The age is passing. Much has changed since the departing of the shadow and the coming of the King. No longer does the smoke rise from the land once known as Mordor. The fires of Oroduin are spent now; burnt down to mere embers after the passing of the Ring of Power. Flowers grow along the paths that lead to the dark gate. Ivy twines where orcs once kept guard.

The Age of Man is in full flower and much of what was known has faded. The Elves have already passed from substance to myth in a short march of years. The Grey Wizard returned as White is the stuff of legend, imagined too mighty to have shown the kindness she remembers when he told Theoden King to rise and lead his people in their greatest hour of need. Only the repeated visits of Meriadoc and Peregrin have kept the Shire present in the minds of Gondor. Still, after their passing, it will fade as well; with no reminder, the land called Shire and its inhabitants will become the stuff of fireside stories. Children will play at being Halflings instead of crowding streets to see one.

There are other, more immediate signs that the world is creeping forward. Her hair once the color of mallorn leaves has faded white. Her hands that never shook in fear sometimes quake of their own volition, too weak now to hold a sword. The circlet she wears makes her head ache yet she can remember when it felt as a trifle, its weight a welcome reminder of love found as love was lost.

Much is different; yet now at the threshold of the Fourth Age, when men stand poised to engrave their permanent mark on Middle-earth, some things remain. Old legends prove true; not just fairy tales told to young ones to explain the darkness to which all men must succumb.

In the place between sleep and wake, immune to time's ravages, Eomer beckons from the foot of the great bed. His figure shines in the half-light. "Awake and take counsel," he calls, yet his voice is barely an echo of an echo, almost lost between this world and the next.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, the Queen of Gondor gazes upon the figure of her brother, young and strong, dressed in robes of a king. Her mouth opens in a silent cry of joy as she stretches her arms out towards him. Tears of happiness streak her withered cheeks. She arises from her bed, leaving her husband to his sleep. Ignoring the stiffness nested in her bones, she runs to embrace her kin, yet her arms close only around dust motes that swirl in the moonlight. Her eyes grow wide as her fingertips pass through Eomer's form for he is less than the stuff of gossamer; born of longing, made of vapor.

"Awake," he calls again and his eyes burn with fierce ecstasy. "The Riders approach."

The Queen tries to speak, for she would tell her brother how she has longed to see him once more, but her tongue will not obey and lies like a piece of dried wood in her mouth. "I dream," she thinks and shuts her eyes.

Out of nowhere, the pounding of horses' hooves fills her ears, fills the room, growing louder with each fleeting moment. The Queen's eyes fly open for she is certain that somehow horses must upon her, but she sees only Eomer, dressed now as a member of the Rohirrim, and her husband, still lost in dreams.

"Sister! The Riders approach," Eomer shouts. "Awake and heed them!" His voice is barely audible above the unseen herd. He looks over his shoulder and points to the window, face alight with joy.

The floorboards begin to shake beneath the Queen's feet from the relentless drumming of invisible hooves. A bowl set upon the table near the hearth rattles its way towards the edge from the vibration, then falls and shatters. The Queen whirls about and races to the window. She gazes down into the darkened city and a gasp escapes her.

Thousands of Riders fill the tiered streets of Minas Tirith below. They charge upwards towards the Citadel, spears raised, their helmets shining under the full moon. Cobblestones break and fly beneath their hooves; signs of merchants hung outside shops clatter violently from the speed of their passing.

"You must awake, Eowyn." Eomer's voice is cold and distant within the queen's ears. "You must awake and make your amends. Heed the Riders for they approach."

The sound of hooves is so loud it seems a living presence in the chamber. It shakes and tears at the senses until the Queen grows dizzy. A shout of welcome escapes her brother and his call is met with the neighing of a hundred thousand horses. "Awake!" he cries. "Awa—"

The Queen of Gondor stands alone before the window, hands clasped tightly together. The moonlight streams into the room behind her; the stillness broken only by her husband's soft intake of breath as he slumbers.

"Eomer," she whispers. Behind her the King sleeps on untroubled, unaware his wife stands at their bedroom window and weeps tears of bitterness and relief, all too aware she does not dream.

The legends were true after all. The Riders are not a creation of fairytale, for she has now beheld them with her own eyes. Their appearance is not lost to her; she will heed their message and put to rest all that remains unfinished.

