Title: Love Me and Despair 
Author: Dernhelm (dernhelm_3018@yahoo.com) 
Pairing: Éowyn/Galadriel 
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: What was whispered into the bitter watches of the night. The 
tale of why Éowyn is really touched by frost: a love that she could never 
truly have.  
Disclaimer: I do not claim any sort of ownership over the characters, 
places, names, etc. in the story. No money is being made here! 
Warning: Serious plot spoilers for any who haven't read Return of the 
King. Some forceful sex (not forced). 
Authors Note: I wrote this to attempt to fill in the blanks left behind by the 
original (and incredible) narrative, since not much is really said about my 
favorite character in any of the stories. So, essentially, this is my Epic of 
Éowyn. 
Feedback: Constructive criticism welcome.
 

By all rights it should have been dawn. But where the sun should 
have been peering its sleepy face above the mountains in the east, only 
smoke and shadow burned across the sky, manifestation of the evil 
spreading across the land from the heart of Mount Doom, crown jewel of 
Mordor .
The thunder of countless hooves beat against the soil of Gondor as 
the Riders of Rohan sped through the gloom to Minas Tirth. All seemed to 
have been enfolded in that foul darkness--even the quake of the galloping 
steeds seemed muted in the Shadow-- as the hour grew near when men 
would fight against a foe so terrible that few hoped to live to see the peace 
they battled to restore. 
Of all the hearts that beat within shirts of chain mail and steel 
plates among the Rohirrim, none beat heavier than that of Dernhelm, who 
was no novice to battle, but untried in tasks of this gravity. In the back of 
the line he rode upon his gray mare, careful not to crowd his secret 
passenger, the Halfling Meriadoc, whose heart had burned so hotly to join 
the men in battle that Dernhelm could not refuse the hobbit his chance for 
greatness. The boy was all too familiar with the bitter sting of rejection, of 
being left behind as a burden, as a body of little use. Bundled under his 
cloak, the hobbit made up in bulk what Dernhelm lacked, and thus they 
appeared the size of a normal man, and drew no unwanted attention from 
the rest of the Riders.
Due to the secrecy of their companionship on the march, there was 
little chance for conversation with his fellow traveler, and Dernhelm was 
left with long, arduous hours of riding across the fields of Rohan in which 
to contemplate his most certain doom. For Dernhelm did not expect to 
return from this war, and his soul sang only songs of slaying and glorious 
death in the blood-soaked fields of battle.
This morbidity was not a result of the great Shadow, as much of 
the ill thoughts and fears which plagued the riders were, but stemmed 
from a much older and deeper darkness which had clouded Dernhelm for 
years. There are only so many times the human heart can taste the blade of 
rejection and still have the will to beat true, only so many abandonments 
and broken promises before all hope fades to ice, leaving nothing but frost 
where love used to grow. 
In this desperate race against the threat in the East, Dernhelm is 
prisoner of his memories, haunted by the identity he has so recently shed 
like a ragged cloak past its use, and of the woman--nay, the Queen--who 
stole and broke his heart.
For underneath the layers of armor and callousness, the man-boy 
Dernhelm is in truth the Lady Éowyn, her breasts bound by cloth and her 
golden hair concealed in a mantle of iron, all traces of feminine beauty 
replaced by the rigid features of a warrior. Hardened against her pain, she 
has renounced herself, and rides to death to forget the person she never 
truly was, and the Queen whose heart she could never truly have.
 
Éowyn  had come to Edoras as a young girl, no older than seven, 
clutching the hand of her older brother Éomer as they had been escorted 
by stewards with eyes full of pity to the throne of their uncle, King 
Théoden. She remembered standing in the cavernous chill of the great 
hall,  refusing to weep as Théoden gathered their small bodies in a gentle 
hug and whispered promises of love and care in the stead of their freshly 
buried parents. She did not want to show her sorrow, her weakness, for it 
had been the long hours of tears and curses in the name of their fallen 
father, Éomund, that had driven their mother to her deathbed. Her uncle 
had mistaken her determination for shock, and had the girl promptly put to 
bed, fearing the grief of losing both her parents and being removed so 
suddenly from her home had been too much for a little girl's delicate 
sensibilities. So even on her first night under the roof of King Théoden, 
Éowyn lay alone in the darkness, in a bed she would never truly grow into, 
too heavy with grief to sleep, too proud to fully feel the cleansing sorrow 
she so needed.
Éomer quickly found his place in Edoras, finding comfort in the 
company of the men of Rohan, listening to tales of battles in far-away 
lands while helping them polish their gleaming blades and tending to their 
steeds as they rested after long rides. Éowyn was always just as fascinated 
by the stories of war, but whenever she would attempt to join the lively 
fireside chatter, the men's voices would grow still, until one would gently 
suggest she return to the circles of women, as the men's tales of blood and 
beasts would surely fill her sweet mind with foul dreams. There was 
nothing Éowyn despised more than the idle prattle of the women of the 
house, as they gossiped amongst themselves and seemed to have no care 
about the world beyond the walls of the city. So she would stay up late 
into the night, curled up uncomfortably behind barrels of ale as the men 
regaled each other, drinking in the legends as they their mead. In this 
fashion, she heard more of the old stories than her brother, for there were 
even tales that the men withheld from the ears of a lad not yet grown to 
manhood. In those warm, secret nights, she learned of the quickest way to 
slay a winged beast, of the most honeyed words that would lure a maiden 
to a man's bed (which came to great use later in life), and of what to do 
with said maiden once she had taken the bait (which bewildered her as 
much as it educated her).
Of all the stories, though, the ones that captivated her the most 
were the legends of the White Lady of the Wood, a beautiful Elven witch 
who dwelt in a forest north of Rohan. She would enchant men to her will, 
and turn them against their brothers for her own gain. Lovely and cruel, 
any who looked upon her could not help but love her, and only those of 
the strongest heart could free themselves from her power. Éowyn's breath 
would come in faster pants as some riders would boast of encounters with 
the sorceress, of nights of pleasure that left the witch so exhausted they 
were able to slip her magical grasp. The other soldiers would guffaw and 
challenge their validity, and many men would indeed sit down again, red-
faced and sulking into their great cups. 
 
