Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate and New Line Cinema.

Opus 63, The Lay of Eowyn

Movement I

She is called…

…Stern.

The king's niece takes all in with solemnness, suspicion, a possible hint of malice, cloaked in the shadow of the golden throne.

…Cold.

Skin always cool to the touch, she does not shiver out in the wind and snow flying about the city.

…Without feeling.

From the age of two she does not weep. She did not cry when her father's lifeless body was brought back and her mother died of a broken heart, when Eomer was banished, when Idis took to her sickbed and never again rose from it, nor as Théoden became a shadow of himself, a puppet in the worm's hands.

She never says, "I love you."

…Ice maiden.

Of nearly white skin, light golden hair, and dull grey eyes. Rumors to this day fly that her heart turned into a chuck of ice the day winter came upon Rohan ten years ago. She shall forever be bound in ice, darkness, and hopelessness in this forsaken land, they say.

Eventually, the gossip runs, her hand will be joined with that of Lord Grima's, both stepping out from the shadows of the golden throne when the king is dead and claiming the kingdom as their own. And then…perhaps winter will indeed never end.

Stern. Cold. Without feeling. Ice maiden. Year after year she hears the words.

It is true then, all at last agree when she does not react to the tidings of the much longed-for prince's birth seemingly a world away (while the worm squirms), and the blizzard howls outside.

Movement II

She is thirteen when she and her fragile, hot-tempered cousin, Theodred, are sent as part of a large entourage to Gondor. Alfrid, Grima Wormtongue's right-hand man, goes as the company's leader. Despite reassurances to the people, dark whispers surround Eowyn, and she looks upon everything with distrust.

Gondor… The glorious White City and famous White Tree shine like a beacon. Robed in midsummer – sapphire skies, soft green, and countless colors of blossoms – Eowyn thinks she has not seen the sun until today. It blazes bright and fierce, giving off a fiery heat unlike anything back home where it is pale and cool. Yet in spite of its great warmth, it fails to reach down to her innermost being.

The visitors stay a fortnight in Minas Tirith. The kindness and generosity of the people, particularly of the royal family, feels strange and foreign to the young girl. (Nothing akin to the intrigue, violence, and frostiness she has grown up in.) She holds back, reluctant to be included in the various walks, teas, conversations, and dances, instead lingering by the shadows.

Yet most of all she does not know what to make of the less than one-year-old prince, Aragorn. Hair of brightest day, deep piercing eyes, skin soft and glowing, he gurgles and smiles at her every time he sees her, despite her blank mask and silence. Once he latches onto her finger, tugging happily on his new plaything. And she quietly gasps, feeling a prick of warmth, as she gazes quizzically on the little prince.

Every following year she and her cousin visit Gondor for longer periods of time. The light and happiness of the place does not diminish, but Eowyn is aware of the growing watchful gazes tracking her. Of murmurs about how she remains deathly pale in the sunshine; her stand-offish, civil attitude; her countenance cold and serious. She is approached less and less, left to her own devices; she enjoys solitude in the library or late at night in the armory courtyard.

But one thing which does not change over time is the little golden prince. He laughs and giggles when she finds herself holding him. As he grows, he insists on him and his nurse accompanying her on her walks through the countless halls, holding a hand of both ladies in his small ones. He listens in fascination when she tells dark, wild legends of her homeland, cuddling contentedly in her lap. He requests her to braid his hair, now the color of deepest night. A sense of innocent wonder surrounds the boy. It is much later Eowyn realizes what it is: hope. (Countless are the prophecies and desires for Prince Aragorn – of the legendry king he might become, the alliances he may create one day.)

During her time with the young prince, Eowyn keeps him at arm's length, her expression cool and solemn, her words polite and respectful befitting the prince. And yet… She finds herself starting to look forward to their meetings. To be more accommodating when he wishes to hug and be held. Perhaps it is because of how his face lights up when she arrives with the others for a visit, not being put off by her reserve manner. Maybe it is because he claims her as a friend, calling her "Aunt Eowyn" when pressing a kiss to her cheek, occasionally winning a tiny smile from her in return. Somehow, she grows fond of the child.

