Disclaimer: not mine.

A/N: I would like to stress that this is AU and while it follows some of the events in the book, it does spin off on its own tangent. That said, enjoy!

But Aragorn came to Eowyn, and he said: 'Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow.'

'I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! For her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown.'

Then Aragorn stooped and looked in her face, and it was indeed white as a lily, cold as frost, and hard as graven stone. But he bent and kissed her on the brow, and called her softly, saying:

'Eowyn Eomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!'

—from 'The Houses of Healing' in The Return of the King

She woke in the darkness, dazed and disoriented, and for a moment lay with nothing but the sound of her own harsh breathing in her ears. Her long hair was matted and scratched the back of her neck, and the blanket that covered her was drenched with sweat. Feeling lost and alone, she resisted the urge to call out for a mother she had not known since childhood.

After a time, her breathing slowed and she tried to sit up, noticing for the first time that her shield arm was held in a linen sling. The events of the past day came back to her then, in a rush of metal and death, and she turned and groped clumsily beside her bed for a basin, into which she retched violently, over and over again, until there was nothing left to expel.

Shivering in the warm night air, she subsided back against the damp sheets and pulled the wool blanket up awkwardly with her uninjured arm. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air and at last she knew herself to be in the House of Healing in the city of Minas Tirith. In the distance she could hear the cries and moans of the wounded and dying, and she lay there until their voices lulled her, once more, into an uneasy sleep.

The next time she woke, it was no longer night and the sun cast prisms of light against the stone walls. Her eyes darted around the room, confirming her earlier guess of its identity. Hers was the only bed, but through the open doorway she could see row upon row of cots and more men covering the floors, which were lined with straw to catch their blood. Then, a glimmer in the far corner caught her glance and she turned to see her discarded armour heaped in a pile against the stone. A hoarse cry of relief rose in her when she saw that her sword was there as well, blackened and charred, but whole.

At her noise, a woman stirred and half rose from a chair that she had missed in her hasty inspection.

"Is your ladyship finally awake?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply, stood and bustled over. Eowyn tried to rise as well, but the world tipped and spun and she was forced to close her eyes for a moment.

"Stay still, my lady—for you've had quite the fall—and let me see to your injuries first." And clucking, she gently pulled back the blanket and set about checking bandages and rinsing the wounds beneath with a damp cloth. A wholesome, sweet smell rose in the room and pushed away the stench of death and decay, and Eowyn, drawing in a deep breath, felt the earth begin to right itself again.

"May I ask…" her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, "your name?"

"Of course, my lady. I am Brighid, sister of Ioreth, who runs this place. Your brother, Lord Eomer, charged me with your care."

She considered this for a moment. "The battle?"

"Is over, and has been for two days now. You slept quite a time." And the matronly woman reached down and felt the broken arm gently, making a sound of satisfaction in the back of her throat. "I've never seen such injuries as yours heal as quickly as they do. You were blessed indeed to have the king himself attend you as he did."

Snatches of hazy memory returned to her then, of a man's lips on her brow and hand on her arm, but she thought them to be fragments of her disjointed dreams and furrowed her brow in uncertainty.

"The king is dead?" she ventured haltingly, thinking of Theoden, and Theodred as well.

"Aye, 'tis true we've not had a king these long years, but after the battle they crowned one anew, and 'twas he who came and healed you."

"His name?" she asked faintly, as the darkness rose once more to claim her.

"King Elessar."

The third time she awoke, from dreams of cruel laughter and grey eyes, it was silent and still. There were no more groans, and the air was hot and heavy. A fly turned lazy curls above the now empty chair near the wall. Brighid was gone, but she had left a tray of food and water in her place.

Slowly, slowly, with weak limbs, Eowyn rose and went to the table. Her arm shook slightly as she raised the goblet to her mouth, but with iron control she willed the tremor away and was gratified to see that she spilled not a drop. Though not hungry, she forced herself to choke down some broth and bread, having a warrior's knowledge of the body's needs, no matter what the mind would say.

A slight breeze reached her then, through the high opening in the stone that passed for a window, and she was hit by a sudden and fierce longing to feel the wind in her hair and the naked sun on her face.

Going over to her abandoned armour and bending down slowly and with much care, she sifted through the chain mail with her one hand until she reached the under tunic and leggings. They were stiff and crusted with dry blood and dirt, but she was indifferent to their condition and merely brushed off the worst of the grime before removing her linen shift and pulling them on.