As the years passed, and she grew in size with her age, she found 
that she could no longer easily hide among the barrels, and those private 
nights came to an end. But had she remained small enough to stay, she 
would have heard the men's talk grow darker, less jovial, as rumors of evil 
arising in the east filtered though the halls. In this period, an advisor came 
to the king, his hair as dark and ruffled as the wings of a crow, his skin as 
pale and pasty as the bodies of silkworms. He was called Gríma, and from 
the moment his contemptuous eyes darted across her freshly formed 
womanhood, Éowyn despised and mistrusted him. As her innocence has 
been replaced by knowledge in her secret nights among the men, she knew 
what desires Gríma's gaze held, and in darkened corridors, as he 
whispered foul promises into her ears, she was able to stalk past him 
without flinching, safe from his violence in her title as Lady (for he would 
have died before her scream had ended as it echoed off the stone walls of 
the house of Théoden), and immune to the platitudes he pitifully spouted, 
thanks to the lessons she learned from the free tongues of the soldiers.
On the eve of her eighteenth year, she pulled aside her brother 
Éomer, who had long since become a strong and handsome man, and 
whose stern yet kind face almost painfully reminded her of her father, and 
confessed her ill feelings about Gríma. She was relieved that her brother 
shared the same trepidation, especially since their uncle seemed to have 
unfathomed respect for the mysterious man. She told Éomer of the lust in 
the foul man's eyes, and of the covert attempts he had made to win her 
heart. Her brother's knuckles tightened in rage around her fingers as she 
slowly told him of Gríma's slimy words, and the fire which burned in his 
eyes frightened as her as much as it comforted her.  
"If that filthy creature ever attempts to lay his hand upon your 
flesh, then I myself will take great pleasure in strangling him with his own 
entrails!" Éomer had growled darkly, fingering his sword-hilt, which he 
now carried at all times since he had become a Rider of the Rohirrim. 
"Aye, brother, you'll have to release my fingers from his throat 
before you can hang him," Éowyn smiled darkly. But as her eyes fell to 
Éomer's sword, her heart had grew cold again. "But now that you are a 
soldier, you will not always be here to protect me, my brother. Duty comes 
before kin, and although I am not afraid, I cannot always look to you for 
protection."
After a moment of silence, Éomer drew his sword, and to his 
sister's amazement, placed the sculpted hilt into her small hand. The blade 
was not as heavy as she had imagined it would be, and the cold steel felt 
as though it had been made to be held by her.
"Then I will teach you how to protect yourself, Éowyn. Long I 
have known how much you have desired to learn the way of the sword, 
and I heard your bitter fights with our good king-uncle over your desire to 
train with me. I know he thinks you too fair and fragile to be tainted by the 
ugliness of battle, but I truly know you to be the strongest of any woman 
of Rohan." His eyes had gleamed with pride. 
Her training had been fast and furious, for Éomer now had only 
brief periods of time to teach his sister how to wield a blade with deadly 
confidence. But she was ravenous for the knowledge, and was the quickest 
pupil Éomer had ever seen. All too soon, though, he was called to duty, as 
they knew he would be, as the whispers of evil grew louder, and the need 
for the arms of the Riders increased upon the borders of Rohan. 
On the night before their first parting, the siblings rode away from 
Edoras into the fields of Rohan. The city they left behind them was still 
and quiet, filled only with the whimpers of soldier's wives as they sighed 
their fears into the lips and shoulders of their husbands. Lit by the light of 
the waxing moon, Éomer and Éowyn crossed swords a final time. In the 
song of their clashing blades they could almost hear the voice of 
impending dread, leaving the hollow knowledge that this would be the last 
time they would have the peace to practice again. The duel was 
exhilarating, and as her blade cut through the air, she had been 
mesmerized by how much it appeared that she wielded a beam of 
moonlight, the glinting radiance slicing through the darkness in her mind. 
In this musing she lost the battle, as Éomer's sword swept hers out of her 
grasp and into the night.  
"Do not ever let your eye or mind wander from your opponent in a 
battle, no matter what the distraction," Éomer panted as he held his sword 
to her throat, "for it may cost you your life."
Glowering, Éowyn had recovered her blade from the dew-
dampened grass, and regardless of her bitterness had taken heed of her 
skilled brother's words. 
Seeing his sister's disappointment at losing their last duel, he had 
tried to cheer her, but only managed to transform the sting to a wound 
with his next words: "Were you my brother I would be the proudest 
Capitan of all men to have such a gifted swordsman at my side."
"But since I am just your sister, a lowly woman, I can never hold 
that place of honor, and must remain content watching the horizon from 
the safety of the gates, hoping for the flutter of your banner on the wind!" 
She spat the words at him, her voice venom to her brother's heart. 
Éomer sighed, and sheathed his sword. Taking his sister's hand, he 
tenderly lifted her stern jaw, forcing her icy gaze to rest on his eyes, filled 
with pity and love. 
"Never will you be lowly,  Éowyn, for you are a great Lady born 
of kings, and the passion of your lineage shines in your noble eyes. But 
sister, you have a duty to your line, as do I. Mine lays in the spilling of 
blood for the protection of our people, yours comes in the tending of 
them." Éomer's words were firm, yet gentle, and he could see the tension 
slowly draining from her taunt body.
 "Now more than ever our uncle-king needs the guidance and love 
of his kin," he continued, "as I sense the Worm-tongued scoundrel holds 
more sway over him each day. Watch over him, as I cannot. You are the 
hope of our people, Éowyn. Do not abandon them."
	Éowyn knew the truth in her brother's words, and was quiet, if not 
content. They stood a while in the green field, listening to the soft rustle of 
the wind in the long grasses, her slender, pale hand clasped in his, large 
and calloused.  They shared the quiet fear that all families do upon 
separation, but hers was magnified by the restless ghosts of their parent's 
death. If she were to lose  Éomer, she would be the last of the line of 
Éomund, and although she loved her uncle Théoden and cousin Théodred 
deeply, she knew to her core she would be alone. Théodred would join her 
brother in the coming ride, and her dear uncle's mind had been wandering 
lately, taken to long hours locked in council with Gríma, leaving little time 
for his sister-daughter. He rarely sought the sun any longer, and his lack of 
activity had brought an edge of frailty to his otherwise strong form.  The 
seed of fear had been planted in her, and she dreaded the long months 
ahead filled with only the shadows to listen to her secrets and prayers.
	The following morn, as she stood alone at the gates of Edoras, she 
watched with eyes frosted with unfallen tears as Éomer raised his sword to 
her in final salute, and disappeared over the horizon with the rest of the 
Rohirrim. Slowly, making sure she could see no more of her brother, she 
had returned to the house of  Théoden, which already felt more a cell than 
a home, and she believed herself a prisoner to the duties of her gender. 
	She had cared for her uncle as best she could, trying to make light 
conversation at meals to brighten his face, seeking him out in the few free 
moments he allowed himself, attempting to lure him to activities that he 
had enjoyed only a few months before. She took cheer in the fleeting 
smiles that would flicker across his lips, the lines of worry that creased his 
brow transforming briefly into wrinkles of laughter, and he would kiss her 
cheeks and thank her for lifting his dark spirits. 
	"You are the bright star in my winter night, Éowyn," he would 
often say to her in those tiny moments of mirth, "you are truly the hope of 
our people."
But despite her best efforts, the hand of death itself seemed to be 
tightening its grasp upon Théoden's soul, and more and more he took to 
sitting in his darkened throne room in despair, at times alone, but most 
often with Gríma. As the weeks crawled by, and little word of the Riders 
was heard, Éowyn herself became shrouded with sadness. She tried so 
hard to please her uncle, it left her weary at day's end, and she would fall 
into restless dreams tainted with loss and sorcerous words.
For Gríma knew the Lady's true desires lay far beyond the walls of 
Edoras, and her mind was always riding across great plains and mountains 
in the company of fierce men. She went out of her way to avoid Gríma in 
the day, but in the night he could find her mind easily, open and 
vulnerable in the cloak of sleep, and there he would whisper unsettling 
thoughts into her dreams. She would awake each morning more exhausted 
than she had fallen asleep, and every time the sun rose without word of her 
brother, she would slip further into despair. 
Thus Gríma had worked his black magic upon her in her dreams; 
as he knew he could never control her through love, he would through 
fear. His grasp upon the king was near complete, save for the shreds of 
hope Théoden held in the loyalty of his niece. If Gríma were able to sever 
that joy, to take the last fading beams of light from the king's heart, then 
Théoden's will would be his to own. 
His opportunity for treachery came soon. Two full cycles of the 
moon after the Riders had departed from Edoras, a lone messenger came 
riding from across the plains, his banner tattered and bloodstained, but 
waving triumphantly in the cold light none the less. Wormtongue had the 
good fortune of being the only one to spy the rider in the starlight, and the 
retch had mounted his steed and raced to meet the messenger before 
anyone else had a chance to see him.
"How goes the battle, friend?" Gríma's voice was oiled velvet to 
the Rider's weary mind. "Do our men fare well against the dark forces?"
"Aye, sir Gríma, wherever the Rohirrim ride they leave trails of 
Orc-blood in their wake, and most who had set out from the city still sit 
upon their horses to see the next battle." The rider panted, and gratefully 
took the skin of water that Gríma held out to him.
"How do the kin of our King fare? The Lords Théodred and 
Éomer?" Gríma asked with burning eyes as he watched the young soldier 
take another greedy gulp of the tainted water he had offered him. 
The messenger smiled. "No finer pair of soldiers have ever rode 
across the war-grounds of Middle-Earth than the kin of Théoden, save 
perhaps the King himself in his days of youth. . ." the soldier's face grew 
pale, and his features suddenly contorted in pain. He doubled over in his 
saddle, and a low moan escaped his lips a second before he bathed the 
ground before him in blood-laced vomit.
"Soldier! You are ill!" Gríma prided himself on his carefully 
crafted reactions to the horrors he unleashed upon others, "Quickly, boy, I 
must get you to the house of Théoden!" 
The soldier made no response as Wormtongue lifted him out of his 
saddle, and draped him across his own horse. As they rode, Gríma 
inspected the soldier, and seeing several minor wounds recently healed 
underneath the muslin tunic (for messengers wear little armor to expediate 
their arrival), he tore at them to bring the blood flowing freshly. When 
they arrived at the gates of the city the soldier indeed appeared at the brink 
of death, and the face of the watchmen were grave as they aided Gríma in 
carrying the still body into a bedchamber.
Throughout the night, Wormtongue fed the poor soldier poisoned 
water as thick as his poisoned words, so within hours of his arrival, the 
soldier only had the strength to jabber about the failing of the Rohirrim 
against the forces of evil.
Éowyn had awoke from her nightmares with a start when she heard 
a great banging on her chamber door. Draping a warm cloak about her and 
grabbing her sword from under her bed, she had cautiously opened the 
door a crack. She had been surprised to see Gríma standing there, even 
more surprised to see the tears that flowed down his cheeks. 
"My Lady, thank Eru that you are awake! Come, quickly! A 
messenger has arrived from the Riders, and he refuses to speak to any but 
you!" Gríma loudly blew his nose for extra theatrics.
"Does he bring word of my kin?" Éowyn had asked breathlessly, 
her heart constricting in her ribcage as she strode into the hall. "Does he 
bear a message from Éomer?"
"I do not know, my Lady, for through the night all he could do was 
wail in his pain. He is badly wounded, and his eyes hold the bitterness of 
defeat." Gríma panted as he tried to keep up with the long-legged girl's 
swift pace. "He has finally come to his senses enough to ask for you, but 
when I questioned him, he refused to speak unless it was to you."
Arriving at the door of the dying soldier, Gríma held the heavy 
wood aside so that Éowyn could pass. She gasped at the sight of the man 
on the bed, pale and bandaged with bloody cloths, and he shivered, even in 
the warmth of the fire-lit room, as though he were naked in the snow.
"I will leave you to your council, Lady," Wormtongue made his 
voice grave as he could, "but do not overtire him with questions, as he 
stands on the brink of death, and the stress may be too much for him to 
bear."
She had nodded, blind to Wormtongue's manipulations. He had 
softly closed the door behind her, and she had sat on the edge of the firm 
bed, taking the messenger's hand in hers.
"Good sir, please awake. You have asked to see the Lady Éowyn, 
and she is here to listen." Her voice trembled as much as his chilled hand 
did in hers, and for a moment she feared that he was too far gone to 
understand her words. 
For a long moment only the sound of the Rider's labored breathing 
filled the room, and Éowyn attempted to wet his lips with the cup of water 
at his side. But before the first drop had passed the boy's lips, his eyelids 
fluttered open, revealing a pair of eyes so gray they could have been cast 
in iron.
	He turned his head slowly, wearily, and his forged eyes met hers. 
Before he had even uttered a word, she tasted despair in the back of her 
mouth, for in his eyes lay only the empty promise of death.
	"Great Lady," the messenger's voice was strained and weak, and 
she had to lean closer to hear him properly, "the battle is almost lost. 
Many good men have fallen facing the wicked forces of the Orcs, and our 
numbers are not great enough to subdue them." He paused to cough, and it 
seemed to Éowyn that he struggled to find the words he wanted to say.
	"I bring word from your brother, the Lord Éomer. He sent me to 
bring you to battle, for he knows you are skilled, and needs your help in 
the field."
	Éowyn's stomach knotted, and her eyes burned into the soldier's. 
"Tell me, where is he?"
	"He wants you to meet the remainder of the company near the 
Field of Celebrant, far north of Rohan. The Riders regroup themselves at 
the edge of the great river Anduin, and your brother will meet you upon 
the shore. There they have armor waiting, do not weigh your steed with 
the unnecessary weight." The boy faltered, and again his eyes betrayed a 
conflict that Éowyn did not then understand. "Hurry, my Lady, for his 
voice was most desperate, and he said to me, 'do not rest until my sister is 
at my side, for she is my one hope to vanquish this enemy.'"
	As soon as those words passed the messenger's cracked lips, his 
body gave a terrible shudder, and a high wail rose from his throat. When 
next his head lolled to face her, his eyes were blank and still, and she 
knew then that he was gone, as surely as she knew what she had to do. 
Slowly she pulled the blanket over the tortured face before her, and 
whispered a quick prayer to speed his soul to its rest.
	In her haste departing the deathbed of the soldier, she did not 
notice Gríma huddling in the shadows of the corridor, invisible to all save 
the mice that scurried away from his presence in fear. He had to restrain 
the cackle that threatened to bubble forth from his ugly mouth, as he 
watched the Lady stride towards her chamber with purpose and 
determination. He had learned early in his education with the White 
Wizard that a poisoned body leaves the mind most vulnerable to control, 
and the soldier had never had a chance against the black skills of 
Wormtongue. 
	The castle was still swaddled in the quiet of sleep, as sunrise was 
still many hours away. Swiftly she packed her traveling bag, bundling 
only a fresh change of clothes, a thin, yet warm sleeping roll, her map 
scroll, flint and steel,  and the soft rags she used to soak her monthly 
bleeding. She dressed in an old training outfit Éomer had long since 
outgrown, and secured her sword to the belt at her waist. Draped in her 
riding cloak of midnight blue, she stealthily made her way to the  kitchen, 
where she added several cakes of traveling bread, a skin of water, and 
sachets of dried meats and fruits to her pack, provisions enough to last her 
the long ride. 
	Finally, her heart beating so loudly in her chest she feared the echo 
of it would wake the house, she slipped through her uncle's chamber door, 
and bestowed a kiss upon his forehead as he slept. He did not stir as she 
stroked his wrinkling cheek one more time, and she was suddenly torn 
with the desire to stay and help him. But the words of the messenger 
flooded through her mind once again, and she knew she could not abandon 
her brother to a lonely death in the field. Théoden was strong, she told 
herself, and surely he would not decline further before her return. She 
would show him what a fine soldier she could be, and the pride it would 
bring to him would surely outweigh any melancholy her absence would.
	With that thought consuming her mind, she made her way to the 
stables and readied her mare for the voyage. It took only a few coins to 
buy the silence of the stable-boy as he watched, wide eyed, as she 
unlocked the stable gate and rode her mare out into the night. As she raced 
though the cold predawn, her heart galloped in time to the pace of her 
horse, and she felt truly free for the first time in her life. 
	Wormtongue watched her departure with glee from the wall of the 
castle, and he thought himself the most ingenious wizard to ever scheme 
against a great house of Kings. For without the light of his sister-daughter, 
his winter star, the King would fall into complete darkness, right into the 
waiting arms of Gríma, and into the complete control of Saurman. He did 
not expect the girl to ever return, for if she was hardy enough to survive 
the long and perilous journey ahead of her, then the small band of Orcs 
that the White Wizard had planted at the shore of the Anduin would do her 
in. What fun they would have with her noble flesh, and despite her reserve 
and strength, he knew that after long nights of torment at the end of their 
nasty blades (and at the ends of their even fouler manhoods), she would 
beg for death long before she would taste the relief of it. With a chuckle, 
the wizard shuffled back to the castle, already rehearsing his speech to 
Théoden to explain his niece's sudden absence.
 