The night before returning to Rohan when she is nineteen and he six, after lulling Aragorn to sleep with a bedtime story, she tucks him into his bed. The nurse dims the lights. In the near darkness as Eowyn withdraws her hand from the boy's, a line of gold between their wrists flashes. Freezing for an instant, the young lady pulls her hand back as she stands. Again, a thin strand of gold twinkles then vanishes.

She refuses to dwell on this revelation later when she spends the night staring up at the ceiling of her bedchamber, nor during the long journey home, or even after. Nearly a year later, when word reaches Edoras of the uprising and burning of Minas Tirith, the king killed, the young prince unaccounted for, only then does Eowyn think about the golden thread. She has heard of this gift of the Valar so rarely given, two souls being bonded together. She recalls, too, the tragic legend of the god of summer and goddess of winter, star-crossed soul mates. And she thinks it is better this way, no longer to be part of the little prince's life. For even if the childish, innocent affection he held for her, the heartless ice maiden, changed to something deeper one day, such a thing will not survive in this world.

Movement III

Years pass. Rohan becomes ever colder, blacker, and more despondent as first Theodred and then Théoden are lost. Always cloaked in the darkness, keeping her silver blade at her side like one would a beloved husband, Eowyn grows sterner, remoter, and older with wrinkles lining her face, hair white blond, hands coarse, eyes hard. (And whispers surround her still like a web – wonderings regarding why Grima, now king of the realm, has not yet claimed her, though his black eyes follow her about freely. And Alfrid is sent to trail her through the halls.)

It is during her thirty-fifth year when the lost Prince of Gondor appears in the golden hall. Now a man, a soldier and Ranger of the North, the weight of responsibilities, burdens, cares, fragile hopes, and dreams rests on his shoulders. Eowyn alone has been aware of his approach as he crossed the snowy wild, his small army following, bound to him by belief, loyalty, and love. Aragorn means to reclaim his kingdom.

Thus, when the prince kneels before the throne, his face grim and fierce, eyes flashing, he calls on the allegiance made many generations ago between Rohan and Gondor and seeks aid in his quest to take back his homeland. The Wormtongue conceals his unease of Aragorn behind cruel taunts and haughtiness, claiming to see no future king before him but a reckless young ranger. Despite Aragorn's repeated pleas and arguments, voice dropping in sadness and rising in ire, he is refused help, receiving instead laughter, told he and his company shall leave as empty-handed as they arrived.

Motionless as a statue in the shadow of the golden throne, expression an emotionless façade, Eowyn observes the audience in silence. Except for when the company was first shown in and introduced (Legolas, Boromir, Gimli, Gandalf, Radagast) her eyes have not wandered to them. Purposefully, neither does she meet the prince's eye though she is conscious his gaze returns to her time and time again for lengthening periods as the interview stretches on; senses a change coming over him as the fire of anger burning in his look starts to shift to something else just as bright.

It is with a faint sense of relief she steps forward with Alfrid to support Grima from the room. His trembling, clammy hands grasp their wrists hard. Her movements are graceful, head held high, ignoring the painful grip and the stares boring into her back.

She does not attend supper that night, going instead to the armory courtyard, unaffected in her old blue and brown dress by the frigid air and light snow flurries. The hours pass away without count as she practices with her sword, appearing both elegant and vicious. Eowyn does not know if she is surprised or not when at one point she spins and her sword is blocked by another, and she finds herself looking into the prince's eyes, his gaze piercing as though he is attempting to see through her. The corners of his mouth twitch as he comments she has some skill with a blade, while hers press into a firm line and she swings her weapon.