A wave of sadness comes over the Queen for the first task she must perform will, by nature, be her hardest. For, on the morrow, she must gather those she loves together and tell them that as the trees begin to bud, Eowyn, Queen of Gondor, beloved of Aragorn son of Arathorn, known as Elessar, will ride.

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Long has Eowyn wondered if this time would come; long has she dreaded its arrival. It is not easy to leave now she is older. Home, hearth and family appeal more than they ever have in her long life.

Her heart falters when she thinks on those she loves, yet she has decided she will not remain, will not indulge her desire to stay only then to linger and fade. All the daughter of Rohan must do is to consider the figure of her brother, streaked with moonlight, standing at the foot of her bed. She thinks upon the pound of hooves through the streets of Minas Tirith and all doubts and hesitation vanish until once again, there is no question in her mind. She must ride and she must ride soon.

Her children are distraught at the news their mother will leave them. Her daughters, blind in their love, beg Eowyn to reconsider, afraid the horse might take an errant step and fall, crushing her frail bones. The Queen does not address their fears; indeed, she does not reply at all. Instead, she kisses her daughters' dark heads and embraces them, allowing them to cry their tears.

Her sons plead to let one of them accompany her. When she tells them it is not possible, they rage and demand to know why she must go, why she will not remain and let them care for her? Again, she gives no reply except it is her will that she should leave and they should not hinder her.

Only one among her family does not question. His children beg him to make their mother see reason, but King Elessar is wise, not only as King, but to the ways of the woman he married. He accepts his wife's decision with resolve and grace. "She was the shield-maiden of her people, and she is your mother. Her strength has made you strong," he tells his family. "Do not stand in her way."

Although the King of Gondor may outwardly offer no resistance, his queen is full aware he is not without private opinion in these matters. He does not need to say her departure pains him for they have lived so long together that Eowyn understands the workings of her Aragorn's heart better than her own. It grieves him that she would ride away once more.

It is the King’s silence that assures Eowyn he would have her stay. Yet, she also knows the Lord Elessar is an honorable man and even now, he will hold to the understanding they made long ago. For although the children have no memory of it, both parents well-remember times in the past when their mother rode away alone.

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The pact was struck on the first occasion, in a time when Aragorn was bedridden, recovering from injuries received in the reclamation of Osgiliath. The King's eyes opened early one morning to find the bed empty and his queen already dressed, wearing the soldier's clothes she had been so careful to save. At first he was amused; he supposed it was a game or perhaps a way to tease, for since the siege of Isildur's city things had been uneasy between the couple. He grew angry when he saw Eowyn was in earnest.

Bedclothes lay pooled around his bandaged waist as he argued the world was not a safe place for a woman to travel unaccompanied. The former great power of Mordor lay upon the kingdom like thin scum on a pond. Stationed on the frontlines, Faramir had sent word a few days prior that there were still encampments of orcs scattered across the frontier, grown desperate now the Dark Lord no longer provided their purpose. The cleansing of Osgiliath which had dealt the King a near mortal blow was far from over, which meant that Minas Tirith was far from safe.

All his warnings merited but a shrug of his wife's shoulders. "If there are orcs within Rammas Echor then Gondor has more trouble than its Queen riding alone," Eowyn retorted as her fingers flew, plaiting her hair into the high, tight braid she wore when she rode.

"You were there when Rammas Echor was breached. There are no certainties." Aragorn looked grim. "Besides, it is too close to Osgiliath."

The Queen glanced over at him as she pinned the braid into a coil at the back of her neck, eyes cool as snow in spring. "Osgiliath belongs to Gondor. There are garrisons there now. You saw to that."

Aragorn took as deep a breath as his savaged chest would allow. "There are also orcs, Eowyn. Your ears have listened to the reports as mine have. Besides—"

The King's silence was enough for Eowyn to turn and see if he required aid. She found him gazing upon her; a strange look upon his face. "My lord?" she asked, feeling her face grow hot under his gaze.

Her husband managed a smile. "Besides, I do not wish you to go."

The expression in husband's eyes was enough to stop the Queen's preparations. She slipped out of the hard leather tunic, came over and sat on the bed next to him. After a long moment, she took his hand in hers; an awkward gesture of near strangers, possessing none of the intimacy that should lie between man and wife. "I will return sooner than you think," she murmured, eyes downcast. "Gondor will not be long without its queen nor Aragorn without Eowyn."

