it, for just outside the grand windows, she sees Arwen kneeling in prayer. With her free hand she takes a thimble-like glass of watered down wine, and slips out the door.
Éowyn remains quiet as she walks up to Arwen, but she hears her nonetheless. She is knelt inside a stone structure, ivy carvings along the many columns, and a ceiling made to show the sky. Arwen turns as she approaches, knees perched still on a threaded rug. Éowyn smiles in apology.
“Forgive me,” she says. “You are praying.” She sees a table with two chairs, and gratefully sets the hefty plate down. The seat there is cold, but Eowyn takes it regardless.
“I am overdone,” Arwen huffs a laugh.
“I brought food, you should eat. I did not see you at the morning meal.”
Arwen moves to take a seat across from Éowyn. She is flushed, cheeks apple-red. Éowyn wonders if the winter wind has numbed her own face if Arwen can feel such chill. She sips some wine, earthy and tastes the river’s spring.
Arwen had been praying yes, but something in the prayers had failed. Here, she lost the tranquility her temple and glade provided. There was a peace there where only wildlife could nip at her. Arwen rips into the food and places a warm roll onto her tongue, the sudden warmth spreads out from her stomach in waves. She looks to Éowyn, cold by winter but golden as a flame.
Folly. Arwen thinks to herself. And then some.
—
After a cheese-filled lunch, Arwen returns to her place upon the floor, desperate to find some state of meditation. Éowyn places a kiss on her hairline and leaves her to it. The rug has grown cold in her absence, and what shelter the gazebo provides does nothing for the wind and frozen earth. Nevertheless she finds it helps distract her mind. She does not know how long she prays for–an hour or the remainder of the day–but when she opens her eyes the sun has begun to set and the sky is blanketed by clouds.
An owl as white as milk perches carefully on chair Éowyn had been.
“Hello,” Arwen says quietly. The owl blinks, swivels its head and gnaws on one white feather. Arwen stays put, knees to the earth, but her heart tugs. Her mind wanders the edges of herself. Pale skin straining against this owl’s orbit, eyes the dizzying purple of stardust, and peering down at her as if it could speak. Arwen is not a fool, this is no Varda, but as the eagles are an extension of Manwe, and the freckles of seafoam an appendage of Ulmo–Varda too has her soundless call to make herself known. Clarity returns tenfold, so suddenly Arwen feels as though her bones vibrate with knowledge.
“Yes,” she whispers aloud. “Yes.”
No matter what others have said, her prayers were always heard. Even in the ivory non-resonance she imagines Imladris to hold.
The owl flies off with a silent wind beneath its wings. The clouds part, letting moonlight trace its path.
Arwen sits until her knees grow numb. She only just decides to rise when Siora climbs the stairs to the gazebo. They stare for one pregnant quiet moment before she bows. “Lord Elrond has requested your presence at the overview.”
“ Hannon le , Siora.” Arwen slides past. Before she can make it to the stairs, Siora calls out. (Thank you).
“You are leaving at the end of winter.” It is not a question, but her brows pull together, and there is something desperately close to pleading in her words. A hope that Arwen denies this journey. When she says yes, Siora seems to sink. Bowing once more before she passes Arwen on the stairs, bounding down the stone steps with no effort at all.
Arwen pauses, but continues her walk carefully down the stone. The overview is not far from her, even from here she can see two figures standing atop the look out there.
As Arwen approaches she sees Éowyn’s golden crown vanishing into the moonlight. Soft, winter slippers keeping time against the stone steps–there is woe in her walk and Arwen turns to face her father, who only keeps her gaze.
They stand before the river, Ithil bouncing off in swirling blades of light. In the starlight the valley glows like a firefly, golden and silver as the Trees.
There is a look in Elrond’s eyes, one that he seems to carry with him like a limb. Knowing, aware, all-seeing with a tinge of caring, worrisome, judgment. Arwen does not know if this is due to his omniscient clairvoyance, or the simple fact that she is his daughter and he is her father, and he can see the truth running through her without much more than a glance.
His words drip like water, soothingly distorted. “You should have sailed.”
When she speaks, it is directly to him. “ Like Nanneth?” She watches as he flinches, and does not take heed to stop there. “ I have not grown tired of this world, atar.” Arwen breathes, and for the first time, Elrond is the one to break eye contact, turning to blind himself on the shine of the river.
She continues. If she could whisper in her mind, she would, but as it is, when she speaks it is nearly a shout, echoing within both of their heads. “I have stayed. I will stay. There is not, nor will there be, anything to heal within me.” Neither of them speak more, but Arwen can feel the pain radiating from him, as he, she is sure, can feel the truth billowing out from her: And if there was, it says. She would be the one to heal it.
