To Die, To Sleep

Théodred set his cousin down.  Her hair was mussed, half-spilling out of her thick plait, shining like spun gold.  Her room was small and near her brother’s so that she could creep into his room at night, if she felt the need.  That there was only one small window, usually covered by a heavy woolen curtain, and the walls were panelled with heavy wood meant that her room was almost always dark.  She sat up straight, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.  Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her mouth was set.  He hunkered down to take off her shoes as she said, “I can undress myself, you know.”  Éowyn looked distinctly irritated with him, and Théodred thought it best to give in tonight – her stubbornness was legendary.

He pulled her long white nightgown out from under her pillow and handed it to her.  “Fine, then.” She took it from him, and gave him a look signifying her deep and unending suspicion, and Théodred had to stifle a laugh.  His cousin flounced over to the small wooden screen and proceeded to get changed behind it.  She flung her clothes from behind it, and he had to pick them up – a heavy velvet green dress, a linen shift, and thick woollen stockings. He hung them over the board at the end of the bed, and waited for her to emerge.  The dying embers of the fire filled the room with a low light; Éowyn’s few toys were clustered in front of it – that was where she played.

Éowyn had clung to him a little since her arrival a year before.  She was a little frightened of his father the king, and besides, Théodred had been the only person who wasn’t unnerved by her silence. Until today, that was; a stranger had arrived from the South, and suddenly his cousin had found her voice.  Théodred knew little of the dark man, save that his father knew him, and his name was Thorongil.  He had an urgent journey far in the North, and would leave the very next morning for the Gap of Rohan – it must be urgent indeed for him to travel in the middle of winter.

Éowyn emerged from behind the screen, twisting her shoulders in an attempt to reach the end of her plait.  “I can’t reach the tie, Théodred!”  She sounded like she was about to start whining, and he was certain he wouldn’t be able to stand it, so he turned her round and swiftly undid the leather tie.  She sat beside him on the bed and let him brush out her hair.  As usual she twisted and turned like a fish whenever he hit a knot, except tonight it was accompanied by shrieks, and finally an anguished complaint, “You’re hurting me, Théodred!”

Finally he managed to get her into bed.  It was something of a struggle, but he managed it.  When Éowyn’s nurse told him that he could do it quicker than anyone he had shuddered out of sympathy for the poor woman; he found it difficult enough as it was.  Perhaps it was because, by some chance, he resembled her father.

Éowyn was bright-eyed with tiredness but she sat up to ask him a question.  “That man, Thorongil, he’s very handsome, isn’t he?” Théodred was aghast; Éowyn was only eight years old!  She wasn’t supposed to notice things like that!  But the little girl wasn’t finished; she looked down at her hands and said, “Only Éomer said that only people with gold hair could be beautiful, but it’s not true, is it?  Sometimes black hair can be nice too. Can’t it?”

Finally Théodred let his laughter go; the ideas Éomer put into his sister’s head!  Poor thing – she believed everything her older brother told her without question.  He must speak with Éomer about that particular prejudice, though – the young hellion was quite capable of mentioning it in front of their Gondorian allies, and Théodred doubted it would go down well with them. 

He bent to tuck Éowyn in, but it was plain that something else was bothering her.  She looked up at him, and her mouth quivered and she said “Am I really like Mama?”  Théodred swallowed his smile at the look on her face; obviously this was important.  His voice was serious as he said, “You look very like her, Éowyn.  And my father says she was very like you when she was young.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Why?”

“Cause Mama died.  She got sad and she died, and she left us all alone!  I don’t want to die, Théodred.  I don’t want to be like Mama.”

How to explain this?  All she knew was that her mother was dead; that her mother had despaired of life, and left her daughter behind.  She had been forced to watch as Théodwyn wasted away, for there had been few nurses in the Eastfold, and when no one else could, a six year old had been deemed strong enough to sit with a dying woman. He touched her face.  “Éowyn?  Look at me, child.  Your mother was never very strong, and she loved your father very much.”

“More than she loved me?”

“No, sweetheart – it was just different, that’s all.  And you’re different too, Éowyn.”

“Will I die too?”

Théodred sighed, and thought that perhaps, for once, the simplest answer would be best.  “No, Éowyn – you’ll never die, you’re too strong for that.”  She seemed comforted, and snuggled down in the bedclothes.  Her four poster bed was large enough for four of her, and took up most of the room.  He tucked her fleece around her face; she’d had it since the day she was born, a gift from his father, and showed no sign of letting go of it.  She smiled up at him sleepily and said, “That man smelt nice, Théodred, like that plant Mama used to grow.”

He smiled at her and tousled her hair.  Bending down he kissed her forehead, and growled, “Now go to sleep!”  She was nearly there, but he asked anyway, “Do you want the candle?”  She yawned and said, “No.  It’s a wooden house, if you left the candle, the house might burn down.”  Éomer said the same thing sometimes – though as he was now twelve, he was attempting to leave such ‘childish’ things behind – some of the similarities between them were almost eerie.  Perhaps Éomund had told them that – it sounded like the kind of thing he would have said.

Théodred bent and blew out the candle.  He waved at Éowyn from the door, but could tell that, with her eyes half-closed, she hadn’t seen it.  He walked back to the hall, where he would drink with his father and their guests, all the time musing over what Éowyn had said.  He wished his aunt and uncle had lived; he doubted very much that he or his father could give Éowyn and Éomer what they needed.

Author's Note

Title from:

"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;"

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1

Metamorphosis

“Théodred?”

The King’s heir looked up from where he washed his hands.  Éomer stood before him – his jaw was clenched as it almost always was.  Théodred sighed, “What is it Éomer?”

His cousin looked at the ground, scuffing it with his feet, and said, “It’s Éowyn.  She won’t come out of her room.” 

Théodred stretched the kinks out of his shoulders and neck, and then looked at his cousin, “All right Éomer, I’m coming.  Just a second.”  He walked over to the stall, where Helm stood looking at the foal. 

“She’s a beauty isn’t she?”

“Aye, and the first of the spring foals.  This bodes well for the year ahead.  Take care of them for the moment I am gone Helm?”

The man nodded, his eyes drinking in the sight of the young foal.  Helm was devoted to the horses of their house, he had spent every spare moment breeding them.  He was a mountain of a man with hair like straw and voice that sounded like a far off rock-slide.  It only softened when he was speaking with the temperamental mares and foals, or when he explained the craft of horse breeding to some youngling.  He had never married and seemed to enjoy the times when he could teach – especially Éomer.  He was certain that Éomer could become the greatest of the Rohirrim if taught properly.

Théodred didn’t disagree, but he thought that his cousin needed a little more training in the fine arts of keeping his temper and not jumping to conclusions before he could be set against the world.  No one doubted his talent for the fighting arts – but Théodred was convinced that Éomer was not yet enough grown to be a Rider.  He and Helm (who was his second in command as well as Rohan’s finest horse-breeder) had clashed over Éomer many times already – Helm wanted him in Théodred’s éored if possible, if not he wanted Éomer fighting.

Théodred was convinced however that Éomer had been forced to grow up fast enough already – he would not push him to grow anymore.  For now the decision was his to make, but Éomer was swift and strong, and soon he would be a Rider whether Théodred liked it or not.  They had reached Éowyn’s door, and her brother knocked on it softly, “Éowyn?”

“I told you to go away Éomer!”

“Please Éowyn let me in!  We’ve to go to our uncle in an hour!”

“I don’t care!”

She sounded like she was crying, and Théodred wondered what on earth was the matter.  She had seemed fine last night, although now that he thought of it, she had been a little scattered.  He took his turn and knocked, “Éowyn, it’s Théodred.  What’s the matter?”

“I can’t tell you.  Now go away.”

Théodred looked at the door, stumped.  Footsteps approached and he turned to see Gríma son of Gamlod.  He didn’t know the man particularly well, but he had pulled off a masterstroke in trade negotiations with Lossarnach the year before, and though no Rider, was universally agreed to be a man of intelligence.  He was pale and thin and dark – a riding accident years before had twisted him so that one shoulder was higher than the other, and he stooped a little as a result.  He bowed slightly to Théodred, and nodded at Éomer and said in his quiet way, “I have heard that the King’s niece has barricaded herself in her room, and I thought my Lord, that I might suggest that perhaps this is a problem that none of her kinsmen can cure?”

“What?”, Éomer sounded irritated, but Théodred thought that perhaps he understood.  Gríma paused and said, “How old is your sister my lord Éomer?”  Éomer paused and looked at the door, “She has nearly thirteen summers..”  His voice trailed off, and he stared at the door in contemplation.  Théodred set off down the corridor, and heard Éomer say, “Where are you going?”

“To find the solution to this problem.”

Elfara was a leather worker by trade, and she had been hard at work carving twists into a saddle when Théodred arrived in the back of her workshop.  He had grabbed her wrist and asked her to follow him.  Apparently something was wrong with his cousin, something only a woman could deal with.  She wanted to blast him for treating her like this, but she had finally accepted that she could refuse him nothing.

When she finally got into the young one’s room she had been surprised – it was not nearly so luxurious as she had expected.  The furnishings were better than hers, and certainly the blankets were, but on the whole the room was small and rather dark. The girl obviously noticed her surprise for she said, “It’s near Éomer’s room.”

“What is?”

“This room.  There were others when we came here, but this is the only room near his, so..”  She looked at Elfara a little nervously, “Are you Théodred’s friend?”

The older woman couldn’t help but laugh, “Yes child, friend is a good word for it.  I know no better.”  Éowyn blushed, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be rude.”  Elfara sat on the bed beside her and said, “I’m sorry child.  Now what was it that meant you had to see me?”

The golden haired child turned large frightened eyes on her and said, “I think I’m dying!”  Elfara put an arm around Éowyn’s narrow shoulders and said, “Why is that?”

“I’m bleeding.  I woke up this morning and there was blood everywhere and I can’t make it stop.”  She sounded desperate and Elfara swallowed the laugh that bubbled inside, “You poor child.  Did no one ever tell you of a woman’s monthly cycle?”

Éowyn looked at her, “What do you mean?  Is this common?”

“Aye child it’s common.  It happens to each of us every month, until we’re old.  It’s nothing to fear – it comes when you’re able to have a child.”  The girl looked like she was about to cry, and Elfara held her tight around the shoulders, “It’s all right child, it’s all right.”  She couldn’t help but pity the poor motherless mite – surrounded by men, no one had ever thought to tell her the most basic of things.

She stood up and said, “Now I think we should tell your cousin and brother the good news.”  Éowyn looked at her surprised, “Why do they have to know?”

“You’re a woman now Éowyn, they’ll want to celebrate it.”

The little girl’s mouth made an ‘O’ of surprise and she walked calmly enough towards the door.  As Elfara ushered her out her brother grabbed her arm and said, “Why did you stay in there so long?”

The girl looked confused and said, “I..”, but Elfara interrupted “Lord Éomer think shame to yourself!  Your sister is a woman now, and doesn’t deserve such rough treatment!  I thought you knew better.”  The overgrown lad had the grace to blush and hang his head, and Elfara saw the two older men share a glance, possibly of humour.  Théodred bent his head to his cousin and said, “Is that so cousin?”

Éowyn nodded, her face crimson, and Théodred laughed and squeezed her shoulder – “Well then cousin it is time for your training to begin.”  She looked at him astonished and said, “Training?  For what?”

“You are to be a Shieldmaiden Éowyn”

“Like Morwen Steelsheen?”

“Aye like Steelsheen, though I suspect you’ll be a little smaller.  Now come with me – we must tell my father, but first I want you to meet the new foal.  You’ll have to train her, and name her, you know”

“Really!  Anything I want?”

Théodred was leading his cousin away, but she turned suddenly and said, “Thank you..” and Elfara supplied the name.  Éowyn blushed and said, “I wonder, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I visit you sometimes, and talk?  I wouldn’t get in the way.”  She was so small and obviously bereft of a mother that Elfara couldn’t help but say, “Of course my lady”.  The girl grinned at her and suddenly bounded forward to hug the older woman around the ribs, “Thank you Elfara!”

Elfara couldn’t resist the urge to tousle the girl’s hair, and said, “Of course lady.  Ask Théodred where to find me, he knows.  Now I must be going.  I shall see you again soon.”

Théodred smiled as Éowyn cooed at the new foal.  She had named her Windfola and it had been almost impossible to drag her away from the horse’s side all day.  His uncle had been delighted when he heard the news, and had made much of Éowyn all day long – promising to teach her how to ride Windfola himself.  Until then the girl had only ridden ponies, and learning to ride an unbroken mare (once she was grown) would be difficult.  Éowyn’s golden hair hung down into the stall, and she was smiling broadly – Éomer had been given a day off in honour of the event, and had spent most of it teasing his sister.  Her reach had to be measured for her sword and he had disrupted the proceedings appallingly – making her laugh every two seconds.

She was glowing, and it was only when his uncle called her away that she could be persuaded to move from the stables.  She and Éomer sat beside him that night, impressing their uncle with their gaiety.  Éowyn was still small and skinny, with long golden hair and a childish face, but she was a woman now.  Soon she would be fully grown.  The thought astonished him, and Théodred could see from his face, it astonished his father as well.  How had the years since she had come to Edoras passed so quickly?

Author's Note

The onset of sexual maturity, i.e. menstruation, in the Middle Ages made a woman an adult.  Obviously for noblewomen that not necessarily mean that marraige was imminent, but now that she is adult Éowyn starts to learn her adult duties - and her training as a Shieldmaiden begins. 

Grace

He watched her swing out of the saddle.  Éowyn’s movements were a little awkward for she had not yet grown used to her new length of limb.  Her riding habit was too short in the sleeves and was worn at the elbows.  She flicked her heavy plait over her shoulder, “Do I have to stop now Uncle?”

“Aye Éowyn, she’s young yet, you don’t want to spoil her through too much work.  Take it slow now, she’s tired.”

Éowyn hooked a halter around Windolfa’s neck.  She caught the horse near the head and turned to walk back to the stables.  Théoden rested a hand on her narrow shoulders briefly – she turned and smiled.  It was good to see – his neice was far less expansive than her brother and oftentimes it was hard to discover what she was feeling.  As much as she resembled her mother in appearance, she was not so similar in character.  She was high-hearted though, as he imagined she had to be, surrounded by the men of Meduseld.  They all doted on her – but holding your own in such company was no easy task.

She swatted at the wisps of hair around her pale face with a sigh of irritation.  “How goes your sword training?”, he said, rubbing his lower back discreetly.  Éowyn looked up at him, “Théodred and Éomer teach me when they’re here, and Helm taught me some moves for practise.  It’s like dancing”, Éowyn’s forehead furrowed over the last words, but she continued, “It’s not as good as teaching Windfola.”  She cosseted the mare’s velvet muzzle and smiled “I love training Windfola.”  Théoden felt obliged to reprimand her, “Éowyn you are to be Shieldmaiden and Lady of Rohan – you must learn the use of the blade”.  She shrugged her shoulders; “I don’t see the point of whacking at Théodred with a stick and missing, for hours.  And any way I’m never going to be strong enough to beat anyone so why should I bother?”

