Under A Starless Sky
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Aragorn's pipe had gone out, but he made no move to relight it. He
remained where he was, staring into the flickering campfire on the wide
plains of Rohan. Around him, the nightly business of the camp went on
without his notice; the people of Edoras gave a wide berth to the solemn
Ranger as he sat alone with his thoughts. Over and over, his mind played out the memory of his last evening in Rivendell: the soft breezes rustling the leaves, the jewels of starlight overhead, Arwen's lips against his own, her husky voice whispering in his ear. "The light of the Evenstar does not wax and wane. It is mine to give to whom I will...." A rush of longing as keen as physical pain swept over him, and he closed his eyes. Where was Arwen tonight? Was she in those same gardens of Rivendell, preparing to bid farewell to her home forever? Had she already left for the Grey Havens? Was she perhaps even now on the white ship to the Undying Lands? He pictured her standing on the deck of a graceful Elven vessel, gazing up into the sky while Elrond's hand rested on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Aragorn could not truly blame his foster-father for urging him to let Arwen go. Elrond was right; she belonged with her people. Aragorn could offer her nothing but war, pain, hardship, and finally the bitterness of death. Did she understand that only that conviction could ever have persuaded him to give her up? He opened his eyes and gazed upward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the same stars that would be shining on his beloved, wherever she might be, and to draw comfort from them. But the stars were hidden by heavy grey clouds, swollen with the promise of rain. He gave a sigh and looked down again, finally noticing his extinct pipe. Removing it from his mouth, he rapped it sharply against his boot to knock out the ashes, stowed it with his gear, and then reluctantly lay down to sleep. It would be another long day's journey to Helm's Deep, he thought as he tried to make himself comfortable on the ground. But sleep was slow in coming, and Arwen's soft voice continued to haunt his mind. Aragorn told himself sternly that he must learn to stop thinking of Arwen as if she could still be by his side. Her memory would stay with him always, and he would rejoice to know that she still thought of him with love in the far-off safety of Valinor. But he must accustom himself to facing the prospect of life in Middle-Earth without her. That life might be a short one--he might well perish in the struggle against Sauron--or it might be many more decades long. If he succeeded in keeping his promise to Boromir, it might even mean that he would one day be in a position where he would be obliged to marry and beget an heir. That thought led his mind unbidden to Éowyn, and to the afternoon's revelation that she was developing a regard for him. It seemed unbelievable, for he had exchanged barely a dozen polite words with her...no, he realized as he cast his mind back, it had been more than that. He had seen her when Gandalf healed her uncle, again in the stables, again when he had surprised her practicing with a sword. And he had spent most of the day's walk in her company, come to think of it, although Gimli had taken it upon himself to amuse them all and had provided most of the conversation. When the Dwarf had managed to fall from his horse and Éowyn had rushed to help him up, there had been no mistaking the smile she had thrown back at Aragorn. Even Théoden had commented on it, and Aragorn had an uneasy feeling that the King was hinting his approval of the potential match. Aragorn had to admit to himself that Éowyn had been a breathtaking sight at that moment, with her hair blowing free and gleaming in the sun, her face aglow and her eyes dancing. A sight to capture the heart of any man whose heart was not already given. And if one day his own heart healed, perhaps that smile would find the place there that she so clearly desired. Éowyn was not like Arwen, but that might be for the best; it would be unfair of him to take a woman only because she reminded him of another. And Éowyn had many things to recommend her: courage, passion, beauty, a manner that was regal in its own way, and a deep desire to do everything in her power to protect those she loved. Besides, he thought with a twist of his lips, if things ever became dull, they could always pass the time by swordfighting. Very well, then. Since he must not think of Arwen except as the memory of a youthful dream, he would try to teach himself to think of Éowyn instead. Settling himself more comfortably on the ground, Aragorn determinedly called up all the images of Éowyn that he could remember. A white-clad figure on the steps of Meduseld as he rode into Edoras. Her watchful expression while he and Théoden debated strategy. Her proud, upright posture at her cousin's funeral, and the catch in her voice when she sang the dirge. Her graceful motions as she whirled the sword overhead while practicing in the hall. His arm about her shoulders, holding her back while Gandalf healed Théoden, lest she try to challenge even the wizard for fear that he would harm her beloved uncle. Aragorn stopped at the last memory and tried to recall the feeling of it. Éowyn's shoulders had been thin, he thought; her fierce energy made one less aware of how slight she was. Thin and warm, but hard with muscle, from sword practice no doubt, and he thought they had been trembling slightly. That would do for a start. He imagined slipping both his arms around those shoulders and pulling her close against him. She was shorter than Arwen, he thought. He could probably rest his chin on the top of her head. Would she be timid or bold? Bold, given the slightest encouragement, he decided. He remembered the intensity of her expression as she engaged in impressive swordplay with her imaginary foe in Meduseld; she would bring that same fire to the act of love. He imagined Éowyn standing before him with incandescent eyes, reaching up to twine her fingers in his hair, bringing her mouth eagerly up toward his. He would have to bend down to meet her lips. He imagined the heated urgency of Éowyn's tongue against his, her hands moving over his shoulders and then tugging his shirt over his head. She would help him to undo her gown...or perhaps she would already be reaching for his trousers and he would have to laugh and remind her to let him have a turn. She would stand still for a short time then, her eyes sparking and her mouth twitching, as he removed her heavy outer dress. When she was down to her shift, she would be able to hold back no longer; she would fling herself into his arms again, laughing as she had done that afternoon. Her breasts would press against his chest just *there*. They would be small but firm, and sweet as apples. He would be able to feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift; in his mind's eye, Aragorn ran his thumbs over them and imagined Éowyn moaning in approval against his mouth. Her hair would spill over his arm as he gathered her firmly closer. He imagined lifting one hand and brushing sheaves of her hair aside, closing his eyes to inhale the scent of rain-washed mountain air that clung to it. Her breathing would grow quick and her arms would tighten around his waist as he fervidly kissed her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, her throat, cupping her face with his hand, tracing the edge of her ear.... And then Aragorn's eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly, for his imagination had automatically supplied the contour of a pointed ear beneath his fingertips. It was no good. His heart was still locked to Arwen's; his body still longed for her touch and hers alone. He groaned aloud and rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. Éowyn's gaze that afternoon had shown what she felt for him, but now he doubted that he would be able to meet her eyes the next day. He felt as if he had used her callously for his pleasure, even though he had only touched her in his mind. Perhaps one day, when his grief at the loss of Arwen had faded, he would be able to look at Éowyn in the way she wanted--but not yet. Not yet. With a deep sigh, Aragorn lay down once more, wrapped himself in his cloak, and tried again to sleep. Far above him, the clouds still muffled the sky; but higher still and hidden from his view, the stars glowed with steadfast light. END BACK to Rose Index BACK to Fanfic Index BACK to Main Page |