She wandered slowly through room after room of injured men and grim-faced wives until she was free of the stone and in the air once more. It was cold and windy and from the steps of the infirmary she could see nothing but miles of stone and brick, descending, spreading down to the plains—and her eyes skittered away then, from the place she was not ready to remember and sought instead some patch of green where they might rest and be comforted.

Around the side of the building she spied an herb patch and followed its winding path to a larger garden, containing a giant tree and a fountain, whose walls overlooked the river Anduin and the mountain range beyond. She was hit then, by such a wave of sickness for her own plains and mountains that she was knocked back onto a nearby bench.

When Brighid found her, dusk had almost turned to night, and still she sat, motionless, as the wind cut into her cheeks and whipped her hair into a crow's nest of tangles. Brighid tisked and fussed and led her gently back inside, where she suffered her hair to be washed and braided into a tight plait down her back, and her bandages changed once more. After a disapproving glance at her filthy clothes, Brighid turned and disappeared, returning a moment later with a green woollen dress draped over one arm.

Eowyn saw that it was not from her own wardrobe, but she asked no questions and tried not to wonder at the fate of its previous owner as she put it on, thankful that at least it was not bloodied or torn and slightly too short as opposed to slightly too long.

Brighid was wise enough not to offer a mirror and Eowyn was wise enough not to ask for one. She'd never thought of her appearance without some lingering disappointment, but she was afraid if she looked now, it would be the face of a dead woman that stared back at her.

She returned to the garden the next day, and when Brighid, coming to collect the tray of food she'd left earlier, saw that it remained untouched and that her charge had not moved from her frozen seat, she merely shook her head and went away again without a word. When she returned with dinner, she was not alone, and Eowyn watched absently as a man with a wooden cane limped towards her behind Brighid.

"This is Lord Faramir, your ladyship," she announced loudly, setting the new tray down next to Eowyn's impassive form. "His lordship was injured in battle like yourself, and he too was in need of fresh air. Mayhap you two will keep each other out of trouble." And she gestured at him from behind Eowyn to take a seat, before turning on her heel and leaving with a satisfied nod.

Eowyn saw that he was pale and sweating from his walk, and she pushed the tray towards him with a faint smile.

"Please, my lord, I think you have more need of this than me. Eat and revive yourself."

He thanked her with a look and a smile of his own, and she saw that his brown eyes were warm and open and felt with surprise that she was hungry as well. They shared the meal and warm mead between them in the fading sun and there was nothing said for the thoughts of both weighed heavy upon them.

She walked in the garden each day after that, and Faramir was often with her, telling her stories of his childhood and the city she saw before her. In truth, she heard little and said less, but his voice soothed her, rising and falling like waves on the sea, and gave her some peace from the feelings that plagued her.

And Faramir was happy when he could make her smile, though she never laughed, or draw forth some comment or another, and he was more than half in love with her by the end of the first day. He saw, with concern, the paleness of her already fair skin and how she shivered always, even in the sun. But when he mentioned it to Brighid, she only shook her head and replied sorrowfully that her ladyship always trembled, even when her bed was warmed with bricks.

The next time they met, he handed her a cloak and told her how it had been his mother's and how it had kept her warm on the coldest of days because it was made from elvish cloth. She gently shook it out and ran her unbroken hand over the blue velvet, tracing the silver stars woven along the edge. Then he took it from her again and draped it carefully over her shoulders and they both chose not to see that her tremors continued regardless, but sat instead by the fountain and talked of nothing. Faramir noticed how the blue in the cloak matched the blue in her eyes and brought out the creamy white of her neck, but Eowyn, staring at her uneven reflection in the water, saw a pale, wild thing with dark bruises and a haunted look, and turned away.

A week or more passed in this way, and under Brighid's care her body slowly regained much of its former strength. Her restlessness increased as well until one day she turned to Faramir and, cutting him off in the middle of some story or another, said that she would like to start working her sword arm again and could he show her the sparring grounds. There was an awkward pause, but she did not apologize for her interruption. Then Faramir smiled, somewhat stiffly, and gently suggested that seeing where such activities had led her before, perhaps she would be better off helping Brighid or one of the other women instead.

She stiffened and went still, but where before she might have turned with fire in her eyes and a cutting retort on her tongue, she only looked into his caring, oblivious gaze and thanked him softly for the use of his cloak. He took that for an agreement and smiled in relief at her good sense, but a moment later his look changed to puzzlement as he watched her pale form disappear through the gate, the discarded cloak hanging forgotten in his hand.

Eowyn did not return to the garden the next day, and when Faramir went to her room he found only Brighid, who told him her ladyship was resting, but would not meet his eyes.

