Happy Monday, everyone! (Which is an oxymoron if I've ever heard one.)

Thank you again (and again!) to Apollo888 and BrightWatcher for being my betas. Seriously, you guys rock.

For a disclaimer, please refer to the prologue.

Chapter One

She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on her pale hands, clasped in her lap. The room around her was cold and bare, even the tapestries taken from the walls and packed away, the fireplace swept clean.

She would not return.

A single candle flickered in the darkness on a small wooden table next to the headboard. It was not yet dawn.

She stood, placing a hand on the heavy bedpost and lightly tracing the carvings, nervous, though she would not admit it to herself.

The heavy door creaked open, and she looked up. Her fingers stilled.

"It is time," her brother said.

She nodded and stepped quietly out into the hallway.

A tall figure stood a respectful distance from Éomer's side, a plumed helmet under his arm, a sword hanging at his belt. Elfhelm, she realized. He nodded at her, and a faint smile crept over his somber face. They had ridden together before.

"Walk with me," Éomer said quietly, taking her arm.

They took a few steps in silence, her gaze focused on the gray stone of the walls ahead and the deep green and bright gold of the hangings.

"You will ride with Elfhelm's company until you reach the forest," he finally said. "There a company of Thranduil's men will escort you to his palace. Elfhelm and several of our riders will continue on with you."

"Yes."

"I will not be able to attend the wedding. I cannot leave the city."

She nodded.

He opened the doors, and the sudden gust of bitter wind whipped her loose hair around her face.

She looked up, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the silent crowds that had assembled to bid her farewell. Her back straightened automatically; the cheerless eyes of hundreds were fixed on her. The entire city had been emptied, the few rays of sunlight that had crept beyond the horizon reflected on the mass of golden heads.

It seemed odd, somehow. A wedding should have been a joyous occasion; if not for her, then for her people. Perhaps she should not have been surprised, she reasoned. Too long had their years had been dark for merriment to come easily.

Windfola nickered softly as she mounted, and she stroked the horse's dappled gray neck.

Éomer stood beside the mare, his cloak flapping in the wind.

"Farewell, Éowyn," he said, looking up at her.

"Farewell," she said. Perhaps she would have wept, had there been any tears left to fall.

Elfhelm's bay stallion trotted to her side, and Éomer stepped back, his gaze still locked with hers.

Twin banners whipped in the wind, a white horse upon forest green, held high as they galloped out of the city.

She did not look back.

xxxx

Elfhelm's company rode for weeks. They passed through the Wold, where the borders of Fangorn forest were a hazy mist on the horizon. One morning they woke to find the golden hills covered in snow. They followed the icy Anduin up Elfhelm's map until it was narrow enough to ford, though she was still soaked to the skin by the time Windfola reached the opposite shore. A fortnight into their journey, it was the farthest north any of them had ever traveled.

Three weeks after she had left Edoras, the dark borders of Mirkwood hovered in the distance, ever-present and creeping closer the farther north they rode.

The closer she was to the forest, the harder it was for her to ignore why she had come.

They had never spoken. All that she remembered of him was the pity in his eyes when he had looked at her as she wept, begging Aragorn to ride with him to battle.

She did not desire his pity.

He had attended King Théoden's funeral, as had the other Elves from Rivendell and the Golden Wood traveling back to their forests and valleys from the coronation in Minas Tirith, but it had done little to ease the fear the Rohirrim had of their race. Dwarves they had dealings with in ancient times, vague remnants of ill will remaining on both sides despite her brother's plans for Lord Gimli and his kin to take up residence in the Glittering Caves. Hobbits were like enough to their own hearts for them to embrace with ease. But the Elves were so unlike Men: pale, tall, ethereal, as if they had stepped out of a dream. They were too different. Her guards grew ever more nervous the closer they rode to the forest. Dangerous enchanters, she had heard them call the Eldar when they thought she could not hear. Beautiful, to be sure, but it was all an illusion, a façade projected to hide the menace underneath.

