Disclaimer:

Unsurprisingly, I don't own any of this. Middle-earth and everything in its universe were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and everything affiliated in any way with Middle-earth is now owned by Middle-earth Enterprises and New Line Cinema. I make no claims to ownership of any material henceforth.

In a nutshell: I am not getting paid or receiving other compensation for writing this story. Don't sue me.

Trigger Warnings (Applying to All Chapters Henceforth):

This story could get fairly dark in places. Featured will be some severely messed-up characters, Lady Éowyn taking the brunt of this. To paraphrase what happened to her canonically within The Lord of the Rings, Gríma Wormtongue emotionally abused her, using fear as a means to subdue her (and, depending on your take on the story, eventually rape her; whether or not he would have used his influence over King Théoden to force a marriage to her first is up for debate as well). Essentially, what she is going through is PTSD with parts of depersonalization disorder, especially emotional detachment/numbing, and more than a bit of depression mixed in, so severe that she wanted to die and attempted to commit suicide by walking willfully into a situation that she knew she could not (and did not want to) survive. As this story occurs post-RotK, she's still got loads of trust issues, and is far from being able to function normally, the repercussions of these happenings still recurring in relation to her character. There could be a few references to rape (she was not raped; but she may contemplate the fact that if things hadn't turned out as they did, it would have inevitably happened at some point) and some near-suicidal thoughts (nor does does not attempt to kill herself, but does wish multiple times that she was dead, as she does in The Lord of the Rings). Other characters may experience symptoms of PTSD as well; these mainly relate to the characters who were in combat during the War of the Ring. Essentially, at the start of the story, neither Legolas nor Éowyn are doing very well emotionally, in varying degrees. But a few major components of this story will be hope and healing: things will improve for both of them, I promise.

Author's Note:

This story is obviously AU for multiple reasons, not the least of these the fact that Elves don't arrange marriages for their children. However, it is a rather convenient premise for some angsty interactions with even more angsty characters and also a really good way to keep other canonical love interests *coughfaramircough* out of the way. If you were subjected to the clichéd abomination that was originally this story and somehow lived through it relatively unscathed, I applaud your willingness to give it a second chance. Hopefully it will prove satisfactory. If you are new to this story, then I am overjoyed that you decided to give it a go. However, I'm still having a bit of trouble figuring out a couple details of the plot, so it will probably be a good while (though hopefully not as long as before) until this is updated regularly. Anyway, when you're done, don't forget to leave a review! I love praise (who doesn't?) but I love constructive criticism even more.

Many, many thanks to my new beta, BrightWatcher. I never could have dared attempt this without her.

The text in italics is thoughts.

This story begins in late autumn 3019.

Prologue

She stood at the railing, overlooking the golden fields of the Riddermark. The sun was setting over the horizon, turning the sky into a breathtaking display of scarlet and crimson. She pulled her cloak tighter about her, shivering slightly. Summer was fading into autumn, and the air was turning cold. The snows would come soon.

"Éowyn?" She turned at the sound of her brother's voice. He stepped from her door out onto the balcony. "You were not inside, and the door was open. I will leave if you wish to be alone-"

"Éomer." She offered him a small smile, which he returned hesitantly. "I see that the counselors have finally released you."

He came to her side. "I never knew running a kingdom would be such an exhausting task." He sighed, staring at his hands. "King Elessar is fortunate. The Steward will ease his passage." He looked up and searched her face, a tentative question in his gaze, though she did not meet his eyes, still looking out over the grassy fields.

"We are friends, nothing more." This was the first time Éomer had spoken to her of her weeks in the Houses of Healing, wishing to wait until it seemed to no longer pain her, but she had known such questions would arise eventually. Lord Faramir may love her, or think he did, but she knew she could never love him. He was a good man, but he did not see who she really was. To him, she seemed to come out of one of the legends of old, offering a chance at glory, a whisper of great deeds and heroic feats. He loved the mirage projected by her fame, not the maiden inside.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both looking out over the back of the city. His hair whipped around his face in the winds, harsh and cold from the north and even more cutting up here, high above the plains.

He was the first to speak. "Do you remember when the Three Hunters came here, to Meduseld?"

She nodded mutely. I could never forget.

"Lord Aragorn, Gimli, the Dwarf, and the Elf."

She blinked. "You speak of Prince Legolas."

"He has asked for your hand in marriage."

She twisted abruptly to stare at him. "Why?"

His gaze moved out over the fields. "An alliance."

She drew in a sharp breath. "They would join the Woodland Realm with the Riddermark?"

"Yes." He sighed. "Why, I do not know."

"It is sudden."

"Yes."

She looked down at her hands, clenched on the cold stone of the rail. Her fingers were stiff and cold.

Of course, she had always expected to have to make a political marriage. She would wed some aged lord or another, as her mother had, though she had been lucky; Éomund was not five years the elder. And she had loved him. Her daughter would not be so fortunate in her fate. As a member of the House of Eorl, she did not have that kind of freedom, more so now that Théoden and his son were dead. Now, the stakes were higher. Already messengers had been sent from the lords of Gondor, promising grain for her people, starving after the torches of Isengard, for the hand of the White Lady. A lady of Minas Tirith or Edoras must also be sent to quiet the defeated warlords of Harad; yet another alliance that must be formed. As it seemed, now her sole duty was to choose a husband and wed him as soon as possible. She did not wish to marry, not now, not ever, perhaps, but there seemed no alternative. This task was her birthright.

Éomer could have burned the parchment; never spoken to her of it. This would provide nothing for Rohan, and she, as the only highborn lady of the court of Edoras considered suitable for such a task, was a valuable commodity. But he had given her a choice. Perhaps it was out of guilt, of seeing her on the Pelennor, knowing why she had done what she did, and that he had done nothing to stop it. She had almost died, and he blamed himself for it.

It was selfish, perhaps, that she would wish this over something that would save her people, and in some part of her, she loathed herself for wishing so desperately to do it. She felt a sudden surge of love for this man who was her brother. For he already knew which she would choose, and he was allowing her to do it. He was allowing her to choose her fate—not as the king's sister, as a Lady of the Riddermark, who had a duty to her people, but simply as herself, without any of the titles bestowed upon her—though he knew it would soon place an unbearably heavy burden on himself.

She did not want to be the lady of some far-away realm, married to a man she hardly knew and could never love. The elf needed no heirs, so she would not be forced to share his bed. He would expect nothing in return for her hand. With him, she supposed that she could largely be left alone, not be forced into games of court too complicated for her to play.

She looked up at him. "Please tell the Prince that I accept."

Éomer looked down at her, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers were warm, the callouses earned with many years of riding and wearing a sword rough against her skin. "I am sorry, sister, that it has come to this. I would not wish such a thing upon you, were it my place to decide."

"It is not."

"No," he agreed. "Éowyn, I pray that you will be happy." The words seem to stick in his throat. "I love you, sister." He suddenly drew her into his warm embrace, burying his face in her hair. He smelled of leather and wool and horses and grass, as he always had. She closed her eyes, his solid, real presence comforting her as nothing else ever could.

"And I, you," she whispered into his chest.

They stood there in silence, staring out over the horizon, the light of the sinking sun setting their mingled golden hair aflame.