Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The window was open. The sound of the street below drifted in on the breeze, the rattle of a cart's wheels, the raised voices of a familiar argument. Occasionally there was a patter of feet as children at play ran by, a bubble of laughter. The city was shaking off the deathly hush that had fallen over it in the grueling days since the battle. Fragments of shattered stone still lay in the streets, but the time had come to begin picking up the pieces. Inevitably, life went on. Tauriel had seen it before. She knew that this city would be no different.

There were few elves in Gondor; there were few elves in Middle Earth. Yet some had stayed, from duty or loyalty to a land which had once been theirs yet was no more. For her there had been no question; she had not spent so long defending this world to see it fall now. She fought alongside the legions of Lorien at Helms Deep, and rode disguised in the Rohirrim to the fields of the Pelennor. Yet it was her skills as a healer, rather than her sword, that was truly needed now. Many had fallen, but not all had to die.

There were stirrings of a shadow approaching. Tauriel could feel it. Another battle was drawing near before the blood had yet sunk into the fields around the city, and she would ride out with the armies of the West as she had before. The thought made a dull pang of familiar dread uncurl itself in her gut. There was a time when she would have wanted nothing more than to fling herself into the fray, cutting through the blood and chaos of battle with nothing more than her swords to rely on. Those days were long over, and killing held only sorrow for her now. She preferred to use her hands to heal; now, days after the last orcish sword had clattered to the ground, most of those who wavered on the brink of death had either pulled through or succumbed to it.

All but one.

The woman lay on the bed before her, still clad in the tattered clothes she had worn under her armor. Her face was as pale as if she had already died, breath hardly stirring past her drawn, bloodless lips. The only indication that she lived was the set of her brow, a frown of pain darkening her features even so deep in unconsciousness. The wound which ailed her was not a wound at all, but an infection of shadow spreading from her right hand up to the elbow. When Tauriel had reached her it had already spread its dark tendrils up to her shoulder, and was winding towards her heart. Mere minutes and she would have succumbed.

Yet even with the foul stain of the Witch-King receding past her wrist, the woman still refused to wake. It seemed she was beyond even Tauriel's help now—and Tauriel had sworn that such a thing would never happen again. She'd decided upon seeing her that she was going to save this woman. Whatever it took. But after doing all that she could and with no other patients in need, there was little to be done now but wait.

She studied the woman's face. She'd been told that she was the blood of a king, meant to be tending the affairs of the kingdom while her uncle and brother were dying at war. How she came to be in the middle of the battle, no one seemed to know. How her sword came to be embedded in the Witch-King's head was even more incredible. Tauriel knew that this was a remarkable person lying before her, someone in possession of great bravery, strength, and valor. And foolhardiness. An essential ingredient of heroes, it seemed.

Tauriel sighed, a twinge of something old and painful twisting behind her ribs. She had sat by many bedsides. She did not know why she thought of him now, with this golden-haired woman lying still and cold as death beside her. Kili would never have been able to hang back from a fight either. It wasn't that he enjoyed killing; he fought to protect what he loved. And he had done so. One final time.

But as near to death as she was, the woman before her was not dead yet. Tauriel intended to keep it that way. So often her kind claimed that mortals were frail, yet her kind had fallen in the mud beside their human companions, just as dead. And now they were leaving, while the mortals remained. Perhaps they were the strong ones, in the end.

She checked the wound. The darkened flesh had cleared up until the very fingertips, swollen as if fat with blood. There was still a cast of darkness in the translucent flesh to the more discerning eye, a mark she would bear for life. Tauriel probed at it with gentle fingers. A groan cut through the silence.

Stiffening in surprise, Tauriel saw the woman move for the first time, her head tossing restlessly as if in a bad dream. The notch between her eyes deepened into a frown, yet her eyes did not open.

"What…" her voice came as little more than a whisper, hoarse and with no force behind it. Her tongue slid over dry lips before she tried again. "What happened?"

"You are in the healing rooms of Minas Tirith," Tauriel said softly. "You've been wounded in the battle."

"The battle—my uncle," she murmured, distress spreading over her features.

"Rest now," Tauriel said, smoothing a hand over her forehead. "The battle is won. You must keep up your strength."