Aragorn pulled her closer, placed her hand on his bare chest. "I will go with you, wife. We will travel light."

Eowyn shook her head as she pulled away. "You are no longer a ranger that can come and go at will. You are Elessar, King of Gondor. Kings do not travel light."

Frustration clouded Aragorn's face. "And you are no longer a soldier, you are my queen. Queens do not don soldier's clothes and ride off unescorted before dawn."

Eowyn eyes blazed at him. "I may be queen, but I am always a Shield Maiden of Rohan, strong of body and heart. I am well equipped to care for myself, whereas you, sir—"

Before her husband could brace himself, Eowyn pushed him gently backwards onto the bed. Although Aragorn landed on the softness of down-stuffed pillows, a cry of pain escaped him.

Eowyn stood and returned to her preparations, slipping the leather armor back on. "The drum of hooves on hard ground would kill you in your present state, my Lord," she said. The matter-of-factness in her voice belied the pain within her eyes. "We have made our choices, Aragorn. I will abide by mine."

"Your duty is to Gondor—"

"I am from Rohan. My duty will never be solely to Gondor."

For a long moment the couple regarded each other. Finally, Aragorn closed his eyes. "Go then, but take an escort. Two flank guards—"

"No. No escorts, no entourage. I travel alone."

Before the King could reply, Eowyn turned away and cinched the belt about her waist, then left the room without further word.

It could have been left that way. She could have ridden off alone that morning with such harsh words between them and, indeed, that was what almost came to pass. Yet even in illness, King Elessar surprised his wife once more with his strength of will and generous spirit.

Eowyn's mare was saddled, her pack put into place and her foot was in the stirrup, preparing to mount by the time the King arrived at the stables. Out of the corner of her eye, the Queen noted how her husband leaned against the doorway for support. Her heart ached at the gesture. She knew it had taken much for him to dress and come down through the courtyard unaccompanied for she had not exaggerated his condition. The blow he had received at Osgiliath was dire; the worst wound received in a life filled with danger.

"You should not be out of bed," she said softly, moved that he would come down after such a parting.

Aragorn nodded as he slowly came towards her, his face pale with effort. "I shall return there soon. Yet, Lady of Rohan, I would give you my assurance you are free to go if you will, and although you do not need it, you take with you my blessing. I would have you tell me where you fly and why, but—" Aragorn shrugged, "—I would not force a confidence from you."

Eowyn shut her eyes and leaned against her mare. "There are things I must attend."

Aragorn's hand reached out towards her and his fingers uncurled. There, in his palm lay a white twig dotted with two green buds curled tight in anticipation of spring. Her husband's eyes were grey as winter's sky; his tone grave. "The white tree is Gondor. I am Gondor. Gondor shall stay behind to heal and await your return."

As if it were dearer than mithril, Eowyn took his offering and tucked it in her jerkin, next to her heart. With a tentative hand, she reached up to caress his cheek. Aragorn's expression remained somber, yet his eyes grew soft at her touch.

"I thank you for your gift, Estel," Eowyn whispered, then let her voice grow strong. "Now, return to bed for you are unwell. I will come to you again ere long."

"As King, I decree it."

"Will you wish me safe journey, my Lord?"

Aragorn's smile warmed the cold spring dawn. "Safe journey, Eowyn."

Eowyn rode away that morning and true to her word, returned a spate of days later, spent and silent. She did not declare to Aragorn what befell her in her absence, and to his credit he did not ask her.

Thus, a pact was created between them. Three months later she rode again and the spring after and then again the following year when once more buds appeared. Each time, her lord bid her farewell, giving her a sprig of the white tree for remembrance. Such was their way, until three years later, when Eowyn's armor remained un-oiled and no provisions gathered. Aragorn watched and waited while his Queen lingered at home, devoted to her sovereign, her adopted country and in the next year, their first son. Never again did Eowyn ride off alone.

Now, in the winter of her life, watching as King Elessar stands strong afore their distraught children, Eowyn grieves more for her husband than any other. Well she remembers from her own past the cost of standing brave while in the throes of despair. Still, she understands it is different for Aragorn than for her offspring; her husband has insight their sons and daughters do not. He had accompanied his Queen to Rohan two months prior, when the changes began in earnest; after the Eorlingas rode into the White City bearing news that Eomer King was dead.