—
Winter ends as swiftly as it began. The last biting chill nips at Éowyn’s bones, wind so cold she fears warmer days will never return. Alas, the sun rises one morning, and the heat that follows defrosts her from fingers to toes. It is two weeks later that Arwen brings up a return journey.
“And I will go to Rohan,” Éowyn says bitterly though she misses her home something fierce.
“It is not so terrible,” says Arwen. She places her gaze into the silver looking glass–staring behind her where Éowyn lays upon the bed. “At least, you can write letters as you did last time.”
Éowyn hums, pressing herself back beneath the sheets. But soon, and much to her chagrin, she grows too hot. Her winter sleep gown is thick and heavy, and not yet ready to be packed away. It is the middle of day, never before has she lain in bed until after the sun had risen–but Arwen can be very persuasive.
“Do you not miss your people?”
“Everyday.”
“Then,” Arwen pauses. “Then why do you stray from your home?”
“I fear its edges,” says Éowyn simply. She pulls herself from bed, relishing the breeze from the open window. “I have loved only my people, my home, and what I’ve known for so long that I did not think my heart was able to fit anything more.”
Arwen cocks her head. Éowyn comes to rest against the vanity. “And then. I met you. And the borders I had concocted held a surprise door—this imaginary locked chest, sprung open. I realized there was some much needed room to fill.”
“You fear locking the box once more.”
Éowyn leans down to deliver a kiss. It is slow, as if time had paused itself and let them both remain connected for eternity. Eventually, when the air runs out, Éowyn pulls back. “I fear, Arwen, that this is all but a dream. If I return to Rohan, will all that I’ve learned return with me?” Arwen rises, peering down with a sick pity. A hand raises to hold her face as if she is a sip of water. “It is foolish. A child’s nightmare.” Éowyn says.
Arwen scoffs a laugh. “It is an honest trepidation. But I would see to it that such folly does not keep you from your people.”
“Yes,” Éowyn whispers. Arwen sends her a look. “Yes,” she says with a bit more conviction. “The courier will tire of me. A letter a day.”
“I shall await it each evening.”
“When do we leave? The frost is not all gone…”
Arwen thinks for a moment. “Nay, but we traversed the plains in the snow. Frost will not deter us. I should think…a fortnight will give us the grace to pack.”
“A fortnight it is, my love.”
—
On the eve of their departure, Éowyn dreams.
—
Varda is there when she opens her eyes, not floating down like a feather, or whispering in the wind. The Vala sits poised like a queen in a chair forged from tree limbs. Rickety branches poke from the sides, ivy crawling around the legs. It creaks and groans as if still living. Varda peers at Éowyn from her seat, purple eyes dark as the night and all seeing. It is the first time in months that she has appeared, not winged, but truly appeared in Éowyn’s dream. And her gaze speaks no different, it holds no clarity.
Éowyn cannot find it within her to seethe, to attempt the bitter and vicious demanding of answers she has told herself over and over she would do. Instead, she kneels in the grass, legs twitching when it prickles her skin. She doesn't raise her palms as Arwen does, or close her eyes in prayer. This isn't a true prayer. She is no devotee. No parishioner with a lit candle waiting for Varda’s momentary gaze–no, Éowyn is here for answers, as a guest, as a friend.
She finds her mouth, tongue viable, words joining together like skin and tendon. “I ask…of what do you want from me?”
Varda cocks her head, her face mirroring Éowyn’s own–a combination of awe and questioning. Éowyn loses her breath when she speaks, for Varda sounds like the wind, like birdsong and tragedy. Something so genuinely inhuman it raises the hair on her neck, but still it sounds through the air like homesickness and lands in her mind as a mother’s sweet, sweet words. “I desire nothing, child. I am here only to lead.”
“To lead me where?” Éowyn sucks in the air to ask. It is cool and honeyed.
“Here,” Varda says as if it is obvious. “Oh, little one. You were meant for far more than duty. As was she.”
“Arwen?” Éowyn asks. Varda raises her brows as if to say ‘ who else?’
“She is your Priestess.”
“Yes. And she is like a child to me. All of you are. Elf and Man. A creation of my creator—dedicating such mystical lives to my creations.” For once, Varda turns her gaze, taking her focus to the stars alight above them— Telumendil blinks.
Éowyn bends forward, pressing her hands to the earth to ground herself. “You have guided me to her?”
Varda smiles, Éowyn thinks she looks just a tad more human now. As if she is trying to mimic Éowyn’s own mannerism, whilst keeping her own appearance. It is oddly comforting. “In a way, but it was your feet that tread the path. I was glad to welcome you.”