She sounded half angry and half tearful, and he was about to say something when Grima caught up with them.  Éowyn curtsied saying “Wita Grima” and stood back to let them talk.  The thin man leaned forward a little saying, “Dispatchs from the Eastfold have arrived my lord.  The last of the crops of the harvest have been gathered.”  Théoden’s shoulder ached in the biting wind –a knife thrust from a battle long past – a storm must be brewing.  He glanced at his advisor and said, “We shall speak more later Grima.  I must talk with my neice”

Grima bowed – which was difficult due to his stoop – and said, “Of course my lord.  I am glad to see the lady in such good spirits.”  He bowed to Éowyn, who smiled at him a little uncertainly, “I shall, if it please you my lord, depart.  I must speak with the door wardens.”  Éowyn watched his departure thoughtfully, and said, “Could the healers do nothing for him after the accident?”

“It happened as he was riding alone from Edoras to Aldburg.  His father was a drunkard and did not seek him for many hours; by then it was too late.”  He saw a frown cross Éowyn’s face and she said, “That’s awful.  He must be very brave to have kept on like that.”  Her pale face was screwed up in thought, and Théoden said, “How go your lessons in Westron?”

She fingered the halter, “Well… Mama taught me and Éomer to speak it when we were little so Grima’s trying to teach me how to read it.  We read a story of Gondolin, all about Idril and Tuor who she preferred to Maeglin even though he was an elf and learned as they are…It’s a beautful story.”

They had reached the stables and Éowyn was rubbing down her horse.  He had to speak with her, “Éowyn I know the sworkwork seems difficult to you now, but it will get easier I promise you.”  She tilted her head up at him and he sighed – he just didn’t know how to talk to his neice, for all that he loved her.  After all she was right; unless she was exceptionally skilled with the blade she would find it very difficult to defend herself against a taller, stronger opponent.  All of the instructors who trained Shieldmaidens had died, for there had been none since the time of his mother, Morwen.  Éowyn hefted the saddle against her hip and said, “Uncle when I’m finished can I visist Elfara?  I won’t stay long.”

Théoden sighed, “Of course Éowyn, but take care and be back before dark – a storm is coming.”  She nodded and smiled, “Of course, Uncle.”  He left, pulling his cloak closer as he went.

Éowyn dipped a cup of water from the bucket and set it down in front of Elfara.  The older woman looked up and smiled.  Her workshop, even in the biting winds of late autumn, was steamy.  They embraced briefly and then Elfara went back to work.  Éowyn levered herself onto the worktop saying, “When did you get back?”  Elfara grunted as she pulled thread through a torn strap, “Three days ago.”

“How was your journey?”

“It went well.  The saddler in the Fenmarch has been ill for weeks so there was much work to do.  Now there’s nothing but scut work till Mid-winter.  And you, how has your training gone?”

“Terrible.  I’m no good with a sword, I keep dropping it, and my uncle insists that I must be a Shieldmaiden.”

“Is that so terrible lady, you could be like the Steelsheen.”

“Not if I keep dropping my sword I won’t be.  I’m just not good at it.  It’s embarrassing – everyone keeps telling me how quickly Éomer picked it up.”

“Who’s teaching you?”

“Éomer and Théodred, and Helm helps.  And Poldon.”

“Who’s Poldon?”

“He’s a Rider in the same éored as Éomer – they’re friends.”

Éowyn didn’t see Elfara smile as she bent over the bucket to wash her hands.  The older woman said, “What’s he like?”

Éowyn smiled, “He’s very tall, and he’s funny, and he knows such a lot about fighting, and he has a beautiful horse – Strangast – and he says he’ll dance with me at Midwinter.”

“Any other news?”

“Well uncle says that Éomer can live in Aldburg in a year or two, but I’ll have to stay here until I’m older, so I won’t be seeing him as much.”

“And what of Grima?  He’s teaching you isn’t he?”

“Yes…he’s very nice.  He calls me ‘beorhtfeax’ and he’s very kind to me”

“Even if he is crooked?”

“Elfara!”

“You shouldn’t pity the man Éowyn.  He’s the same as the rest of us, for all that he’s twisted”

“It’s not that, it’s just…he changes the stories.  We were reading about Gondolin, and he made it seem as if she should have picked Maeglin, and only chose the other because she was silly, but I went back to read it again, and Maeglin was dark Elfara.  He was evil and a traitor and anyway the elves didn’t marry their cousins.”

Elfara straightened up and looked at the young girl.  She was toying with the end of her plait and staring off into space, “Well you know child they say a story changes with each telling.”  Éowyn seemed unconvinced but she said, “Théodred’s back for the winter you know.”

“Is he?” Elfara said flatly – she knew what was in the girl’s mind, but she could no more combat it than she could hold back the passage of the year – Éowyn would have to discover it for herself.  “Have you seen him?”

“No.  Get up and make yourself useful.  There’s a fire there that needs tending.”

Éowyn sat at the hearth, trying to coax some heat back into the dead embers.  “Will you come to Meduseld for Midwinter?  We’re already preparing for it.”

“Perhaps.  If it will not bother the King.”

“I’m sure it won’t, and Théodred would like you to come I’m sure.”

“Éowyn!  Hush with such talk!  I’ll hear no more about your cousin!”

Éowyn stood, and Elfara immediately regretted her outburst of temper; it was not the young one’s fault after all.  “I’m sorry Elfara, I didn’t mean to, I’ll just, go” and she turned and fled from the room.  Elfara ran to the door, calling, “Éowyn!  Éowyn!” but she was already gone.

Glossary

The two ‘Rohirric’ words I used are actually from old English

Wita – meaning advisor

And beorhtfeax – a compound I made, meaning ‘shining/bright hair’

Middwinter

Éowyn carried the pitcher of ale through the hall without spilling a drop, though it was full to the brim and the hall packed with drunken Rohirrim.  Finally reaching her destination she sat primly beside Éomer.  As his friends passed the jug around she surveyed them through lowered lashes.  None were as tall or as broad as her brother and from what she heard none were as fine warriors either.   But Poldon, Poldon was special.  He had a laugh that spread to all around him.  Éowyn loved Poldon; he was so kind to everyone.

Meduseld was full and golden, the walls upright and strong against the whistling winds outside.  Éowyn shivered deliciously as she thought of the monsters that sometimes came to haunt happy halls like Meduseld – foul creatures all of them.  There was nothing to fear though, for her Uncle would defeat every one of them – except the wyrd, and Éowyn couldn’t imagine that a wyrd would have any use for her.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder – she was not going to be scared by folk-stories.  Éomer caught the movement, and clapped an arm around her shoulders, “So Éowyn, which of these fine men will you dance with?”  Éowyn scowled at him – she hated it when he teased her.  Still when she looked around none of them were laughing – one or two even looked eager.  Éowyn smiled to herself and extended a hand to Poldon.

Their dance was wonderful.  He spun her round faster than she could blink and sheaves of her hair flew in his face.  She was dizzy with joy when the dance was done.  Théodred claimed her next, and then she danced with Hama, and Elfhelm, and finally Grima asked for the honour.  His fingers were cold against hers.  He had given her a book of tales from Gondor as a Middwinter gift to improve her Westron.  She had thanked him, but she didn’t know what to think.  Grima had a way of looking at her sometimes – as though he could see inside her – and she didn’t like it.

Éowyn was talking with Elfara, who sat quiet in a dark corner of the hall, and telling her all about the dance with Poldon, when Théodred came to fetch her.  He and Elfara were strangely stiff with each other, and he said, “Father wants to speak with you before you go to bed Éowyn.”  He didn’t follow her as she left, and when Éowyn turned to look back she saw Elfara raising her glass ironically to him.  Théodred caught her hand and stared her down for what seemed like hours.  Éowyn walked to her Uncle, feeling unbalanced by the strange connection they shared.

Théoden patted a chair beside him, and handed her a mug of ale when she sat down.  They were quiet for a few moments, watching the merry-making, until Éowyn had a thought, “Uncle?”

“Yes”

“Can you tell me the story of Steelsheen?”

Théoden sighed, shifting in his chair, “All right.”  He took a deep draught of ale and spoke, “It was long ago Éowyn, when I was only a small lad, younger than you when you first came here, and when the thaw came Thengel rode out with his éored to survey the land anew.  Only the greybeards, the lads and the young-wives were left when the orcs attacked.  They were desperate from hunger for none dared wander the plains in the wolf-winter, but strong for all that.  Morwen gathered all the people round and gave hem blades and the courage to fight.  She herself locked all the children in Meduseld and stood in front of its doors with a sword in hand.  Not a single orc could pass her, and she did not once falter that day.”

“How long did she stand there?”

“All day long.  Thorongil arrived in the last hour before nightfall and it was he who tended her wounds.”

“She was wounded?”

“Aye Éowyn she was wounded.  I held her hand as Thorongil staunched the wounds.  She smiled at me through it all.”

“What was she like?”, Éowyn said, reaching for her Uncle’s hands.

“She was the most beautiful thing on two feet Éowyn – all red-gold and steel and lightning.  She had hair like the setting sun and her gaze was like a sword’s point though her eyes were deep with shadows.  She had a backbone of steel…How do you like your ale?”

Éowyn jumped at the change of topic – her Uncle’s words had bespelled her.  She stammered, “I like it Uncle, it was a good year…but I’d prefer mead.”

He ruffled her hair saying, “Not till you’re full grown Éowyn.”

“Do you like the blanket?”

“Aye child.  It is very warm.”

She had spent months weaving the blasted thing and then unravelling her mistakes and then redoing all her work.  Many times she’d been tempted to kick the loom to pieces, but her Uncle needed the blanket.  He felt the cold more lately, and he would never ask for another blanket to keep the cold from his bed.  He sighed and Éowyn said, “I’m going to bed Uncle.  Do you want me to tell Aegyth to light the fire in your room?”

He nodded tiredly, “You are right Éowyn.  I’m too old for a night of carousing – I shall leave it too Théodred and Éomer.”

Éowyn smiled and kissed him on the cheek.  She looked for Éomer as she walked from the hall, and let him know that she was retiring.  He smiled at her.  As she walked she tried to stand tall – she would have a backbone of steel too.  Éowyn sank to her knees when she reached her room, blessing Aegyth.  A fire crackled in her hearth and a mug of milk, a luxury in winter, awaited her.  She drank it down with delight, and sat for a few minutes before she banked the fire and got into bed.

Author’s Note

Several explanations are in order here. 

1)      Éowyn describing the monsters that haunt halls is actually a reference to Beowulf.  Since Tolkien used large amounts of Beowulf in a rather liberal manner (one doesn’t like to say the word plagarism) when creating the Rohirrim, I thought it would be interesting if Éowyn knew of the story – except obviously based in Middle-Earth.

2)      Middwinter is an old english word for midwinter – not a misspelling

3)      Wyrd is an old English word meaning fate – however I was rather caught by Seamus Heaney’s description of the dragon in Beowulf as half wyrm, half wyrd.  Wyrd for the Anglo-Saxons was never positive – it meant a violent death to which one was fated – and I thought that it would be interesting to see wyrd as a kind of monster itself, a strange mingling of fate and the dragon.

4)      Finally the story of Steelsheen does not come from canon but I wanted to give her something that would earn the name Steelsheen, and I like the idea of including some storytelling, as the Rohirrim are primarily an oral culture.

If anyone is really interested in these areas (and doesn’t feel like slogging through the original) I really recommend the Seamus Heaney translation of Beowulf.  It’s an amazing piece of work.

Summer’s Lease

Éowyn waved up at Théodred.  He grinned cheerfully back from the roof and she continued on her way.  Gathering an armful of sweet-smelling hay Éowyn couldn’t help but smile to herself.  It was a warm, late summer day and the breeze only plucked teasingly at her skirts.  Edoras was busy and humming with good cheer.  Théoden king had decreed that the Hall be rethatched and this was the last day of the work.

Even now, as the men finished binding and knotting the thatch, maidservants were clearing and dusting off the hall so that it would be fit for the celebrations that night.  Éowyn herself was busy weaving the wreaths all the women would wear that night.

She returned to her seat in front of the doors.  Her Uncle had asked her to send every person where they ought, and she liked the feeling of worth that came when she directed every person to the right place.  A pitcher of cool creamy milk flavoured with cinnamon stood in the shade and whenever she was thirsty she would drink a dipperful.

Elfara and Aegyth helped her as she worked.  At first she had been frightened of Aegyth, a woman with brawny arms and rough hands, who had managed Meduseld with an iron fist since the death of Queen Elfhild.  It was only recently that Aegyth had ceased to scare her, for she was a good and patient teacher if one listened to her.

She was speaking now, “I remember the last Thatching Elfara, it was when I was only Lady Éowyn’s age.  And the dancing and feasting and singing went on till all hours that night.  Many is the girl met her husband at that Thatching.”  She winked at Éowyn as she spoke – Éowyn would have responded but a shadow fell across her face and she looked up.

“Wita Grima.  What are you doing here?”

“I wondered if I might in any way serve you my Lady?”  Éowyn looked at him carefully, wondering if he still felt it.  A fever that winter had weakened him further so that he stooped always now, and often had to take pause for breath.  He could not help the men with the thatching and Éowyn knew that many pitied him.  She would not give him her pity however – instead she would put a few stalks in his hands and teach him how to braid.

He sat beside her awkwardly and Éowyn shifted her dainty white skirts out of his way.  He nodded to Aegyth and said to Elfara, “Who else has the honour of Lady Éowyn’s company?”

“Elfara, Magnus’s daughter, lord.”

“”Oh. You are well known to many members of Eorl’s house are you not?”

Éowyn’s hands guided Grima’s over the straws but she looked up at his tone.  Elfara’s face was flushed, though not, Éowyn thought, with anger.  She stepped in for her friend, “Freocwene Elfara is a dear friend of mine and a gifted craftswoman Wita Grima.  Elfara could you get Aegyth a dipper of milk?”

Grima nodded but his eyes seemed oddly lit up as he said, “Forgive me Lady Éowyn, I did not mean to offend.”  She looked away from him – she had no more desire for conversation with him, though she felt sorry for him.

A tall figure landed just in front of them, and Éowyn yelped and stood up, “Poldon!  What are you doing?”  He smiled at her, unabashed, “I wanted to surprise you Lady Éowyn.  You’re not easily surprised.”  She blushed and did not see Aegyth and Elfara nudge each other, newly made allies.  They stood for a moment, and then, all hands and feet, Poldon handed her a small nosegay of little blue flowers.  He stammered, “I thought you might like them, you might need them.  They’ll look pretty with your dress.”  Éowyn blushed still deeper, and Aegyth came to her rescue, saying, “We shall weave them into Lady Éowyn’s wreath Poldon.”