	Éowyn watched many sunsets from the back of her horse, as she 
rode harder and longer than she ever had before. She did not stop for rest 
often, for she feared that every second she lingered idle was a moment 
closer to death for Éomer. As the Ered Nimrais mountains disappeared 
behind her, she felt her soul lighten with each beat that brought her closer 
to her destination. She no longer felt the weight of the duties of the Lady 
of House upon her shoulders, and she imagined that she could exist 
forever in this wilderness, a free creature speeding through light and dark 
towards glories unyet tried. 
	Her ride held little incident, and she met no other travelers on her 
path. She seemed the only mortal alive left in Middle-Earth, and although 
she had feared isolation before, this was a new sort of loneliness, one that 
she was able to transform from fear into strength. She let her hair tangle 
freely behind her, and as the wind danced through her sun-kissed tresses, it 
seemed like a great banner that fluttered behind her, urging her forward to 
war. 
	The journey had already taken longer than she had expected when 
she came to the country of the woods. She rode clear of Fanghorn forest, 
for she remembered the tales of her youth, of the great beasts that craved 
the taste of human flesh. Fanghorn was so abominable that even the trees 
would reach out in threat, she had learned, and she had no wish to spend 
the last of her days in the belly of a oak.
	Over the Wold she rode, across the river Limlight, until at last she 
came to the Field of Celebrant, and she cried out in joy to see a small 
circle of tents in the crook of the great river. But in her haste and 
inexperience she did not realize that there  were no horses of the Rohirrim 
grazing in the grass, or that the camp seemed too still for a band of 
soldiers at day's end. 
	Heedless of danger she rode forward, thinking only of reunion. As 
her mind swam with visions of crossing swords again with her brother at 
her side, she was snapped back into the moment by a noisy blur that 
whistled past her ear, too big to be an insect, to thin to be a bird. 
	Her mare sensed the danger before she did, and the filly reared up 
in terror, almost knocking Éowyn to the ground as the stench of the 
unwashed Orcs reached her sensitive nostrils. Éowyn saw them a second 
later, a band of seven, who came charging at her from the cover of the 
tents, their cruel blades drawn.
	Her weeks of training were overcome by her instinct to flee, as she 
had never seen even one Orc in the flesh, and the sight of seven rushing at 
her, intent on her death, was too much for her to face. She cried out to her 
brother, hoping against hope that she had stumbled into a battle in 
progress, and at least one Rider remained to come to her aid. But her cries 
were met only with the discordant laughter of her foes, and her only option 
for survival lay in the quickness of her steed.
	Away she raced from her enemies, but the adrenaline that coursed 
through her horse could only sustain such a pace for so long, and the long 
days of hard riding had left it exhausted to start. She whispered words of 
fear and encouragement, as the voices of the Orcs lessened behind them. 
She turned to see if her attackers followed, and to her dismay their feet 
seemed gifted with a supernatural speed that seemed to match that of her 
horse.
	Before her, a great forest appeared in the distance, and she knew if 
she could reach the trees she could hide herself. She cursed herself for her 
cowardice, but in her mind knew that to attempt to face a foe she could not 
overtake alone would mean her death. 
	Closer the forest loomed, and she urged her mare onward. Sure she 
had left her enemies far behind, she was shocked to find them not more 
than a hundred paces behind her, and she could read the malice in their 
faces. In that moment, another arrow flew at her head, and she ducked 
down close to her horse's neck, her heart beating in fear.
	One hundred yards from the edge of the forest, so near to the lush 
cover, was when an Orc arrow finally struck true, and lodged itself into 
the flank of her horse. The beast gave an ear-splitting shriek of pain, and 
collapsed to the ground. Éowyn barely had time to move her leg before it 
was crushed under the weight of her companion, and she lay dazed besides 
the heaving side of the great animal.
	"Move, Éowyn! Get up!" Her brother's voice urged in her mind. 
But as she struggled to her feet, she yelped in pain, and realized that she 
could barely put weight upon her left leg. She had twisted her knee as she 
had wrenched it from the stirrup, and she knew that she could no longer 
run. 
	Her heart in her throat, she felt the blood of her father burning 
within her veins as she stood on her right leg and drew her sword. For as 
Éomund had died in an Orc ambush, fighting even as his life-blood spilled 
over the gore-slicked blades of his rank foes, so would his proud daughter, 
who refused to be taken down like the horse at her feet.
	When the Orcs reached her, they did not charge, to her surprise. 
Instead, they circled around her slowly, entrapping her within a wall of 
their putrid odor. Their rat-like eyes gleamed with unbridled wickedness 
from their greasy faces, and Éowyn fought to keep down her bile as well 
as her terror as she tried to face them all at once.
	"Well, well," a large Orc came forward to her, his brow ridges 
pierced with large rings, "you gave us quite a chase, little one." He 
sneered at  Éowyn. "But now the hunt is over, and you have been caught." 
He spat upon the ground, a brackish fluid that turned her stomach at both 
the sight and smell. "So what do you say, sweet one? Will you lower your 
sword and come willingly with us, or will we have to strip it from your 
hand along with the rest of your clothing?"
	At this the rest of the Orcs sniggered in anticipation, for in all their 
raids and rapes they had never encountered a creature who had willingly 
given themselves. They looked forward to feeling the soft flesh of this girl 
in their claws, hearing her screams for mercy long into the night, and 
many of them were already stiff in their expectation. 
	It was this lust that was their doom, for before they could react, 
their leader's head rolled across the grass, and none had eyes quick 
enough to see the flash of the Lady's blade. Fool, he had swaggered too 
close to her, sword at idle, mistaking her for a cowering maiden dressed in 
men's clothing, not a hard-trained soldier of Rohan. She had already 
impaled another at the end of her blade before the remaining five had 
gathered their wits and charged at the warrior woman.
	Deafened by the roars of the Orcs, she did not hear the whisper of 
the arrows as they flew into the chests and faces of her opponents, and 
then she realized that she no longer stood alone in her battle. For behind 
her strode a dozen golden-haired swordsmen, their blades drawn and ready 
to taste Orc-blood, and behind them stood a dozen archers, their arrows 
flying swift and true from their ivory bows. 
	If she hadn't turned her head to see her reinforcements' approach, 
she would have seen the final desperate attack of the Orc archer. As an 
elven-wrought arrow pierced his heart, he let one final arrow fly towards 
their fair hostage-no-longer. A he died, he tasted the sweetness of victory 
through the tang of his life-blood, as he watched the battle-maiden 
collapse to the earth, his arrow lodged in her back.
 
	For once, her dreams were calm, filled with soft, mysterious 
whispers and green scents that eased her breathing. She was always 
submerged in light, and it did not burn her, but felt cool and refreshing to 
her soul. She did not want to ever leave this safe space, and she imagined 
she heard strange voices calling her name. When she finally dared open 
her eyes, her breath caught in her throat, for she knew that surely she must 
be dead. 
	For beside her sat her mother, Théodwyn, glowing in golden 
radiance, more beautiful than she had ever been in life. Her mother 
tenderly stroked her cheek, and bathed her face with warm, fragrant waters 
that brought her even closer to consciousness. Éowyn tried to speak to her 
mother, clutch her nurturing hand, but found she did not have the strength 
to do more than whisper.
	"Hush, little one, you need rest." Théodwyn brushed a kiss across 
her daughter's pallid cheek. "For you nearly fell into the abyss of death, 
and only by the grace of the Light were you spared."
	Only then did Éowyn see clearly that the woman beside her, 
although flaxen-haired and lovely as her mother, was indeed a stranger to 
her. And in that moment, for the first time since her great loss, did Éowyn 
allow herself to weep. She was sure she had failed her brother, and that he 
lay dead in an unmarked grave in a far field. And she felt like a fool, for 
believing she could be of any aid to the Rohirrim. How could she be a 
soldier if she had nearly fallen in her first taste of war? 
	The golden woman said nothing while she cried, and brushed aside 
the girl's tears tenderly with her moist cloth. Once Éowyn's sobs had 
quieted, her caretaker sang softly in a language both alien and musical, 
and she could not help but slip back into the forgetful relief of sleep.
	It seemed days before she awoke again, feeling peaceful and 
rested. She was not surprised to find the golden woman beside her still, 
and this time her nurse held a cup of sweet tea to Éowyn's lips when her 
eyes fluttered open. The warm fluid washed through Éowyn's body, 
bathing her aching spirit with rich nourishment. After her long drink, she 
looked intently upon her guardian, and was pleased that her great beauty 
was truth, not a hallucination of fever-dreams.  
	"Good Lady, who are you?" Éowyn asked softly, her voice still a 
shadow of her true strength.
	The fair woman smiled in amusement. "You know who I am, 
Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Since your girlhood you have heard tales of 
me, both true and wildly false. I am Galadriel, Lady of Lórien, queen of 
the Elven-people of Middle-Earth, and I bid you welcome to my home."
	Éowyn was speechless in amazement. Surely she must still be 
dreaming, as the tales of her youth spun to life before her. But as her eyes 
locked upon those of the Lady of the Wood, she knew deeply that the 
strange words were true, and this was no vision brought to life by a 
wounded mind. For in those eyes lay honesty, a beauty both timeless and 
unquestioned, and Éowyn felt herself falling into pools as cleansing and 
deep as the sea. Galadriel blinked, and Éowyn remembered herself, and 
finally took stock of her situation.
	Her chest was swaddled still in healing cloths, and she knew by the 
ache that blossomed under her right breast when she moved that she 
should have died when the Orc's arrow had pierced her lung from behind. 
The Lady of Lórien must truly be powerful to heal such a grievous wound 
so quickly and completely.
	'That I am, child,' a melodious voice rang in her head. Éowyn 
looked up in shock to find Galadriel's eyes twinkling into hers, 'but had 
my men not been so quick to return you to me you would have been 
beyond my aid.'
	"I thank you, great Lady, I am forever indebted to your mercy and 
skill." Éowyn spoke aloud, uncomfortable with the knowledge that the 
Queen had been inside her mind, and could freely enter it at will.
	"Do not be frightened, Lady of Rohan," Galadriel spoke in her 
clear voice, the elvish accent making even the most common words 
magical, "and do not despair. Your brother, Éomer, is well, a strong 
captain of the Rohirrim, and leads his men to victory."
	"How do you know this?" The old fireside tales rekindled caution 
in her mind, stories of deception and manipulation at the hands of the 
White Witch.
	Galadriel's eyes narrowed, and once again her voice echoed 
through the whorls of Éowyn's mind, terrible with the promise of wrath.
	'No mere Witch am I, girl-child, to lure braggarts to my bed for 
amusement and power. I walked among the forests of Middle-Earth long 
before the first in the line of your kin had even emerged from his mother's 
womb. I can see far beyond the borders of time and earth, and I would 
suggest you show a bit more respect when addressing me.'
	Éowyn was deeply ashamed, and dropped her eyes to her lap, 
afraid to look at the great Lady. But Galadriel's next words were calm, 
bearing no trace of ill will or anger.
	'Trust me, Éowyn. I know you have lived long in a house of 
growing sorrow, and you become more calloused each year your soul 
remains trapped under its roof. You are welcome to rest here a while, until 
the wounds of both your body and mind heal. No harm will come to you as 
long as you remain in Galadhrim with me and my folk. Now sleep a bit 
more, for although you may feel strong you have much healing before 
you.'
	Galadriel's hand felt smooth and warm as it brushed Éowyn's 
cheek, and Éowyn fought the urge to press her lips upon the unmarred skin 
in gratitude. She blushed a little as the White Lady smiled, sure she had 
known. The last thing she saw as she drifted to sleep again were those 
blue, blue eyes, and she could almost feel herself riding across them upon 
her horse, free and wild as the wind dancing through the fields of Rohan. 
 
