Something Like Peace
pairing: Eowyn/Aragorn unrequited
by Molly

He hasn't slept in days.

It is only adrenaline keeping him going now, as it always is. He is certain. The fire burning his blood that keeps him moving during battle takes eternity to leave his system, and it matters not that his head is aching and his eyes hardly open.

He wishes for sleep, but sleep would bring dreams, and those images are none he wishes to revisit. So he stays awake. He has seen too many friends and allies fall in too short a time -- Boromir, Haldir. Too many brave, good men have had their lives cut short, and he can''t help wonder how many more he will have to watch die before the end.

The battle is over and won, but the war is only just beginning, and he doesn't see how sleep is possible until it is all ended.

His fingers feel permanently bent, curved to grip Anduril, the blade that fits so perfectly in his hands. Thigh muscles ache from long hours spent riding to ensure that the perimeters are indeed secure. Skin crusted and stiff with dried blood -- Orc, Elf, even his own.

And his eyes burn with the tears he so desperately wishes he could permit himself to shed.

For Frodo and Sam, for what they must be suffering on the dark road to Mordor. For Boromir, for Haldir. For himself and Arwen, his lost love. His one source of comfort in so large a world, the one thing he trusted above all else, and she is gone. She will not return, and it is of his own making. Something that meant so much, that meant everything, ended so quickly.

The stars are beautiful tonight, and Aragorn lets out a long, weary breath as he watches them. After days of war, days of planning, mapping, strategizing, fighting nearly beyond the limits of the body, the people of Rohan are finally taking a much needed rest. Helm's Deep is silent save the comforting sound of a proud people's sleep murmurs.

Yet he keeps his steady vigil on the night sky, body aching as he wonders how it will end. Because eventually, it will. He imagines finally being free of the burdens he has carried for so long, and yet imagines what will happen if Isildur's weakness claims him in the end.

In the heat of war, he is sure of himself. He can think quickly, make decisions. He can rally his men back from the brink of exhaustion, he can twist and parry and thrust and counter an enemy's move before they have even thought of making it, emerge the victor once more.

He does not accept defeat, not ever. He feels himself push his body more and more towards its limits every day, but he cannot stop. He trusts himself to see it through with the confidence born of one who will be king. He wins because he refuses to lose, and it is as simple as that. He fights until the bitter end; he will never merely fade away, but go down in a blaze of glory, and that is if he ever goes down at all. He is the son of Arathorn.

But at the end, while his Ranger's mind leaps ahead and his body finds that extra reserve of strength with which to propel him onwards......while he feels down to his soul that this is what he was born for, he cannot help but wonder what it must be like to have the simple luxuries allowed to a simple man. To rest his head somewhere soft, allow his burdens to drop away and himself to be comforted with soothing words and a gentle touch.

Arwen is gone. There is no one he can permit himself those freedoms of weakness with. He would trust Gimli and Legolas with his life, yet he is their captain. He cannot allow them to see him in such a manner.

He dreams of the war ending forever, of driving the shadow once and for all from Middle-earth. His faith in his friends, and his faith that it will one day be done, is solid as oak. He only wishes......

He no longer knows what he wishes, really. For something nameless, for something past the stars.

Still, sleep eludes him, as does any kind of peace. He sometimes wonders if he will ever truly know it. And so he keeps his eyes on the clear, lovely night.

"You look weary, my lord."

He starts and reaches instinctively for Anduril before recognizing her voice and relaxing. "Do I?" he asks quietly, turning to face her. "You do not seem so well rested yourself, my lady."

Eowyn's lips curve in an expression that is not quite a smile, but is close enough to it to stir something beneath his breast. She carries a wooden bowl filled with water and several bloodstained rags. The color of her dress is indiscernible beneath the grime, dirt, and blood. "If I do not seem so, it is because I am not." She tilts her head towards his perch in the windowsill, golden hair rippling over one shoulder. "May I sit, or shall I leave you to your thoughts?"

He moves over, clearing a space for her slender form. "Please, sit. I enjoy your company."