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The news of her brother's death came as a bitter blow to Eowyn. As she and Aragorn traveled to Meduseld to attend Eomer's burial and subsequent coronation of his son, Elfwine the Fair, her grief turned inward, manifesting in a refusal of sustenance and sleep plagued with bad dreams. Her smile, always so quick to shine, became a rare occurrence and Aragorn tried his best to raise her spirits for fear his Queen would waste away before Gondor's caravan reached the land of the Horse Lords.

Death had not been kind to Eomer. His corpse bore little resemblance to the warrior who had once offered a Ranger friendship and horses to find stolen friends. Eowyn stood frozen in horror when she first beheld her brother lying in state, but grief worked its thaw upon her heart and allowed her to kiss Eomer's visage and weep many tears over his cold and withered form. "I saw him last two summers ago and yet, I would not have known him," she said later, when she and Aragorn had retired to their chambers. "And worse, I fear he would not have known me."

Elessar tried to put her heart at ease. "You have not changed so greatly, lady. You are still as beautiful as when we married."

Eowyn gave him a slight nod of thanks. No," she muttered, suddenly restless despite the generous quarters. "No, Aragorn, I would not be as Eomer. I would not waste away."

"Your brother's decline was overlong. This does not mean you shall share the same fate." The King of Gondor smiled down at his Queen. "Besides, I would not have you dwell on such things. No man living can say how his end might come."

Eowyn gazed at him with sharp eyes. "That is not true, husband. You are of the Dunedain and may leave the world at a time of your own choosing."

"It is still a heavy burden, Eowyn, and offers no assurance. Who is to say what could befall me before my end of days? I am not immune to illness or the ravages of time. They come differently to me; that is all."

"I know you: you would not allow yourself to waste away." Eowyn shook her head. "Do not compare our fates, Estel, for they are as distant as Felarof and Firefoot."

"Yet the king of horses and a king's horse still must live and die the same as any other mortal creature." The King sighed, troubled lines appearing on his brow. "We have no need to speak of these things, Eowyn. We have many years with each other and with our peoples."

Eowyn started with surprise. "Aragorn, I am no longer young. Even you must acknowledge this." She turned to look out towards the plains of Rohan, visible from the window nearby. "And I feel as if I have been over-long from this land. Rohan and I are strangers to each other now. Our blood may be the same, but those who dwell here know me not."

Aragorn came before her and took both her hands in his. "You are of the line of Eorl, bane of the Nazgul King and Regent of Gondor. Your people have not forgotten you."

Eowyn paused as if she might speak further, but then lowered her head to kiss his hands. Of the matter she said no more.

In the days that followed, the Queen's insight rooted itself both in her mind and that of her husband. During the remainder of their stay, the differences between Gondor and Rohan seemed as defined as the white tree that stood against the green banner above their party's caravan. As they walked among and conversed with Elfwine and his family, Eowyn and Aragorn both found occasion to wonder if the lands were always this different, or had they grown apart, stalwart allies but distant as sun and moon?

King Elessar considered this as he watched the women tear their hair in grief and the men send feral howls towards heaven as the royal bier passed through the city. Following behind, he wondered quietly at the display, for much different were the lays of lament of Gondor.

Riding beside him, Elfwine noted the King of Gondor's curious look. "They cry for the Riders, my Lord Aragorn," the Prince said, head held high. "The people cry for the Eotheod to come and claim their own."

"I do not remember this from Theoden's ceremony," Aragorn mused softly, glancing sideways at the tall young man riding next to him.

"Yes. My grandsire restored many of Rohan's traditions, but he did not keep faith with the Riders."

The long veil that covered Eowyn's face hid her surprise at her nephew's words. "Theoden was a great king and lord. You do him dishonor by speaking so," she said, anger coloring her cheeks.

"I mean no offense to Theoden King, father-sister." Elfwine turned his gaze upon the Queen and Eowyn was able to see his eyes were clear of any arrogance she might have imagined in his words. "You speak truth: he was a mighty sovereign and performed great service to our people, leading us out of a dark time and into the renewed friendship of our allies. Yet--"

"Yet?" Eowyn's tone was thick with frost.