	 The days blurred together in the house of Galadriel, and Éowyn's 
recovery was swift. But although the wounds in her chest and knee healed, 
she dreaded the long ride back to Rohan, facing the defeat and humiliation 
of a warrior who failed his appointed task. Once she was strong enough to 
stand, she would walk with the aid of her Elf-nurses, as now that her 
danger had passed she no longer required the great Lady's constant 
vigilance. But Galadriel would still visit her every night, checking on her 
precious charge, bringing her freshly brewed teas and medicines.
	Of all the lush brilliance of Galadhrim, nothing was more soothing 
to Éowyn's heart than the luminous face of her caretaker. Although she 
witnessed many glorious things from her window and in her brief walks in 
the day, she would wait until the cool breezes of night when the Lady 
would enter her chambers. She felt a stirring in her heart when Galadriel 
would glide into her room, brilliant as silver, her eyes filled with care.
	Since the death of her father, she had not felt so protected and 
cherished by another. Though she knew it was merely the concern of a 
healer for their patient, she could almost remember what it felt to 
experience a mother's tender love, and at times would close her eyes and 
imagine the soft hands dressing and tending her wounds were that of 
Théodwyn. In these hours Galadriel would sing to her in Elvish tongue, 
old legends and new ballads crafted by the finest poets in all of Middle-
Earth. In turn, Éowyn would tell Galadriel some of the soldier's tales, 
though they sounded rough to her ears in comparison to the songs of the 
Elves. Galadriel would listen intently, which Éowyn suspected she did 
only to humor her. But whenever the Elf-queen laughed, it made Éowyn's 
heart soar, and as soon the sound died she ached to hear it again. 
	But still the shadows lingered in Éowyn's heart, and once the Lady 
had left her for the night, Éowyn was faced with long, lonely stretches of 
darkness in which to whisper her fears. But even as she thought of her 
brother and uncle, and her desires to ride to the fields of war, she realized 
that each time the moon rose in her window, her thoughts would turn to 
her beautiful healer. She did not understand the sadness that would fill her 
at the memories of the kind hands and loving eyes, and she would bite 
back tears as she remembered the songs crooned only hours before. 
Confused, she would sleep, and her dreams now were filled with soft, 
moonlit flesh and sighs so breathless she was sure it was the wind. But 
when she awoke, she would not remember any of this, and she was often 
bewildered at the dampness between her thighs in the morning. 
	Galadriel, being wise and long-lived, had many times encountered 
this, and was careful with the girl's fragile emotions. Having given life 
anew to many a wounded warrior, she knew how easily the hurt ones 
come to love their healers. A light would shine through the storm-clouds 
of Éowyn's eyes as she gently washed and tended the wounds, and she 
could feel the girl tremble beneath her each time her Elven hands would 
lightly brush the tender skin of her back in healing motions. Galadriel was 
all the more gentle knowing the maiden was unused to feeling so drawn to 
a woman, knew that in Éowyn's heart there was a struggle to identify this 
new emotion.
	Among the Elves, love between people of the same gender was 
nothing new or strange, and they embraced it freely both in commitment 
and in pleasure. But among the race of Men, it was something whispered 
in dark corners, and for two people of the same sex to love each other 
openly was unheard of to Éowyn. Even the soldiers of Rohan spoke 
naught of the secret nights spent in each other's bedrolls on long and bitter 
marches. She had only heard bawdy tales of women so lusty they would 
rut with any being, woman, man, or beast, and these she had chalked up to 
complete fantasy. So conflicted she remained, knowing only that the 
swelling in her heart whenever she saw Galadriel had grown deeper than 
any passion a daughter could carry for her mother. 
 
	It had been another cycle of the moon before Éowyn was allowed 
to walk without aid, and only then was she permitted to visit her mare as it 
grazed upon the sweet grasses of the forest. She was overjoyed to see how 
healthy and content her horse was, as last she had seen the filly she had 
lain in a pool of her own blood on the battlefield.
	"These Elves are truly gifted healers to bring us both back from the 
brink, my friend," she had spoken softly to the animal as she fed it 
succulent herbs. 
	"Aye, we work as well with the beasts as we do with men," a 
familiar voice spoke in her ear. Her heart leapt as Galadriel stood beside 
her, her step so soft that Éowyn had not even heard her approach.
	"Soon you both will be ready to return to your home," the Elf-
queen continued, stroking the groomed mane of the fine horse, which 
Éowyn now noticed was filled with tiny, deft braids, "as I know you uncle 
Théoden misses you dearly."
	Éowyn's face darkened. "I cannot return yet." She turned away 
then from her mare and the Lady, and faced into the darkness of the forest.
	'You have not failed your people, Éowyn. You fail them only if you 
refuse to return to them.' Galadriel's soothing voice caressed Éowyn's 
mind. 
	The shield maiden turned suddenly to face the queen, her eyes 
tormented. 
	"But what if the only desire in my heart is to remain here in 
Galadhrim, to stay the long days of my life in the splendor of these trees, 
to bask in the radiance of your. . ." here the girl faltered, struggling not to 
betray her heart, which Galadriel could read as plainly as if Éowyn had 
spoken.
	'My radiance will stay with you always, child, for the love of the 
Lady of the Wood is not given lightly. And indeed I have come to care for 
you, Éowyn, and I will always treasure the memories of our hours 
laughing and singing under my roof.'
	A boldness had crept into Éowyn's eyes, and although the queen 
could read the girl's mind, she was not expecting the question that came 
next.
	"And how do you love me, Lady of Lórien? Do you love me as a 
patient? As a daughter? As a friend? For I know in my heart I love you 
deeply, but am unable to find the title fitting for the depth of feeling I have 
for you." The girl's eyes glittered in the light the Lady emitted, and she 
was shocked at her own forthrightness, but not dismayed. 
	But her heart grew cold as all she saw reflected in the Lady's eyes 
was that same pity-love Éomer had gazed upon her with on the eve of his 
march, which seemed like lifetimes ago. And without giving Galadriel 
time to respond, Éowyn ran into the forest.
 
	Galadriel stood a while with the mare, grooming it with her hands, 
and tried not to let her sadness overwhelm her. She had not intended to 
hurt the girl, and knew Éowyn was not yet ready to return to Rohan. She 
had merely meant to prepare her for their separation, and now knew their 
parting would be more bitter than she had hoped. 
	'It will be bitter for you as well, my wife,' Celeborn's rich and 
familiar voice floated through her mind, 'for although you hide your true 
feelings from the child, you cannot hide them from me.'  He appeared 
beside her then, bringing a large carrot for the horse, which it accepted 
gladly. 
	Galadriel sighed. 'I do not try to hide them from you, husband, but 
from myself. You know as well as I that she cannot remain with us, 
although it would gladden my heart to keep her near me for the brief years 
of her life.'
Celeborn's gazed upon his wife with no trace of envy, for it was 
not uncommon for Elves to take other lovers, as immortality is long, and 
the pleasures of the flesh far too many to be had with only one person. She 
herself had held him in dark nights as he wept for the deaths of men-
lovers, comforting him with her kisses and words. Their love was stronger 
than time, and although they shared their hearts and bodies with others, 
they knew that nothing, not even the blackest magic, could sever the bond 
between them.    
'Already she has grown dear to me, more so than any other mortal 
woman who has entered into Caras Galadhon. But she is so young, freshly 
a woman, and so unsure of herself.'
'She is no common girl, nor any ordinary Lady of kings. You 
yourself saw her potential in your mirror, and know she is a daughter of 
destiny.  She will be pivotal to the forces of light in the dark days ahead.' 
Celeborn took his wife's hand. 'It is the lot men of great deeds, to never 
know the depth of their own strength until the moment of trial is at hand. 
You must show her how much strength truly lays within her.'
'She doubts herself because she is woman, not man.' Galadriel 
replied. 'All her life she has been put to the wayside, hungry for the 
freedom allowed to those of the ruling gender. She sees her flesh as a 
weakness, not something to be reveled in.'
'Then teach her how to revel in the flesh of women,' Celeborn 
smiled at his wife, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 'For if she does not find 
the pride and glory it is to be a woman, she will never be able to truly 
realize her own destiny.'
 