He hung his head a little, and turned to go, saying, “Good, that’s good.”  Éowyn stood for a moment before she recollected herself.  Grabbing a jug of sweet cider she followed him.  When she couldn’t catch up she called out to him, “Poldon?”  He turned and walked back to her.  “Could you bring this to my Uncle?  Someone said he was thirsty.”  He took it from her hands and she said, “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble Lady Éowyn”

“No.  I mean, thank you for the flowers.”

He beamed at her then and Éowyn felt that she was drenched in his smile.  They stood, looking at each other, for a moment, before Éowyn said, “Well I should, get back.  The others…”  Her voice trailed off, and she had turned to go when he said, “Will you dance with me this night?”

She smiled, “Aye Poldon, I’ll dance with you.”

The valley was very still, a last lingering warmth in the cool air as the sun sank beneath the hills.  Éowyn hugged her knees as she sat on the steps.  She loved the view from Meduseld.  Elfara and Aegyth had brought the wreaths inside for the evening’s festivities.  A call broke her reverie.

Éomer sat beside her.  Like her, he looked tired and contented from the long day’s work in the sun, “Did you enjoy the thatching?”

”Aye”

”You should come next summer when we thatch Aldburg.  Then you’ll see a real thatching.”

She shoved at him playfully, “We’re lucky though Éomer.  Some people never see a thatching”

“Father didn’t.  Nor mother neither.”

“I didn’t know that”, she leant her head on his shoulder, “I miss them Éomer.  I don’t remember much – Mama’s smile and that herb she always smelt of, and Father’s beard and the song he used to sing – but that’s nearly all.”

Éomer put an arm around her as she sighed and twisted her wreath in her hands.  He squeezed her shoulder a little and said, “Those Poldon’s flowers?”

“How did you know?”

“He has a fancy for you.”

“Do you like him?”

“As a Rider and a friend I like him, but Éowyn, Uncle wouldn’t want…”

“Really?”

“He wouldn’t stop you, but I think he’d prefer you to not.  And if it is only a fancy?”

“Yes”

They sat for a moment and Éowyn said, “It was a beautiful day.”

“Aye it was.”

She stood and asked him, “Have I dirt on my skirt?”

“No – it’s still white.”

Author’s Note

The idea of a collective thatching struck me as rather interesting and promptly refused to be dislodged from my brain.  The only comparison I can make is with the Irish ‘meitheal’ where a community would join together to harvest a field or build a barn etc etc.

Freocwene - Freewoman

The title comes from Shakespeare's sonnet 18:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Break Point

Éowyn had her arms crossed over her chest and was gazing narrowly out of the workshop.  Elfara stood up, stretching her spine, “All right, what’s wrong with you?  You’ve been off all day.”

“I’m sorry Elfara, it’s just…” Éowyn’s voice trailed off.  Elfara eventually snapped her fingers in front of the girl’s face.  Éowyn jumped and said, “You see, Poldon, I think he, he misunderstood some things.”

“But you like Poldon”, Elfara stared at the girl in shock.

“I do.  Exactly. I mean that’s why I won’t do anything”

“What do you mean?”

“Éomer says, and I think he’s right, that Uncle wouldn’t want me to marry him.”

“And you have to marry him?  You can’t just enjoy it?”

Éowyn sighed and looked her full in the eyes, “No, no you can’t can you?”  Éowyn interrupted her, “He wants me to be happy Elfara.  And well, after all.”

“Poldon’s just an ordinary rider”

Éowyn squirmed where she stood, “You know I like him Elfara, I do, but, well, you know what they want me to do.  And I, I do want to be that too if I can.  And I can’t do that if I’m married six months from now.  Besides which it’s not as if I’m in love with him.  I like him that’s all.”

Elfara slid an arm around her shoulders; Éowyn wiped a few tears from her cheeks, “I am doing the right thing?”

“For you, yes.  For Poldon?”

“I hate this Elfara”

“I know.  It’s certainly not pleasant.”

Éowyn leant her head on the older woman’s shoulder and Elfara stroked her hair.  A few quiet tears had been shed when they were interrupted.

Théodred, wild-eyed, collapsed against the wall and buried his head in his hands.  He was shaking.  Éowyn and Elfara exchanged looks, and Elfara moved to sit beside Rohan’s Prince.  She barely heard Éowyn leave, as she laid a hand on his shoulder, “Théodred love, what happened?”  His voice shook as he spoke, “There was an attack in Fenmarch.  Orcs found them and we got there too late.  There was a woman, a mother.  They cut the baby from her body to eat it while it was still alive.”

Elfara stroked the hair at the top of his neck, “Did you save the baby?”

“Aye.  But the mother, she was Éowyn’s age!  We couldn’t save her.  We couldn’t save any of them.”

Théodred leant his head back, and Elfara could see the tracks his tears had made on his face.  He spoke quietly, “What’s the point Elfara.  Everything I do, I’ve learned – it doesn’t mean any thing if…”  She caught his face by the chin, and said, “No Théodred, no.  It means something, it does.  You saved that baby, Théodred, you saved her.”

She moved to pull his head on to her shoulder, to cradle his pain, but he stopped her.  Something hung between them for a moment, and then his mouth was pressing hers urgently, his weight pinning her to the floor.  And she let him – for all Théodred’s faults, she loved him, and she could not refuse him what he needed so desperately.

Éowyn picked up her skirts and ran.  She’d never seen Théodred so upset, and she was afraid that something terrible must have happened.  When she reached Meduseld a stitch was burning through her side, and her breath rasped her throat.  Éomer and Helm were conferring, and Helm carried a small bundle.  Éomer’s face lit up when he saw her, and she came to stand beside them.  “What happened?” she asked between pants.  Helm unwrapped his bundle; it was a tiny, blood-stained, baby.  Éowyn took it in her arms carefully, saying, “Where did you find her?  She’s only a few days old.”

A significant glance passed between the two men and Éowyn joggling the baby in her arms, said “What, what happened?”  Éomer touched her elbow, “There was an attack, Éowyn, and it was bad.”

“How bad?”

He said nothing, and Éowyn turned and said, “Hama could you send someone to find Blostma?”  Helm seemed to stiffen, and he said, “Why Blostma?”

“She lost her babe three days ago.  Perhaps she could be prevailed upon to burse little Modwyn.”  Éomer cocked an eyebrow, “Modwyn?”

“Because she will be, for someone.”

Grima approached them from one of the side chambers, “What has happened?  I thought, Lady Éowyn, that you were spending the day with Elfara, Magnus’s daughter.”  Éomer turned to face him, and Éowyn could see the tension in his shoulders, “There was an attack Grima, a…bad one.”  Grima seemed to shrink into himself, “I beg your pardon Lord Éomer, I did not mean to cause offence.  I am curious though, Lady Éowyn how did you know that there had been an attack?”

Éomer looked at her, equally curious, and she said, or rather stammered, “Well Théodred, arrived in Elfara’s and I knew something bad had happened so I came back here.”

“Is he still there?”

Éowyn didn’t want to reveal this to Grima, some instinct told her it should be kept safe and private – but she could not communicate this to Éomer, “I think so, I don’t know.  He was very upset.  They were talking.”

She dared not look at Grima, and fortunately Hama arrived with Blostma.  The woman took one look at the bundle in Éowyn’s arms and turned to leave.  Éowyn called out to her, “Please Blostma.  Just listen to me.”

By some miracle she turned.  Éowyn gestured towards one of the benches, “Lets just sit and talk for a while, all right?”  Blostma sat beside her.  Éowyn clasped her hand, balancing the baby on one arm, saying, “This is little Modwyn.  Her parents were killed by orcs in Fenmarch.  She’s all alone now, and she needs someone to take care of her.”

Blostma spoke softly, “What happened?”  Helm spoke gruffly, “They cut her from her mother’s body, while she was still alive.”  Éowyn did not know who gasped loudest.  Blostma’s hand was at her mouth, and tears spilled down her cheeks.  Éowyn said, “I know how hard things have been for you Blostma, especially with Sitric gone, but this little one needs you now.”  As she spoke Modwyn’s mouth opened in a little mew of hunger.

Hurriedly Blostma took her from Éowyn’s arms – fumbling with her bodice, she started to nurse Modwyn.  The men turned away for shame.  Blostma spoke in a whisper, “Little one, I’m your mother little one.”

Éomer smiled at her, but Éowyn wanted to weep.  Somehow a feeling of foreboding had possessed her.  Something cruel had begun this day she knew it.

Glossary

Modwyn = Heart’s joy

Blostma = Flower

Crisis

Éowyn trembled from head to foot – never, never had she been so angry.  She had come from a long ride with Windfola – the mare was an absolute joy to ride now she was fully trained.  She almost seemed to respond to Éowyn’s thoughts.  Éowyn wore her riding habit and her hair was wind-tangled.  Théodred sent her a sympathetic glance and she clenched her fists, grateful that her sleeves hid them.

Théoden looked at her sternly and said, “Is this true, Éowyn?”  She shook her head, “No, I mean, yes I do visit Elfara, Uncle but it’s not as Wita Grima says.  She’s my friend.”  Her Uncle hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his head on his clasped hands and said, “What manner of friend is she Éowyn?”

Éowyn strained all her faculties to describe what simply was, the friendship that went beyond words.  She spoke haltingly, “She tells me things Uncle, the things I need to know.  And it’s nice to have a woman I can talk to”.  Grima stepped forward and bowed stiffly, saying, “I, of course, understand Lady Éowyn’s desire for female companionship my Lord, but it remains that the woman is unsuitable.”

Éowyn was desperately irritated and spoke in a rush, “He keeps saying that…forgive me Uncle, but Wita Grima has said several times that Elfara is ‘unsuitable’, but where is the proof?”

“The woman is a whore King Théoden”

“She isn’t”, Éowyn interrupted him, furious, but he continued, his face and voice impassive, “I have even heard it said that Prince Théodred received her ‘services.’” Théoden stared at his son, who hung his head, shamefaced.  The King spoke first, “Is this true my son?”

“Aye”

“And you would introduce such a woman to your cousin?  Your swiving mistress?”  Éowyn had never seen such fury in her Uncle’s face, and she shrank from him.  Théodred however lifted up his head and said, “I would father.  Elfara is a good woman – she is not as Wita Grima has painted her.”

Her Uncle sighed and Éowyn’s anguish broke its bonds and she spoke, “Please Uncle, I know how this all seems, but it really isn’t like that.  Elfara has been my holdsweostor, in everything.  I need her.”  Théoden looked at her with saddened eyes and Éowyn knew he did this because he loved her.  How could she ever forgive him?  He spoke, “I understand Éowyn, but I cannot allow you to keep company with a woman who is unchaste.  For your own good Éowyn”

A protest broke from her lips and he said, “Éowyn the King has spoken.  That is my will.”  She dashed tears from her eyes and said, “Uncle, at least let me see her one last time.  Let me explain?”

Théoden nodded saying, “Go, but Éowyn do not linger”.  Grima made a movement as if to protest but the King silenced him with a look.  Éowyn turned and ran from the hall.  Théodred reached after her calling, “Cousin” but she was gone.  He turned to face Grima, saying, “Your counsel is of a rare craft”

“I seek only to preserve the honour of the House of Eorl my Prince.  You must know as well as I that it can be a painful duty – especially for a young woman like Lady Éowyn”

“What?”

“Your cousin is young and most innocent of the ways of this world.  It is the duty of experience to guide innocence that it will not crash.  I seek only to aid your father in this duty”

”Say it plain”

Grima’s face looked almost pained but he said, “Simply put Prince, Lady Éowyn, well in a few years who knows what may be within her reach?  She is Lady of Rohan – the King of Gondor even, should he ever return, would find her most eligible.  As it is, the Steward has two sons.”

“You speak of alliance by marriage?”

“Aye Prince Théodred, but not if there is aught touching her honour”

“Surely you speak in jest?  Any choice will be of her own.”

“Of course, of course, but all choices should be open to her surely”.

Théodred watched Grima walk away from him, and stood in thought for many minutes.

Éowyn stumbled into Elfara’s workshop.  Tears streamed down her cheeks, but Elfara was nowhere to be seen.  Choking, Éowyn called out her name.  In a moment Elfara had come inside and wrapped Éowyn in her arms.  She hugged the girl as tears fell down her cheeks.  After a few minutes Elfara said, “Now what’s all this in aid of?”

“It’s Uncle.  He said,” and Éowyn sniffed, “He said I can’t see you any more.”  Elfara’s hand stopped its soothing movements on Éowyn’s back and she spoke sharply, “Why?”

“Grima.  He said the most terrible things and Uncle, Uncle wouldn’t listen to me, or Théodred either.”

“Well if it’s only Grima?”

“But it’s not.  Uncle agreed with him, and I have to do what he says.”

”Well maybe you could come down, and no one would have to know.”

Éowyn pulled away, “No, Elfara!  You don’t understand, I’ve never seen Uncle like that.  He might make you leave Edoras or anything.”  She started to cry again, “It’s not fair.  They wouldn’t listen to me because I’m a maid, and they’re doing this and it’s wrong.  And they say they’ll listen and then they don’t and…”

Elfara hugged the girl.  Over the years she come to feel that Éowyn was her own.  Between her sick father and her relationship with Théodred, it was plain that she would never marry – but as Éowyn grew she had felt a love, and a pride in her that she could only imagine feeling for a daughter.

They held each other for a brief moment, and then Éowyn pulled away, “I have to get back.  When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow?”

“You will be careful won’t you?  Especially in Fenmarch, Théodred’s sure Fenmarch isn’t safe so be careful.  Don’t travel alone.”

“I won’t”, Elfara brushed Éowyn’s hair from her face, “And you, you will take care won’t you love?” 

"Aye I will"                                                                                                                                                        

Elfara wanted to say one last word, to prepare Éowyn for what might come but there wasn’t time.  Éowyn paused at the entrance and said, “Farewell Elfara” and then she was gone.

Glossary

Holdsweostor = loyal sister

Witnian for Elfara

Éowyn sat with Grima at a bench, desperately resisting the temptation to rub her temples.  She was exhausted, her eyes itchy with tiredness, and wanted nothing more than a good meal and a warm bed.  She had done very well in her lessons today, forcing Théodred to yield to her sword, but she almost regretted it now – her arm ached so from repelling him.  Grima spoke on, and she found herself wishing that he would not always use such impenetrable language.  She had not forgiven him, but he was a part of her daily circle – she saw more him than she saw even Éomer, and she had to keep the peace.

“Your nemnan-dogor shall be on the first day of the third month Lady Éowyn, and it shall be a very great occasion of course.”  Éowyn tried to summon up enthusiasm for the conversation – it was the first Grima had told her of his plans, which apparently were very great indeed – but she was just too tired, and the heated discussion between Éomer and Elfhelm, who had arrived scant minutes before, was drawing all her attention.

