Thrihyrne

I just accidentally deleted all of my drabbles in the prior post in trying to fix a mistake in one of my posts. AUGH!!

Well, here are links to where they live in the other comms, I hope. Oh shit. I didn't have the Éowyn saved... I'm afraid it's gone now. No, wait: it's still in my notebook. Phew! So glad that I write longhand! ;) edit: star54kar still had it, too!

Richard/Alec, Swordspoint

two Wraeththu vignettes, featuring Velaxis and then Vaysh

( Éowyn genfic )

My dear cim_halfling requested this:

And I have no idea what I'd request from you, if I could. Hmmmm, I love your Harry Potter, but I love your Tolkien even more. Please, could I have a little something about my beloved Eowyn?? Just a snippet if you please, and before FOTR.

For you, my dear heart who continues to beta for me and whom I am ever grateful to have met at TORn's Two Towers party, an early Solstice gift. I walked out of my building tonight in tears, but looked up and saw a nearly full moon, and thought of you. Blessings. You are one to me.

Title: A Liminal Patience
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: G
Summary: Beauty burrows resolutely in the eye of the beholder.

The POV came rather out of the blue, but I hope that you like it. And my thanks to llembas for her beta.

A Liminal Patience


Only she could make the sound of a crashing sword-blade seem like birdsong. The affectionate murmurings he overheard as she bequeathed them to Léoma, her steed, were rain spatters on the dry earth of his ears, parched with the King’s affairs and ever-widening responsibilities sent from his true master in his tower of Orthanc. Many nights he lay awake, the moon battering her light through his window, as he tried to trace the path of his heart. There had been another, in the more isolated folds of his youth, but her wounding and memory had dimmed as he threw himself into the workings of the court in the Golden Hall.

During his years in Meduseld, he had proven himself insightful and vigilant in matters of state. As time passed and he grew in favor with Théoden, so had the King's precocious niece matured. Éowyn, now fifteen years of age, resembled nothing so much as a silver birch; slender, pale, and grounded in the soil of Rohan. She was shrewd and deliberate, possessing a beauty so untarnished it bruised his spirit. Always aware of the lingering suspicion in the eyes of the King’s son, he was careful as he managed occasions to watch Éowyn ride. To his mind, her body shimmered with joy astride her horse, thundering across the plain or simply riding in the royal paddock, her goldspun hair in a heavy plait. He admired her strong, lithe form as she practiced for battles she would never see. She determinedly engaged in the thrusts and parries taught to her brother, wielding a foreign sword, surreptitiously discovered to have belonged to her Gondorian grandmother. The darkness forgave him his thoughts, as he imagined himself a tear of her sweat, sliding from pulsing temple to jaw, down her creamy column of neck.

Too late he had realized that his patron, the wise, gracious wizard, used his skills of speech to encourage him to reveal more than he had wished about his affections. Saruman had not chided him for his longing, but he now restrained his tongue to speak only of the tidings of Rohan and her rulers. His visions of Éowyn he treasured like aged wine, and he savored them as such, unhurried and alone: a crooked lower tooth, glimpsed as she laughed unabashed at a tale of questionable propriety told by her cousin; an expression of utmost resignation as she sat through the tedium of an embroidery lesson; a faint flush in her throat when one of the royal stableboys grasped at her wrist, vying for her attention. The last brought with it the icy burn of jealousy, molten ire which he assuaged with calm self-assurances. Time would reveal to Théoden that he, Gríma of the Westemnet and devoted, loyal councillor, had from his first days cherished her. She, too, would see how he had willed for her protection, that through these many years he had served as watchful, loving guardian, patiently awaiting the day when she would turn at the sound of his footfalls —

and hold out her hand.

Only she, Éowyn of the House of Eorl, could proffer herself, necessary air to his soul. For without her, the grasses of Rohan were a sea, and he, a drowning man.


* * * * *

A/N: Tolkien doesn't say where Gríma is from, but if Saruman is to have picked him out, it made sense to me to have him be from the Westemnet in the middle of Rohan and a strategic location.

... Faramir's POV of day three of meeting. These are so compelling to write. Glad you're enjoying them, albeit in as piecemeal of a fashion as they come to me. :P

Day Three: Fraternity

Faramir tried to bring a gleam to Éowyn’s eye by addressing the differences in tack between horses of Gondor and Rohan. After a stifling polite and brief discussion, he recognized his futility. Silence enshrouded them, a well-worn garment that he was tired of wearing.

He had led her to a lower level of the City where quiet brooded in windows abandoned by their inhabitants. Faramir was thoughtful by nature - perhaps to a fault - but now, near the end of all things, he wished almost to jabber away. Though, of course, he did not.

The inside of his cheek knew that price well.

Éowyn stood straight, birch-like, eyeing an archway before them. With her good arm she fingered a talisman, soldered to a chain.

“Have you kin?” The words escaped his lips, triumphant on the air.

She turned and examined him, the resolute granite eyes keeping her secrets.

“A brother,” she said simply, though Faramir sensed the world of regret behind it. “And you, my lord?”

“A brother,” he echoed as they sat on a nearby broken bench. “I did have.”

“Older?” She twisted at the bit of gold at her neck.

“He was.”

She nodded. “Did he die in battle? For that’s worthy of pride indeed.”

Faramir bit at his tongue before seeing a telltale blush of shame creep at her throat.

“Forgive me, Steward.” Éowyn stared at her feet. “I know neither you nor your kind well. I must seem like an untamed, brutish creature.”

Through his heart’s pain of recollecting Boromir and the shock at her frankness, Faramir gently placed a hand on her knee. “He did, though to this day I wish it were I who had gone in his stead.”

Éowyn turned and stared. Faramir saw the shock of recognition unhinge her shuttered composure. “For love of brother, uncle and leige, I lied, I feigned manhood, and I deserted my kingdom,” she said harshly. “Who kept you caged?”

Faramir debated a diplomatic answer before his teeth ground on the bitter truth. “My father, whose hope was never set on me.”

“One more shadow we share, then.” A wry, melancholy smile tendered across Éowyn’s lips. “We stand ever behind our brothers.”

He could think of no reply.

Have decided to go wild with the drabble-to-story idea, thanks for twilights_abode's suggestion. Not that I've forgotten yours, edeainfj, for whom my Eowyn/Aragorn story languishes in the fic graveyard; sparse, adjective-heavy, and potentially hawt.

Grrr.

Day One: Dutiful

The first time he met Éowyn, he was astonished by her beauty. Though still crippled by his injuries, he felt stronger simply by seeing her, despite the stoniness in her grey eyes. She was obviously very displeased.

'Shadow lies on me still,' she'd said. She then scattered a few pretty sentences, like pearls before swine, as she left.

She’d wanted freedom, and it was not within his power to grant it.

His knuckles turned white, grasping at the stone walls of Minas Tirith as he stared at Mordor. Mordor was his keeper, his ruler, and oddly enough, his guide.

Nightmare was the only word that came to Faramir's mind as he massaged his chest.