The struggle between them is long, hard, and bitter, just as their argument, filling the air with clashing blades, panting, and cries. His tone pained and intense, Aragorn pleads with her to help him and his companions. He reminds her of how their kingdoms have been allies and friends; how he loved and trusted her as a child. Shaking her head, she claims many disapproved of her and his affection for her all those years ago. She calls him rash, foolish, prideful, a child. This quest likely will end in failure. When the prince suddenly asks her to come with them, Eowyn's laugh is short and brittle. She is meant to be queen here; she has no place in the summer sunshine. His face darkens and jaw tightens as he grows still, proclaims the stories must indeed be true that she is heartless, an ice maiden. Her lips twisting, she tells him to go, that there is nothing for him here. Then she leaves him alone in the courtyard.

In the early morning Aragorn and his companions set out, and no Riders of the Mark leave with them. Eowyn is forced to turn away her face, unable to hold the prince's intense stare when he pauses before her, a mixture of anxiety, longing, hope, and betrayal in his expression. Only when the elf called Evenstar – who's everything Eowyn is not – gently touches his shoulder and calls him does he finally turn away. Both the elf princess and grey wizard glance at her before they follow their leader.

Eowyn remains on the terrace of the golden hall long after the others return inside, and Aragorn's company is nothing more than a speck on the white plains. Half-consciously, she brushes her fingers over her left palm, noting the familiar ice cold skin. No hints of the unexpected burst of warmth that danced over it last night, when the prince had pressed a kiss to her palm for a long heart-pounding moment before she ripped her hand away, fingers tangling with the golden thread which shone like starlight for several heartbeats, and she wondered if he noticed it before she left him.

Movement IV

Two months come and go, with no hint or whisper regarding Aragorn since he left, and a heightened tension settles over the hall. Vaguely Eowyn knows that eyes track her more closely, is aware of footsteps at her heels, and her hand twitches toward her dagger, her gaze alert. Outside the screaming wind causes a shudder to race down her spine.

It is the middle of the night's feast, and Grima is in an unusually good mood, eating and drinking heartily, accepting praise from lords and flirtations from ladies. Such occasions disgust Eowyn, and she barely touches her plate, crumbling her bread into tiny pieces when she gasps sharply, instinctively grabbing her right side, the room wildly spinning. Short of breath, in response to the king's harsh inquiry, she hurriedly excuses herself, claiming to feel suddenly ill.

Eowyn does not offer much protest when Grima orders her lady-in-waiting and Alfrid to escort her to her chamber, deeply curtsying and leaving the great room as gracefully as she can. She keeps her composure during the walk, a swift glance cutting off any attempts at questions. Once at her room, she wishes them goodnight, saying she shall go to bed. When Alfrid insists on both of them coming in to see her situated, she sternly orders them to go and quickly slips inside.

For a while she lies down on her bed, holding her side again which throbs. But it is the heavy aching of her pounding heart and tingling of her left wrist that causes her to suspect. Eventually believing there are no longer any straining ears listening outside the door, she gets up and makes her way to her wardrobe.

For the third and final time she looks into her mother's mirror.

The surface shimmers and ripples like water before clearing, and the mirror reveals a large field, littered with fire and the dead and injured – men, elves, dwarves, foul creatures – as the battle rages on. Then the mirror closes in on one group of fighters – among them Thorin Oakenshield, the Lords Gimli and Ori, Legolas Greenleaf, Glorfinel, Haldir, Elladan, Elrohir, Boromir, Faramir, Radagast, Gandalf – who battle wildly, despairingly, hope lost. They protectively surround one man, dirty, bloodied, and terribly still on the ground.

Never has Eowyn seen him so pale and lifeless with his eyes closed. Aragorn, the golden prince, cut down… She stares at his face, and for the first time she can remember tears fill her eyes, run down her cheeks.

Then a tall, dark-haired figure drops by the prince's side, muttering desperately in elvish while touching his chest, checking for a heartbeat. Swiftly the elf searches for something on her belt, pulling out a small red cordial with a cry of joy.

Eowyn sighs heavily, some of the tension easing from her shoulders, and loosens her grip on her side. The red cordial she had slipped to the elf princess before Aragorn's company left that morning. She watches intently as the Evenstar tenderly lifts the prince's head and pours some of the cordial's contents into his mouth. As they both wait to see what will happen, the screech of eagles is heard, and amongst the shouts and cheers, Eowyn almost swears she can make out Eomer's voice. Then Aragorn opens his eyes.