Eowyn, as it happened, was not resting, but rather on her way to the stables, following the directions she'd forced from Brighid after much pleading and several empty threats concerning her brother's wishes. After a week of walking in circles, she felt the walls closing in on her, and her nightmares had returned to haunt her steps once more. Though Faramir had sung its praises time and again, the White Tower was a cage to her and she found her chest constricting, her breaths coming rapid and shallow, as she hurried through the narrow streets.

The stables were cool and dark, and it was easier to breath in among the quiet snorting and rustling of hooves. But though she walked up and down the aisles, she could find no trace of her horse and her mind leapt unbidden to the battlefield and the piles of carcasses that still burned though almost a fortnight had passed since they were first lit. She began to tremble again and turned to leave, but the sleeve of her dress was caught on some object and as she turned to free it, she found herself staring into the eyes of a big brown warhorse who held it fast between his teeth. She heard a strange noise then, and realized with a shock that it was her own laugh, rusty and unfamiliar. Unperturbed, the animal dropped her sleeve and began, instead, to nudge her hand in search of treats. She stroked his neck absent-mindedly, and noticed that he was already saddled.

"Where's thy master, then—" she paused to read the name on the door, "—Brego? Would he mind if I were to ride you, I wonder." And, barely aware of what she was doing, she slipped open the door and pulled herself awkwardly up onto his back, trying not to spook him with her sword, which hung once more against her leg.

She had learned how to ride before she could speak and it was as easy as walking to her, even one-handed and shaking with fatigue. She let Brego set their course at first, and he guided her at a gentle walk out one of the city gates and into the fields beyond. Once clear of the city, she nudged him into a canter and was pleased at the smoothness of his gait and its swiftness.

The wind brought tears to her eyes and stung her face, but for the first time she felt the faint stirrings of what might have been joy and she began to wonder if perhaps she was not quite dead yet.

She brought Brego to a stop near the river, and he tossed his mane in protest but his flanks were wet with sweat and she left him untied, thinking that the water would be lure enough to keep him nearby. Then, after cupping some water in her own hand and letting it run down the back of her neck, she drew forth her sword and ran through the most elementary of drills slowly and carefully, reminding her muscles of their previous use. When at last she was warm and perspiring lightly, she began a dance of strokes and parries, feeling more herself with each sweep and turn. She was clumsy from lack of practice and her sword often dragged in her hand, but as she turned and drew a crescent with the tip, she opened her mouth to laugh again—

And froze when she found her blade caught against another.

"My lady."

Her sword shook slightly, imperceptibly.

"My lord Aragorn."

Her eyes betrayed the surprise she felt, and her mouth was dry, but she held his gaze with her own, though she could not name what she saw there, and held her blade to his as well. For a moment, all was still. Then, gathering some hidden strength, she swept her blade round and disengaged, and a challenge blazed in her eyes. A glint came into his own when he realized her intent, and he flashed her a feral grin as he moved to attack with the well-honed grace and agility of a cat.

They sparred for some time, and she was on the defensive more often than not for he was fresh and uninjured and much larger, but her heart sang and the blood rushed in her ears. At last, he paused, noting the paleness of her cheeks and the bright sheen in her eye, and with a bow, begged a halt for his own sake, as he was tired enough to be a danger to them both.

Her eyes flashed at the lie, and she opened her mouth to protest, but she felt her own weakness then and the truth behind his words, and said nothing.

Seeing her lower her sword and sheath it, he did the same and then went to the river and, cupping some water in his hands, sat back on his haunches and drank deeply. She followed, and kneeling some feet away, splashed water on her face and ran more down the back of her neck, closing her eyes with a sigh of relief. When she opened them again he was staring at her and his eyes were dark. Caught in his gaze, she felt a jolt of heat run through her and she shivered and looked away.

"What errand has brought you here, my Lord?"

She heard rather than saw his smile. "My horse, my lady."

"Your horse?" she swallowed with difficulty.

"Aye. It seems that my animal, though saddled and ready for a rider, was too impatient to wait for me and went off by himself." He chuckled. "So eager was he to leave, that he undid his own gate—using only his teeth, I suppose—and found his own way out of the city."

"May I ask your horse's name?"

"Certainly. He was named Brego by his previous master, and out of respect I have called him the same."

She turned and saw the hint of a smile at his mouth and the blood rose in her cheeks.

"All horses are descendants of the great war steeds of Rohan," she said hotly, "and can be claimed by the Rohirrim."

He let out a surprised laugh and stood, holding out his hand to her.

"Your logic robs me of any advantage I might have claimed."