The shieldmaiden simply gives him another not-quite smile, and then settles into the sill. She closes her eyes and turns her face up towards the sky, inhaling deeply as the starlight splashes over her features. He sees her own burdens carried in her face, and finds himself wishing he could say something to relax her lovely visage.

It feels as though it is a betrayal to Arwen to look upon Eowyn in such a manner, yet it feels as natural to him as breathing. She is lovely; there is no doubt of that. But her beauty stems from a deeper source, from the strength and spirit inside of her, and his feelings for her stem from something deeper than appreciation of mere human beauty.

He remembers their first contact, before he even knew her name. The look of terror that gave way to fierce anger burning in her eyes as she watched Gandalf cast Saruman from Theoden's body. How he caught her in his arms to hold her back, and was surprised that restraint was nearly difficult.

The unexpected spark that shot through this limbs at the feel of her skin on his that made holding her back doubly difficult. She had touched something inside of him that he had thought long dead, and later, when he had gotten his first good look into her steel gray eyes......he saw something of himself in her.

He had never intended on growing so attached to her, but he has. It has been simple things that have made him realize, had his heart not already been given away in Rivendell, he could love this woman forever.

The sight of her wielding a blade, her plain and honest statement that she feared neither pain nor death......her look that told him she had more than some skill with a blade. Her devotion to her family and to Rohan, the sound of her laughter as she listened to Gimli's tales. A laugh that sounded as though it hadn't escaped in a long while. Her rare and achingly lovely smile. The feel of her in his arms at the end of the battle for Helm's Deep, how he had longed to hold her past the moment.

No, she is not Arwen. But somewhere along the way, she captured a piece of his heart, and not altogether reluctantly on his part, either. The lady Eowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan, is one woman in a thousand.

If there can only be one he does not want to see fall in the coming days, it is Eowyn and her remarkable courage and strength of heart.

She is the first to break the comfortable silence between them. "I wonder that there is such beauty in the world when there is yet so much suffering." She gestures to the stars as explanation, speaking softly so as not to disturb those who sleep.

"It seems a miracle to me, as well," he agrees, and his voice comes out wearier than he intended.

Eowyn regards him worriedly. "You should take some rest, my lord. It will help to ease the pain."

"I am not tired."

"Your expression would suggest otherwise."

He can't suppress a chuckle at her boldness. "And what of you, my lady? Do you not also require rest?"

"I cannot sleep." Her eyes sparkle slightly with mirth, and it warms him somewhat. "Notice that I gave you an honest answer. It would be a lie to say that I am not half dead for exhaustion. These past weeks have been such trial......" Her fingertips lightly skim the water in her bowl, and his gaze is drawn as he recollects how her pale hands trembled when she touched his face, the tears glittering in her eyes when she realized he had indeed lived through the battle. How her tearful relief had touched him so greatly. "Not for me, but for all Rohan. I cannot bear to see my people suffer so greatly, and yet know that it is not even close to the end of their pain."

"Do you have dreams?" he asks quietly.

She nods. "Too often for my liking. I would rather be put to use than to lie with the women and children. I spoke with Eomer for awhile, then I went to the care of the wounded." Her eyes flash with anger. "There is too little that can be done for most of them."

"Yet you try. That is something."

"Yes, it is something," she says, and for an instant, her voice is as weary as his.

He hates himself in that moment, curses himself for being so quickly undone by a pain filled voice and sorrowful gray eyes. More than anything, he wants to take her into his arms again.

She eyes him speculatively, then shakes her hair back from her face. She dips a rag into the bowl of water on her lap, and reaches out to gently swab his face with it. When he flinches, she only leans closer. "You have not eaten, nor slept properly since the last of Isengard's forces were driven from our borders, lord Aragorn," she chides gently. "Let me allow you some small comfort."

Her touch is too tempting, and it has been too long since he has known any kind of comfort at all. Closing his eyes, he allows her to clean the dried, crusted blood from his face and hands. She bathes his wounds tenderly, her hands better balm than any herbal potion he could concoct.

Perhaps better even than Elvish medicine.

