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"Éowyn," Éomer replies, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His sister watches him carefully, brow furrowed in thought, before she reaches out and trails her fingertips across the strong line of his jaw. Standing in the darkness of the hall, just beyond the candlelit glow of her room, he seems out of focus. To step within the light is to step into a dream. And it had been no surprise to find him standing at her door, even in the middle of the night; it had happened often enough before. And she has seen Éomer bereft of hope, and bloodstained, and broken, and she has seen him filled with light and pride and strength as well. Now, he simply seems tired, stretched thin, and emotion smolders dark in his eyes. "Has it been so long?" he asks, though it is mostly rhetorical, and takes her hand as he presses his lips to the curve of her palm. Éowyn closes the door softly, guiding him into the room. Their feet are soft against the thick fur of the rug; Éowyn's long white nightgown whispers as she moves. "It has been longer," she replies, lips twisting in a grim smile. Their eyes meet, and Éomer frowns even as Éowyn's look softens. "We are losing our land, Éowyn. It will not be long, now, and there will be nothing left of Rohan. Nothing but burned out dreams…" Éowyn is silent, then, and leads him to sit at the edge of her bed. She turns to face him, then, and he traces the curve of her throat with his eyes, hungry for more. And he reaches out, his fingers following that same path, and Éowyn's pulse beats hot and bright beneath her skin. "So you come to me," she says, speaks of those same thoughts, and in the light of the candle, she seems to glow. And she is sharp, too real, and Éomer does not feel that he is worthy to touch her. But she hears that thought as well, it seems, and her hand covers his, presses it against her collarbone, her fingers threading with his own. "You come to me for comfort, brother, to seek solace in the storm." "I do," he says, and he has known too long what it feels to need something so wrong; but Éowyn is simply right and shows him warmth, where the face that she shows the world has turned cold. If he did not have her, then he would have nothing; and it is only too long, he knows, before this life they live, in shadows, will be torn from them forever. "I do…" he says again, and Éowyn leans close, her mouth brushes against his own. "Let us sit back, then, and I will tell you a story…" "Éowyn," Éomer groans, for that is not what he seeks, and Éowyn laughs. "Patience, brother," she says to him, brushing away hair and then kissing his brow. "Patience. Our time shall come." Éomer grumbles, playful, and they sit back in the warmth of her bed. Éowyn draws him against her, circles her arms about him, arms that are slender and too strong; and Éowyn is no simple maid, she is a warrior, a shieldmaiden, and her hands are fated to be stained with blood. Perhaps even her own. He falls asleep lulled by the soothing rise and fall of her voice, and dreams of a king of dark shadows, thrown down by the light.
"Éomer," says Éowyn, her fingers caressing his brow. He looks up through a veil, and his sister's hair is a river of gold that cascades over her shoulders. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in that river, and Éowyn traces circles on his brow. "Did you sleep well, brother? It is just dawn." "Then it is a long time, still, till I must rise." Éowyn smiles and brushes her fingertips over his lip. "A long time, still," she says, as Éomer kisses her skin. "You tricked me," he says, rising slowly, and Éowyn smiles soft, secretly, as she leans against the heavy headboard. "You lulled me to sleep." "Oh, and you needed it, Éomer," she says, cupping his cheeks and leaning close to kiss him. "You were exhausted, brother. I would have felt guilty in the morning, if I had taken advantage of the situation." And Éomer, refreshed, laughs as he captures her lips. "I would have understood," he said, a whisper, mouth to mouth. "I would have done the same, if I had been in your situation." A laugh, again, and Éomer tugs her close with those captured strands of hair. "But now that I have rested…" Éowyn's laugh is soft and she caresses the hard angle of his jaw. "Would you not like breakfast?" "Later, sister," he says, taking her and pressing her down against the covers. And she is malleable, warm, and her lips curve with a secret smile. "Now, I would rather have you." Bells chime in time with her sharp laugh. "Shall you make up for my weakness?" "Aye, Éowyn," he says, kissing the soft skin of her throat. His hands wander anew, as though he has not touched and tasted her before. But there is something that is always new, different, and laying with Éowyn is never the same twice. Now, she is gentle, and he is not certain that he has seen this side of her before; she lets him undress her, casts the gown aside; he strips himself of his own clothing, the need to feel her dizzying in its strength. He caresses the swell of her breasts and she draws a shaky breath. He kisses her deeply, and slides against her, moves within her. Éowyn gasps, draws her legs up, so he strikes deep. She gives him something to hold onto, and Éomer gives Éowyn his everything; his hopes and his fears, his love and his lust. Afterwards, hot, his brow is slick with sweat. He lies against her, and Éowyn's breath is faint. She traces her fingers over the curve of one broad shoulder. "Oh, is that it, love?" she whispers, rubbing circles with her thumb. "Éowyn?" She circles him with her arms, and Éomer buries his face against her neck. He listens to the beat of her heart. Their kingdom is darkening, yes, and already he forgets the taste of hope. "What shall we do?" She has no answer so she kisses his brow. "Éowyn… I seek your counsel, sister." She draws a soft breath. "All that I can say, brother, is that the time will come. I cannot see the future, but I know the path is shadowed." They know, both, that enemies lurk behind a mask of allies. There is so little left to hold onto, in the darkness under the sun. Éomer kisses her, then. "You shall prove yourself, brother," Éowyn says, and her voice is strong. "You will lead us to hope." "But what of the King?" "You are destined for great things," she says instead. Éomer smiles faintly. "And what of you, sister?" She smiles, that same secret smile; she might not be able to see the future, but there is much that she already knows, can feel in her blood. And it would break her brother's heart, if there was nothing more fated to her, than to die.
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