She stared at his outstretched arm for a moment, but rose on her own and the laughter faded from his eyes and he let his hand drop.

Ashamed then, of her insolence and her fear of his touch, she turned and rubbed the velvet nose of Brego, who had come over at the sound of his master's voice.

"My own horse no longer lives," she said softly, by way of apology, and she heard him come up gently behind her.

"Then, you must lead Brego back to Minas Tirith, my lady, for it seems he prefers your company to mine." And it warmed him to see her flash one of her rare smiles at his words.

By now the sun was low in the sky and as she led Brego back Aragorn walked beside her, but said little. He watched her carefully, though, and saw how much thinner she seemed and that her arm was still wrapped in a sling, and after a time he asked if her injuries were healing well.

"Yes, I thank you." And she curled her hand in Brego's mane and thought of her strange dreams and Brighid's words, but she doubted her own mind and was afraid to thank him for a healing that was not his. They lapsed into another silence, and she wondered if he had been gone from Minas Tirith all this time, or if he had not been to see her for some other reason.

"I have been away on business since the end of the War," he said, glancing at her as if he could guess some of what she was thinking. "There is more to do than I thought there would be. Gondor has fallen into disrepair these past years." She could see his words pained him and searched for a reply.

"Kingship is never easy," she began haltingly and because she was watching him closely, she saw his hand go instinctively to his throat, which was bare. A moment later he realized what he'd done, and he smiled wryly and let his arm fall.

"You are right, of course. I forgot for a moment that you most likely have more experience with statecraft than me."

She gave a small laugh. "It's true that I grew up in a great hall, surrounded by men of state but I envied only their freedom, never their responsibilities. I remember once, seeing my uncle—" But here she froze and a stricken look came over her. She had forgotten for a moment that her uncle, the king, was dead, but now she heard the witch-king laugh once more and bile rose in her throat.

"Though I knew him for only a short time, your uncle seemed a great king," Aragorn said gently. "He had the love and respect of his people, and he cared for them in return." Still she did not move. "Eowyn," he stepped closer, "your uncle was a warrior and king of the Mark. He would not have wanted the slow descent to infirmity and death. I saw his face when they bore him away. He died protecting his people and he was at peace." Her hand tightened on Brego's lead and he saw that her knuckles were white.

"Eowyn," he repeated quietly and she looked up at his worried grey eyes with an expression of such raw and fierce grief that he felt his own chest constrict.

"He was the only father I had ever known." A shudder ran through her then and she turned her face into Brego's mane and at last, she cried.

When her tears were finally spent and she lifted her head once more, it was almost night and Aragorn was no longer with her. Weary and drained, she drew her sleeve across her eyes and pushed the hair from her face. Brego turned and nudged her arm and she pulled herself onto his back with bones that felt aged and fragile.

"Take us home, Brego," she murmured and wrapped her one arm around his neck so she wouldn't fall off in her fatigue.

It wasn't until she was once again in her room that she realized she no longer trembled.

She dined in the Great Hall for the first time that night, and Aragorn thought her very sombre and very fair in her black gown with her hair caught up in a silver net at the nape of her neck. She sat between Merry and Pippin and he watched how she laughed brightly at their jokes and how her smile faded when she thought no eyes were upon her.

And Eomer, seated on Aragorn's right, followed the direction of his gaze and was troubled.

"My sister was badly hurt by the death of our uncle," he said abruptly and Aragorn turned to regard him silently. " And by the events that preceded it. She—we both believed she would marry our cousin some day and God only knows what she felt and suffered when that one path to happiness was closed to her." He stopped and toyed with the goblet in his hand.

"She loves you Aragorn," he said eventually. "She loves you and I fear for her. I would not have her be any man's second choice and I would not see her married to one who could not love her fully and without reserve. My sister is strong, but she would not survive long in the shadow of another woman, and I would die before I saw her in such a place."

"Eomer…"

" She is not Arwen." He set his glass down hard and the wine ran like blood across the wood where it had spilled. "I counsel you to think of that, my lord, before you give her undue reason to hope." And then he turned and left the room without another word.

Eowyn saw her brother leave and furrowed her brow in concern but then she felt someone's eyes upon her and turned to see Aragorn studying her intently. The colour rose in her checks, and she turned her face away in confusion.

Aragorn knew then that Eomer had spoken true, and he remembered as well his own misgivings from before the Paths of the Dead. Pushing back his chair with too much force, he hurried from the hall as his friends and subjects continued to drink and eat and laugh.

And only Eowyn, and Legolas sitting across from her, saw him leave.

