By: Dana
Summary: Minas Tirith is cold.
Characters: Eowyn, Arwen, mention of Aragorn and Faramir
Pairings: Eowyn/Arwen, also Aragorn/Arwen and Faramir/Eowyn, mention of Eowyn/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Femslash, angst, sexual content
Author's Notes: A very random ficlet. Girls, and porn.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Despite the warmth of those who live there, and hands that have turned this palace and this city from a place of cold stone into a home, Eowyn finds that Minas Tirith is stark and brittle and redolent of winter's lasting chill. It creeps in, slow, through her fingers, and down into bone. She can feel it, and taste it, and she can breathe it, too: even when the sun is shining, it is not shining so brightly as to cast off the cold. It fills her nostrils, and it settles deep in the pit of her gut.

And it is not her home. It is not Ithilien, which is also not her home, but Ithilien is warm at least, and green, with its hills and streams and blooming flowers. There is even oftentimes something like salt perfume upon the air, the distant waters of the Bay of Belfalas; and Ithilien is Faramir, too, who is yet warmer still.

Aragorn is hot, like fire. Radiant beyond all the fires of the sun.

And Arwen, it isn't that she is cold; but her skin is like marble, not quite cool yet pale, and the feel like a great skein of fine silk of it causes Eowyn to shiver. The press of her fingers at the curve of Arwen's hip is bold, following the flow of her side. A breathy sigh, almost, but it is caught in Arwen's throat.

It might even be that she has said Eowyn's name.

Eowyn knows her body well. The loneliness that has long been an ache, beneath the wide emptiness of the clear sky, begging for something to fill and to be filled. Too often she has been held against her own will - knowing that she was caught in a life that she could not break herself free of. And she has known herself well, with the touch of hand. Now, through touch of her own hand, she can feel the heat of Arwen's pulse where it races beneath the pale sheen of unmarred skin.

Small. Wanting. Perhaps a need to know. "Oh, my lady. Yes. Please."

Eowyn smiles. Arwen is a tremor of moving shape and sound. Eowyn presses her palm flat against Arwen's stomach, spreading her fingers wide. The bedcovers spread out about them and the bed, too, is an emptiness that needs be filled. Arwen fits, well, a pale glimmer of star-like beauty, her eyes so dark and - oh.

This, touch and want and need, Eowyn knows too well.

A mouth that begs for kissing. Hands that curl about Eowyn's form. A promise, pressed into the slim hollow of Arwen's throat. And Arwen's skin is scented, fragrant as summer roses, or perhaps even the dry sweetness of late apples, and her fingers are all long, slender, and strong.

Eowyn presses her mouth to Arwen's, wrapping one hand about Arwen's wrist. Arwen gives beneath her - the flowing grace of a great and crashing undulation, or perhaps the quick singing dance of the ever-moving wind - and Eowyn touches Arwen, but it is with Arwen's own hand. A small gasp. A most unladylike groan.

"Please - " begging, then. Arwen's dark lashes flutter so, vivid against the pale color that so richly paints her cheeks. With a breath, her eyes close.

This, Eowyn knows. This, Eowyn can show.

"Do you not know your own touch, my lady?" she whispers, smiling (a secret smile) as Arwen's mouth widens, in a small gasp, her body tensing so as she feels her own fingers, pressed against her into wet and heat, where Eowyn's touch is bold.

"Eowyn - "

"It is all I had, my lady. When I was so empty, when I was so alone."

Arwen cries out so, and Eowyn feels how her fingers curl, pressing into heat. Fire, at least. There is fire, here, as well. A shimmer, moving sensation, over Arwen's bare skin.

Eowyn does not loosen the hold she has, tight at it is, on Arwen's wrist.

The way that Arwen moves. The way her mouth opens, the way it seems to sing as she moans and gasps and pleads, the way it tastes as Eowyn moves to kiss it, pressing deep, with warm wet tongue. Warm and sweet, yes, like old wine, aged to what must certainly be perfection, somewhat dry but with the taste of fruits and berries, all ripe from bush and tree.

The pace quickens. It is something, to look at Arwen, now. The way her mouth is opened, just so, leaking sound, sweet as some old song. She does not seem so old, at least, not nearly old as time. She is wanting, and she looks so accepting, so needy and so young - she presses deep, and this Eowyn knows, because her fingers slide against Arwen's, pressing into good, wet, solid heat, a thrill that spreads throughout her body. A thrill that does not leak in, creeping, but takes her fully. A thrill that she hears, in Arwen's own voice, on Arwen's own tongue.

Arwen bends beneath her, body twisting so. Someone, something, that she can give and both take. Arwen's eyes are open, then, wide and searching, and her mouth pulls Eowyn close, a kiss so slow that Eowyn finds that she has lost herself in it, slid full into it, with mouth and tongue.

Oh, and then she falls back, and Arwen cries out, no sound of mortal bliss, and she falls back against the bedcovers, hair all messed, faint pink still upon her cheeks, breathing hard. Her chest is near heaving, and she gives a great shudder as Eowyn pushes her fingers against her, in her, smiling at the sound that falls free of Arwen's mouth.

This, oh, this she knows. And they kiss. And there is heat, such heat, and Eowyn thinks of running free, wild plains rolling into wilder hills, the hard stone of mountains rising up - moving until she can move no further, and it is only this warmth that she can remember, in the middling of the year. That she has found something that rings so true of home, here in all this foreign, cold stone - oh, what a blessing it is. Something wild. Something that cannot be claimed, something that cannot be bound. Something that can only be.

"You are," Arwen gasps, after. "Eowyn, my dear - "

"You are lovely, my lady. Fair and bright, and lovely, so."

"And you have given me a gift, my friend," Arwen says, then. Her smile is warm, now, sweet, a pale curve upon her lips. Ageless, effortless grace, and with such beauty in her smile. "Let me give you back, perhaps more so, what you have given as gift me."

Eowyn is the one, then, who is pressed back to the bed, and it is Arwen who travels the shape of her body, with mouth, with touch, and there is heat, only heat, no lingering chill of stone and winter's cold.

Eowyn's body will not know Aragorn's, but this one is a body that well knows his touch - and that, she thinks, might be enough.