Mirkwood the Rohirrim had feared even more than Dwimordene. The old songs and tales did not go back far enough in memory to remember a time when the forest was not cloaked in shadow, a wild and perilous presence on their Northern border. The Elves of the Wood and the dark sorcery they practiced, sorcery so terrible to spread even to the forest they lived in, they had feared even before they Eorl had led her ancestors south.

She did not know him, but she did not fear him as they did. Her brother had fought side by side with him in many battles, and Aragorn had accounted him his greatest friend. King Elessar had wed an Elf maiden, the fairest to walk the earth since the Eldar Days, it was said. Queen Arwen was exceedingly fair, she had to admit. It was no wonder he had waited for her for more than sixty years. Even her brother had praised her gentleness and beauty.

Éowyn was not gentle. She was not beautiful in the way the Queen was, dark and elegant and flawless.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

When she was a child, the Elves were some imagined race, a legend of ages long past, either ethereal creatures fey and beautiful beyond compare or dark mages who sought to ensnare all in their webs. But then he had walked into the Golden Hall, a being only told of in children's tales, she had wondered for a brief moment if she were going mad. But then she had seen Aragorn, and his realness, the power that he carried, even ragged and worn from many weeks of wearying travel, had grounded her. She had turned to him instead of this surreal being that confounded her simply by existing. But she had not loved Aragorn, as she had tried to convince herself many nights after their first meeting, staring up at the shadows of her high ceiling and praying for someone to take her away from her prison, for she could not accomplish such a task herself. She had wished instead to be him, she supposed, to be able to ride off and fight battles and have adventures and do as she wished, never again having to bow to the will of another. She had thought to wed him, for as his queen perhaps she would be free from the cage that sought to ensnare her, trapping her until she was so numb that she forgot even to long for freedom anymore. It would have been a small price to pay for the thing she wished for most in all the world.

But it had not turned out to be so.

She had tried to choose her path, and yet again choice was denied her. Submission was to be her fate, she had finally realized as she awoke, broken and despairing, in Minas Tirith. Not even to the cool embrace of death could she escape it.

And now she was to wed this Elf. It was supremely ironic, in a way. Who could have foreseen such an insane turn of events?

One month after they had crossed the Anduin they reached the Forest Gate.

"We wait here," Elfhelm told her, his wary eyes fixed on the dark forest.

Night fell, and they lit a fire with wood they had carried with them from a few days before. None dared venture into the forbidding treeline, not even to gather kindling. That was their realm, and the Rohirrim would not tread there uninvited.

She could not sleep that night, staring at the side of her tent, the embers of the fire sending strange shadows dancing across the fabric, the forest deliberately at her back.

When the stars faded and the edges of the sky began to pale, thirty tall Elven warriors, clad in the deep brown of the Woodland Realm, stepped silently out of the forest.

She mounted Windfola, Elfhelm at her side.

This time she could not stop herself. She quickly glanced back at the open lands behind her, the cold and empty halls of Meduseld nothing but a memory far beyond the horizon.

After a moment she blinked, once again carefully in control, her mind clear of all thought.

And thus Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, entered the realm of Thranduil, King of the Wood-elves of Northern Mirkwood.

xxxx

Oh, goodness. I can't believe how many reviews, follows, and favorites I've gotten for the last chapter. Whenever that email pops into my inbox, it makes my day. Each and every one of you wonderful people deserve a shining gold star. And when you leave me a note, *hint-hint, nudge-nudge* feel free to give me constructive criticism! I really do want to improve my writing, and it helps so much to hear what you all are thinking.

Guest Review Responses:

River: Thank you so very much for your review! It really irks me when Éowyn is mischaracterized. Of course, my vision of Éowyn is quite a bit different than what I've seen elsewhere, but I do try to stick to the books as much as possible. :)

kristin: Thanks for the review! I certainly plan on it. :)

Lili: Thank you very much for your review! You have no idea how happy you made me. :) I'm actually kind of afraid that I won't be able to top the previous chapter after all the praise I've gotten for it. Again, thank you!

Guest (12/28/13): Thanks for the review. I don't plan on stopping anytime soon, though I know the frequency of my updates is a bit slower than some of you would like. I'm working on it, though. :)

Guest (12/30/13): Thank you for your review! I've finally been able to update, and hopefully the next chapter will come faster. :)