He walked until he came to the courtyard of the White Tree, which grew again after so many years, and there he stopped and was still. He did not move for some time, and seeing the stars through the branches, he thought of what Arwen had said when they had pledged their troth on Cerin Amroth.

The light of the Evenstar does not wax and wane.

Suddenly, he tensed and with the instinct of a ranger, whirled round, hand on the hilt of his sword. When he perceived that it was the elf Legolas who stood silent in the shadows behind him, he dropped his hand and after a moment, turned his gaze back to the sky.

"Eomer is young." The elf spoke impassively, without judgement.

"He was right," Aragorn replied quietly, "I still love her." He turned a leaf over in his hands.

Legolas frowned. "Can Estel only love once?"

"A part of me goes with her to the Undying Lands."

"Then the rest is still yours to give. The lives of men are short and filled with much hardship. If you can find some comfort in each other, no one here would judge you ill for seeking it, not even Eomer, who is blinded by a brother's love."

Aragorn said nothing and where the moonlight touched him, his face was grave and worn like the statues of his forefathers.

"Do you care for her?"

And the king of Gondor bowed his head and searched his heart long and with much care.

The days continued to pass, and Eowyn watched as those who had come to fight in the war against Sauron left one by one for their own countries until only the Fellowship remained and then even that was broken. And still she remained in the House of Healing and her heart was troubled but she could not say why. Soon the time came for Eomer to return to Rohan, which was still kingless, and he went to Eowyn in the Infirmary, where she was helping Ioreth tend those who had not yet healed, and took her aside.

Will you not return with me, sister, that your people may look upon your face again and be comforted?"

He had asked once before and he saw without happiness that her answer was unchanged.

"Here, at least, I can serve some small purpose, helping the sick and wounded. Too long my life has been without meaning." But she could see that her words caused him pain and fell quiet. Instead she hugged him hard and wished him farewell and when they parted, there were tears in both their eyes.

"We shall see each other soon, Eowyn," he promised, for he was betrothed to Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and would return to Gondor to be wed in the spring.

"I wish you much happiness and good fortune, brother," she whispered vehemently and kissed him hard on both cheeks. Then she turned and rushed from the room without looking back.

The next morning she rose while it was still dark and stole away, past a sleeping Brighid, to the garden that she had not entered for almost a fortnight. She half ran to the outer wall, and there she stood and watched as Eomer led the riders of the Mark through the stone gates and off towards the Grey Wood under Amon Din, and the lands of Rohan beyond. Staring down at them, she felt a pain in her chest and wondered if she had been wrong to stay. And when she could no longer bear to watch, she turned her gaze to the East instead and saw the sun rising, bright and red, over Ephel Duath, the Shadow Mountains of Mordor.

And when Aragorn, entering the garden a moment later, saw her standing there, gazing at the sunrise with the wind in her hair and tears streaming down her face, he knew at last what was in his heart and he went over to her. When she heard him come up behind her, she turned and met his eyes, and her feelings were laid bare on her face.

He did not speak and Eowyn felt time slow. And the earth dipped and spun like it had when she had first woken in the House of Healing.

Then he closed the space between them with two quick steps and pulled her to him fiercely. She felt his hands tangle in her long hair and he cradled her head tenderly with his broad, calloused palms and caught her mouth with his own. The sun was in her eyes so she closed them and she could taste the salt of her tears on his lips. And when she hesitantly laid a hand on his cheek, she felt the roughness of his jaw, like sandpaper, and the muscles that moved beneath.

When neither one could breath, they parted, but he kept his arms around her and she rested her forehead against his own and gave a shaky laugh.

Then they walked in the garden for a time and shared all that they thought and felt. Aragorn spoke of Arwen's departure for the undying lands and repeated some of what Eomer had told him, for he wanted her to know what she was promising herself to, and when he had finished, he turned to her gravely and said,

"So you see, my lady, I will always carry this burden, and if you would not bind yourself to such a heart, leave now."

But she merely smiled wryly and replied, " We are, none of us, unmarked, my lord, and I would bind my life to yours, however short it may be." She knew he was of the Western line and fated to live thrice as long as other men.

Then he kissed her once more and in the sun her skin was golden.

And afterwards she laughed and said to him, "Now I must go tell Brighid to pack, for I am finally healed and may leave my sick room at last."

They were wed in the spring, and when Eomer watched them toast their friends and subjects, he was reassured by the glow of happiness that surrounded her. And though she was still known as the White Lady of Rohan among the Rohirrim, in time, she acquired a new name and was forever remembered by her husband's people as Queen Eowyn the Golden.