 
	Éowyn had run through the trees, heedless of where she tread. Her 
face burned as hotly as her heart, and she knew she had made a fool of 
herself before the woman she loved.
	'Stop thinking of her like that,' she chided herself angrily, and 
grew even angrier to find herself speaking to her own mind as if it were 
the Lady's words in her head.
 She knew now she could not deny she had fallen in love with 
Galadriel, queen of the Elves, and it was an acidic love, one that could 
never be returned. She felt sick at herself, and did not know what trickery 
had planted such perverted desires in her mind. 
'If I had been born a man, then this would make sense to me. I 
might have had a chance to win the Lady's heart. . .'
	Éowyn came to a sudden halt, and she momentarily forgot her pain 
as she gazed upon the most glorious pool of water she had ever seen. 
Hidden amongst a field of ferns and night-blooming flowers, a shallow 
lagoon rippled the reflected moonlight, fed by a small waterfall that 
cascaded from a channel carved from tall boulders. The lure of the cool 
water was too great to resist, and she hoped it would help quench the sour 
fire smoldering in her chest.
	She stripped off her robes, not caring if anyone spied, for she had 
her sword near her, and knew she could take down a foe as easily naked as 
she had clothed. She stepped cautiously into the water, relishing the 
briskness as it made her skin shiver. Confident the water was safe, she 
plunged under the surface. It was deep enough to swim in comfortably, but 
shallow enough to stand up to her neck in even the deepest places. Her 
sigh of contentment sent a flurry of bubbles to the surface, and they 
seemed to take her anguish with them. She could not be sad as long as she 
swam in these waters, and let her tension bleed out with the strokes of her 
arms. Here she was at peace with her body, for the water did not judge her 
because of the form of her flesh. 
	'Nor do I, little one.' Éowyn did not know if the voice of Galadriel 
rang true in her mind, or if it was just a manifestation of her fantasy. She 
kicked to the surface of the pool, and as her head broke the water, she saw 
the Lady of Lórien standing upon the banks of the shore. The drum of her 
heart skipped a beat as she watched, dumbfounded, and the luminous elf-
woman slowly parted her starry robes to reveal the moon-painted flesh 
that had haunted her dreams for weeks. The Lady looked right into 
Éowyn's eyes as she undressed, and Éowyn dared not believe that she saw 
her desire mirrored in their depths. She tore her eyes away from the 
tempting sight, shame creeping through her.
	'Do not be afraid to look upon my body, Éowyn, for it is no shame 
to desire the flesh of your own kind.' Galadriel's voice was soothing to the 
girl's frazzled mind, and she ached to believe in her words as much as she 
ached to feel the soft skin that was unveiled before her.
	As the Lady stepped into the pool, the water barely rippled as she 
parted the surface. Her golden hair tumbled over her naked curves, hiding 
her most secret places, but highlighting the lush swell of her smooth hips. 
Éowyn gasped as she noticed the Lady's tiny nipple, pale as a newly 
formed rosebud, peeking unabashedly through the blond curls, and her lips 
trembled, imagining how it would feel to hold that precious jewel in a 
kiss. 
	Galadriel approached the maiden, and her fair mane floated on the 
surface of the water like seaweed spun from gold. Although she was Elven 
in blood, Éowyn imagined her more like a naiad of the old legends as she 
swam with unhindered grace to where Éowyn stood nervously, up to her 
shoulders in the currents. 
	'Do not fear your feelings, my dear one, and do not deny yourself, 
or the truth that lays in your heart. For indeed you are woman, and 
powerful and beautiful you are because of it.'  With those words, the Lady 
of the Wood leaned into the Lady of Rohan, and their lips met in a tender, 
burning kiss. Éowyn trembled against Galadriel in the water, and a small 
cry escaped from their kiss as Éowyn felt her body brush against that of 
the Lady's. Her own small breasts rested against Galadriel's as they clung 
closer together, and she felt Elven hands slowly caress her shaking back as 
the queen's tongue darted across her teeth.
	'Do not fear your lust, for it is returned freely. I sense no 
perversion in you, only a long-hidden realization that has just come to 
light. I will show you how truly glorious the flesh of woman is, both of 
others, and of your own.'
	As the kiss deepened, Éowyn could no longer restrain herself. She 
flung her arms around the great queen's neck and opened herself 
completely to her. So long had she repressed her passions, her inhibitions 
bled out of her with each sweet second she was in Galadriel's embrace. 
Now those soft Elven lips were pressed to her neck, sucking softly as they 
kissed their way from ear to ear, and Éowyn feared she'd go mad from 
their fluttering delicacy as she entwined her fingers in the queen's silken 
hair. Throwing her head back towards the stars, she let loose a wild yelp of 
ecstasy as the queen's hands cupped the soft mounds of her breasts, the 
deft thumbs caressing the aching caps of her nipples under the water.
	The queen pulled away, to Éowyn's displeasure, but Galadriel took 
her hand and led her towards the shallower waters nearer the shore. As the 
crescent moons of Éowyn's  breasts were exposed to the cool night air, her 
creamy pink nipples shivered erect, and Galadriel could not help but lean 
down for a taste of their sweetness. Éowyn let out a cry as the Lady's full 
lips latched upon her breast, and the twitching in her cleft became a 
rhythmic pound. The Lady's mouth was hot, and her tongue skilled, as she 
milked pleasure from Éowyn little buds as a babe would nourishment from 
its mother. Already the Elf-queen found herself throbbing and moist, but 
she bided her time, knowing fully that this was the first pleasure the 
human woman had ever tasted, and she wanted her to experience it fully.
	"Enough!" Éowyn gasped, and pulled Galadriel up to her mouth 
for another long kiss. It was almost too much to bear, and the pleasure 
spreading throughout her body left her breathless with a need she could 
not explain with words. She had to see her Lady's eyes, and was 
overjoyed to find not a trace of pity in her gaze. 'Then this is done in love,' 
she thought to herself, and experimented with the little kisses along 
Galadriel's throat, shivering as the Lady moaned in expectation.  
	Éowyn reached a hand up, and cupped Galdriel's sensitive breast 
between her fingers. Squeezing gently, as if testing fruit for ripeness, she 
explored the milky texture of the skin, delighting mostly in the crinkled 
pucker of the little nipple. When she pinched it gently, the queen would 
cry out softly in joy, which would greaten the mysterious throb in her 
hidden slit. She licked the nub with her tongue, delicately, and was 
delighted to feel Galadriel shiver against her. Growing braver, she sucked 
the nipple slowly into her mouth, carefully nipping at it with her teeth. The 
Lady thrust herself closer to her lover, trying to press more of herself into 
the hot mouth latched upon her.
	Slowly the queen pulled away again, and led Éowyn to the shore. 
There she laid the maiden down upon her spread robe, and covered her 
lithe body with hers as she kissed her again. Éowyn reached her mouth up, 
and sucked the little points of Galadriel's Elven ears between her teeth, as 
she had wanted to do since she had first seen them through her layers of 
hair. The queen smiled to herself, for she had never had a human lover 
who did not at one point or another toy with her ears in their lovemaking.
	Galadriel began to kiss Éowyn's neck again, and her breasts, but 
this time slithered her hand over Éowyn's taunt belly, reaching lower to 
fondle the velvety skin of her muscled thighs. Her body knowing what her 
mind did not yet register, Éowyn's legs parted under the queen's hands, 
and she shivered as the slim fingers traced hot lines inside her thigh. 
Staring deep into Éowyn's trusting eyes, Galadriel ran her hand up, and 
cupped the golden-curled mound of the maiden's sex, watching as her 
pupils dilated in expectation. Seeing no fear, only longing, Galadriel 
slipped a delicate finger between the untried folds as she slid her tongue 
between Éowyn's lips. The queen swallowed the girl's moans as her finger 
danced around the erect nodule of Éowyn's greatest pleasure, and Éowyn 
bucked her hips up to meet the maddeningly light strokes. 
	Galadriel rained more kisses across Éowyn's burning nipples, and 
then lower across her stomach, sliding between her thighs. Her fingers 
never left the wet cleft, even as her kiss-swollen lips played with the 
downy curls on the girl's mound. Then suddenly, it was the Lady's 
tongue, not her finger, that swirled around that secret bump, and Éowyn 
writhed underneath the queen's skilled mouth, tangling her fingers 
hopelessly in Galadriel's damp hair. The tongue lapped at her softly, then 
roughly, and then softly once again, and Éowyn felt so full of love that she 
could burst. A pressure was rising within her with every lick, but she was 
not afraid. This was so good, so right, and she struggled to keep her wits 
lest she faint from the pleasure. 
	When she thought she could bear no more of Galadriel's exquisite 
tongue in her folds, she felt for the first time her long, narrow fingers part 
her virgin channel, and she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. As the 
queen's hands explored her most secret places, she felt no pain at first 
entry, as she had long ago lost her maidenhead in many hours of 
horseback riding. As she was manipulated both from within and without 
by quick tongue and gentle fingers, Éowyn lost herself. Her back arched 
like a great bow, a wordless cry rose from her throat, and her universe was 
centered on the brilliance resonating like a deep song from the center of 
her womanhood. And then all was still again, as she collapsed back to the 
earth, shivering as the Lady withdrew and curled her body around 
Éowyn's sweating form.
	They lay in the silence for a while, savoring the feel of their silken 
skin pressed together, until Éowyn moved a bit, and heard Galadriel moan 
softly in her ear as Éowyn's arm brushed her breast. She knew then that 
her Lady had not yet reached her completion herself, and she wanted 
nothing more than to bring Galadriel the same rapture she had just tasted.
	Springing upon her with renewed vigor, she kissed the queen as 
she caressed her, and tasted her own salty juices upon Galadriel's lips. The 
taste excited her even more, and she feverishly delved her tongue into her 
mouth, almost as if she were practicing for the task at hand. She moved 
the kiss lower, down her graceful throat, between the sweat-speckled 
breasts (and she could not resist leaving one more wet caress on each of 
those sweet little nipples), and across the flat expanse of the queen's belly. 
Éowyn felt as if she were a traveler in a land both foreign and familiar, as 
since she had always lived in the body of a woman she was accustomed to 
its topography, but she saw it now with new eyes as she explored it with 
her hands and tongue.
	Finally she came to the secret mound, and although they were both 
fair-haired, the Lady's soft curls seemed almost silver in the moonlight. 
Tiny droplets of dew clung to the gossamer hairs, and Éowyn tasted one 
with the tip of her tongue. She found Galadriel's fluids not salty at all, but 
sweet and intoxicating as wine, and it coated her mouth like honey as she 
slowly ran her tongue across the crevice. The Elf-queen moaned, and 
thrust her hips up to meet the girl's questing mouth.  
	Although she had never tasted a woman before, she was guided by 
both instinct and Galadriel's instructive words in her mind, and she 
learned quickly (as she had in all other things) how to bring her Lady to 
shivering release. Licking the hard seed of Galadriel's pleasure with her 
tongue, she marveled at the heat of the lady's channel as the wet velvet 
constricted around her fingers, and by her breathing knew she was close to 
completion. Éowyn worked her tongue more furiously, and although her 
jaw ached, her minor discomfort was lost in the determination to feel the 
queen release in her mouth.
	She did not have to wait long, for with the quickening of her pace 
came a quickening of Galadriel's breath, and she could feel the sweet 
tension building and squeezing around her fingers. Éowyn slid a third and 
final finger within the queen, and Galadriel's body suddenly went rigid. 
Her eyes flashed a bright and frightening white, and she made no sound 
although her mouth was open, as if her scream had lodged itself in her 
throat and could not be freed. Éowyn's face was bathed in a wave of the 
sweet fluids, and she lapped them greedily, until she looked upon the face 
of the Queen.
	Terrified, Éowyn ceased her work, and the moment her fingers left 
Galadriel, the elf-woman seemed to dim, and became only a panting 
shadow of herself. Éowyn rocked her, calling her name, her heart frozen in 
fear as her Lady did not respond. 
	Then Galadriel turned her head to Éowyn, and smiled radiantly, 
and with her smile the color returned to her naked flesh, and she was once 
again herself, if not glowing all the more brightly. The women cradled 
each other on the shore of the pool, wrapped in the cloak dampened with 
their sweat and mingled juices, and fell asleep with the taste of each other 
on their lips. 
 
