Soft
She was never sure if Arwen's hands were softer because they were those of an Elf, or because they were those of a female.
Eowyn knew that her own hands were not soft, nor were they ever gentle. They could be cautious, certainly, but they could never be gentle, and her husband's were much the same. She found that her first instinct was to write the softness, the gentleness, the delicacy of Arwen's hands off as simply being Elvish, and only much later did it occur to her that perhaps it was some aspect of femininity that Eowyn herself had never known.
Still, she did not understand it. One day, after having seen her kiss her husband warmly before he departed from the hall, Eowyn tossed a sword to the Queen of Gondor -- or perhaps she had tossed it at her -- and Arwen was out of the way before Eowyn could blink. The blonde woman watched as the blade clattered to the ground and the sound rang out through the hall like a scream. Arwen stayed as calm as eternity, though Eowyn flinched at the racket.
Eowyn blushed, and lowered her head, for the Queen was frowning. As she moved to pick up the weapon, she found that quicker than a song, Arwen had pinned her to the wall, and that she held a dagger at her throat. Her other hand was on Eowyn's wrist. Eowyn would remember the touch later, and realize how soft it had been.
"Why do you hate me?" Arwen asked softly.
"It is difficult for me to say that I do, milady," Eowyn said, "when you hold a knife at my throat."
Her own subtle gasp blushed into the air then, as Arwen pressed a little harder on the blade.
Subtlety, too, was something that Eowyn then understood that she had never learned.
"Say it or not," Arwen said, "you do hate me, and I have yet to understand why."
The queen's dress had been a rich, brilliant red, a color that had recalled to Eowyn's mind her husband's brother, a color that called to mind the King of Gondor. It was the color of the love that Arwen and Aragorn shared, and the color of the sun after a night that had been filled with blood.
There were more things, Arwen led her to understand, that womanhood entailed than simply the act of protecting, and though she was loth to admit it (for skill with a sword had always been the one thing she knew she had that Arwen did not) there was far more that strength entailed than simply being able to wield a blade.
Eowyn had always fancied herself quick.
Arwen could pin her hands above her head with not a single beat of her heart, and by the time Eowyn had enough wits about her to protest, her words would be muffled within Arwen's mouth, and before long all of her protests would have faded.
Eowyn had always fancied herself proud.
Arwen could make her beg.
Eowyn had always fancied herself strong. More than once had she thought that she might well be the strongest woman in her kingdom, but Arwen could have her weeping with desire, could stand till the morning through any battle, and could even outlast Eowyn in a sparring match.
Eowyn had been gasping and sweating when it was over, and could barely see to swing her sword because of sweat and tears that mingled in her eyes. With every swing, her sword screamed out in pain, for an Elvish blade met it easily, and Arwen's skin was dry, her blue dress barely stirring as she moved to counter and block.
"Why do you hate me?" Arwen asked again, when Eowyn had, with a desparate, sobbing growl, lunged one last time. The Queen stepped aside easily, and Eowyn, overbalancing, fell, and found that the point of an Elvish blade was at her throat.
She merely shook her head, and would not look up, and only when the courtyard was completely empty did she finally begin to cry.
Eowyn had always looked at what she had lived with, what she had gone through, what she had endured and what she had borne, and thought that perhaps she had some wisdom beyond her meagre human years. But when she looked into the Queen's eyes, she was afraid, because she knew that she would never understand why Arwen had chosen as she had. She would never understand why one blessed with an Elf's strength and speed and skill (and of course life eternal) would surrender it all, because if Eowyn had been offered the choice between Aragorn, the man she still sometimes yearned for, and life and strength and skill eternal... why, then, she would have sailed.
She did not hate Arwen, but she clung to that illusion through everything. She wove it brighter and brighter around herself, and she hoped that she would die before Arwen could guess at the truth. At night, Eowyn hated it when Arwen touched her gently, and she tried to think of the stars and the moon and hated them for meaning Elves.
Eowyn's supposed hatred was the only thing left to her that Arwen could not fathom, and so she kept it up, and she continued to weave the threads of it about her and through her and in her.
Eowyn had fancied herself the strongest woman in her kingdom, but she was in Gondor now.