But the woman did not succumb to unconsciousness once more. Her eyes stirred beneath their lids, then cracked open. Two irises like chunks of sea-ice wandered sightlessly over the room. They settled on Tauriel and seemed to pierce her straight through. There was an intelligence there, a fierceness only slightly tempered by pain. Even awake, her skin seemed to have no color or warmth. She looked as fragile as glass, but Tauriel knew how deep she could cut.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice growing slightly stronger. "One of the healers?" Her eyes settled on Tauriel's tapered ears. Her frown deepened. "You're an elf, aren't you?"

Tauriel nodded, feeling not unlike she was being interrogated. "Yes. I rode here with the company from Helm's Deep, and remained to help tend to the wounded."

"You fought in the battle?"

"I did."

"Why?"

Tauriel's lips twisted. "I could ask you the same question."

Remarkably, a smile crossed the woman's face. The skin around her eyes crinkled from the familiar motion, which turned her face from a death mask to one which had seen its fair share of joy along with the pain. It faded fast enough. "Am I dying?"

Tauriel's eyes glanced over the swollen fingers, the contamination there. "Not if I can stop it. And I intend to."

"Well there's no need to be dramatic." The woman lay back, her eyes drifting closed in something more peaceful than sleep. "I always hated caring for the sick or dying—and I saw many, in my time. I have no skill at medicine or comfort. There was little I could do to ease their passing."

"Sometimes it is enough to simply not be alone," Tauriel said. She could feel herself wavering on the threshold of a darkness that beckoned her forward, old familiar halls of grief calling her to run her fingers over their stones. So long--it had been so long. Why the memories came rushing back now she could not say, but she found herself speaking all the same. "There was a time when I had no interest in healing. I fought to defend my kingdom. I was good at it."

The woman's eyes were open again, staring at her intently. "What happened?"

Tauriel paused. "Someone near to me died," she said, urging the words out like frightened birds. "My sword and bow weren't enough to save him. So I learned what I could."

She fell silent. She could feel the woman looking at her, but couldn't guess her expression. "Well you've saved me, it seems," she said quietly. "That should count for something."

Tauriel looked up at met her gaze with a weary smile. "Perhaps it does."

The woman's hand shifted, stiffly, painfully, until it slid across the blankets to cover Tauriel's own. A ripple of surprise passed through her at the contact, as light as it was. After the battles, the wounded and dying all clawing out at her, it was nice to feel something gentle once more. Nice, but strange. It had been a long time as well.

"My name is Eowyn," she said, and Tauriel found herself admiring the way the woman's name sounded, carried on her voice; soft, slightly husky, sweet with the promise of steel. She could hear the echo of that name sung in the great histories, the tale of the woman who felled the great beast and the demon that rode it.

She was looking at Tauriel expectantly. "For humans, it's customary to exchange your name once another is given," Eowyn said with a wry smile.

"Tauriel," she said quickly.

"Tao-ree-ell," Eowyn sounded out with a thoughtful expression. "Good. I am glad to know the name of the elf to whom I owe my life."

"You owe me nothing," she said. "Your life is your own."

"And yet I owe you a debt, it seems." The woman was quite insistent. Something seemed to amuse her. "Assuming this ends well."

"It's bound to, if you don't talk yourself to death," Tauriel said firmly. This time, Eowyn's smile was broader and full of mirth. Recognition flared painfully.

It wasn't Kili that this woman reminded her of, Tauriel realized. It was a feeling, one she hadn't felt in a long time, something familiar yet strange, warm yet remote, inexorably tied to the dwarf she had known for both a few short months and who had changed so much about her. She had sworn she would move on and not be defined by the past, yet in the end she was given no choice. Here she was still, clinging to times long past and dusty recollections. But this was different. In Eowyn's smile, a spark of life.

A knock sounded quickly on the doorpost. When she turned, a guard stood at the threshold with a serious expression that implied he had come from the infirmary.

"My Lady," he said, "they need you."

Tauriel rose immediately, yet paused when she felt Eowyn's hand still on her own. She stared down at it for just one moment, memorizing how her fingers felt resting so delicately on her knuckles. Eowyn offered her a smile.