As she finally draws back to set the bowl aside and he meets her eyes once more, he pushes all thoughts of Elves from his mind. "There, now. You can scowl freely without causing further pain to your face."

He cannot help but smile. "How do you do that?"

"Do what, my lord?"

"For one who smiles so rarely yourself, you are able to lighten my heart so often. It is rare for me to feel that way again."

She averts her eyes, and for a moment, he worries that he has embarrassed her. "I do not know, my lord." She takes a deep breath. "I only know that when I am in your presence, I too feel lighter somehow."

He feels the slightest twinge of alarm at her words, berating himself silently. He knows how she feels about him; Aragorn is not a fool. But simply understanding that she loves him and hearing her say it aloud are two very different things. Once those words are spoken, they cannot be retracted, and no matter what he is beginning to feel for her, his parting from Arwen is too soon for him to begin to think of wholly returning the shieldmaiden's love, the way she deserves it to be returned. Time may have passed, but he still wears the Evenstar. It will never truly be over until he can bring himself to remove it.

Someday, perhaps. Not this night.

She meets his eyes before he can reply, the fierce strength back in her gaze. "We have had no hope for so long," she tells him. "My people. Theoden was a breath away from death, Eomer banished, that utter filth Wormtongue hell-bent on delivering us straight to Saruman and claiming me as his reward --"

"Claiming you?" Aragorn cannot help but interrupt, anger coloring his words. He had begun to calm over the course of their conversation, but adrenaline floods his system once again, and his hand goes straight to the grip of Anduril. For an instant, he believes he can ride through the night, straight to Isengard and cleave Grima's head from his shoulders in one fell swoop. That he had the audacity to even look upon Eowyn, let alone try and use her so horribly...... "I should have let Theoden kill him. I never should have allowed him to live."

Eowyn moves quickly, as if sensing his intent and rage, and wraps her hand firmly around his. "Be at peace, Aragorn," she says, her grip strong until she feels him relax his hold upon the hilt of Anduril. "Had you allowed Theoden to kill him, you would have denied me that pleasure. And I do mean to take it."

"I cannot bear the thought of him treating you in such a manner," he says, voice very near a growl. Aragorn does not lose control easily; yet after days of fighting, he is already on edge, and to hear of this......he does not care if he is overstepping his bounds. "To know that that cowardly, filthy --"

"Be at peace," she says once again, her voice even stronger. Amazing how much strength there is in her voice when it is so quiet. "It is ended."

He takes a deep breath to regain his bearings and finally uncurls his fingers from the blade. "Forgive me, my lady."

"You spoke out of anger on my part. There is nothing to forgive."

"I should not have --"

"I would like to think you speak to me without pretensions, lord Aragorn," she says firmly. "I do not offend so easily, and I do not consider it a privilege to be able to speak one's mind."

She truly is one woman in a thousand. "Now I feel rather as if I should beg pardon for begging pardon," he says lightly, and is rewarded by her true smile. The likes of which he has not seen since the journey to Helm's Deep, when she laughed with Gimili and for a moment, seemed so young......just a girl, with shimmering hair and a smile that men would happily die for. Slowly, he reaches out and covers one of her small, pale hands with his own. "You have borne so much, my lady. More than you deserve."

"In comparison to others, I have borne nothing," she tells him. "Wormtongue's ill advised obsession was the least of my worries; his near destruction of my uncle, and Rohan, was. Before your arrival, we stood on faltering ground."

"It was not only I, Eowyn," he says softly. "In truth, I am responsible for very little."

She meets his eyes dead on; he is unnerved by her stare. "You are responsible for restoring faith to these lands, lord Aragorn. You are responsible for the alliance of Elves, inspiring courage to victory over the Uruk hai, sustaining our forces until the arrival of the Rohirrim. You have returned hope to Rohan, and you are not even aware of it."

He is stunned speechless by her words. Truly, is this how she sees him? And if so, how does she find so much in him? How is it possible for Eowyn to see him as a hero when he sees himself as anything but? "Oh, my lady," he nearly whispers. "You do me honor of which I am most unworthy."