"Yet he did not believe in the Riders," the Prince said with such earnestness, both Aragorn and Eowyn could not help but be moved by the young man's sincerity. "It was my father who restored this tradition," he continued. "Eomer King rediscovered his faith when he rode with the Eorlingas."

Eowyn frowned. "He never mentioned this to me."

The remark drew a shrug from her nephew. "Perhaps he knew you did not believe. I tell you that from well before my birth, my father hearkened to the Riders. He revered them all the days of his life, so much so he made me swear upon his death bed that I would attend them during my reign. I honor him by honoring them."

As they passed through a close knot of mourners, Elfwine turned his attention toward the people that stood nearby, rending their hair and garments as the procession passed. Hidden behind her veil, Eowyn tried to make sense of Elfwine's story. Eomer had believed in the Riders? Surely not! They had always been taught that the Riders were naught but legend, a tale best told on blustery nights to make the listener's flesh creep and send shivers down the spine. When Eowyn was young, Theodred had scared her badly with the story and earned Theoden King's rebuke when she had awoke screaming later in the night. Surely Eomer had not forgotten?

"Put not your faith in legend, but in that which you can see and touch, Eowyn," Theoden had soothed her. He had reached across the table to take her small hand in his. "This, sister-daughter, is the only thing that matters in the world: a hand joined with yours. It is all the truth you will ever need. Remember this, Eomer," the King had said, turning his eyes upon his nephew who watched the scene with wide eyes. "Such will serve you as well in times to come."

Eowyn had glanced over at Eomer, but had been unable to catch his eye. A shudder had coursed through her as she remembered Theodred's story. "But my cousin said the Riders would come, that they would take my father's body—"

"Theodred knows better than to torment you with such tales. It is only a story, child; that is all." Theoden's expression had softened. "Your parents have passed beyond all harm. You need not fear for them."

"She misunderstood, father," Theodred had said, leaning forward in his seat. "I did not mean the Riders would steal my uncle from his tomb. I meant only to honor Eomund—"

"Your cousin and her brother have had enough of death," the King had growled in reply. "You do not need to make them fear it any more than they already do." He had sat straight in his chair, blue eyes boring into Theodred's matching pair. "In this house, there is no need to dwell on death or tell tall tales for death will be a long time coming for you. As for the Riders—" He had snorted with disgust. "I hold many of our traditions to be true, but this is not among them. The Riders are but a tale told to frighten around a fire, as you have frightened your cousin."

As Eomer's funeral procession approached the mounds of kings, tears once more coursed down Eowyn's face at the memory. There was no way Theoden could have known that death would come for Theodred much earlier than expected and that he, himself, would die in glory, but far too soon.

When the long walk behind the bier came to an end, the mourners stood before the great earthen mounds dotted even in winter with blooms of simbelmyne. Elfwine turned his eyes upon Eowyn and in that moment it struck her like a blow from a blade that her nephew was not the child she remembered from her last visit so long ago, but a man on the brink of his destiny.

He had stepped forward, long hair blowing in the brisk wind from the plains. "White Lady, father-sister and my blood and kin. In front of all this assemblage, will you raise your voice as one with me?"

Eowyn started at the request, and then lifted back her veil. A slight frown creased her face, for she knew not what to answer.

Elfwine extended a hand towards the Queen. "I would have you call the Riders with me, Lady. I would have you summon the Eorlingas for my father." His expression was somber. "It is your right as well as mine."

Eowyn hesitated as she considered the idea. After a long moment, she laid a hand upon her heart. "I respect your ways and wishes, nephew," she said. Grief deepened the lines upon her face. "Yet I must honor the memory and teachings of Theoden King as well. I can sing my brother to his rest but I cannot call what I cannot hold within my hands."

Disappointment showed in Elfwine's eyes before he bowed his head in acquiescence. "Sing, father-sister," he said. "The ways of Gondor are not the ways of Rohan, yet both will honor Eomer King." He took a step back and motioned for Eowyn to take her place next to the entrance of Eomer's tomb.

Although the Prince's words were uttered with respect, they cut Eowyn to the quick. In a fog of anger and grief, she held her head high and began the dirge as her brother's body was carried into eternal dark.

As her song ended and Eomer's sword and shield were settled by him in the stone tomb, Elfwine stepped forward once more.