	"Uncle? Théoden King? Where is your sister-daughter? Where is 
Éowyn?" Éomer stood before his uncle, who did not appear to understand 
his question, nor even truly realize his nephew stood before him. Freshly 
returned from the long ride with the Rohirrim, he had known something 
was amiss when he did not see his sister waiting for him at the gate as he 
knew she would have been. He had run to her chambers, and found them 
empty, and as he ran through the house, calling her name, he was met with 
the sorrowful glances of the king's guards, who refused to tell him 
anything but to go see his uncle.
Éomer had been shocked to see Théoden so frail and sickly upon 
his throne, wrapped in drool-matted furs, his once-golden curls only 
unruly wisps of spidery threads. The sentience was gone from his eyes, 
and he appeared an ancient man, not even a ghost of his former strength 
remained within his form.
	"She is gone, Lord Éomer," Gríma's voice floated to Éomer's ear 
in a harsh whisper, "gone seeking her brother. She could not bear to be 
parted from you for so long, and stole to the fields in the dead of night 
more than three months ago." He stepped into the light, and took his place 
on the hard bench at the king's right hand. "We sent what Riders we could 
spare as soon as we understood what she had done, but they returned 
empty-handed."  Gríma's voice choked sorrowfully, "I'm afraid the shock 
of losing his beloved niece was too much for your poor uncle, whose heart 
was already heavy with grief. I tried to bring him what little hope I could, 
but alas, I am not fair and gentle as your sister, and lost the good king to 
his despair." Gríma then smoothed the king's tangled hair, and  Éomer had 
to fight the urge to bat his ugly hand away from Théoden's face.
	"Then I will find my sister, be it only her cold corpse so that I may 
lay it to rest." Éomer's face was stony with determination, and 
Wormtongue mused at how similar the siblings looked in their anger. 
"Go, good Éomer, and bring your sister back to her rightful place 
within the walls of Edoras. Let her know how her folly has cost your uncle 
his mind, and Rohan it's king. Tell her she is to blame for the ills that fell 
upon this house!" Gríma let loose a sob, and he buried his face in the 
king's furs.
Had Éomer been in his right mind, he would have inflamed at the 
bitter words unleashed at his dear sister. But seeing Théoden so shattered 
by Éowyn's abandonment left him angry at her as well, even as he sought 
to bring her to safety. For he thought she had understood him on that last 
night, understood her duty to her people. And though he loathed to leave 
the king again with Wormtongue, he was comforted that at least Théodred 
would sit with Théoden in this dark time. 
Without any rest, he rode back into the fields with a few trusted 
companions, and began his search for his sister, praying to all the gods of 
all the peoples of Middle-Earth that she still lived.
 
Éowyn awoke to the smell of fresh-baked herb-bread and tea, and 
when she opened her eyes she caught the secret smile of the elf-maiden 
that had left their breakfast upon Galadriel's bedroom table. Shifting in the 
sheets, Éowyn nestled herself closer to the Queen's warm, narrow body, 
basking in the sweetness of her flesh. She knew that Elves did not need 
sleep, and often took to meditating with their eyes open for renewal. But 
there was no feeling more comforting than to wake up to a loving face in 
the morning, and Galadriel did not want to deny her new lover that 
pleasure. For many weeks already she called Éowyn thus, and it brought a 
greater light to her eyes as she thought of the human woman's sighs and 
caresses. Never had she met a girl with more vitality, and their sweating 
nights of pleasure were as tiring as they were exhilarating.
But a doubt nagged at the edges of Galadriel's thoughts, though 
she was able to hide it well from her Lady-Love. She knew the time for 
Éowyn's departure neared, as she had already tarried long after her 
wounds had healed. The longer Éowyn stayed in Galadhrim with her, the 
more difficult their parting would be, and Galadriel already knew that the 
next time they would lay together under the trees of Lórien would be their 
last night ever.
"Something ails you, my Lady." Éowyn murmured into Galadriel's 
graceful ear. 
The Elf-queen smiled, pushing back her thoughts. "Only the 
knowledge that I cannot remain in this warm bed with you all day, for 
there is a council I must attend with my husband, Lord Celeborn."
At the word 'husband,' Éowyn's eyes darkened. Galadriel sighed 
internally. This is why most of her relationships with humans never lasted 
very long. They became very possessive over her, and though Celeborn 
graciously shared his wife's heart, most Men could not understand the idea 
of more than one love. 
Galadriel attempted to soothe her lover's ruffled feelings with a 
soft kiss, but the mood had been spoiled. Yes, the girl was already far too 
attached to her, Galadriel noted as Éowyn turned away, rising to dress 
herself. But Galadriel could not help but drink in Éowyn's strong curves 
and golden skin, and her sex stirred as it remembered the feel of the damp 
flesh under her fingers, the earthy taste of her sap. With no time to act 
upon her desires, Galadriel also rose and dressed. 
"I will see you again tonight, my dear," Galadriel planted another 
kiss upon her Éowyn's fair lips, and was relieved to feel the love in them 
had returned so swiftly. Éowyn was quick to anger, but also quick to let it 
leave her. 
As Galadriel departed, Éowyn watched her go in silence. It seemed 
that some troubling thought was always flickering in the corners of 
Galadriel's mind whenever they were together, framing the edges of those 
azure eyes with a ring of worry. They would dissipate quickly with 
Éowyn's kisses, and for that at least she was glad, and it made her 
confident that it was not her that brought such turmoil to her Lady's core.
Already Éowyn's mind roamed less back to the rugged terrain of 
Rohan, and with each passing day her soul felt most at ease under the lush 
canopy of Lórien. Although at times her heart would wander back to her 
uncle's side, or to her brother's rough embrace, it beat most true in the 
presence of Galadriel. Éowyn dreamed that she could remain forever with 
the Elves, learning their enchanting songs and elegant ways, basking in the 
love and peace that had been withheld from her so long under Théoden's 
roof. 
Here, she was loved. Here, she was appreciated, never judged. 
Here, it was good to be woman, and her gender did not cripple her in the 
eyes of her companions. Already she had ridden though the forest in the 
company of other Elf-maidens, something she had never had the pleasure 
of doing in Rohan, and their jaunt had been filled with laughter as their 
horses skipped across the roots and leaves of the blessed country. Yes, 
Lórien was now her home, and Lady Galadriel her Queen. She could 
renounce the ways of Men forever, knowing that when her life came to an 
end, it would be the Lady's gentle eyes that would remind her of rich life 
she let behind. 
She made up her mind then, sitting upon the Galadriel's bed, 
where the perfume of their love-making still clung to the sheets. She 
would not return to Rohan. She would never see Éomer become the great 
lord he was destined to be, and the thought saddened her. She would miss 
her brother dearly. But she knew that the sacrifice would be worth every 
second she breathed in the arms of her Queen, where Éowyn knew who 
she truly was.
 
'My Lady, the time has come,' Celeborn sat across from his wife at 
their great meeting table, all seats empty save the two they occupied. 'I 
feel it to the very marrow of my bones.'
'I do as well, my Lord.' Galadriel looked calmly across to her 
husband, and at her surface she seemed cool and regal as always. But he 
could feel her soul as easily as he could his own, and he tasted the same 
woe on the back of his tongue. He did not envy Galadriel, and he was 
familiar with the conflict that raged in her now.
No, not conflict, but sorrow. There was no question that the girl 
had to return to her lands, her people, but it was that knowledge that 
brought the Lady such grief.  
'The rumors of evil in the East have indeed revealed themselves to 
be true, and I fear that within the decade we will once again face the 
unquenchable sin of Mordor.'
'Not unquenchable, Lady. There lays hope as long as the One Ring 
eludes the Dark One's grasp.' A shiver ran up Celeborn's spine as he 
remembered the muddy war field upon which Sauron fell, and an even 
deeper chill gripped him remembering the smug face of Isildur as he had 
emerged from Mount Doom with the One Ring in his gloved hand.
'Those times are long past, husband, and though we would wish it, 
we cannot undo the treachery that befell us all that day.' Galadriel's eyes 
sparked as pale as fresh ice, 'but we can seek to ensure the survival of all 
that is good within Middle-Earth in this time. We have much work to do, 
and so little time to do it all in.'
Celeborn grew silent again, and when he next spoke to his wife, his 
mind-voice had become even more solemn.
'You know then, as well as I, that our days here will soon be at an 
end. The sands of the age of the Elves have grown thin in the hourglass of 
time, and we all can hear the calling of the Havens in our dreams, even as 
we walk in the sunlight.' 
At this Galadriel bowed her head, and she did not want to think 
about the future she had seen in her mirror, of her lonely crossing across 
the western sea without her husband at her side. It was only a possibility, 
not yet a truth, and they would not face that hard bridge for several years 
to come.
'We will speak of that matter later, my love. But think of it also in 
this manner, were the Lady Éowyn to remain, you would still have to leave 
her at the shores of the Havens, as you know she cannot accompany you 
upon that voyage.'  His voice was kind, yet resolved, and Galadriel heard 
the deep truth within it. 
She had long ago accepted her separation from Éowyn, even as she 
had tended to the girl when she lay under death's hold. Never had she 
truly entertained the notion of keeping her, although in the private corners 
of her soul she had let the fantasy play in her mind. This was much like 
letting a beloved pet back into the wild, a difficult deed that left both 
keeper and captive better because of it.
'Already her kin seeks her, Lady, and within the week they will 
arrive at the borders of our forest. Let her return to them freely, rather 
than hoisting her upon her brother's saddle like a screaming babe. Grant 
her the opportunity to return to them proudly, though she will not see it as 
thus. She has learned much with you, but her lessons here are at an end. 
You helped her find the honor within herself, and no greater gift can you 
give her.'
Galadriel swallowed hard, attempting to wash the lump of  regret 
from her ivory throat. Yes. It was time to let the horse-maiden run free 
again. She only prayed that she had not already unwittingly imprisoned 
Éowyn's free spirit in a stable of  false hopes; for the mare that has been 
barn-spoiled will burn within her stall rather than flee the fire, and 
Galadriel knew that the years ahead would hold little but smoke and flame 
for all creatures of Middle-Earth.
 