“Of course Boromir of Gondor shall be attending, as perhaps will representatives from Dol Amroth and Lossarnach and possibly Lebinnin.”  That caught her attention, for Éowyn dimly remembered the tales her mother had told her of Gondor, which Théodwyn had visited in her youth.  She looked at Grima carefully, “Why would Boromir of Gondor come for my nemnan-dogor?  He did not even come for Éomer’s, surely he is not so free as to come to mine?”

Grima lowered his eyes, and said, “My Lady I am not such a one as to understand the policy of Gondor’s Steward.  I am sure there are many reasons for his attendance?”

“But why…it is more than three months from now Grima, how would they even know that they would not need their Captain?  Éomer said that they are strained of late…”

“I am not a military man like your brother lady Éowyn.  In this matter you must forgive me – I have no explanation to grant you.”

She was about to demand that he make himself clear, when Éomer touched her shoulder.  His face was uncommonly serious, and she followed him to a small chamber.  Elfhelm stood inside, and Éomer closed the door.  She looked up at him, curious, and asked, “What’s this about?”

Éomer took her hands and placed a necklace in them.  She examined it as Elfhelm said, “Do you recognise it my Lady?”  She nodded, “Yes.  It’s Elfara’s.  Why?  What’s happened?”  Éomer gestured that she should sit down, but she looked at him with wide eyes, “Éomer?  What’s happened?”

He looked at her and sighed, “Éowyn, Elfhelm’s éored found the remains of someone’s camp today; this was almost all that was left.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was attacked by orcs my Lady.”

She glanced at Elfhelm sharply and he bowed his head, “What do you mean?  What’s happened to her?”  Éomer pushed her gently down into a seat with one large hand, and she looked up at him, numb with fear.  “Éomer, what’s happened?”

“It looks as though she was carried off by orcs Éowyn.”

“Carried off?  Not killed?  So she might still all right?”

“No, Éowyn.  Even if they didn’t kill her immediately, they will.”

“No!  You have to chase them, you have to find her”

“Éowyn!  We can’t.  She’s already dead.”

Éowyn looked at the necklace she still held clutched in her hand, “And the King would not waste men looking for a whore?” she said, her voice laced with bitterness.  Éomer exchanged a glance with Elfhelm and said, “What?”

“Did you not hear?  At Grima’s behest Uncle forbid me to see Elfara.  Grima called her a whore.  And she’s dead now.”  Éowyn could feel herself start to weep and she turned away from the two men, trying to hold in her sobs.  Éomer squeezed her shoulder, and she bent her head.

Silence filled the room for a moment and then Éowyn heard the door open.  Grima’s unctuous tones filled the room as he said, “I apologise but has something of moment occurred?”  Éomer turned, and Éowyn could feel his anger, “A friend of Lady Éowyn’s has been slain Grima.  The one you branded whore.”

“Oh.  Where did this happen lord Éomer?”

“In Fenmarch.”

“How dreadful.  It is truly shocking that orcs can act with such impunity within the Eastfold.”

Éowyn looked up and saw that her brother was so angry that he might strike Grima about the face.  She stood and grasped his arm, saying, “Éomer, do not strike at one who cannot hit back.”  He was still staring murderously at Grima and when Éowyn turned to look at the councillor for the smallest instant she saw a similar fury in his face.  She was suddenly sick of the pair of them, how could they be so caught up in their own enmity when Elfara was dead?

That knowledge, which had, for a moment, receded, hit her again with full force, and she turned and ran from the room, ignoring Éomer’s calls.  When she reached her room she slammed the bolt home; only then did she give into her sobs.

The next morning a hammering on her door awoke her.  After the first great burst of grief she had spent the night lying on her bed, staring silently into the darkness, alone with the terrible knowledge that Elfara was gone, she would speak or breathe or dance or work leather again.  That knowledge rested on her heart like a dull weight – sometimes it pulled tears from her eyes, sometimes it seemed to tug her heart from her chest – but she was in agony always from the pain of it.

She stood and opened her door.  Théodred stood outside haggard.  He looked at her and said, “Are you well Éowyn?”  The words felt strangely heavy as they fell from her tongue, and she had to search deep within herself to find them, “I am well Théodred.”  He looked her over and she said, “You heard then?”

“Yea.  Éomer told me after you left.”  She stood aside to let him in.  They sat together on the bed.  He opened her fingers, which had clenched around the necklace, “Éomer gave you this?”  She nodded, “It was all they could find.”

“You should keep it.”

Éowyn looked at him steadily, and felt a great rage at her cousin rise up in her breast, but she only said, softly, “She loved you know.”

“What?”

“She did.  She never said but she loved you, and she knew that you didn’t love her.”

“Éowyn!”

She felt a cold satisfaction in wounding him this way, in getting some belated justice for her friend, but then she saw his face.  He wept.  She reached over and hugged him, and he clutched at her.  She let a few tears fall, but an odd numbness had possessed her.  She did not feel as though any of it were real; she could not really touch him.

She left Théodred sleeping on her bed.  Aegyth sat with her while she picked at her food.  She did not want to eat.  Grima came to sit beside her and she shrugged her shoulders in irritation.  He spoke quietly, “I hope you fare well this morning Lady Éowyn?”

“I am fine.”

”I am sorry for your grief, and if I might, I would ease it.”

She glanced at him, “I thank you Wita Grima but I am fine at present.”  She turned to Aegyth and said, “I forgot, Magnus somebody needs to tell him.  Perhaps Hama could be sent?”  The older woman nodded, and Éowyn said, “And Aegyth, he is bedridden.  There will be no one to care for him now,” a sob threatened to break from her throat, but she restrained it, “Could you see if anyone would take him in?  I would, but…”

“Of course, Lady Éowyn.”

“If you tell them they would have the gratitude of Éomer and myself it might…”

“I understand.  I am sure someone might be found.”

Aegyth stood and left, her walk slow with arthritis, and after a moment Grima followed her.  Éowyn stared at her Uncle’s throne for many minutes until Éomer sat across from her.  She jumped in surprise.  He wore full armour, and ate quickly.  She spoke softly, “Are you going?”

“Aye.  The Eastfold must be scourged – I have received our Uncle’s permission to find the orcs and destroy them.”  Éowyn sniffed, and he looked at her, “You will be careful won’t you Éomer?”  Her brother nodded, and extended a hand to her “I promise Éowyn”

“And you won’t be gone long?”

“No sister.  Perhaps when I return you might stay for a few weeks in Folde?”

“Perhaps.”

She stood with him, and said, “Can you do something for me?”  He smiled, “What?”  She lifted the necklace and said, “Could you fasten it?”  He nodded and stood behind her, chuckling slightly as she shifted her hair out of the way.  When it was done he rested his hands on her shoulders for a moment and she smiled at him thinly.  She half thought she saw Grima behind a pillar but ignored it.

She walked with Éomer to the doors of Meduseld.  Before he left he hugged her close and said, “I will find them Éowyn.  I promise you, I will find them.”  She nodded and spread her thin smile across her face.  Éomer looked at her and said, “And you, you take care, all right?”

After he had left Éowyn wandered through the hall disconsolate.  There was no one about, and eventually she felt the heaviness inside her pulling her further and further down.  Théodred still occupied her bed, so she made her way to Éomer’s old room, curling up under his blankets.  A few tears slid down her cheeks but she had no time to indulge them, for swiftly she sank into sleep.

Scant hours later Grima would find her, and call her to Théoden’s side.  Her Uncle required her presence.  The business of Meduseld must go on, and she with it.

Glossary 

Witnian = lament

Nemnan-dogor = name-day

Nemnan-Dogor

Aegyth laid down the hairbrush.  She had tugged it through Éowyn’s mass of hair over a hundred times, till shone like beaten gold.  The young maiden stared off into space, as Aegyth lowered the golden circlet on to her head.  Aegyth looked the girl over – at seventeen Éowyn was fully formed, slender and not particularly tall; her shape belied her strength.  Aegyth had seen Éowyn training with her blade and knew, for she remembered, that Éowyn was as sharp as the Steelsheen had been.  Though of late Éowyn had been pensive and oftentimes distracted, Aegyth did not doubt that she could become as great as her ancestress.  She touched the girl’s shoulder and said, “I shall be in the hall.  Éomer will come for you.”

Many men and few women were assembled in the hall, as it had always been these past years.  Aegyth could only just remember a time when the hall had been full of women’s laughter, but most had never known such joy.  All the women of Eorl’s house, save Éowyn, had withered and fallen, and Aegyth could not help but feel that the Hall was a little darker for it.  She wondered often what wyrd had stalked those women, fair and courageous to a fault, that they had all made such unhappy ends.  Aegyth had served Eorl’s house since Thengel’s return from Gondor, since the death of her husband Hengest, and had seen each of Thengel’s daughters to death.  Most had died before they had even been wed, and Aegyth had wept for each of them, wishing that she could have filled their graves.

Éowyn was fairer even than her mother, who had been the fairest of Thengel’s daughters, and as strong as any of them.  Aegyth had glimpsed what others had not, in those small moments when Éowyn’s will held sway, and she knew that when the time came Éowyn would be as stern as steel.  Aegyth could not deny that she was fiercely proud of Théodwyn’s daughter, but she could not but feel that she was justified.  She who had seen so many of Eorl’s house come and go, she was right to pride herself that this young scion of his blood would not fade.

Still there was a something in Éowyn, something she could not name, but which frightened her.  The girl was as strong as her brother, stronger in some ways, yet Aegyth sometimes found herself deeply afraid for her.  Elfara’s death had hurt Éowyn terribly, and though she had continued to perform every duty to perfection, and had taken care that no one should suffer by any lack of care on her part, at times Aegyth had seen her staring into space like a wounded animal.

Aegyth sought Éomer, that he might bring Éowyn before the king.  She made her way through the many Riders clustered at the back of the hall, laughing and wassailing, and walked to the dais.  Grima son of Gamlod caught sight of her, and he attempted to wave her away but she ignored him.  She misliked the King’s advisor, and thought that Éowyn, though she was scrupulously polite when speaking of and to him, was not overly fond of him either.  Théoden King spoke with Forlong the Fat of Lossarnach, his cousin.  His presence was hardly surprising Aegyth thought – the old man was well known for his love of revels, and attended every gathering he could.  Others however had come who were surprising.  Duilin, the oldest son of Morthond, and Dervorin, the oldest son of Ringló Vale, and both had travelled far from their lands to reach Edoras.  Elphir of Dol Amroth was among those clustered around Théodred, and most surprising of all Boromir of Gondor stood in conversation with Éomer.  He was a tall, dark-haired man who was fair of face and Aegyth did not doubt that many of the wenchs of Edoras would be eyeing him this night.  Not that she was aware of such goings-on – she held herself as far above them as she possibly could, for she would not sully her station as caretaker of Eorl’s hall by gossip.  Having discovered Éomer she made her way to him, and said, “My lord Éomer, your sister awaits.”  Éomer made his apologies and left, and Aegyth found herself a seat that would afford her a view of the dais.

Éowyn gripped her brother’s arm with one damp hand.  She was shaking from head to foot with supressed terror.  All day she had been closeted away, and no one had thought to inform her how many people had come.  Meduseld was full almost to the rafters and each and every one of them had their eyes fixed on her.  Though many of the people of Edoras had come, her Uncle was sorrounded by men she had never seen before and could not name – say the dark one who stood beside Théodred.  His jerkin bore a white tree and Éowyn knew what the symbol meant – Boromir of Gondor had come as Grima had foreseen.  That was interesting.

Éomer brought her before the dais and then left her to stand alone.  Her Uncle looked down on her, and she wondered idly when his hair had silvered, and why had she not noticed it before?  He spoke, his voice dry and hollow, “Éowyn, Éomund’s daughter, why have you come forth?”

Éowyn licked her lips, and suddenly her voice rang out in the hall, “To swear allegiance to my lord Théoden King”.  Without thought she knelt before him, and a small, detached part of her realised that although she could barely remember her own name, her voice and body already knew exactly what she had to do.  She held her hands out to her King, palms upward and he said, “Are you true of heart?”

“I am my King”

“Is your swordarm strong?”

“It is my King”

“Will you be faithful to your lord?”

“In all things my King”

“Will anyone speak for you Éowyn, Éomund’s daughter?”

Éomer stepped forward, “I shall speak for her my King.”

Théoden held Éowyn’s hands between his, and said, “Swear to me now daughter”, and Éowyn spoke in a clear voice, “I swear Théoden, lord of the Riddermark, to serve thee and thine heirs, so long as blood quickens my veins.  All that my lord bids me I shall perform in good faith.  With a bright sword and honour unstained I shall serve till my lord release me, or my wyrd take me.”  Tears pricked her eyes, and she bent her head to kiss her Uncle’s hand.

He bid her stand beside his throne, and Théoden spoke to the mass, “Riders and Wives of Rohan I give thee Éowyn, byrele of Meduseld, Shieldmaiden of the Mark and your Lady of Rohan.”  They cheered for her, and Éowyn hung her head in astonishment – she was not their defender, nor their heir and she could only assume that they cheered her because they loved her.  Théoden spoke to her, “Éowyn?” handing her a wægsweord, “Take it, it is yours.”  She held it in her two hands, astonished at its beauty, as her Uncle gestured for quiet.  Théoden asked her, “What shall you name it?”

She drew the sword and passed it briefly through the air, it felt beautiful in her hand.  She spoke softly, “She shall be called witan his leode my King”.  He looked her over and said, “So shall it be”.  Éowyn smiled, and took the chalice of mead that a maidservant handed to her; lifting it to her King she said, “Hagolian Théoden king” and all in the hall lifted their glasses.

Éowyn smiled up at her dance partner, thankful that he had rescued her from a confusing predicament.  When the first dance had been called, she had been inundated with offers, and had been confused as to whom she ought to choose.  Fortunately Gondor’s heir had stepped forward, saying, “Gondor would be honoured above all things if I might claim the first dance of Rohan’s fairest”.  After a speech like that she could not refuse him, and she could refuse the others without seeming ungracious. 

He was very tall, and at least Théodred’s age, if not older, and Éowyn had been a little intimidated at first, but there was something in his bearing and speech that set her at her ease.  He spoke to her as though he were interested in what she said, and Éowyn was in a mood to appreciate that above all things.  He smiled at her as they finished the dance and said, “I have a gift for you lady of Rohan.”

She was surprised and asked, “A gift?”  He laughed at her enthuasiasm, and said, “Aye a gift my lady.  My brother and I heard how you asked our last ambassador many questions of Gondor, and my brother thought that this would prove enjoyable.”  He handed her a leather bound book and indicated that she should open it.  When she lifted the cover a map of Minas Tirith was shown, drawn in delicate detail on sheets of vellum.  Éowyn gasped, “It’s beautiful!”

“You like it then?”

“Like it?  I shall not be content till I have studied it for many hours!”

“I am glad my Lady.  There are many more maps in this book, of Lamedon and Dol Amroth and Ithilien and many more places.”