"I honor you nothing, my lord. I speak only the truth. You are a wonder among men." Her fingers slip through his, twining tightly together. "From first I saw you, I felt your strength. I saw what you hold within yourself. If you believe nothing else, believe at least that you restored my faith. I have been without since I saw Theodred draw his last breath."

His thumb slips across the back of her hand familiarly. Her grip feels as though it is a lifeline, and for the moment, he doesn't want to consider the consequences of such intimate touch. "You are the most faithful woman I have known, my lady. You believed in us long after we had ceased to believe in ourselves."

Her laugh is slightly bitter. "What else did I have to believe in?"

"The worst," he says plainly. "You could have given in and believed that the worst would prevail, yet you endured. You may say you lost hope, but you never succumbed to that loss. You have stood proud and strong, and no more could be asked of you."

"Yet more could be done, were it asked." She looks out the window once more, and he realizes for the first time that her own wishes mirror his, that they also go out further than the stars. ""I could have -- I should have taken part in the battle. I can ride and wield blade as well as any of the Rohirrim, yet I was forced to wait in the caves while the men of my country died to determine our fate. I should have stood with them."

"The battleground was no place for you, my lady."

The anger that flashes in her eyes would be enough to melt iron. "It was no place for seven year old children, either, yet they fought. I am beyond tired of being told where my place is. Why is it never for me to determine my own capabilities?"

The silence stretched between them until Aragorn tightens his grip on her hand. "I have no answers, my lady. I only say that things are what they are. I do not feel as though the war is the place for you, yet I do not doubt your skill. To hear Eomer tell it, you could very nearly best him."

Eowyn looks on fondly. "I could at that. He made the mistake of insulting me once when we were children. He walked with a limp and swollen eye for days afterwards."

"Perhaps I should watch my speech around you, after all," he teases gently. She half-smiles once more, and he goes on. "From first we met, I knew your courage. I still feel it. All do. There is nothing you need prove. It is all there for the world to see from the moment you come into view."

The gratitude that shines in her eyes eases his heart. She lifts her hand to touch the side of his face, and his eyes close of their own accord.

He is lying to himself when he says that he feels only a mild affection for her, and he is suddenly aware of it. He went straight to find her at the battle''s end; her well being first in his thoughts. How no words between them were necessary, just the tears in her eyes, his tongue incapable of speech......how a simple touch was all it took for him to take her into his arms, breathe in her clean scent and feel that it had all been worth it.

Her pulse thunders through his heart.

"I would have fought at your side through the perils of all the ages, lord Aragorn."

His own hand is cupping her finely boned cheek before he is even aware that he has moved. This weakness drives him mad. He burns for her, and it is only thought for her honor that prevents him from wholly giving himself over to it.

"I would not have taken such a risk in all the ages," he breathes.

She is in his arms again, and he holds her against him tightly. For one instant, he no longer cares if someone glimpses them, or that he still wears the Evenstar and that her hand is only an inch away from it. He needs to hold someone, she needs to be held, and for now, it is enough. It is the comfort they both went in search of this night.

When she turns her face up to his, he kisses her gently.

It is only a single moment in time, but it is a moment or warmth that will carry them through the hard times ahead.

Her eyes are soft when they part, heavy with the bittersweet revelation that nothing has truly changed. That a woman she has never met is still between them. "It is only a night, my lord."

"Is that enough?"

"It will have to be." He slips his arms to her waist and gently leaves the window-seat, sliding down so that his back rests against the wall. She rests her head against his chest, and one hand comes up to softly stroke the golden waves of her hair. "I do not want to hear any apologies come morning. I would not take this back."

"No apologies," he agrees. "Eowyn, I......"

"Do not say it," she chides gently. "I understand." She yawns sleepily, and he slips further down the wall to recline on the floor, Eowyn curled against him. "I feel as though I can rest now."

Aragorn kisses the top of her head gently in reply and gathers her closer, his own eyelids heavy. To hold her trusting form in his arms as she sleeps, to know that she will still be there when he awakens......it is something very close to peace. The closest thing he has known in a long while.

No, he cannot bring himself to call it love. Not this night.

But they have time.

~ fin ~