"Go," she said. "I can cling to life for a few more minutes at least."

"I will hold you to that," Tauriel said, her own lips turning up in spite of herself. Her hand slid away. She left the room feeling somehow colder, as if the woman's touch had stolen away the heat from her body. Yet at the same time, she felt that once she returned she would feel warm once again.

Chapter Text

Eowyn stood near the balcony of the courtyard, watching the dust settle back into the land like a long inhalation. Though winter was over, a lingering chill lay as a pall in the air, leaving the grey fields around Minas Tirith desolate and barren. It had been half a day since the last of the riders had departed for the Black Gate, and the signs of their passing still hung over the city. She had stood by and watched the procession of proud horses and grim faces, their steel bright in the early sunlight as they rode to whatever fate awaited them. One of Eoywn's hands tightened unconsciously, the nails digging into her palm. Her other hand, bound in a sling over her chest, remained numb and still.

They had told her that she would be able to move it again, but it would take time and much effort. Even then, there was some damage that would never truly heal. One of the healers, an old woman with a kind laugh and firm hands, had gently told her that she may never be able to wield a sword again. Eowyn had only smiled coolly, and asked what she could do to begin building her strength once more. She would sit for hours merely flexing her fingers, trying to recapture the memory of feeling, the cold ache of steel beneath them. Yet when the call to battle came she could do nothing but sit and watch as her kin left her behind, a pale specter staked to the battlefield.

Merry's gentle face flashed before Eowyn's eyes. Their parting had rung with laughter and stung with tears, for they had grown very close in the short time they had. He and his friend Pippin had sat by her bedside and regaled her with  stories of their home, bringing Eowyn away from the cold stone walls around her and reminding her of better times. When she heard the news of the oncoming assault and the healers told her what she had already known, Merry was the first to find her.

"They told me I cannot fight," Eowyn said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. Her arm was a dead weight across her stomach, and she hated it with a bitter fire she hadn't known she possessed—she wished she could carve it off, cast away this piece of her body that didn't seem to belong to her anymore.

Merry had taken her hand in his smaller one, his eyes bright. "I hear the people talking about you in the city and camps. 'Lady of the Shield-arm', they've started calling you. You have already won much honor and glory. Maybe now it's time to rest."

"You are not resting," Eowyn reminded him.

"I paid a lower price for victory than you." Eowyn's eyes flicked to Merry's hand, recalling the scream that had torn out of him as his dagger pierced the Witch-King's armor. She had feared him dead. Now he was leaving without her, and if he was to die there would be nothing she could do. Her had squeezed his back, harder than she intended.

"Promise me you'll be careful," she said.

"I promise." Merry's face was as serious as she'd seen it, but a smile broke across it moments later. "After all, if Pippin and I are going to fight side-by-side, I'll probably be spending most of my time making sure he doesn’t stab himself with his own sword."

"I heard that!" Pippin's offended voice came from the doorway as he strode into the room. "What awful things are you letting him say about me?" he asked Eowyn as he sat down beside her, smacking her arm lightly in reproach.

She cried out in response, grabbing the injured limb and immediately putting a mortified expression on his face. "Oh my—I am so sorry, I completely for forgot—" he trailed off as soon as he saw the mischievous smile on her face.

"Can't feel a thing," she said.

Pippin shot Merry a reproachful look as he and Eowyn laughed. "You've been a bad influence on her."

The laughter they had all shared was little more than a memory now, one which Eowyn clung to desperately. She knew it might be the last she ever had of those two brave hobbits. As she stared over the horizon in the direction the company had rode, it seemed the cold was creeping back up through her shoulder. She wanted nothing more than to follow—instead, she turned away with a bitterness in her heart. She could bear to watch no longer.

But as she suddenly looked back to the courtyard behind her, a flash of red hair caught her eye. Immediately she saw the elf, Tauriel, lingering near a pillar nearby. As soon as she realized Eowyn had seen her she averted her eyes, but it was clear that she had been watching.

"How long have you been there?" Eowyn asked, not unkindly.

Tauriel stepped up beside her, a look of mild embarrassment on her face. "I did not wish to disturb you."

Eowyn smiled, though it was a feeble thing. "You are not. I welcome the company."