Éowyn sighed with pleasure as she turned the pages, “Thank you truly, it is a beautiful gift.  I have always wished to know more of Gondor, for my grandmother, the Steelsheen, was of your country.”  She could feel Boromir’s eyes studying her, but there was no malice in them, so she did not mind it.  He eased it from her hands, saying, “I shall convey your thanks to my brother then, for it was he who drew them.  Shall I ask a maidservant to bring the book to your room?”

Éowyn nodded, and said, “If it would not trouble you, would you be so kind as to look over these with me tomorrow?  I would know more of these lands than just their names.”  He looked at her, and a smile broke across his face unwilling, as he said, “Of course my lady.  I would be honoured to.”  She looked up at him and couldn’t help but think that his face was much improved when he seemed happy.  She had opened her mouth to ask about his brother, for she had often found that people waxed eloquent about their siblings, when Théodred interrupted, “Éowyn, Blostma would speak with you if you are free.  She has news for you.”

Éowyn turned and said, “Forgive me”.  She curtsied to the older man, and left to search for Blostma.  She did not see Théodred and Boromir seek a room where they could converse in private, for she was swiftly overwhelmed by the throng.  It took her several minutes to find Blostma.  The older woman was talking with Hama, but she curtsied as soon as Éowyn hove into view.  They sat together, and Blostma bubbled, in a slightly drunken tone, “I wanted you to know my Lady, we, that is, I am to marry Helm.”

Éowyn nearly swayed from shock, but fortunately Blostma did not notice.  Collecting her wits Éowyn asked, “When did this happen?”

“Well Helm and Sitric were friends, so Helm always wanted to look out for me, you know, and of course, he wanted to take care of Modwyn, so we just decided that it would make more sense if we married.  Will you come Lady Éowyn?”

“Of course Blostma!  I will be happy to dance at your wedding.  When is it to be?”

“In a six weeks.  We are to wed along with a friend of lord Éomer’s, Poldon, that’s his name.”

Éowyn looked at Blostma surprised, but she did not for a moment believe that she was lying.  She was about to ask as to the identity of the bride, when Grima’s voice asked her to dance.  She stood up with him, glad to escape Blostma for a moment.  He held her hand in one of his, and it was smooth and uncallused – even when compared to her own.  She stared into space and he said, “So my lady beorhtfeax have you enjoyed your nemnan-dogor?”

“Aye Grima.  I thank you for all the pains this must have cost you.”

“It was nothing my lady.  I see you have spoken with the Steward’s son?”

“Aye – he is a very kind man, and brave I have heard it said.”  Her tone was distracted, and he looked at her.  “You have heard of Poldon’s marriage my Lady?”

“Yea.  Blostma just told me of it.”

“I hope you are not too disappointed”

“Not really at all actually.  Now it seems I never truly had his love, for all that he said.  I did not wish to have it, but…”

“You shall have one man’s love at least Lady Éowyn, I promise you.”

“Thank you.”

Éowyn spent the rest of that night in dance and talk and song.  No voice was gayer, no foot lighter and no laugh heard more, and yet a heaviness lay on her heart for all her endeavours to forget it.  Thoughts of Elfara plagued her still, and often she suffered nightmares which pictured her friend’s suffering.  Nor could she forget that her nemnan-dogor, for all the revelry that attended it, meant that she was named now, and she had to take up her duties in the Golden Hall.  After she sang the song of Eorl for the company she sought her bed, but sleep came to her only slowly, her mind resisting oblivion.

While Éowyn danced with Grima, Théodred and Boromir spoke words of camraderie in a small chamber off the hall.  Eventually the conversation turned to serious matters, and Théodred asked Boromir, “Why have you come here?”  Boromir cocked an eyebrow at his friend, and said, “Truly?  I am here for the same reason all the others have come.  I am sniffing out an advantage.”

Théodred sighed, “Grima said it might be so.”

“The king’s advisor?  I did not think he looked on me with a friendly eye.”

“Is Rohan so mistrusted by your father that he seeks to strengthen our links through marriage?”

Boromir leaned back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose, “I hardly know Théodred, my father’s policies are his alone.  He simply asked me to see what the prospects might be.”

“You know our laws?”

”A little.”

“By our law Éowyn must be ‘full willing’ to be wed, and Éomer, for one, would not allow it to proceed any other way.  As for myself I have no desire to force my cousin into marriage.”

“Then the rumours are untrue?  You do not intend to marry her yourself?”

“Hardly.  Even if I harboured such feelings for Éowyn, which I do not, I would not desire to have an idiot for an heir.  If it were possible I would hope that she might marry for love.  But what is you opinion?”

“She would do well in Gondor your cousin…but given what you have said I think my father will change his mind.  He would not make an offer unless he was certain it would be accepted.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No – I have no desire to bed children, and nor does my brother for that matter.”

“The offer would have been for your brother?”

“Aye.  My father would prefer his heirs to be of pure Numenorean blood.  I think my brother will be relieved – he did not look kindly on the idea of marrying a woman he did not know.”

“Especially one so young.”

“Exactly.  But Théodred, we will not be the only ones seeking her hand.”

“There were many elder sons here tonight.  Why so many?”

“Dark times.  You may not have seen as much of it as those on Gondor’s borders, but you must be aware…”

“Aye”

“All are looking for closer ties now.”

The next day Boromir of Gondor spent two hours telling Éowyn of Rohan tales of his home.  She was fascinated by each story he told, but in particular by those about Ithilien – simply because of its name.  Yet later when he took his leave, she was pale and still, refusing to meet his eye.  Tears had lined her cheeks and her hand trembled, but she would not tell him what was wrong.  Her brother and cousin had already ridden out, and all the guests were leaving with him, so she was left alone in Meduseld – save for her Uncle, and the councillor, who Boromir disliked.

A month later Grima stood in front of his master and trembled.  The old man looked down at him and said, “You are a fool Grima, and you nearly ruined everything.  Only the girl’s own fear has saved you.  Had you paid more attention to you duty you would not have made such a mistake – but you let yourself become distracted by the prize.  You have disappointed me.  Do not disapoint me again.  Go now, and find out what you can.”

Glossary

Nemnan-dogor – Name Day.  The concept I have in mind is that of the day an heir is formally named as such – hence Éowyn is named as the Shieldmaiden of the Mark.

Wyrd – A monster.  A combination of fate and the dragon

Byrele – Cup-bearer

Wægsweord – sword with wavy pattern.

Witan his leode – Guard of the people

Hagolian – Hail

Beorhtfeax – bright/shining hair.

Descent

Éowyn’s hands dragged slightly over the leather cover of her book.  The top right hand corner was stained – no longer the rich brown it had been, blood had deadened it.  Sighing she opened the covers, winching at the creak of stiff leather.  She turned to her favourite map – that of Ithilien, the Moon-land.  The hand that drawn the map was graceful, the inking flowing smoothly over the rich vellum, without blot or stain.  Often she found her fingers following the contours of hills and rivers – starting at Cair Andros and following the river to Osgiliath before wandering off over forests and the hills of Ephel Duath.  Sooner or later her finger would reach Emyn Arnen, the fortress of the Stewards when there was a King in Gondor, and then she would follow the river to South Ithilien, finally reaching the sea at Lebinnin.

A country named for the Moon must be fair indeed and often when she laid herself down to sleep, Éowyn would find herself dreaming of that fair country.  There would be flowers there, and a garden, and she would never feel the need to bare a blade.  There would be shelter from the rough winds, and the sun would shine. 

Spring had come but late to Rohan, and for some reason the simbelmyne had bloomed late and little on the Barrows.  Éowyn had heard whisperings that it was an ill fate, and in all there was a spirit of fear abroad in Edoras that she could not battle, for she could see no reason behind it.  Something had changed, she knew it had, but she knew not what – and whatever it was neither Théodred nor Éomer would tell her.  They both seemed strained on the rare occasions that she saw them, but Éowyn could not discern why.  There had been no battles lost, and yet some shadow seemed to stalk them all of late.

Théoden had fallen ill a few days after her nemnan-dogor, and Éowyn cursed herself still for not having seen it sooner.  That day was burned still in her memory when she had gone to him pleading desperately, and his face, his eyes had been cold, not those of her King

*          *            *

“Uncle I must speak with you, please it is very important.”

“What can it be, my neice?”

“Uncle, Wita Grima he…”

“Sit Éowyn, you will be stiff with standing.  Now what is so important?”

“Uncle Wita Grima, he, he…”

“What can he have done to disturb you so neice?  Was he harsh in his teachings?”

“No, it’s not that Uncle, he tried, he tried to…”

“Surely it cannot be so very dreadful.”

“Uncle, he attacked me.”

“Éowyn!  You should not make such baseless accusations.  After all, we should all remember, Lord Grima is an honourable man.”

“But Uncle…”

“Peace, I will hear no more of this.”

*          *            *

He had looked upon her once, with such empty eyes, that she had run to her room, attempting to hide the tears that streaked her face.  Two days later Théoden had been taken ill, no one could what tell it was, but a fever raged in him for nigh on two weeks before breaking.  He had recovered, and yet he had not.  Théoden was not the same man he had been.  Éowyn looked on him now and saw an old man – one who looked older even than his sixty-five years.  He complained of a chill, and wore a cloak always now.  Still for all that, his mind was as vigourous as ever, and though his voice was dry and tired, he had spent many hours debating tactics with Théodred only three days past.  He had been uncommonly tender with Éowyn of late, and often she had had to pass from the room for a moment, to wipe at the tears that sprang involuntarily to her eyes.

She closed the book and stood, surveying herself in the golden shield.  She did not look like one ashamed, and for that she was glad.  She would not attend Poldon’s wedding like one scorned.  The same pride that would get her through his wedding was what kept her lips sealed and her person still in Edoras.  If her Uncle did not believe her no one else would so she had not said a word.  She could escape Grima through marriage if she really wished – Éowyn knew that there were many who would strive for her hand – but it seemed base to her to marry without love, and only to escape another. 

As she left the room she remembered something Éomer had said, “It’s a wyrd’s courage that keeps him going” when speaking of a man who had lost all his family.  She wondered if something similar might be said of her.  She had been beaten and humiliated but she would not leave Edoras.  It was her home, and she would not be driven from it by such a one as Grima.  She was of Eorl’s house, Meduseld was her place, and she would never give him the satisfaction of leaving for fear of him.  She would not.  As she reaffirmed this thought Éowyn lifted her head still higher and squared her shoulders.  She would bear herself proudly; none could doubt her. 

Théodred and Éomer awaited her in the Hall; Théodred must attend Helm’s wedding, and Poldon had been in Éomer’s éored from the beginning.  As she approached them she passed Aegyth and time seemed to slow as the older woman started to sink and faint.  Éowyn caught her round the waist and managed to hold her until the two men reached her.  Carefully they levered her on to a bench, and Éowyn sat beside her to hold her up.  Aegyth swayed and her eyelids fluttered and Éowyn wondered rather desperately what was the matter.

Eventually Aegyth seemed to recover and she ordered them all to leave but Éowyn would have none of it.  She spoke insistently, “No, Aegyth I shall not leave here till I know you are well, now Éomer and Théodred shall continue, but I shall see you settled in your room before I go.”  Aegyth set her mouth, like the stubborn old woman she was, but gave in.  The two men left and Éowyn walked Aegyth to her room, far under the floor of the hall.  Aegyth’s room was dark and spare, and Éowyn swiftly concluded that it was a room for rest and little else.  Soon Aegyth was in bed asleep and Éowyn bent her steps to the wedding.

Many hours later Éowyn had danced every dance of the celebrations and raised a glass to bless the matches.  She had only one last task to do before she could retire to her bed and to sleep.  She smoothed the folds of her skirt, hoping in the innermost part of her mind that the dress was becoming, and approached Poldon and his bride.  They both bowed as she approached the woman looking her over with no friendly eye.  Éowyn spoke first, “I wanted to say how very happy I am for you both.”  Poldon smiled his beautiful broad smile and said, “Truly Lady Éowyn?  Thank you.  Do you know my bride, Wynsum?”

Éowyn bowed her head, “I have not yet had the pleasure.”  The woman curtsied, she was older than Éowyn by a few years, and, Éowyn noticed with a slight twinge of satisfaction, she was thick-waisted with dun coloured hair.  Such thoughts however were unworthy, and after all Wynsum had a beautiful smile and Poldon seemed very happy.

She repressed a yawn that threatened to split her skull, and decided that she needed sleep rather urgently.  Speaking clearly she said, “I hope you will pardon me if I leave, I am rather tired.”  Poldon seemed slightly dissatisfied, but Wynsum was not, and Éowyn did not doubt that she would reason him from his discontent.  “Of course not Lady Éowyn, we are only glad that you came at all.”

“There is one last thing I would say to you both.  I hope that you both know that, should anything ever happen, which I hope it does not, I would be very disapointed if I heard you had not called on me to help.  I shall always try to help you, should you ask.”  Wynsum had a rather awed look on her face, and Éowyn suspected that she had won one small victory.  “Now if you will excuse, I wish you both goodnight.”

She made her way through the crowd, pausing only to speak briefly with Magnus, Elfara’s father.  Blostma had taken him in out of kindness – it seemed she had a fondness for strays – but it was plain to all that his days were wearing down.  He could still walk, but he was nearly blind, and little Modwyn led him sometimes by the hand.  She was only two summers old, but she had an unerring sense of direction, and had become completely devoted to the old man.  She sat on his knee now, cuddled up in sleep.

Eventually Éowyn bid the old man goodbye and made her way to the Hall.  By some chance she heard Théodred and Grima talking.  Théodred sounded angry and confused.  “What are you talking about?  Seven months ago you said she could marry where she liked.”

“That was before I saw her at her nemnan-dogor.”  At this Éowyn slid behind a pillar – she would hear what they had to say.

“And what happened at her nemnan-dogor?”

“Lady Éowyn is cold my Prince.  All there percieved it.  No man would take a cold wife – they must have heirs.”

“Boromir of Gondor thought differently.”

“Well I would not cross the Steward’s Heir my Prince, but it is said that he will take no wife – I doubt that his judgement is sound when it comes to the judgement of women and wives.”

“Must you speak of my cousin in such terms?”

“I know not how to speak delicately of country matters Prince Théodred.  If you know of a way, do enlighten me.”

Éowyn stepped out from behind her pillar and approached them.  Théodred started ever so slightly when he saw her, but Grima’s face betrayed no shock of any kind.  Éowyn curtsied to them, “Théodred.  Hala Grima.  Have you had a good evening?”

“Very good Éowyn.”

“I am glad.”

“Is freocwene Aegyth recovered?”

“I think that she is Hala Grima, but I shall check soon.  Good evening.”

She walked away from them, unable to bear Grima’s gaze.  There was something in it now – it was no longer assessing, but almost possessive.  So she was cold was she?  Or did Grima judge only from her treatment of him?  It was no shame to anyone to be cold to one such as him – cold as the mountaintops that surrounded Edoras.

When she reached Aegyth’s chamber she woke the girl sleeping in the cot by the door.  “How does she?”