	She could smell the blood. At times she swore she could feel it 
dripping through the thundering roof of the cavern, but all the icy drops 
that splattered upon her stony face were merely the lime-rich waters that 
constantly wept from the ceiling of the ancient cave. Above her head the 
battle raged, and she was surrounded by terrified women, who sobbed as 
they clutched their wide-eyed children closer to their bosoms. Éowyn 
stood apart from them all, nearest to the barricaded door, feeling  more 
imprisoned that protected. 
Her sweating hand was tight around her sword hilt, ready to taste 
Orc-blood if the need arose. At first, she had been bitter beyond words 
that the warlords had insisted she stay below with the rest of the women. 
But the dark-haired man, the one who made her heart pound each time his 
burning eyes fell upon her, had pulled her close and whispered,
"Lady, you know how badly undermanned we are. We do not have 
the luxury of leaving a garrison behind to protect the women. You must be 
our last defense, for if all the men fall on the field, there will be none to 
stop the black forces from sweeping in and slaying all the helpless ones. 
You must protect your people, Lady of Rohan, you are their final hope."
So she stood at the ready, damp with cold sweat, praying that the 
soldiers above would be enough to hold the fortress. She knew that this 
sanctuary would quickly become a tomb once the cave was breached, and 
their safety within it was held only by the strength of the door before her.
A young woman, no older than sixteen, approached Éowyn. The 
gentle hump on her belly betrayed her condition, and she felt a deep pang, 
knowing that the girl's husband would not likely witness the birth of his 
first child. 
"Have you any news, my Lady?" The girl's voice was soft, but 
strong, and it did not tremble. 
Éowyn sighed. "No word has come from our men, save for the 
clatter of the battle that gets closer and closer to us." 
As if to punctuate her words, a high scream, a death-cry, reached 
their ears. Still not quite to their door, but still too near, and Éowyn knew 
the time would soon come where she would be put to the test. 
"You should return to the rest of the people. This is no place for a 
woman in your condition." Her voice was authorative, but edged with a 
fear she tried not to betray.
The girl studied Éowyn's face a moment, searching her with 
depthless brown eyes. Satisfied, she turned back to her blankets, and 
began rummaging in her roll. 
Another pained yelp echoed from behind the door, and Éowyn's 
body became tense with the hot rush that surged though her. She knew she 
could not hold them for long. She had glimpsed the hordes of Orcs upon 
the horizon, and knew that their cruel numbers would be far more than she 
could take alone. But damned if she wouldn't die trying. 
So lost in her thoughts she was that she did not realize that the 
pregnant girl had returned.
"Child, I told. . ." but Éowyn lost her voice as she noticed the fine 
bow in the woman's work-worn hands, an arrow already strung from the 
full quiver slung securely across her back, and the determination painted 
across her young face. 
"My husband taught me how to use a bow many years ago. In the 
fall we hunt deer for dried winter meat, and my skill has not lessened with 
my condition. If I can fell game as well as any hunter, then I can fell Orcs 
as well as any soldier." 
Éowyn was astonished with the girl's courage, and her heart filled 
with hope. Éowyn clapped her hand to the woman's shoulder, as she had 
seen the men do many times in their camaraderie, and the girl covered it 
with her own. Bonded as warriors, each feeling better for the other's 
presence, they resumed their anxious watch.
Their display did not go unnoticed by the rest of the refugees.  
Slowly, another woman approached them, a wicked dagger in her hand. 
She was followed by another bearing a rusty sword, and another, with a 
pair of kitchen knives. Soon, most of the younger women stood, clutching 
what little weapons had been left behind by fearful husbands, brothers, 
and fathers. Those that were mothers kissed their crying little ones 
tenderly as they left them in the bewildered arms of their grandmothers, as 
they joined the swelling numbers at the door. They were tired of cowering 
in fear, tired of waiting for their fate. They would fight for their lives, the 
lives of their children, and ultimately, the survival of their people.
The all looked at their Lady in expectation, their fear barely 
hidden by a thin coat of bravery, and Éowyn had to bite her lip to keep 
from weeping at their noble display. Ragged these women were, hungry 
and terrified. But they were so resolute, prepared to follow their Lady into 
death. They trusted her wisdom and leadership, and no general could ever 
have been prouder. 
Suddenly, the clamor above grew louder, and Éowyn thought she 
had heard the call of retreat through the door. The vibrations through the 
floor grew stronger, the screams and clash of swords closer. The women 
eyed each other nervously, as with steel in their blood, they all watched, 
and waited to beat death back from their door. . .
 
Éowyn awoke herself with a strangled cry, clutching her sword and 
sweating in the dark. She had not meant to fall asleep, but the warm mossy 
patch she had found in the forest had been too inviting not to lay upon for 
a while. When she had drifted off, the sky she could see through the 
golden leaves had just begun to hint at orange, and now that it was black 
above she had no idea how long she had slumbered.
It took her a long moment to shake the bleary panic from her eyes. 
The dream had seemed so real, so frightening, and it took many shaking 
breaths to clear the adrenaline from her head. It was only then that she 
realized that she no longer lay in the glade, when the chill of the stone 
bench underneath her seeped through her clothes. 
She sat up, confused, and took stock of her surroundings. She was 
in a courtyard of sorts, hollowed out  from the hills around it and held with 
a stone wall. A clear creek bubbled its way across the border of the 
courtyard and down to join the great river miles away. But what drew her 
attention the most was the stone pillar in the center, carved so that it 
appear to have been erected by vines of gray rock. Atop the column was a 
deep basin, and as Éowyn inspected it, a little voice in her head warned 
her against freshening herself in its water. This place was too sacred for 
such a common purpose.
She looked closer at the water, and it seemed that she could see 
forms moving within it. Was this a home to fish, or other small aquatic 
creatures so blessed they needed a revered space? She leaned in more, and 
the shapes swam faster, blurring together, and she was utterly captivated 
by their dance. 
All at once, it seemed that the water split open, and Éowyn was 
looking into a window rather than a pool. There, through the portal, she 
could see her uncle Théoden upon his throne, more sickly and weak than 
she had ever known him to be. It chilled her to the bone to see the once 
strong lines in his face had deepened into aged furrows, and he appeared 
to be a man of over one hundred years. She saw Éomer as he approach 
their uncle, still wearing his grimed armor, and she breathed a sigh of joy  
to see that he walked unharmed. She could not hear their words, but it 
appeared that the King did not even respond to her brother's presence, and 
that troubled her greatly. Théoden was an emotional man, though he tried 
to hide it at times, and would have reacted strongly to news of the battles 
Éomer had just come from. 
The images blurred again, and Éowyn saw her empty chambers in 
Edoras, just as she had left them. But here sat Éomer in anguish, his head 
clutched in his great hands, and his body shook with heaving sobs. It was 
only then that she truly realized how much she must have been missed in 
Rohan, and she wanted to comfort her brother, call out to him, tell him 
that she was well, and more happy than she had ever been.
Just as she found her voice, the image shifted, and Éomer rode 
alone through the country she had passed through when she had journeyed 
blindly to the Field of Celebrant. No banner flew behind him, and his face 
was hard as he rode swiftly, his eyes roaming, tracking. She was then 
filled with guilt as she realized that it was her that he searched for. Maybe 
she could find him, ride out to him, and tell him of her choice so that he 
was no longer tormented. If he knew she lived safely, then surely he could 
live in peace. . .
Without warning, the surface of the water erupted into seething 
bubbles, as if it were boiling, but the droplets that were flung upon her 
face were still icy. Ignoring them, she was lost in the rapid montage that 
assaulted her then, images she could not quite grasp before they melted 
into the next. Here she saw smoke and fire, peasants running in terror from 
their burning homes. Next, miles of Orcs wielding blood-crusted blades, 
led by creatures more brutish and fearsome than she had ever seen. She 
then saw a fair Elf she did not recognize from Lórien, accompanied by a 
stout and hairy man who wielded an axe. A third companion joined them, 
and her chest tightened as she recognized him as the man from her dream. 
The rugged stranger carried a terrible blade, and although she was not 
certain, she swore she could recognize the spires and walls of the fortress 
they stood against.
'I must surely be dreaming now,' she thought to herself to calm her 
jangled nerves, but she could not tear her face away from the mirror. She 
watched, horrified at the great battle that unfolded before her, man after 
man plummeting from the walls under the swords and arrows of the Orcs. 
The images grew darker, more desperate and swirling visions of blood, 
tears, and loss. 
Suddenly, the bowl was filled with the image of a huge, hideous 
beast, a nightmare crafted out of her childhood tales. Its fanged mouth 
gnashed at her, and she imagined she could feel its hot, putrid breath upon 
her face. But more fearsome than the monster itself was it's rider, a figure 
too large and sinister to be a normal man. He was shrouded in layers of 
cloaks darker than the sky behind him, and bore a mace bristling with 
gore-caked spikes. The dark rider reared his horrid mount, the creature 
beating its rank wings furiously, and the warrior swung his merciless 
weapon down towards her. . .
Éowyn ripped her eyes away from the mirror in terror, collapsing 
to the soil. 
'I must be dreaming, or this is some terrible sorcery to fill my mind 
with such foul images. . .' 
'Sorcery it is, my dear, and yes, it can be terrible. But it is not done 
merely to frighten you.' Galadriel's voice pierced through the clouds of 
Éowyn's mind, and she looked up. Her love slowly approached her from a 
staircase Éowyn had not noticed before, her pale, bare feet padding 
soundlessly down each mossy step. 
'My mirror shows you what you need to see, though many of the 
images may not be true yet. Sometimes it reaches into the past, other 
times, into the future. Often, though, it will show the present, things that 
are beyond your sight.'
"Then, these images may not be reality?" Éowyn's voice was tight 
as she spoke aloud. Her uncle, the battles, the specter intent on her death.. .
'I cannot tell you that, Éowyn. Only you will know in time if what 
you saw will become memory, or fall into dreams of what could have 
been.' Galadriel sat herself upon the bench Éowyn had awoken on, and 
held out her hand to the girl. Éowyn took it as she joined the White Lady, 
and she was comforted by her nearness. Éowyn leaned into her, breathing 
in the green fragrance of her sweet hair, and she lifted her face up for a 
kiss.
But she pulled back when she saw that her Lady's eyes held not 
just love, but a near sadness. Attempting to push the mysterious visions of 
the past day from her mind, she decided to cheer her grim Lady with her 
good news.
"Galadriel, I have made a very important decision. . ." was all that 
passed her lips before they were stilled by the Elf-queen's soft fingers.
"I know of your decision, dear one." Her voice held none of the 
happiness that Éowyn had expected, and it surprised her to know the Lady 
already knew and was yet so serious. Éowyn had played over the scenario 
many times in her mind that day: the Queen's beautiful smile, her 
overwhelming joy as they tumbled together to celebrate their long union.
It was then that it hit her, a possibility so awful that she hadn't 
even let it play in all her fantasies.
 "You don't want me to stay with you." She said it as a statement, 
not a question, and her voice was as cold and hard as her sword.
 She dropped Galadriel's hand, and stalked off the bench.
"Little one--"
"Stop calling me that! How can you still think of me as a child 
after all we have shared together? Why don't you want me to stay? Did I 
anger you? Or are you weary of me?" She was fighting not to cry, for she 
did not want to give Galadriel that satisfaction, who still sat as unflustered 
and calm as ever.
The Queen sighed slowly. This was going to be harder than she 
had feared. 
"Éowyn, daughter of Rohan, though your heart is here under the 
leaves of Lórien, you must set it free. You belong with your people, and 
already long enough have you neglected your duty to them--"
"I grow tired of always being told of what my duties are! Am I not 
entitled to some happiness while I live? Or am I doomed forever to follow 
the orders of those who would rule my life to their benefit?" She spat, 
glaring at Galadriel.
"Indeed you are still a suckling babe, little maiden, to think only of 
your own pleasure over what is right!" Galadriel's voice grew deeper with 
her fury. "Do you not think that it pains me to send you away? Do you not 
see how much happiness our time has brought me?" Her voice softened a 
bit, and her eyes seemed to stare into a far place that Éowyn could not see. 
"The world is changing, child, and you will fully grow to be a woman 
amid the dark struggles of war. You cannot hide in imagined safety from 
your destiny, for not even the forests will be able to shield you from the 
threat ahead. You must face the challenges with head high, and always 
keep with you the memories of our time together."
Éowyn fell to her knees before her Lady, anger melting into 
anguish, and with a final attempt she cried,
"But I love you, my Queen! You have taught me how to love like 
no other could, have pulled me from the darkness into your light! Do not 
cast be back into that black pit, for I will surely die without your radiance 
to bring me hope!" She buried her face into the Queen's diaphanous robes, 
and let her tears soak into the gauzy fabric as she sobbed, "I need you, 
Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood! Please, don't make me go!"  
A single tear trailed down Galadriel's cheek, so great was the pain 
within her now. She was truly torn, for it was one thing to know what one 
has to do, and another to actually see it done. She did not want to fully 
acknowledge just how much she had come to care for the shield-maiden, 
how closely she had come to letting herself love her in return. Had it been 
another time, she might have let the girl stay with her, but in this lifetime, 
it could not be so. Resolving herself, she called upon the deep strength she 
had fostered within her for millennia, and said the most difficult words 
that ever crossed her lips:
"I would not cast your heart away lightly, Éowyn, but out of duty 
to my people, and to yours, I must do so! For I do not love you as you do 
me. Although my feelings for you are indeed tender, they are not strong 
enough for me to betray what I know is right for something that can never 
be."
Éowyn pushed herself away from the queen as she yelled in 
disbelief, and her eyes blazed with betrayal. Galadriel wished she could 
have spared the girl's feelings, but she knew the best way to make Éowyn 
go was to wound her, make her want to leave. It broke her heart to see her 
lover so shattered as she clutched herself and sobbed, and she wanted to 
embrace her, comfort her, remind her of the good that had been between 
them. But she held her ground, and looked down upon the damp spot on 
her robe where Éowyn's tears had fallen.
Without warning, Éowyn was upon her, her supple body pressing 
down upon her with the force of her momentum. Her lips hungrily sought 
out hers, and Galadriel could no longer feel the love in her kiss, only rage, 
the desire to possess what was no longer hers. She could have flung 
Éowyn off as easily as one of her wispy robes, but she only clung closer to 
her in silence. She would let her have this, one more moment, one more 
time. She could not truly harm Galadriel now, as she slowly began to shut 
her heart to the girl, and the hurt Éowyn now would carry for many long 
years might be softened a bit by this last illusion of control.
Crying, Éowyn tore the Lady's fine garment, revealing the creamy 
flesh she was so familiar with, and she sunk her sharp little teeth into the 
underswell of Galdriel's breast. Fury and grief fueled her lust, and she was 
not gentle with the Queen as she shredded the remainder of the robes off 
her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable underneath Éowyn. Her hands 
scrabbled at Galadriel, clinging to her as she sucked the pink nipples into 
her mouth, starved for the passion that had kept her alive for so many 
days. 
The Queen made not a sound as Éowyn ravished her skin with 
brutal kisses, but her body betrayed her desires as she arched up to meet 
Éowyn's tear-salted lips. She roughly pulled the Lady's legs apart, and 
delved her tongue without warning into the cleft that already ran molten, 
and the sugared taste of her juices drove Éowyn to lap more furiously at 
the velvety skin. She bit at the sensitive outer lips between licks, and 
Galadriel fought to not cry out with the mingled pain and pleasure. Éowyn 
buried her face between the hot folds, cleaving it with her tongue, as if she 
could crawl inside her, to stay forever within her body. 
Then Éowyn was on top of the Queen again, lifting her dress over 
her body, so they lay flesh to flesh one last time. Éowyn bit into the 
luminous curve of Galadriel's throat, and thrust herself between her legs, 
as a man would. She gasped as her mound slammed against the Lady's, 
both slits dripping and swollen, their little buttons of pleasure rubbing 
against each other in perfect alignment. She thrust again, and another 
electric thrill ran from the tip of her nub and radiated though her sex, 
dizzying her. She pumped her hips between Galdriel's smooth thighs, and 
now the Elf-queen did not hold back her moans as she grabbed at Éowyn's 
buttocks to guide her thrusts. The wrath bled out of Éowyn with each 
moment they were joined, and she was filled with nothing but love for the 
Elf-woman as they writhed together in unison. Her movements became 
less raw, though no less feverish. Galadriel wrapped her legs behind 
Éowyn's straining thighs, drawing her closer, and Éowyn felt the Queen's 
teeth sink into the meat of her shoulder. It was that bite that drove her over 
the edge, and she bucked her hips wildly, thrusting the tiny bud against 
Galadriel's quivering wetness, and the world seemed to melt away under 
the incredible friction. And then, the fire erupted from her cleft, and she 
lost control, crying out and pumping madly upon her Queen, as she kept 
pace with each upward thrust. Her vision grew brighter, and it seemed that 
her Lady glowed more dazzlingly and more beautifully than ever as her 
face contorted in the ecstasy of their furious coupling. Their blue eyes met, 
and held open as they reached completion together as one. Their voices 
cried out together as they bathed each other's already soaked crevices with 
their silky juices, their nodules throbbing against each other as if fed by 
the same heartbeat.
Before the last thrill of pleasure had ebbed its way from Éowyn's 
body, Galadriel pulled her down for a lingering kiss. As their tongues 
melded together lovingly, Éowyn felt suddenly heavy with sleep, as she 
did often after their love-making. Languidly, she let herself drift off, 
knowing her lover did not mind when she dozed upon her without moving 
off her. 
But before sleep took her completely, she felt Galadriel's arms 
enfold her, pulling the tattered remains of her glorious robe around them 
both in a semblance of cover, and the last thing she knew before slipping 
away was her Queen's whispered thought:
'Good-bye, Lady-love. . .'
 