Tauriel inclined her head. She wore simple dark clothes like most of the healers, though her belt was hung with pouches and salves that Eowyn did not recognize. The only weapon she seemed to carry was a slim dagger, its handle ornate.

"I expected you to ride to battle," Eowyn said.

A shadow of doubt travelled across Tauriel's face. "I realized that I could do more good here, using my hands to heal." She averted her eyes. "I admit I have long since had my fill of bloodshed. When I went to lift the sword again after the last battle, it was shaking in my hands. I could not have swung it if the Enemy himself stood before me." She shook her head. "Perhaps that makes me a coward."

Eowyn reached out to touch her arm, her fingers scarcely touching it. Tauriel looked up at her in surprise. "It seems we are both wounded."

"I was not injured," Tauriel said hesitantly.

"Not all wounds show on the surface. I understand your guilt—but it does not make you a coward." Eowyn let her hand drop just as quickly. It was not her place to say such things to an elf, who had lived for centuries and knew more of the world than Eowyn could even imagine. Yet there was a glint of gratefulness in Tauriel's eyes that Eowyn could not bring herself to ignore.

She studied the elf more closely. Tauriel was beautiful—not only in the way that most elves were. The pain that Eowyn had so briefly glimpsed at their first meeting hung around her like a heavy cloak, yet it did not make her bitter. In a way, the ache in her heart seemed to have gentled her, put a sadness in her eyes and a soft smile on her lips. Though she still held herself remote, there was something about the woman that seemed to lean, seeking out support even if Tauriel herself was not aware of it.

"You are staring at me."

Eowyn nearly gave a start when she realized it was true. With a shake of her head a shrug of her good shoulder she replied, "As were you, before I caught you at it."

Tauriel looked away, her fingers trailing up to touch her other arm in what Eowyn suspected was a nervous gesture. She had not seen many elves, but she had not expected to see such mannerisms in their kind.

"Do not worry," Eowyn assured her. "It does not bother me. I only wonder what you might want from a lowly shieldmaiden of Rohan."

"Hardly lowly," Tauriel replied. "I expect to hear tales of your great deeds in battle for many years to come, until they have passed into legend."

The smile on Eowyn's face had turned more bitter as her eyes wandered back to the plains beyond the city. "You speak of my 'great deeds' as if there were many; I only managed the one, and it has left me broken. It seems my time for glory has ended as soon as it begun."

"There are better things in this world than glory in battle, my lady," Tauriel said. "That is a lesson I have found hard-won."

Eowyn glanced at her, expecting to see the same echo of sorrow that had crossed the woman's face before. But Tauriel's eyes were on her, and she was smiling. The look put a strange warmth in Eowyn's stomach.

"Perhaps you could show them to me, then," Eowyn replied softly. "As long as they do not require both hands."

Tauriel chuckled. "It would be my honor." A flicker of annoyance passed over her face. "Though I am afraid I will be called back to the infirmary shortly. In a city such as this there are always those in need of help."

Eowyn hesitated. "Perhaps I could assist you? I have little talent for healing, but I can follow instructions well enough. I would like to feel as if I can do some good."

The elf's eyes locked on her own seemed to drive the thoughts from her mind. "You have already done more good than you know." From the way Tauriel said it Eowyn almost believed it. "But I would welcome your company among the injured. It would bring them hope to see the Lady of the Shield-Arm walking amongst them." This time at the sound of her new title Eowyn couldn't help but flush—though why she liked the sound of it on Tauriel's lips, she could not say.

"Then I suppose there's no use keeping them waiting," Eowyn said with a shy smile. After a moment's brief hesitation, she extended her good arm to the woman beside her, scarcely meeting her eye. "Shall we go together?"

For a moment she feared Tauriel might turn away from the contact—only until a smile broke over her lips more beautiful than Eowyn could have hoped. In it she saw a glimpse of a woman fierce and proud, capable of great joy as well as great sorrow. She saw a woman she would like to know better. Tauriel's hand slid to the crook of her arm and held it with a firm grip, the warmth of her fingers seeping through the fabric of Eowyn's tunic. As she and Tauriel left the courtyard side by side, Eowyn felt a softness creeping into her heart as tender as the first buds of spring.