“She seems well my Lady.”

“Good.  Now do you want to go to your own chamber or stay here?”

“Well, I have to be up early in the morning my Lady, but you cannot let Aegyth sleep alone…”

“That is no trouble.  I shall stay here.”

“My Lady no!”

“Go.  I would not have you tired tomorrow.”

The girl left, and Éowyn sank down into the bed with a slight moan of relief.  It seemed lately that she could get no rest, and the soft bed felt like heaven to her tired bones.  She lay awake for a long time listening to Aegyth’s light snores.

Glossary

Wynsum – delightful

Freocwene - Freewoman

Hala – Counsellor.  Éowyn has started to use this term instead of Wita (advisor) because it’s double meaning is ‘afterbirth’ which is quite clearly offensive.

Thrust and Parry

Éowyn’s blade whirled, slicing through the air.  Her face was set with determination as she moved swiftly through the movements of a pattern dance.  She never paused for breath and her blade never stopped moving – her long sleeves and her skirt sank and fell as she moved, and her hair swung from her head.  Théodred thought she was the most graceful thing he’d ever seen. 

He sat beside Éomer; they were just outside of Edoras, watching Éowyn perform her weird dance on a patch of flat ground.  Théodred looked sideways at Éomer and said, “How long has she been doing this?”

“I don’t know.  Hama sent me down here about an hour ago but she'd been at it for a while then, and she hasn’t stopped since.”

“She’s been at it for at least an hour, and she’s still going that fast!”

“I thought you said she hated sword work?”

“She did!  I mean, she was always a natural, you could see it, but she never seemed to get any pleasure out of it.  She did it because she had to, not because she liked it – she never spent half the time with the sword that she did with Windfola.”

“Well something’s changed then.  Look at her.”

“When did she get so fast!”  Théodred was astonished at the speed his cousin showed; he had seen great swordsmen at work before – his father had been unmatched with the blade in Rohan, and the dark traveller who had journeyed through Rohan in his twenty-fifth year had moved like no other Théodred had ever seen, but even compared to them Éowyn’s speed was exceptional.  Théodred knew she could not put the strength behind her blows that a Rider could, but the rapidity of strokes made him doubt that many Riders could defeat her in fair combat.

He looked at Éomer and thought he seemed worried, and so Théodred said, “Does she seem all right to you?”  Éomer looked at him and said, “All right?  No.  There has been something amiss with her for months.  I do not know what it is, and she will not tell me.”

“Have you asked her?”

“No.  I will not push her.  It has been hard enough already.  I think she is very lonely now Théodred.  We are always away, and Elfara is gone, and our Uncle not what he once was.”

“Could that be all do you think?”

Éomer looked at him appraisingly, and Théodred said, “We have not really spoken since Elfara’s death.  She was so angry with me then that I did not want to upset her further.”  Éomer had just opened his mouth when Hama joined them saying, “Lord Grima asked me to seek the Lady Éowyn.  She is wanted in the Hall.”  Théodred stood, saying, “I shall call her.”

He approached his cousin, calling her name, but she seemed not to hear him; she turned quickly, her sword spinning and finally coming to a stop a nails length from his throat.  She let out a cry and said, “Oh Théodred I am so sorry, I did not mean to, are you all right?  I didn’t realise you were there!”  He looked at her and smiled, saying “I am merely glad to see I taught you so well cousin” she laughed at his words and for the first time he saw a true, rosy smile break across her face.

She sheathed her sword, and said, “Well then I am glad to have given you such a demonstration cousin!”  Hama approached and said, “Lady Éowyn?  Lord Grima requests that you join him in Meduseld.”  A half-sigh passed from her lips and Éowyn’s face seemed to stiffen, but she only said, “Hama, would you be so kind as to tell Hala Grima that I shall return presently?” 

Hama bowed and left them, and Éowyn sat beside her brother for a moment.  Dusk fell around them, and a chill wind blew down the valley.  Éowyn’s unbound hair was driven into her face and she brushed at it impatiently.  Éomer looked at her and said, “Are you not cold?”  She looked at him, irritated, and said, “Of course not.  Did you not see me?  I have not been idle for the last two hours.”

Éomer looked at his sister and seemed to measure his words – a rare occurrence.  “Éowyn?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you not come stay at Aldburg for a few weeks?  You have never been.”

Éowyn looked at him and bit her lip, “Éomer, it is not that I do not wish to…but I do not think I can.  Uncle…” She stared off into space, and Théodred said, “Come.  Let us eat.”

Éowyn sat at the board and stifled a yawn.  She was tired, though she did not truly know why.  Just when the harvest began Théoden had taken a turn for the worse, and since then she had spent every day attending him.  Her Uncle had to be told when to rest and when to eat, for he would ignore such necessaries himself, and someone had to watch that he did not sicken further.  She did not begrudge the time she spent with him, though she could wish that Grima were not so ever present.  She wondered though why Grima had insisted that it be her who attended the King – he seemed convinced that her attentions could prevent Théoden from slipping further.  But Éowyn was no healer, however much she wished she were when she saw her Uncle’s state.  Grima always stood ever so slightly too close, his hand held hers for too long, and it was all she could do to control her trembling.  Such moments brought back memories she would rather forget, and she lived in fear of their repetition.  And yet such fear was foolish – she had warned him well, he would not overstep again, for, after all, she was of the House of Eorl and he was but an advisor.  The power lay in her hands, should she choose to use it.

Each day, when her Uncle was closeted with Grima, discussing the affairs of the kingdom, she would rush to the stables and saddle Windfola.  She would ride for an hour across the fields that surrounded Edoras, and then take her sword and practise till she was called to dine.  The exercise, the freedom from the weight of people’s sight, had become essential to her; after each day’s routine she felt as though some thing that cramped her shoulders together, that strained her muscles in to stillness, had been released. 

She looked at Théodred and Éomer and smiled to herself.  Her two brothers – so very different.  Théodred, collected and calm always, diplomatic and yet quick to raucous laughter and above all things, honourable to a fault – and Éomer.  She did not know exactly where the difference lay, but one thing stood out – Éomer was quick to anger, and he was no politician.  She loved her brother and thought that in many ways, he stood above all the Rohirrim with his virtues, but she had become used to the idea that there would be times when she would have to save him from a misspoken word.  It did not bother her.

She took a breath and said, “Théodred what is going on beyond Edoras?  In the last three weeks both Elfhelm and Dúnhere arrived with urgent messages for Uncle, and were closeted with him for hours on end.  Uncle won’t tell me what is happening but something is different, I am sure of it.”  Théodred and Éomer looked at each other, and then Théodred leaned forward and said in a low voice, “You have the right of it Éowyn.  I know not what it is, but the orcs and the Dunlendings both have become very active in the last few months.  They seem to move into our lands without fear of reprisal – I fear they may be testing our defences.”

Éowyn bent her head to him and said, “Have you told Uncle of this?”

”He knows, but he does not think it is serious.”

“He doesn’t think it is serious?  Théodred…”

Her cousin stopped her with a stern look, “Éowyn, you are not to worry about this, is that understood?  Your place is here – your worries are here.  The problem is small, and I will not have you fretting over it.”  She was about to protest when Grima sat beside her.  As his hands moved over the flagons of ale and tore through a loaf of bread, he asked, “If I may, what are you discussing so vociferously?”

Éomer leaned back in his chair, “I am simply trying to persuade my sister to visit Aldburg for a time.  I want her to join me there for Middwinter, but she is being stubborn as usual.”  Éowyn looked at him surprised – he was almost never so cordial towards Grima, the two had never got on – but he nodded at her slowly and she decided to play along.  Grima looked at her with a smile twisting his mouth and said, “I have long known that the Lady of Rohan can be formidable.  What, pray tell, is her reasoning?”

“I do not know if it would be to the good to leave my Uncle for such a period, Hala Grima.”

“Lady Éowyn I did not know that you let your sense of duty get in the way of pleasure to such an extent.  I am sure if you mentioned it to your Uncle he would allow you to visit your brother.”

“Perhaps Hala Grima, perhaps.  But I have no intention of mentioning it to him, so the question does not arise.”

He looked at her as though something in her words had caught him off balance, and she smiled inwardly at the thought.  A maidservant approached and asked, “Is there anything you desire my lady?”  Éowyn shook her head but asked, “Know you how Aegyth does this night?”  The maid bobbed a curtsy and said, “Well my lady, she seems well today.  She is sleeping now.”  Éowyn thanked her and stood saying, “Hala Grima shall my lord require me at any time tonight?”

“I think not Lady Éowyn”

“Then I shall retire for the evening.  Good night.”

Théodred stood to accompany her, and she curtsied to Grima and her brother.  She did not know why she was always so formal with him now – save that to allow him any intimacy seemed to her dangerous.  She would not grant him the least advantage of access when it came to her person.  When they reached her room she turned and asked, “Théodred what was the purpose of Éomer’s change of conversation.”  Her cousin looked around and said, “Éowyn Grima looks upon our doings with an unfriendly eye – he has convinced my father that the renewed attacks mean nothing.  I do not wish my father to hear that we are scouting for them until I have proof that something has changed.”

She looked at him in shock, “Have you disobeyed my Uncle?”  He shook his head vehemently, “No, no.  I am going beyond the usual bounds of duty a little, but Éowyn I am doing no harm.”  She smiled at him, “I understand.  Will you be here tomorrow?”

”No.  I shall scout the Westfold once more before returning.  Once winter begins the attacks will stop I am sure of it.”

She nodded and bid him goodnight before going into her room.  As she pulled on her white nightgown she yawned.  Éowyn felt as though she was foundering, pulled into deeper waters than she was used, she had not yet found a stroke that fit.  It seemed difficult to sleep of late – and even when she did she got little rest.  A nightmare had come to her several times, of Meduseld burning to the ground around her, and though she knew it was unlikely, each night she feared that she would dream it once again. 

Sighing, she realised that she was not yet ready for sleep; her mind was still too alert, moving to rapidly for rest.  She sat in front of her fire and pulled her maps towards her.  When she lived in the fair vales of Ithilien she would not live idle – no, she would be a healer, she would heal her Uncle, and she would be renowned throughout all the lands as a healer of men.  For a few moments she imagined that shifting dream – with a house and sun and a garden – but she could not hold it and started to laugh at herself.  What were such thoughts when her Uncle lay ill in his own Hall?  When she had to reason herself out of fear every morning?  Such dreams were foolishness.

The Calm

Éowyn laid the board before her Uncle, and busied herself finding the chalice that he must drink from.  It bothered her that this chalice seemed to go missing with such regularity, for her Uncle could drink from no other, and as byrele it was her responsibility to have a care for the heirlooms of Meduseld.  Still it always turned up in the end, and until she had time to discover the mystery behind its vanishings, that would be enough to satisfy her. 

Théoden looked at his meal with disgust, and in truth, Éowyn did not blame him.  It was made up of the purest and blandest of foods – soft white bread, something of luxury in Rohan, a fact her Uncle failed to appreciate now that he had eaten it for three months solid, pale and creamy gruel that had little or no taste and finally milk, sometimes flavoured with cinnamon, for a treat.  She did not blame Théoden for being frustrated – even ale was only rarely permitted him – and she imagined he was longing for the taste of mead or red meat.

She wished she had not had to restrict him to such dull fare, but Edoras’s healer, Cynefrid, had suggested it, as a way of purging the ill humours that wore down his body.  She was a little doubtful of the efficacy of his methods, for in the three months past her Uncle had shown little discernible improvement.  Edoras had once had a very brilliant Healer by the name of Diancecht, who was known throughout the land for his healing hands, but he was apprenticed in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, and so far all of Éowyn’s letters to him had gone astray.

Being dissatisfied with the current Healer’s efforts Éowyn had sought other knowledge.  She had gone to the library, much as she hated it, and dug up those few texts on Rohan’s Kings.  She had read tales of the King’s back to Fréaláf Hildeson, the first of the second line of Kings, but had found nothing useful.  Most of the Kings had died in their sleep, and had been hearty and hale until their deaths.  Some others had died from the wounds they received in battle, but none had suffered from a decline such as the one her Uncle laboured under. 

Though as for that few of the records were of much use.  They were chronicles of the realm, and were not particularly detailed – taking brief note of the major deaths, births, marriages and battles in particular years.  Éowyn often found herself wondering who Eadwig Marshal of the Mark had been exactly, and why his death had brought ‘much rejoicing’, and still more if he had been hated, why his son Wybert had been ‘greatly beloved’; but the chronicles offered no clue.

All save one.  Covering a ten-year period of her grandfather Thengel’s reign, it was beautifully written – unusual since all the chronicles were written in Westron, a language not native to Rohan.  The writer was Éowyn’s favourite of all the chroniclers, for he described Morwen Steelsheen’s stand and even took note of the birth of Éowyn’s mother, Théodwyn.  The position of Chronicler had once been one of great honour – for at the end of each reign, a copy of the chronicle would be sent to Minas Tirith for inclusion in its great libraries (one of the reasons why the chronicle was written in Westron) – but it was not so now.  It seemed to Éowyn that after the departure of the great captain and chronicler Thorongil – who she vaguely remembered meeting in her own childhood – the office had declined.  It was considered scut-work and was consigned to the lowliest of scribes.

Fascinating though the chronicles were, they were of no help to her.  All they told her was that no one in Théoden’s line had ever suffered from the illness that was aging him, which was not, all things considered, particularly useful. 

Théoden laid down his spoon, and Éowyn hurriedly said, “Are you finished Uncle?”  He nodded, and Éowyn smiled at him, and said, “I have something for you today Uncle.”  He looked up at her, and she smiled and produced an apple with a flourish.  Théoden’s eyes widened and he said, “How did you convince Cynefrid?”

“I simply mentioned to him that for you to eat fruit was probably not as dangerous as if you do not eat at all.  Shall I cut it for you?”

She unsheathed her short knife and cut the apple into segments, cutting as little from it as possible.  When she was done she handed them to her Uncle on a plate, and tucked her knife into her boot once more.  As she did so she could not restrain the surge of frustration that cramped her stomach – she was a Shieldmaiden, not a dry nurse!  She did not begrudge the time she spent with her Uncle, but it was not what she had trained for.  She felt like a tool that rusted due to lack of use – she could not cure her Uncle, she could not even stay his decline, try as she might, and she must stay and sit beside him always, hiding her frustration behind a mask of content. 

So far none had divined the frustrated desire for action that seethed within her, but it was only a matter of time she was sure.  Still Théoden had seemed a little better for the past week and perhaps she might, after all, be able to visit Aldburg for a few days.  Summer had nearly begun and the warm days might mean that her Uncle would require less care.

Théoden grinned at her and said, “What else is there today Éowyn?”

“Well Hama wishes to meet with you regarding the re-enforcement of the walls around Edoras, and Théodred has sent a messenger from the field.  And of course, Grima wishes to speak with you.  Hama can wait if you are feeling tired.”