The tree bends around moving with Varda’s motions, adapting to her. She stands, and the tree limbs form back into what they once were, an oak wrought with acorns soon to fall. Éowyn joins her, standing tall. Gazing up at the looming Vala she clears her throat. “I should be thanking you then, for your welcome, it has greatly eased my understanding of Arwen.”
Varda nods once, great boughs of dark hair float around her. “She has much more to show you.”
—
It is but the break of dawn when they lead their horses along the stone path, down the winding bridge, and pause in front of the wood. Éowyn leads Windfola, who snorts in the warmer air and stomps a hoof along the stone as if to make song. Celebhith travels with no lead, following Arwen like a child. At the tree line, and the end of the worn stone path, many stand readying their goodbyes.
Lord Elrond bows as they approach, taking Arwen’s hands in his. They speak so quietly that even when Éowyn strains she cannot hear. Windfola nibbles at her shoulder and she turns, only to find Siora standing like stone. The Elf bows, then passes off a scroll bound with an oaken leather. “The rest of the poems,” she says. Éowyn takes it gratefully. In the weeks since she had first read the love poems of Arbane Yelfiel–and subsequently learned Arwen’s childhood appreciation of them–she has taken to making copies to bring home with her. It had taken her longer than she had hoped, and in the end only copied a book and a half. Siora, apparently, had finished the remaining.
Éowyn tucks the scroll in her pack, making sure Arwen had not seen.
The Elf bows again. “Farewell,” Siora says, eyes shining. Something within Éowyn’s vision switches, not abruptly, but as a fine tune would pluck the discord from a lyre. Her eyes see the sorrow in Siora’s–the grief–and Éowyn knows she would mirror such a look if she too lost Arwen’s admiration in a slow descent of years. Perhaps Siora thought Arwen would be her lover forevermore, perhaps she had penned down a myriad of poems announcing the softness in Arwen’s eyes, and the sweetness of her midnight hair. Perhaps, she had lived Éowyn’s nightmare when Arwen chose the stars over her. But all Éowyn can do now, with her limited time, is acknowledge it. The love that once was, the space Siora had held. The years that Arwen did not spend alone with only Varda’s purple eyes and a devotee’s wick, cold on a winter’s dim night.
Éowyn nods, bows–even if this is uncalled for, noblewoman to courier–and takes Siora’s hand.
“ Hannon le ,” she says, peering into her eyes. It is Siora’s shaky breath that tells her she understands. (Thank you).
Lord Elrond approaches her next. His eyes are soft, painfully so–similar to Arwen’s with how they seem to hold onto everything they see with a tinge of sorrow. “Lady Éowyn,” he says, hands warm against her. He leans in as if Arwen cannot hear. “Take care of her.”
“Always.”
—
Arwen sings as they leave. It is not sorrowful, not kneaded with pain, but light and airy–a song of joy and the end of longing, a song of coming home. It has been a while since Éowyn heard her sing, and so she lets herself fold into the words, into Arwen’s voice. Atop Windfola, entering the burst of a new spring, Éowyn feels everything.
They make camp before sundown days later, though Rohan is not far. The lantern lights of Edoras blaze ahead as speckled dots in the night. Arwen can hear the people on the wind, loud laughs, followed by banter, followed by shouting. A night of glee. They could have made it, arriving in Rohan by the moon’s light. But Arwen is a selfish woman, and one more night with Éowyn is a wish within her reach to grant.
Éowyn tends to the fire, Arwen watches tenderly. Both of their packs rolled out beside each other on the floor. Once the fire is blazing, enough for heat, but not enough to draw attention, Éowyn comes to rest, warm against Arwen’s side. The stars are especially bright this far from the cities–almost as brilliant as if they were in the glade.
“Dearest,” Éowyn says suddenly. Finally, she tears her eyes from the heavens though Arwen is no less bright, she squints still even in the darkness. Arwen hums in response.
“Will you live on–?” she raises a hand from the moss beneath them when Arwen goes to interrupt. “Will you still hold love for me when I am gone, blanketed by snow and time? A mound in the great green earth? I do not doubt your love now…only your ability to deal with such withstanding grief. Do not elves die of shattered hearts?”
“Some. But some do not possess my fortitude. And that is not for you to worry about. Tell me, although I believe I already know–my father spoke to you before we left?”
“Yes,” Éowyn laughs at Arwen's bluntness. and the scowl on her face. “He can be…”
“Unkind, despite his moniker.”
Éowyn nods in the moonlight. “He means well, this I know. He cares for you, as I do.”
