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Scent, tart and sweet, rises to Eowyn's nose. Dark green needle tips, citrus leaves, a few pale grains, mushroom spores. Medicinal herbs and medicinal plants. Freshly gathered at dawn, in the nearby forest in the rising mist, among the colorful pile of leaves on the ground, the autumn wind in the hair. A dripping juice. The pestle in the mortar grinds everything. An ancient recipe to soothe wounds and ailments. An elvish recipe.
Eyes, gray and shining like silver, watch Eowyn with interest and obvious admiration.
"You learn well and quickly! It is good to know that the ancient art of my people is preserved," Arwen speaks softly.
Immediately, she sets aside the pestle and turns to look at her teacher, who is so much more than a teacher after all. The teacher whose voice is like honey to her.
But she does not get to say a word back. Already Arwen has taken her hand, stroking it gently. A tingling in her fingertips, a tremor in her heart rob Eowyn of her senses for a moment. And before her gaze, seductively dark curls flow down. Curls in which still shines the golden autumn sun that accompanied their morning wanderings through the forest when they returned after searching for the precious ingredients.
"I am glad, I am so glad, that you have returned, Eowyn," Arwen whispers now, "Without you, the Houses of Healing would be nothing but a miserable spot of infirmity. Without you, time would be nothing but a gray ribbon. I love you, Eowyn, mistress of Ithilien."
Fingertips steal into her hand, enclosing hers as the words fall like gentle rain.
"I you as well, Arwen Evenstar. I you as well," Eowyn replies, and to her delight sees a smile appear on the other's lips. For a moment, both women just stand there, looking at each other, listening to the double heartbeat that fades into the silence of the hospital. Then their heads move, seeking each other's lips for a kiss that makes the ground shake beneath their feet.
Ten months. Ten months have passed since Aragorn had succumbed to the human frailty of old age and Faramir had been robbed by a tragic accident. Ten months in which Eowyn did not regret for a second to have rushed to the side of another mourner in her grief, to forget her pain in learning the elvish art of healing. Sometimes one star sinks only so that another may rise. The ice of winter had thawed and autumn, moving into the land, brought the tender that grew between them to rich harvest.
Arwen's lips taste sweet. Sweet as honey. Around her swirls the scent of pine needles, citrus, grains, and mushroom spores. The scent of love.