“No, no.  But I shall speak with Grima first.”

“Of course Uncle.  I shall find him for you.”

“No need Lady Éowyn.  I am here.”

“Well in that case I shall leave you till I am needed.”

“Actually, Lady Éowyn, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Yes?”

“I would hear your voice on this.”

“Of course Hala Grima.”  Éowyn sank down beside her Uncle, her skirts billowing out around her.  Perhaps later she could go riding. 

Grima bowed to Théoden, and drew up a stool beside the throne.  He spoke softly, and Éowyn had to strain her ears to catch every word.  “I have heard, my lord, that of late, freocwene Aegyth has been taken ill.”  Théoden bent his head attentively, “How long has she been ill?”

“Many months, lord Théoden, and Cynefrid informs me that her illness is of the most chronic and pernicious kind.”

Éowyn’s ears pricked up at this, but she said nothing, waiting for Grima’s point to emerge.  In the past months she had become some what used to his convoluted speech patterns, although that did not mean she found them any less irritating.  Théoden spoke again, “And what is your counsel?”

“I believe lord Théoden that this illness freocwene Aegyth suffers from prevents her from performing many of the duties she has fulfilled with such excellence these past years.  I thought I might suggest that you could grant her land where she might live out her final years in peace.”

“Éowyn, what is your opinion?”

“Uncle, I…I must protest.  I do not doubt Hala Grima’s motives, but, Aegyth has devoted her life’s service to Meduseld, we can not simply abandon her now that she is old.”

“We would not be abandoning her Lady Éowyn, rather we would simply insure that her last years would be free of the duties at which she has laboured all her life.”

“Perhaps, but all her life is bound up in this hall Uncle – it would be cruel to take her away from it.  Surely we can keep her here, if we ease her duties somewhat?”

“I am sure lady Éowyn speaks from the heart, but I do not doubt that she herself could replace freocwene Aegyth in many ways, as she already has.”

Éowyn stared at him, not liking the implications of his remarks.  She spoke once more, “Uncle, think of the many years Aegyth has spent here – you cannot ask her to leave.  She has lived here longer even than you have.”

Grima smirked and said, “I am aware that Aegyth’s removal will necessitate the acceptance of many new duties on lady Éowyn’s part, but I do not doubt that she is able for the task.”

Éowyn made a move to argue once more but Théoden cut her off, saying, “I have not yet made my decision, Éowyn.  Grima and I have many affairs to discuss, and I am sure you have duties to perform.”  She stood and curtsied to the throne, “Of course Uncle.”  She walked to the doors, her back straight and her steps slow. 

Once she left the hall she sped up, reaching the stables as quickly as possible.  Her hands moved swiftly over Windfola’s saddle.  What was the purpose?  Why force Aegyth to leave?  She would pass in a few months anyway, so why the sudden desire to give her rest?  Éowyn lent her head against the pommel for a moment – she knew what this meant.  With Aegyth gone, she would be bound to Meduseld all the more – she could see where Grima’s scheme tended.  He wanted her to take up Aegyth’s duties in the Golden Hall on top of her own, which were numerous enough, even though no Lady of Rohan had done so in generations.  But why?  She could not fathom it.  Her fists clenched in frustration – her few hours with horse and blade would be curtailed even further, and Aegyth.  How could Théoden even think of sending her away?  It was wrong; he himself had taught her that retainers should be cared for in their old age, not send to die on some barren plot of land.

She did not doubt that Grima would succeed in convincing her Uncle to banish Aegyth, and she hated him for his oily policy.  It wasn’t right!  Théoden was an honourable man, how could he even consider such a thing?  Windfola neighed, and Éowyn swung herself into the saddle, hoping to pound out an answer on the valley floor with her hooves, or perhaps catch some flash of insight in the whistling wind – for herself she could not understand it.

Author’s Note:

1) Diancecht:  Now this is complicated.  When I researched Anglo-Saxon medicine, mention was made of a myth they’d adopted from the Celts they conquered, a myth that only survives in the Irish legend:

Long ago, in Erin, there were the Fomorians, and after them, the Tuatha De Danaan. The Tuatha fought to win the land from the Fomorians and they were helped by their god of medicine and physic, Diancecht.  At the last great battle, Diancecht took one each of every good herb in Erin, and threw them into a well. Then he took all those mortally wounded of the Tuatha De Danaan and threw them into the well. They each climbed from the well, whole again and fit to rejoin the battle; and in this manner, which I shall forbear to call cheating, the Tuatha De Danaan defeated the Fomorians.

Diancecht had a son called Midac; when Midac died, 365 different herbs grew on his grave, one for each joint and sinew of his body. Each herb was good cure for the matching part of the human body that it's position indicated on the grave of Midac.

Diancecht's daughter collected and dried the herbs and placed them in store in their proper order; however, Diancecht must have thought the Tuatha were getting it too easy, for in a fit of a temper he mixed all the herbs up; that is why mankind has to sort things out for himself."

Upon reading it I thought, what if Diancecht was an actual healer in Rohan, who after the War of the Ring, managed to revolutionise healing?  It’s a bit of a stretch, but I thought it was interesting.

The reference to ‘humours’ comes, not from Anglo-Saxon medicine, but from the theories of the body that had fairly common currency in Mediaeval Europe – ideas I imagined Rohan would have received from its more sophisticated neighbour, Gondor.

2) The Chronicles.  Even the most primitive of European cultures, once they attained a basic level of literacy, kept chronicles of major events.  There is nothing more simultaneously tantalising and infuriating than a mediaeval chronicle, and I hoped to capture some of that here - for example there is an English chronicle in which, after a gap of twenty years, Old English changes to Middle English, apparently without anyone noticing.

3) A final note.  At present Éowyn is just nineteen, meaning that we're between four and five years from the War of the Ring

Frostbite

Éowyn, Théodred, Grima and the King sat in a small room of Meduseld.  A fire spat and smoked in the grate – the wind was from the East making it difficult to light a flame.  Théoden’s shoulders were far down in his chair, and there were deep shadows under his eyes.  A silence had fallen over them, and Éowyn watched as her cousin drank deeply from his mug.  Grima steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and, cocking an eyebrow, said, “My lord, this must be decided today.  Else the rider shall not reach the Dunharrow before the snows fall.”

Théoden sighed, saying, “I wonder what Eldwyn would have done with this.  My father always said that he knew the hearts of men.”  Grima sighed with great piety and said, “It is true my lord.  Wita Eldywn was the very wisest of men.”  Éowyn looked at him with suspicion – it had been no secret that Grima had hated Eldwyn, who had reciprocated.  The old man had left Edoras in Éowyn’s tenth year, and though Théoden had seen him on occasion their friendship had been greatly strained.  Eldwyn had died with the onset of this year’s winter and Théoden mourned the death of his friend more than he had mourned the death of the friendship. 

Théodred cleared his throat and said, “Father what is your mind?”  Théoden flexed his hands and said, “I know not Théodred.  In such cases as these it is normally the case that we would hold a court and decide the truth of the affair, but you tell me it would not be wise to travel to Dunharrow, and the matter cannot wait.”  Grima interrupted him and said, “And besides my lord, your health would surely forbid you from such a long journey.”  Théoden looked to him and said, “Read us the accusation once again.”

Grima spoke his voice seeming to slide across the floor of the room and twist around Éowyn’s ears.  “That Besyrwan did haunt and follow Claennis for many days, and that on the evening of the seventh night, upon hearing her complaint, he did ravish her.  We have heard of these things and have thought them fit for the King’s judgement.”  

Théoden sighed and said, “Without greater knowledge I can not make this judgement.  Know neither of you anything of this man?”  Both men shook their heads, but Éowyn spoke up, “Uncle, if I may…”

“My lord, Lady Éowyn is not a member of this council…”

“What I have to say bears upon this subject Uncle.”

Théoden looked at her, considering, and said, “Continue.”  Éowyn swallowed and said, “I have spoken often with freocwene Blostma, who is from Dunharrow, and she told me once of man she named Besyrwan Fyren for that he was often cruel to his horses and once beat a maidservant till she was blue.”

Grima smiled at her indulgently, “My lord, while this woman from whom Lady Éowyn received this information may have heard some story of Besyrwan’s conduct, surely it should be borne in mind that this woman, Claennis, has been named a whore.”  Théoden looked at his niece and said, “That is of import surely Éowyn.”

“But the words naming her as such came from the lips of the man accused Uncle; surely it is in his interest to paint such a picture.”

“He claimed, Lady Éowyn, to have received willing embraces from the woman many times.  Why should he lie?”

“But why would she accuse him if such were the case Hala Grima?  What benefit would it bring to her?”

“I know not, Lady Éowyn, but I have never claimed to understand the secrets of a woman’s heart.  My lord, we must not allow an honourable man to be traduced by a woman of such light virtue.”

Théodred cocked an eyebrow at Grima’s tone and said, “Father, surely we could postpone judgement until the spring?  If you cannot go, which I am sure you could, you could send Éomer or I in your stead.  We cannot judge the truth from Edoras.”

“And allow a man’s honour to be held in doubt all through the winter Prince?  Surely you must place some greater value on an unstained reputation than that?  We cannot allow light words and rumour to traduce him all winter long.”

Théoden straightened with a groan and said, “Théodred, Éowyn you both may be right, but without further knowledge we cannot hold this man guilty of such a crime – and he has been accused by a woman he names whore, let us not forget.  She may be merely attempting to safeguard her reputation with this story, but do we truly believe that one of the Rohirrim is capable of such an act?  I shall send to Dunharrow that he is absolved, but who is the captain in Buhr Marling?”

“I do not know Father, but Dúnhere is lord of Harrowdale, he would know.”

“Very good.  I shall send word that Besyrwan is to be watched for a year or more, and if any other accusation be made, or the captain is suspicious, than he shall bear the penalties.  Now you said you have something of great import to say.”

“Well father I have spoken with the other Marshals, and it seems we have all noticed a change in the last year or so.”

Théoden leaned forward, his eyes shining with anticipation – hearing of his Riders was one of the few things that could now kindle a light in his eyes.  “What has changed Théodred?”

Théodred looked at Éowyn and said, “Do you remember the case of the woman Elfara?”  Grima seemed to stiffen but he said nothing and Théoden said, “A little.  She vanished did she not?”

“She was captured by orcs, father, that at least was clear, but for all the destruction of the camp it did not seem as if they had killed her immediately.  Of late we have seen many more camps where the people have vanished.  Gamling ventured that perhaps they were captured to some purpose.”

“Did anything link them?”

“They were almost all from Edoras, with some few from Aldburg, and all had served the House of Eorl at some point, but that is all we could discover.”

“Does it worry you?”

“Yes, father.  I do not like it – they seem to be moving now with some purpose though I cannot yet tell what it is.  Éomer says his men have been drawn into pursuit twice now, as though his strength were being tested.”

“And what Prince is you suggestion?  Surely you do not think we can understand the strategy of mindless Orcs?”

“No, but it might be of some use, if the next time someone vanishes, we follow the trail and see where it leads.  We might gain some insight into their purpose.”

Éowyn stared into the fire; she was sick of these tales.  A new happening of that year’s summer, they terrified her.  Every few weeks an éored would return bearing news of another disappearance.  Thoughts of the tortures those men and women were forced to endure drove sleep from her bed, and she could almost smell the fear when she walked through Edoras.  She could not drive the image of a noose from her mind, and often fancied that she could feel it being slid around them.  Yet even these thoughts were swallowed by her anger; how could they assume such things?  How could they find in favour of Besyrwan, when they had no evidence to suggest that he had any honour?  The captain of Buhr Marling, who had written to Théoden, signing himself as such, seemed to have no high opinion of Besyrwan’s honour, and she herself had provided information shed light on the case, and yet they had absolved him completely.  At the least he should have been brought before the King for judgement, and the story, from both sides, heard in full before the King’s will was decided – it was a serious accusation and would have been seen as such under her Grandfather Thengel.  Yet Théoden passed it in a matter of minutes, swallowing contently the hearsay that Claennis was a whore when they had only the word of an accused ravisher to support it. 

She looked up – the men had finished talking, and as it was clear that Théoden was going to retire she was free to go.  She hefted her cloak onto her shoulder and left as quietly as possible.  Walking quickly through the hall she placed the heavy cloak about her shoulders and walked through the doors.  She raised her hood as the wind hit her hard.  Standing on the parapet she looked out over the valley.  A wild wind blew into her face, pushing back her hood, and to brace herself she had to spread her legs far apart.  An ice-cold rain was carried in the harsh winds, and the drops hit her face like stones.  She had to bend her head away from them, and as she did so, she looked to the city.  Fires blazed in every house, and yet, Meduseld was dark inside.  There were no bands of warriors singing songs of battle or fair women granting favours to the honourable – no, there was only a dark hall and a few gusts of smoke from the fire that smouldered yet in the hearth.  Éowyn sighed, despite it all she could not cry, she felt too weak for tears and eventually she turned and made her way back into the hall, her fingers blue.

She would seek her bed, and bury herself under as many quilts and furs as possible.  She felt chilled today – not just her hands, but all over, and what was worse, inside.  Yet Théodred came between her and her desire and called to her, saying “I would have some speech with you Éowyn.”  She sat with him and met his eyes, not without impatience.  “What is it that you would know?”

“Earlier, when we discussed the accusation of the woman Claennis, you seemed, angry or…I do not know, but I wondered why it bothered you so.”

“Did it not bother you cousin?  My uncle’s judgement was wrong in this case, you know it as well as I.”

“I agree with you Éowyn, but, it was more than that.  I could see it.”

“There is nothing more.”

“Éowyn.”

“How could he call her a whore?  For making an accusation against a man who robbed all her honour?  That is the highest proof that she is not Théodred – if she truly were, she would seek to hide this tale, not publish it.”

Her cousin looked her over with worry in his eyes, and took her hand in his, “Éowyn if there…if there is aught you wish to tell me, I shall hear it with open ears.  You need not fear anything you know.”  She laughed bitterly, but smiled at him with sorrow in her heart; she would not tell him – he would only be ashamed of her, and she could not stand to bring grief to him and her Uncle.  They had given her a home, and she would not stain it with dishonour.  Her sorrow would be kept in her own heart alone.  She said softly, “I have no secrets Théodred.  Goodnight to you.”

Author’s Note:

Claennis = Purity

Besyrwan = Ensnares

Fyren = Wicked

Eldwyn = Wise Advisor

Two Roads

Éowyn clutched a shawl around her shoulders and knocked on the door.  She could hear scuffling from inside and then Blostma flung the door open.  A wide smile broke across her face when she saw Éowyn, and she ushered the girl inside.  “Sit down, sit down,” she said, gesturing towards a chair, “Tea?”

Éowyn sank into the seat gratefully – she had been up very late the night before with her Uncle and had slept badly.  She brushed the image of a burning hall from her mind as Blostma handed her a cup of hot liquid and sat looking awkward as Éowyn took a deep sip.  She sighed briefly and said, “Éomer said you were leaving, and I wanted to…”.  The older woman relaxed immediately, saying, “I thought I had grazed my sheep in someone else’s patch.”