“Let me clear your mind, Éowyn," Arwen says. She turns her back to the fire–it glows around her until it appears as if she is the flame itself. When she takes Éowyn’s hands she holds them firm, pressing them between her palms like a sun ripe orange ready for peeling. But instead of peeling she kisses Éowyn's wrists and holds them to her mouth, as if whispering her words directly into her veins.
“I shall love you, for eternity, for that is the length I will live. I shall love you as the skies love the earth, through its many seasons, through its begetting and its ending, through its lives and deaths. I shall love you as the fox loves the berries though it consumes them, I shall love you as the frog loves the fly for its many buzzing songs left in its throat, I shall love you as the sick love the sick bed, for that is the place they will take their last breath. I shall love you, Éowyn, not until time ends, not until I end–not even when the Song ends–for that is when mine begins, and then, then I shall only sing of you.”
Éowyn sighs, heart too full for tears or words, and instead surges forward to capture Arwen’s mouth in a kiss. She presses, uncaring for breath, melting herself into her love. Sparks dance across her body as if she is returning to herself, her soul coming back into her body, waking from a death she had not known she had died. Her bones vibrate, blood singing, mind awake for the first time in what feels like years. When she pulls back, having grown faint from the lack of air, she holds Arwen’s face in her palms. “I am not yet good at my words–it is difficult, I imagine, even for the most poetic to put into words what you do to me.” Arwen smiles, lips sinking into her palm. “Bema, Arwen. I love you.”
Arwen lets the words unravel her, to wrap around her like water in the sea. Éowyn says it again. And again. And again. “I love you. I love you. I love you–”
It is in the whispers of her love, in the sweet taste of the horse-maiden, that Arwen finds the most divinity. Here, more than in any prayer, is she dizzy with it.
This, she thinks, is how Varda must have felt creating the stars.
—
Arwen leaves her at the borders of Rohan. Sheep dot the field, women raise the laundry line as soldiers slump home from the tavern still reeking of stale ale. The dawn is fast approaching. They will not take kindly to an Elf. Éowyn had said as they trodded up to Edoras. No harm, of course, only glares and such. You need not deal with it.
And so, after delivering a sweet kiss. Éowyn disappears into the growing crowd, walking into her House with her head held high.
Arwen smiles as she watches her golden hair shift into the sun.
—
The harshness of winter had not hit so in the temple, nor the glade or wood surrounding it. The snow was completely melted, frost gone from the blades of grass–even the squirrels had returned to try, and fail, at finding their buried food. No matter, new trees would burst forth in the glade and Arwen would be glad to tend to them.
She opens all the doors and windows in the temple, letting out the stale air, and brings flames to lick at the candle wicks until the temple is full of fresh air and the scent of praying wax. It is still cold this early in the morning, and so the windows grow full of condensation, dripping down like tears. The temple is a ghost of itself, but nothing that a broom and the night’s coming starlight could not fix. With a song in her throat, Arwen sets to cleaning.
—
A catnap calls her name by mid-day. The sun is bright and warm, and shaded by bowing oaks, Arwen lays across spring-damp roots. She dreams of the glade just as it is outside–a section of moss and grass soaked in dew, oaks bursting with windsong, night pale as an apple’s core.
Arwen knows it is a dream for her skin feels like the inside of a cicada. She feels no surprise when Varda materializes in the grass–a pale configuration of moonlight–and kneels beside her laying figure.
“Thank you,” Arwen breathes out, rising to kneel as well. Varda looms, but is not so tall in truth, not like Arwen had imagined in childhood. “ Hantanyë lyen ,” she says again, this time in Quenya.
Varda rests a hand to her chin. “A small part of my aid was leant, but as I told dear Éowyn, your fates had always been entwined.”
“You have my thanks regardless. For her. For answers. For guidance.”
Varda delicately runs a thumb across Arwen’s chin, smoothing the growing wobble in her lip. She smiles with her own gratitude, and fades into a mist. Purple eyes glowing in the night.
—
True to her word, Éowyn’s letters appear like clockwork. Two days after Arwen’s return a courier approaches the temple. It is a different man than before, bright eyed and flaxen of hair–clutching not one, but two letters.
Arwen reads swiftly. The first a fine letter speaking to the wellness of her people–Théoden King youthful as a monarch should be, Théodred hurt but healing. Éomer with far too many questions that would go unanswered. How shall I tell my brother I found a woman before he? And an Elf at that! He would have my head…nonetheless, it would bode well to brag. He would have one look at you and need to proclaim defeat.
The second, a promise to seek the temple with haste once things settle. A few weeks in Rohan is needed, lest her people think her abandonment is probable. And riding! Oh! How she missed her plains. Windfola grazes beside her as she writes, as merry as she.