"My father was a noble man and a great king," Elfwine called out to the assembly.

A murmur of assent went through the crowd. A series of cries escaped from some of the men, stopping only when Elfwine raised a hand to entreat silence.

"My father was an honor to the House of Eorl; worthy of greatness in this life and the next," he continued, lifting his face towards the blue of the Rohan sky. "I summon the Riders to show him the way to the halls of the Eotheod so he may be rewarded for his greatness and find his peace amongst our ancestors. Let the Riders gather him into their midst and let him ride proud among them until time fails and the world is no more."

A deep silence descended over the assembled. All eyes were fixed upon Elfwine as he lowered his head and slowly raised it again. From the future King's throat came a long, wordless cry filled with grief and victory, with sorrow tempered with command. The call caught upon the wind, then echoed in the mountains, swirling back to surround the mourners, growing in volume and strength until it made the blood run cold in all that heard it.

Tears sprung to Eowyn's eyes at the power and strangeness of the sound. How much had she truly forgotten about her people and her land? Desperate, she tried to remember the face of her brother as he was the last time she saw him in life: possessed of loving countenance, his face lined with wisdom and laughter. Her tears flowed faster; despite her efforts, the image would not come.

It was long moments before the cry faded. When silence once more reigned in the Rohirrim, Elfwine raised his head. "Ride fast, father," he whispered.

His glance caught Eowyn's own and she saw his eyes, so much like his father's, were bright with rapture and tears. Before she could offer any comfort, her nephew turned to lead the way back to the Great Hall for the coronation and celebration.

Eowyn turned to follow in Elfwine's wake, surrounded on all sides by her kin and kinsmen. She stumbled on the path and clutched for Aragorn's arm, the only familiar thing left her in a sea of grief.

Her fears were founded after all. Standing by her brother's grave, she realized that where once, long ago, she had been the Shield Maiden of her people, now, she was no little more than a noble stranger from a far away land.

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Three days have passed since her preparations began and the day of the Queen's departure dawns, chill and bright. All has been laid to rest, all partings spoken save one. The hour to ride is at hand.

As she sits in her bedroom and braids her long, white hair, Eowyn gazes at her visage in the mirror. A brief smile crosses her lips for the reflection that looks back at her tells her that Eomer's message was most urgent. The ravages of time show clear upon her face for age has overtaken her in the last few months. It is truly time to go.

She has faded since returning from Rohan. Since that time, a change has crept over her like a killing frost that comes at autumn's end. With each passing day, her step has grown less sure, her interest in day to day life has ebbed like the sea at low tide. The knowledge that her brother is dead has made her feel alone in the world in a way nothing ever has before. Before she saw the Riders, Eomer's wizened visage haunted her days and nights only second to that of the Witch King, slain so long ago.

Aragorn sits silent nearby, facing the embers that remain from the previous night's fire. Eowyn glances over at him and notes how the blood of the Dunedain has left him untouched. The lines have deepened on her face, yet his features remain as they have always been. A silent laugh, no more than exhaled breath, escapes her. She finds strange amusement that he is still the same as when they met. Their lineages both are noble, yet her mortality is the one that now proves frail.

Aragorn catches her eye. "It will be a good day," he says, then looks quickly back towards the hearth.

Eowyn's heart catches in her throat. "Yes, Estel," she replies as she ties the end of the braid. "It will."

As the Queen stands and gathers the few things she will take with her on this journey, Aragorn rises and awaits her by the chamber door. He has made only one request since she announced her intent to leave: that she allow him to accompany her to the stables when she departs.

The couple is alone as they traverse the halls; a fact which in itself is odd, for although the hour is early, the servants that tend those who dwell within the White Tower should already be about their duties. Aragorn and Eowyn walk in a quiet broken only by the sound of their own footfalls which echo throughout the darkened corridors. No one impedes their progress; a deft touch Eowyn recognizes as her husband's own.

When they arrive at the stables, Aragorn stands by as Eowyn readies her horse. He knows better than to offer help, for she will refuse it. She knows he can hear the bones in her shoulder crack as she lifts the saddle to the mare's back and when she winces, she notes how her husband looks away, pretending not to see.

The grey stands motionless, content under her mistress' attentions. She is a good mare, descended from Hasufel, named Windfola in memory of a friend lost long ago. All Eowyn's horses throughout the years have been called Windfola. Consistency has always been her gift to the past; the Queen's own way of keeping time's momentum in check.