The moment she awoke she knew something was wrong. It was too 
bright behind her eyelids, and when they fluttered open, she saw open sky 
above her. It took her a moment to realize she was not underneath the 
forest canopy she was so accustomed to, and the shock brought her to full 
wakefulness. 
She was dressed in her traveling clothes, but laying upon her 
battered riding cloak. Panic rising, she sat up, and saw her bags and neatly 
wrapped sleeping roll at her feet. Beyond them, no more than one hundred 
yards, was the forest, and she recognized that she had lain upon the very 
spot where she had fallen under the Orc's arrow lifetimes ago.
"No. . ." she said hoarsely, and leaving her belongings behind, ran 
towards the trees. This surely must be a test to see if she could find her 
way back, she tried to convince herself, although she had known the bitter 
truth as soon as she had seen the pale morning sky.
Heedless of the tears than wetted her face, she rushed into the 
woods in her maddened grief. She could find her way back! She had 
wandered in these woods for weeks, surely Caras Galadhon would be 
large enough to find easily again. Running until she thought her lungs 
would burst, she paid no attention to the branches that seemed to be trying 
to pull her back. After what seemed like miles deep into the wood, saw 
brightness through the trees, and she hurried towards it, positive she had 
found the Elven city again. But when she burst into the light, she stood 
once again on the edge of the forest, right where she had run in. 
It was only then that it truly sunk into her. Her Queen had 
abandoned her, for she had known that Éowyn would never have left 
willingly. She dropped to her knees, wracked with sobs, and screamed her 
love's name desperately into Lothlórien, knowing deep in her shattered 
heart that no response would come, no white goddess would come to her 
aid. 
She sat there, crying and pummeling her fists into the earth, until 
the sun reached its apex, and she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Cold 
reason slowly took hold of her as she slunk back to her possessions, and 
with little cheer she realized her mare grazed far in the field. At least she 
still had her horse. But if she had been denied shelter forever in her 
beloved forest, then she must find shelter elsewhere.
'Go home, Éowyn. Return to Rohan. It has nearly been half a year 
since you have seen the banners of Edoras. Return to your kin, your kind. 
It is where you belong.' A little voice whispered in her head, and though 
she wished it was the Elf-queen's voice, she knew it was only her own.
Whistling to bring the horse back to her, Éowyn gathered her 
belongings slowly. Were it not for the last lingering wisps of the Queen's 
secret scent that clung to her fingers, Éowyn would have thought the past 
months had been only a dream. Maybe it would have been best if they had 
been.
In silence, she trotted her horse across the plain, always looking 
behind her at Lothlórien as it dipped behind the horizon line, searching for 
a sign, a flash of light, any sign of farewell from Galadriel. But the magic 
woods stood as still as any other forest, hiding its people far better than a 
man-made fortress ever could. Once she could no longer see even the 
highest branches of the tallest trees, Éowyn gritted her teeth, and sunk her 
booted feet into the horse's flanks, urging it into a gallop. 
The wind wiped her last tears from her face, and as the future 
opened up underneath her steed's pounding hooves, Éowyn began to 
encase her heart back into the armor she had carried it in all her life. This 
time, she barricaded it further, fueled by the bitterness that only unrequited 
love can bring. Letting out a strange, guttural laugh, she vowed to herself 
that she would never cry again. She had shown her weakness to one 
person, trusted her, believed in her; in return, she had been betrayed and 
abandoned. 
Away she raced from Lórien, away from Galadriel, away from her 
love. Faster and faster she rode, as if she could outrace her pain. Then, 
upon the horizon before her, she saw a black speck that grew larger with 
every second. As she got closer, she recognized it as a fellow rider, and 
she suddenly realized how exposed she was in the open fields lit by high 
sun. No fear gripped her this time, only resolution. She welcomed the 
battle, and drew her sword in anticipation. She would cleanse herself of 
her pain with  blood, be it her enemy's, or her own.
 
Dernhelm is startled out of his memories by the Halfling shifting 
uncomfortably under his cloak, and the soldier pokes the hobbit to remind 
him to be still. Merry stops moving, and Dernhelm looks through his helm 
to finally see the White City, under siege, the destination of the Rohirrim. 
The moment of Rohan's attack is near, and he thirsts to lose himself in 
battle.
Dernhelm fingers the sword hidden under his cloak again, a fine 
piece of Elven smithing, the hilt sculpted with horse-heads and trimmed 
with golden leaves. Éowyn had found it wrapped in her sleeping roll that 
first night after she had been banished from Lórien, a secret gift from her 
Queen. Éowyn had locked it away in a chest after returning to Edoras with 
Éomer, knowing that even to look upon it would threaten to melt the ice 
that she had carefully frosted over her heart.
There had been little else to even hope to begin to warm her, in 
those long and penitent years in which she did little but care for her ailing 
uncle in the cold and lonely halls of Edoras. The mirror had not lied to her, 
and everything she had seen in its surface had come to pass over time.  
The only vision she had yet to face in reality was the final image 
that had flickered in Galadriel's mirror, that of the wraith-warrior upon his 
winged beast. Long had that image plagued her nightmares, but now as 
Dernhelm, it ceased to terrify her. Nothing terrified her anymore.
Within the layers of forged steel, both upon her body and around 
her soul, she feels a strange quiet settling upon her as the Rohirrim ride 
closer and closer to the war. Far different from the girlish bliss she had felt 
in her days in Lothlórien, this is the calm before the storm. No longer will 
she be told to stand aside and look to the duties that had been created to 
enslave her. She is captain of her own fate as Dernhelm, free man of 
Rohan, hardened beyond sorrow and betrayal, and no one can abandon 
him. 
A bright light splits the darkness, and the highest tower of Gondor 
appears to spark like a candle. A horrible boom breaks the silence, and 
Éowyn's heart beats faster as she hears her uncle's proud voice rise in 
glorious song, more strongly and clearly than she has ever heard it. The 
great horns of Gondor blare in unison, and as the Riders of Théoden 
finally charge into the battle, Éowyn's vicious laughter is lost in the 
clamorous rush.
Into war then, to death or glory! Into blood and steel she wades, 
into the cries and horrors of the battlefield! She is not afraid, nor will she 
be ever again. With every foe that falls under Galdriel's blade she comes 
nearer to her fate, as it flaps down to the battlefield on vile wings, across a 
sky as black as the remainder of her heart.