Arwen sets the kettle on fire, and when it hisses, serves the courier a citrus tea. The man sits upon the wooden porch with a warm drink, content a close enough word. Arwen dips her quill in ink and writes. A promise to wait. A gratitude for Rohan’s–and its king’s–wellbeing. A description of her dream. Varda spoke, she says. Not many words. But enough for me.
She ends it with a great wish.
And so it goes. Letters come and go. Arwen learns the courier’s name. Wídmód. A man bearing messages since they learned he rode like the wind–he speaks kindly of Éowyn. His only fault being his seasonal allergies, more often than not, Arwen writes to the sound of sneezing. But it rings in the growing spring nonetheless.
It is close to warm, but still as the night falls and the temple grows shades of blue, Arwen wraps herself in a knitted scarf–and lights her candles. With palms raised she begins her murmurs, but pauses when she hears the sound of hooves. It could not be Wídmód, for he left by midday yesterday. Nay, she knows those stomps, the huffing breaths–months did she spend beside them, and when Éowyn lay injured, caring is if her own beast to tend.
Windfola . Never the quiet horse.
Arwen bursts from the temple. The mud clambers around the soles of her feet, dew grasping at her robes. Éowyn steadily trods through the glade, the moon a halo around her bright face, warm and red from her incessant smiling. When she is close enough, she slides from Windfola’s saddle and easily meets a breathless Arwen. She takes her hand in her own and pulls Arwen in.
“You are no letter,” says Arwen, voice muffled.
“An asking of one’s hand is best done in person, I believe.”
Arwen pulls back, mouth agape. “You cannot mean–”
“With every fiber of my being,” Éowyn laughs heartily. “Joyous was my return to Edoras, but it was tinged sour without you by my side. You have been the most interesting part of my life–how can I let you go?”
“It is different for us Elves–marriage, I mean.” Arwen smiles.
“I was your pupil once. Pray, tell.”
Arwen flushes. “Come inside, I will put the kettle on.”
—
She explains. Skin crimson, words flowing over two steaming cups of bitter tea. The night has settled and even as the temple grows blue and gold, Éowyn too appears flushed and red.
“A ceremony of such volume will surely take months,” Éowyn responds, avoiding the main component.
“Is there a need to wait?”
“Nay,” Éowyn breathes out. “As you say it is the act itself that binds us.”
Arwen places her palm to the hollow of Éowyn’s throat, feeling the endless beat there. “Let us rest. Night begets worry. We shall talk of it in the day.” Éowyn shyly smiles and the thumping calms slightly.
Éowyn settles into her side. As her breath slows against Arwen’s neck, she looks to the ceiling with a giddy smile.
—
It is momentous, the day they marry, as carnivorous and covetous as gentle sin is meant to be. The temple is their only witness. Éowyn clings to her, and in return Arwen clings to her. Pale skin shrouded in the gold of lantern light, gleaming and wrought with enough raw love to tear the world apart and build it anew. If this is the connection of two fëa–Éowyn cannot think magic to ever, ever, be a curse.
Her fingers trace words into her skin. Poems she hopes Arwen recognizes, words she cannot find it within her to speak aloud. Arwen’s own name–like she is remembering it over and over, reforging her mind with the name engraved upon it. Éowyn’s lips follow her fingertips, soothing the goosebumps where she can.
“ Do not be quiet, ” Arwen whispers in her ear. Éowyn feels her heart thrum to an unknown song.
—
On a green morning, the sky alight with colors, Éowyn and Windfola wander along the outskirts of the glade. The tree line closes in–Arwen sees it–this part of her world too small for comfort. She approaches with a pack of food, cheeses and dried, gamy meats. She presses the pack into Éowyn’s hand, and at her confused stare, simply smiles.
“Do you not think I see your want? Your restlessness pounds in my ear.” Arwen laughs at Éowyn’s blush. “Ride the plains. Discover the wood. There will always be starlight watching over you. I only ask that you come home.”
Éowyn’s heart pulls. It is not the temple Arwen refers to, and she knows it. Her hands grasp the pack, sliding further into Arwen’s palm to trace the softness there–-burning them into her memory.
“I swear it,” Éowyn whispers.
Notes:
the end!!! such fun to write, i love them so so so much
comments and kudos very much appreciated!!! they always make my day <3
thank you for reading, my friends!
airblue on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 05:41PM UTC
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mossbard on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 08:16PM UTC
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tombombadildo on Chapter 1 Fri 15 Aug 2025 02:09PM UTC
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mossbard on Chapter 1 Fri 15 Aug 2025 04:13PM UTC
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