Thrice Stolen Heart
Apr. 30th, 2004 11:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanithryudoTitle: Thrice Stolen Heart
Fandom: LOTR (TTT & ROTK, Movie Version Only)
Genre: Angst
Rating: G
Word Count: 600
Warnings: None
Summary: Scenes centered around Eowyn's doomed love for Aragorn.
Notes: This is for![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
cashew's writing challenge on the theme of "jealousy". Well, okay, the over all fic is more for despair than for jealousy, but oh well.
"She is sailing to the undying lands, with all that is left of her kin."
She is an elf then. Against all reason, a great burst of jealousy and satisfaction sweeps through my heart, leaving me lightheaded. Jealousy, because how can any mortal maid compare to the beauty and wisdom of the legendary elder race? Looking upon the elven archer who travels with Lord Aragorn alone, I see that there is no lie to the myth of the enchanting fairness of elvenkind. An elf-maid then – how much more beautiful beyond all compare must she be? Yet… satisfaction – tinged with shame – for by his own words this union of elf and man is not to be, and so she is departing for a world no mortal will ever see.
There is naught I can say in reply to Lord Aragorn, so sad and kindly in his contemplation, that does not ring false against my heart. So I let the awkward silence between us gather, and for the first time cursed that I am more practiced in my sword-arm than my tongue.
~~~
I do not know what the archer is telling him, but the smile exchanged between them is enough to halt my flight to his side. Then I clearly see the fair hand of the elf, unstained though fresh from work and battle, gently press that pendant into my lord Aragorn's bloodied palm. I feel as if the light from that jewel cast a spell on me, transfixing me where I stand, and telling me: He is not yours... And at that moment, all that I can see is a symbol of a loyal heart passed between a fair immortal to my most worthy lord.
Then I can see no more through the tears that clouded my sight. This time, jealousy is swallowed by despair.
~~~
I stand helpless before Harrowdale as my lord and his companions walk into Death. He does not heed my pleas to stay, and I cannot hold him nor force my steps to follow. I am mortal too, and the Paths of the Dead is not for mortals to tread. What are they, my lord and his companions, that they may brave that deadly way? I do not know anything, save that my heart is chill with fear.
I turn around, not wishing to witness them fading into darkness. In the firelight at the edge of camp, I glimpse the stranger, hooded and cloaked, who had come to speak to my lord Aragorn. The stranger pauses, as if sensing my gaze, and turns on the horse, with hood falling back as he did so to catch the dim light of the campfire.
I see an elflord, tall and stern and terrible. His gaze spears me, and reads everything upon my heart with a glance. I see then that his eyes are kind and sad, like Lord Aragorn’s, and they mirrored my pain, to some degree. Those eyes tell me to resign myself to what is, what I never had and can never have. They tell me to live and find another path. Then he is gone.
The same words my mind also holds as wisdom – yet I have not the heart to follow them. Thrice has elvenkind taken him from me, and now he is lost to shadow. I have no hope left. Tomorrow the muster of Rohan will ride for Gondor, and I will be among them, my uncle-king permitting or not. Even if I never see the lord Aragorn again, then I would still gladly die for his kingdom. What else is there for me?
Fandom: LOTR (TTT & ROTK, Movie Version Only)
Genre: Angst
Rating: G
Word Count: 600
Warnings: None
Summary: Scenes centered around Eowyn's doomed love for Aragorn.
Notes: This is for
cashew's writing challenge on the theme of "jealousy". Well, okay, the over all fic is more for despair than for jealousy, but oh well."She is sailing to the undying lands, with all that is left of her kin."
She is an elf then. Against all reason, a great burst of jealousy and satisfaction sweeps through my heart, leaving me lightheaded. Jealousy, because how can any mortal maid compare to the beauty and wisdom of the legendary elder race? Looking upon the elven archer who travels with Lord Aragorn alone, I see that there is no lie to the myth of the enchanting fairness of elvenkind. An elf-maid then – how much more beautiful beyond all compare must she be? Yet… satisfaction – tinged with shame – for by his own words this union of elf and man is not to be, and so she is departing for a world no mortal will ever see.
There is naught I can say in reply to Lord Aragorn, so sad and kindly in his contemplation, that does not ring false against my heart. So I let the awkward silence between us gather, and for the first time cursed that I am more practiced in my sword-arm than my tongue.
I do not know what the archer is telling him, but the smile exchanged between them is enough to halt my flight to his side. Then I clearly see the fair hand of the elf, unstained though fresh from work and battle, gently press that pendant into my lord Aragorn's bloodied palm. I feel as if the light from that jewel cast a spell on me, transfixing me where I stand, and telling me: He is not yours... And at that moment, all that I can see is a symbol of a loyal heart passed between a fair immortal to my most worthy lord.
Then I can see no more through the tears that clouded my sight. This time, jealousy is swallowed by despair.
I stand helpless before Harrowdale as my lord and his companions walk into Death. He does not heed my pleas to stay, and I cannot hold him nor force my steps to follow. I am mortal too, and the Paths of the Dead is not for mortals to tread. What are they, my lord and his companions, that they may brave that deadly way? I do not know anything, save that my heart is chill with fear.
I turn around, not wishing to witness them fading into darkness. In the firelight at the edge of camp, I glimpse the stranger, hooded and cloaked, who had come to speak to my lord Aragorn. The stranger pauses, as if sensing my gaze, and turns on the horse, with hood falling back as he did so to catch the dim light of the campfire.
I see an elflord, tall and stern and terrible. His gaze spears me, and reads everything upon my heart with a glance. I see then that his eyes are kind and sad, like Lord Aragorn’s, and they mirrored my pain, to some degree. Those eyes tell me to resign myself to what is, what I never had and can never have. They tell me to live and find another path. Then he is gone.
The same words my mind also holds as wisdom – yet I have not the heart to follow them. Thrice has elvenkind taken him from me, and now he is lost to shadow. I have no hope left. Tomorrow the muster of Rohan will ride for Gondor, and I will be among them, my uncle-king permitting or not. Even if I never see the lord Aragorn again, then I would still gladly die for his kingdom. What else is there for me?