She is gentle as she tightens the saddle's buckles and straps, careful to cause the grey mare no discomfort. Even after years dwelling so far from her land of her birth, her heritage shines through in the way she touches a horse. This is something time cannot take from me, Eowyn thinks. The thought brings a smile to her face.

She finishes with the saddle and bends to lift the heavy pack. She has no need of so many supplies, but her sons would not allow her to travel with any less.

From the shadows, Aragorn's voice comes, low and soft. "You are as lissome as the day I first saw you, standing in the shadows of Meduseld. Your bend of waist breaks my heart still."

Eowyn's eyes start to burn. She thinks upon Eomer's message once more, remembers the pound of hoof beats, then grasps the pack strap firmly and prepares to lift it into place.

Aragorn steps forward. He places his hand over hers upon the pack strap. "Pardon, wife, but this once I will do this for you," he insists.

For a moment, she is not sure she will let him. To their mutual surprise, she lets go of the pack and stands back. The lines around her mouth deepen; faint evidence of a smile.

The pack may be heavy, but it is even-balanced. Aragorn secures it to Windfola with a tender touch. "You've learned much," Eowyn says, watching him.

"There was much worth learning."

"To think, I have taught a king."

"Eowyn—"

Aragorn takes a step towards Eowyn but she turns and strokes the horse’s ribcage. They must not do this; she will break in a thousand pieces if they do. She thinks on Eomer, on the Riders charging up the darkened city streets and resolves to remain as distant as the stars in a winter's sky.

"You needn't go," Aragorn murmurs and bows his head. The gesture speaks tomes to Eowyn, each volume heavy with grief. Any resolve she had at remaining removed vanishes.

She turns to him and takes his hand in hers, choosing her words with great care. "Long ago, there was a time I begged you not to leave."

"When I went to call the dead?"

"Yes. What answer gave you then? Do you remember?"

Aragorn raises his head and she can see in the growing light, his eyes are wet. "I remember all from that time; how your tears dripped like crystal from your lashes, the way you pressed your face against my hand and pleaded with me not to go."

She reaches up and strokes his face. "What answer gave you, Estel?"

"I told you I could not make any promise then."

"It was a dark time. You did not wish to give me false hope."

"Are times so dark, Eowyn?"

She cannot answer, so instead stands as still as the effigies carved on the tombs in the Silent Street. Her husband steps forward, tilts her face upwards towards his, cradles it between his palms. "My lady, will you leave Gondor with no queen? Would Eowyn leave Aragorn?"

Eowyn's heart threatens to break within her chest. "Would Aragorn have Eowyn stay? Would he watch her falter then fail as Eomer did?"

"You will not—"

"I will. I do not have your lifespan, Elessar. I thought you would understand."

"Eowyn, I cannot give you leave to ride away forever."

She bows her head. "I am already moving towards forever. Leave is not yours to give."

Aragorn thumbs gently trace the lines of her high cheekbones. "Then will you say to me what I said to you all those years ago? Will you promise to return, if possible?"

"Estel—"

"Can you do this, Eowyn? Can you even say that much?"

Eowyn looks up at her husband, notes how his eyes are the same shade of grey as the approaching dawn. "I cannot," she whispers.

The light in the King's eyes flickers, then disappears. He leans in and rests his forehead against Eowyn's. For a long moment the two of them stand together, a living statue wrought in love and grief.

A bird sings in the distance for morning has once more come upon the world. Slowly, the couple draws away from each other. Eowyn turns and places her foot in Windfola’s stirrup and swings up on to the horse’s back.

"Eowyn?"

Aragorn holds up his hand to her. The Queen leans down in the saddle and takes the white twig offered, then tucks it in her jerkin. She clasps his outstretched hand. "Wish me safe journey, Estel?"

Her husband does not reply but instead kisses her palm. It is a long time before he releases her.

Eowyn rides towards the rising sun, wind blowing cold against her face. As day's first light spills over the Kingdom, she cannot bear to think of Aragorn, returned once more to the White Tower, or perhaps still standing in the shadows of the stable, alone and doleful. Still, she does not look back for with this final farewell. Her business in Gondor is completed.

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^{Thus leads the path from the White Tower}

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