Masks

Masks
by Elven Demagogue

Boromir and Faramir heavy. WOOT! ;D I've been told to get off my duff. So here I am, uncertain and coy. ;) (Yes...someday I shall get to Winter's Heart...as soon as I can be dragged away from The Sims 2. *sigh*) Alternate Universe!!! What could be better?

*

The passing of the hours seemed long this day. Though the sun had clearly made a path within the sky, it seemed the skies would not lift beyond a certain shade of gray that left the sweeping, windy hill of Edoras seeming stark and cheerless. The people of this once grand city worked on in silence under the oppressive weather, not having seen a blue sky in their dreams for some time. Darkness had tightened its hold upon the world, there could be no doubt any longer. The people said nothing, they respected their king, but they feared him now. Rohan was dying beneath the banners of the White Hand and Théoden seemed unpoised to retaliate. Whispers traveled far and quick of the burnings and the killings and the threat of war. All the while time seemed to stand still at Edoras. It was a dying country, but their king did not see it.

If one followed the whispering winds along the dusty path through town, on up through the intricately designed entrance of Meduseld, the Golden Hall of Rohan, on beyond the Hall of the King and through dark wooden doors with the images of horses carved upon the rich surface, one would find themselves standing upon a great balcony that overlooked the view behind the great home of their king.

Standing there, alone and unattended—for the evil had not come here in such visible ways as elsewhere—where two young women, Shieldmaidens of this proud country. Though their bodies were clad in fine dresses of silk, in their hands were clasped swords and together they fought a seemingly brash contest. Metal pounded against metal from two swordswomen that had worked hard at their craft, each stroke delivered with skill and care.

One of them stood with a proud look upon her face, her golden hair dancing with the breeze as she countered a measured stroke from her companion. Her eyes were keenly trained upon the other, watching and weighing. She thrust forward and won past the other, coming within an inch of piercing her breast. “You’re not paying attention, cousin,” she accused her dark-headed kinswoman.

Putting her sword back into its sheath, Alura grunted and turned towards the view with a soft sigh. “I guess my thoughts are elsewhere.”

Éowyn sighed and nodded, joining her at the railing. Her eyes were grave. “My thoughts are elsewhere too.”

“I can imagine.” They were the same age, cousins by a further relation than Éowyn shared with the king’s son, but they had fast friends since childhood. Both women knew that life went on, but it did not stall all the grief coming from their impending separation. Alura would remain here within the Golden Hall while her cousin would be married into Gondor to solidify relations and while the dark-headed shieldmaiden was glad to see Éowyn out of the leering gaze of Grima Womrtongue, she would miss her grave companion. “Do you know which brother it is you will marry?”

The blond shook her head, crossing her arms before her chest. “I do not know. I think the letter only suggested I marry one of the sons of the Steward. Whether that means I can choose to my liking or they theirs, I could not guess. I do not think it matters.” She could not hide the note of bitterness in her voice. Éowyn did not like this idea of marrying into Gondor, but her uncle insisted even above Wormtongue’s fervent attempts to dissuade him.

Alura sighed, not sure what the greater evil was. “At least you will be away from here where there may be a shred of life left.” If truth be told, a part of her envied Éowyn as well as grieved her loss. To remain here in a dying country filled her with dread. She had Éomer still and trusted him far more than their king, but she saw no potential here anymore. No one smiled anymore, no one laughed. “We leave tomorrow?”

Éowyn nodded listlessly, still not bringing her eyes up to her cousin’s. “Tomorrow morning we will make our way to Gondor. To Minas Tirith where I shall be wed.” Her voice did not disguise her distaste. “Lord Denethor is throwing some sort of masked ball in honor of the travesty. Can you believe it?”

At that Alura smirked, finally able to draw Éowyn’s eyes to her own. “Perhaps they fear if they are not masked you will flee in terror.” The blond returned her smile, though it was but a pale example of joy. “A masked ball. Gondor is nothing if not overdone. I am afraid I do not own a mask.”

“Do not worry over that. They have offered to dress my entourage completely.” She looked down at her dark garnet gown. “I am not sure whether or not to appreciate the offer or take offense.”

Her cousin gave her a look. “I am sure they only mean it as a friendly gesture.”

Éowyn did not look impressed. “With the Steward one can never tell. Our uncle has never held a high opinion of him.”

That was certainly true. Before his illness Théoden had never had kind words for Denethor of Gondor. Now it was no different, except this strange marriage. Alura privately wondered if there had been a threat involved somewhere along the lines, but she would never voice such concerns without any reason. She shook her head and linked her arm with Éowyn’s, pulling indoors as the overcast foretold of impending rain. They came into the Golden Hall where Théoden sat upon his throne, decaying like his country around him. His lifeless eyes remained fixed upon the main doors, grim and full of malcontent and apathy. Pacing the shadows not far was Grima Wormtongue, his hand to his chin, stroking as he inevitably plotted some scheme within. He stopped when he noticed the females, turning his eyes upon both of them. They passed from Alura onto her cousin, sweeping the blond with a hungry soft of wistfulness. “Well, if it isn’t the happy bride to be,” he said smoothly, darting glances to the king. “Tell me, do you loathe the morrow that hangs over you?”

“I abide by the wishes of my uncle,” Éowyn replied coolly.

Wormtongue nodded once, coming closer, appearing concerned. Yet both women knew for whom his concern was. He turned his head towards the king and said softly, “Of course, child, of course. I meant only that you must fear what is to come. Men of Gondor are notoriously temperamental and…violent.”

“My wishes will not be swayed in this,” Théoden said without looking at the small party. And that was final. He did not poise to say more, be they words of comfort or words that would solidify his will.

The two women exchanged glances. Wormtongue betrayed his irritation for just a brief second before relaxing his expression into something unreadable. He gave Éowyn one last look before pacing off again, his arms wrapped around himself as he resumed his plotting. “Come on,” Alura urged, taking Éowyn’s arm and pulling her away. “At least you’ll be away from him. Tell me he isn’t following us to Gondor.”

Éowyn shook her head softly. “Alas, he will remain here with our uncle. Poisoning his thoughts, doubtlessly. Éomer shall be our escort.”

“He is going to miss you greatly.” Alura sighed, feeling those thoughts reflected within her. She could already feel herself missing her cousin. They entered into the kitchens where Éowyn reached for a loaf of bread, breaking it and offering it to Alura.

“And I will miss him,” she said and sighed, looking at her bread, but not partaking of it. The sadness glinting in her eyes made her cousin feel sorrowed.

Leading Éowyn back out and stopping in the hallway, Alura shook her head. “Perhaps they are honorable men. Perhaps you will be happy.”

With a gentle smile the blond nodded, but didn’t look like she believed that. “Perhaps.”

*