Suddenly, the mirror shatters, and a large hand covers Eowyn's mouth and nose. She barely has time to reach for her dagger when a red hot pain pierces her back, and she falls into darkness.

Movement V

There is an inferring sensation of suspension, of faint coldness, of being frozen both inwardly and outwardly; heartbeat still, blood unmoving, and breath gone – just the soul remaining. Only endless darkness and muffled silence and a few shadowy memories serve as companions.

Her brother's voice.

The faint glimpse that perhaps hope was not completely lost, that possibly the long-awaited king would live and rise up…or maybe it all came to naught, ruin and destruction in the end.

"Ice maiden in life, ice maiden in death," the deadly worm hissed in her ear.

There was no sense of time, everything so still and dead. A week, month, year, century, the ending of the world, who knew? Just trapped in ice, buried in mounting snow, snow, snow! Everlasting winter…

A little crack forms in the top of the ice. A low sound seems to try to reach through the silence. A faint heartbeat thumps once, then no more. Water drops form and slide down the cold surface. There is a prick of pain by the scar on her back. The crack grows longer, other cracks branching out. Blood murmurs weakly. Water forms more and more quickly. A distant thunder comes, and the darkness begins to creep back, the silence dying, goose bumps racing over skin.

Then a roar, or yell – impossible to tell – resounds and the ice breaks, separates, releasing its prisoner. And pain and warmth race through Eowyn from head to toe, limbs aching and useless, head throbbing; blood surging through her veins; heart struggling to come alive. It is overwhelming, too much at once: the sunlight reaching down to her behind her eyelids, the forgotten sound of songbirds ringing in her ears, the familiar smell of grass and horses tickling her nose. The feeling of clothes, everything being soaked, falling downward— Sudden arms, strong and protective catch and lift her, draw her close to another body.

"Awake, daughter of Eomund!"

Amidst the fogginess and dizziness, something seems wrong. She can't breathe. Her throat is closed, and lungs threaten to burst.

"Come back to me!" the words are a command, a prayer.

She senses her body slowing down, the humming in her veins dimming, the sharp pain in her heart growing. Her lungs seem frozen, the air in them trapped. She can't… There is a desperate tug on the thread connected to her wrist.

Eowyn's body convulses and she coughs violently, unknowingly dislodging the few tiny shards of ice wedged in her heart for over thirty years and coughing them out onto the cobblestones. She collapses, pants heavily, air flowing in and out of her body freely.

It takes some time for her to realize she is being gently rocked like a babe, to notice the hand switching between stroking her hair and carefully wiping away the tears on her face, to register the gentle yet firm grasp her left hand is held in, to understand the repeated words being hoarsely whispered into her hair.

"My Eowyn, my queen!"

Finally, with new strength Eowyn opens her eyes, blinks, and marvels at how it seems she sees more clearly than in the past. Then she lifts her head and gazes up into Aragorn's face. He is the king now, with his rich clothes, the proud set of his shoulders, air of wisdom and majesty about him. He regards her carefully, the lingering fears in his eyes slipping behind relief, joy, and tenderness. Wordlessly she bows her head, flushing, speechless.

She focuses on him playing with her hand for a minute and, when she withdraws hers, he is left with the golden thread resting across his palm. After he closes his hand over it, Eowyn tenses in belated comprehension and shock. Only when he touches her chin with his free hand does she bravely look at him. The king's expression is serious.

"You are my other half, chosen for me. And I love you dearly. I couldn't let you go."

Warmth spreads through her. "My love." She nearly laughs when he beams brightly, joyfully at her confession. A brisk wind causes her to tremble, and she rubs her arms in an attempt to keep away the coolness.

When Aragorn wraps his cloak around her, Eowyn surrenders to his embrace and kiss, both more warm and loving than she dared to dream.

THE END