Éowyn smiled at her and said, “When do you leave?” 

“In a two weeks.  Helm has built the house already so we need only gather our harvest and then we shall leave.  The preparations are keeping me busy now.”

“It is good that I came today then; with my Uncle’s condition I am not often free, I might not have seen you.”

Blostma was darning a pair of stockings but she looked up at Éowyn’s words, “Your Uncle’s condition, lady?”

“Yes.  His illness.  Surely you know of it?”

“Aye, lady Éowyn, but we are forbidden to speak of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is the law.”

“What?  My Uncle would never make so foolish a law.”

Blostma spoke very carefully, without meeting Éowyn’s eyes; “It was not the King who told us of it, but Grima Wormtongue.  He came to each house in the night, and warned that none should speak of our lord’s illness on pain of imprisonment.”

“Truly?  I, I am sorry Blostma, I was not aware that any such law had been made.  I shall speak with my Uncle.  But, Wormtongue?”

“It is what Helm names Grima.  He dislikes him.”

“It is a true name for him.”  Éowyn said, thinking of her own encounters with the unctuous counsellor, “Where are you going?”

“A small village in West Emnet, and not far from the Entwash.  Helm grew up there - he is to breed horses for Erkenbrand now.”

“He shall no longer ride?”

“He’s too old.”

“Théodred will be grieved.  Helm is one of his most faithful Riders.”

“And he shall lose Poldon as well.”

“Poldon?”

“He and Wynsum are moving with us.  Wynsum and I are friends since childhood Lady Éowyn, and since we, neither of us, have any kin, we have been like sisters.  Poldon is to serve in Erkenbrand’s éored.”

“Two of his finest Riders deserting him at once!  Théodred will be much displeased.”

“Really lady Éowyn?”

“No, I apologise, that was ill said of me.”

A silence fell between them and Éowyn finally said, “I heard about Magnus.  I’m sorry – was Modwyn all right?”  Blostma sighed and said, “She is now; that is what matters.  He was a goodly old man.”

“I never thanked you for that, but, it eased my heart to know he was in your care.”

“You were friends with his daughter were you not?”

“Yes, great friends.  I miss her still.  Will you keep Modwyn with you?”

“Aye.  She has kin in the Wold, so we shall be near them, but we all thought it better that she stay with us.”

Éowyn was about to say something when the door flew open, and the girl in question stumbled in.  Her long hair had been fought into a pair of thin plaits, but they had come half undone, with clumps of blonde hair sticking out.  A woman followed her more sedately, clutching a baby in one hand, a basket in the other, and calling out, “Be careful Modwyn”

The girl skidded to a stop in front of Éowyn and looked up at her with serious eyes.  Éowyn tried to smile, but she was unused to children, and said, “Hello little-one.  Do you remember me?”  Modwyn looked at her and after a long moment said, “yes.  You’re Éowyn – you gave me to Mama.  She told me.  Will I look like you when I’m old?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe – but I was a very ugly child, so I don’t think so.”

Modwyn folded her arms on Éowyn’s lap and said, “Well you’re not ugly now.  I don’t think so and I’m six.”  Éowyn was unsure what to say, and looked up to see Blostma shaking with silent laughter.  Modwyn turned and said, “Just because I can’t see you Mama doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re laughing.”  She walked over and pulled herself into her mother’s lap, her legs kicking out awkwardly. 

Éowyn looked at Wynsum and was relieved to discover that she felt no enmity towards her.  Nor was she congratulating herself on her better looks – she felt only friendship towards her.  Wynsum was laughing as she said, “Your daughter is full of energy today Blostma – might I ask what you are feeding her?”  She smiled at Éowyn and said, “How are you Lady of the Mark.  It is long since I have seen you.”

“I am well freocwene Wynsum, but who is this?”  Wynsum laughed, and said, “This is my menace.  We call him Leofwine.”  She moved closer so that Éowyn could see the babe, and Éowyn could not keep back the words, “Oh Wynsum he’s beautiful!”

“Would you like to hold him?”

“Are you sure, I’ve never held, I mean I don’t know much about babies”

“They don’t break too easily.”  Wynsum said, placing the babe in Éowyn’s arms, and moving them so that they supported his head.  Éowyn found herself completely entranced by the little boy she held – his tiny hands with their delicate little nails, his tongue that sat so soft in his mouth, the fine hair on his head.  He looked up at her and laughed, gurgling in some mysterious happiness.  She found herself talking to him, “Hello, hello darling, look at you.”  She kissed the tip of his tiny nose and he smiled at her.  Wynsum’s voice broke the spell as she said, “Have you any thought to marry Lady Éowyn?”

She looked up, slightly embarrassed, both at the question, and at cooing over Wynsum’s son, “No.  There is no one, and even if there were I must stay with my Uncle.”  Blostma cleared her throat; “I have heard it said that Wormtongue seeks an alliance with the House of Eorl.”

Éowyn felt a knife twist in her gut – surely not.  She felt sick at the thought.  Marriage to him!  To that loathsome toad!  Shivers ran through her at the throat, but she said only, “Well if he does, I have certainly heard nothing of it.  But I would not be minded to accept his suit in any case.”  She hoped things would not come to such a pass; always she assumed that Grima’s, she would not call it pursuit, it was subtler than that, but behaviour towards her, had tended only towards his hope to conquer her body; were it to be something more she did not think she could bear it.  Blostma said, “Lady Éowyn are you all right?”

“Yes.  Forgive me – a passing faintness.  I will be fine in just a moment.”

Wynsum took the baby from her arms, and the two women started to talk.  At first Eowyn ignored them but she found herself being drawn into their conversation.  Wynsum said, “Know you that Claennis has plans to come here?”

“Truly?”

“Aye.  None will keep her in Buhr Mahling now and she has no brother – I hear she hopes to find some employ here.”

“Poor woman – forced to leave her home.”

“Perhaps, but if she had known better she would not have to.  She should never have spoken of it.”

“She may have been more sinned against than sinning Wynsum.”

“Perhaps, though that is not the tale I was told.  It is no wonder her cousin flung her from his house – if what Besyrwan claims is true I am merely surprised he did not do so sooner.”

Éowyn was about to stand and make her apologies when she heard a pounding on the door.  Blostma let Hama in and he gasped out thanks before saying, “Lady Éowyn I have had a time of it trying to find you.  You are needed urgently in the Hall.”  She stood and nodded at Blostma and Wynsum, “I may not see you again before you go, so let me wish you luck”.  Both women curtsied, Wynsum a little awkwardly loaded as she was with Leofwine.  Éowyn looked back as she left the house and saw Modwyn wave at her.

She looked at Hama and said, “What has happened?  Has the King been taken ill?”  Hama shook his head, “I do not know Lady Éowyn.  Grima came to me, saying that you must be found urgently, that your Uncle desired to speak with you, but he said not why.”  Éowyn pondered his words for a moment and said, “Have any messengers arrived?  Is it possible that…” her throat closed over the last words and Hama shook his head once more, “No Lady Éowyn it is nothing like that.”

She sighed with relief as they reached Meduseld, and said, “Thank you Hama.”  She made her way to her Uncle’s chambers, where he was to be found more and more now.  Knocking on the door she entered, panting a little.  Théoden looked up and smiled at her, and for a moment she could almost believe that he was as he had once been, but then he put a hand to his mouth and coughs racked his chest, and she knew that no miracle had occurred.  She had poured him a soothing drink and made him consume it before she realised that Grima was in the room – hanging back in the shadows.

Théoden looked at her and said, “Sit before me child.”  She knelt before him, and he said, “What think you of marriage sister-daughter?”  She swallowed and said, “It is an honour I think not of Uncle.”  He slapped his knee and she leant back a bit in shock as he said, “I knew it I; Grima here was convinced that your thoughts tended in that direction…he said that there is a particular fellow?”

“Did he?  Well Hala Grima is mistaken – my only desire is to serve you as best I can Uncle.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.  Of course.”

“That is well Éowyn.  I have no desire to give you up yet.”

“I am glad Uncle.”

Grima spoke for the first time, “Might I speak with you lady Éowyn?”  She stood and bowed to her Uncle, then said, “Of course, Hala Grima.”  She followed him into the corridor, closing the door carefully behind her.  Grima turned around, and suddenly she realised that he was furious; “Why did you take so long?”

“I was visiting a friend Hala Grima – it took Hama some time to find me that is all.”

“Do you care so little for your Uncle’s health that you go wandering about Edoras when you are needed here?”

Éowyn wiped a fleck of spittle from her cheek, attempting to hide her distaste, and said, “I was not needed.  My Uncle is well at this moment; I fail to see the reason for your displeasure Hala Grima.”

“Had you been here only a few moments earlier…”

“Nothing would be any different, my mind would not have changed in the space of a few seconds.  Since my Uncle is better than he has been I must ask you to cease this questioning.”

“How dare you speak so to me?”

“You forget your place counsellor.  I will hear no more of this.  But it puts me in mind that I have questions to ask of you, Hala Grima.  What is this law forbidding talk of my Uncle’s health?”

“I passed it Lady Éowyn to prevent ideas from entering men’s minds, as they will when a sovereign is in poor health.”

“Since the succession is assured Hala Grima there is no danger that ‘ideas’, as you put it, might take root.  Why was this law not debated in council?  Why did my Uncle fail to mention it even to his son?”

She had never seen Grima so furious and she realised, belatedly, that she had been speaking louder and louder as their conversation progressed.  She straightened her shoulders and looked up at him, and suddenly he grabbed her shoulders, saying “This is not your concern lady Éowyn, do not interfere…”

Before Éowyn knew what was happening Hama had grabbed Grima’s shoulder, and sent him flying into the wall.  He stood above the counsellor with a drawn sword, saying, “How dare you lay hands on lady Éowyn, I should slay you where you stand.”  His blade touched Grima’s neck, and the counsellor whimpered.  Éowyn laid her hand on Hama’s wrist, saying, “Peace Hama.  It is over now.”  He stepped back and said, “Of course, Lady Éowyn.  Be glad she interceded on you behalf, worm.” 

As Hama walked away, keeping them in sight, Éowyn knelt beside Grima, where he lay, gasping for breath.  She spoke softly, “I have warned you once already.  Do not force me to warn you again, or I swear, it shall be my blade that cuts your throat.”

She turned from him, and did not see him stand slowly, a satisfied smile spreading over his face, for she was following Hama.  The doorward stood at his post, his sword hand strained over his hilt.  She smiled at him and he nodded.  She spoke first, “Thank you Hama,”

He looked at her and said, “You need not thank me, my Lady.” 

“I know, and yet I thank you still.”

“I mislike how he treats you Lady Éowyn.  You are not a chattel to come and go at his call; your brother does not see it, but I do, and Lady Éowyn I wish you would protest.”

She looked at him a little sadly, and wondered how it was that she knew so much more of what was politic than he, but she said only, “The time is not yet ripe Hama.  Still, I would have you this token, as a sign of my gratitude.”  She gave him a handkerchief, and he looked at her confused, “I can not give anything in return for such service, but I would have it known that you have my favour.”

“My lady, I am not worthy of such…”

Éowyn laughed and said, “Do not fear Hama; tis only a gift of gratitude.  Now take it, and keep it in good health.”  He bent and kissed her hand, and she left him; she must ponder over what she had learnt this day, but first she would tend to her Uncle.

Author's Note

The title is a reference to the Robert Frost poem "The Road Not Taken":

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Strangulation

Éowyn entered the Hall with the appearance of composure – though her skirts were still kilted up in one hand to allow her to run.  No one paid her any heed.  Théodred stood before the throne, his hand resting on his sword-hilt, and his appearance dishevelled, as though he had only just dismounted from his horse.  His second in command, Elfhelm stood beside him; Éowyn did not altogether like the young Marshal.  He was too charming for her liking – he gave words a smooth twist that disturbed her – but she knew Théodred had a high opinion of him, and so she had not yet condemned him. 

She edged up the Hall, finding her place behind her Uncle’s throne.  She felt, rather then saw, Grima behind her, but she ignored the itch to shrug his gaze off, and concentrated on the conversation between father and son.  Théodred stared his father down, and Théoden finally said, “You have seen this?”

“Aye Father, not fifteen miles from here.  Éohyrde’s camp has been destroyed but his body is not there.”

Éowyn could not restrain a gasp, “So close to Edoras?”  She blushed and hung her head a little, but what she said was ignored, aside from Elfhelm, who nodded at her to acknowledge her presence.  Théodred continued, “Father there is more.  Éohyrde’s herd – all the black horses, they are gone also.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.  The trail is still warm father – we may be able to catch them if we move quickly.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Yes, Father.  My men need only an hour to prepare themselves, and then we shall chase them till they are found.”

“Go to it then.”

Théodred nodded and bowed to his father and turned to walk from the hall.  Éowyn excused herself and scurried to catch up with him, having to take two strides for every one of his.  He did not notice her, and she had to call his name – by the time he turned they had reached the parapet.  He sighed and signalled that Elfhelm should wait for him, and turned to face her. “What is it Éowyn?”

“I…Théodred take me with you.”

He looked at her once, keenly, and said, “No.  Your place is here.”  Each time she had heard these words before, and those times had been many, she had accepted them coolly, yet now she could not.  “My place is here!  Tell me Théodred am I Shieldmaiden or not?”

“Éowyn…”

“Tell me, for faith I begin to wonder.  My sword hangs on my bedroom wall, it has never tasted blood…”

“Éowyn this is serious!”

“I am serious Théodred.  Tell me, why  did you all train me to be Shieldmaiden if I am never to be tested?  It has been five years since I was named, and I have done nothing.  Is it the duty of all Shieldmaidens to honour the men when they return and wait while they are gone?”

“Aye Éowyn you are the Shieldmaiden, but that does not mean you are ready for war.”

“You yourself said that I am a finer swordsman than most who now ride.  I had driven the sword from your very hand and you tell me I am not ready.”

“NO!  Éowyn you will not go to war, you will not ride with me – you will stay here, is that understood?”

“I understand my Prince.”

He looked at her and she could see that he was sorry, but she was too angered with him to easily forgive.  He started to apologise, but she interrupted, saying, “Say it.”

“What?”

“I am your last resort am I not?  When all the men are dead the Shieldmaiden may fight, but until then I am to be an ornament to your Hall.  Is it not true?”

“Éowyn.”

“I understand Théodred.  I am obviously so useless to all of you, that I may only take my part when there are no others left.  I understand.”

“I have to go.  Forgive me Éowyn.”  She nodded at him, and watched as he walked down the steps.  She drifted over to the corner of the parapet where the flag of Rohan flew.  She felt limp.  She shivered and hugged herself as the wind blew.  She wished she could become one with the harsh winds and rugged plains of Rohan – that she could drift off and be part of her land.  And when she returned, if she ever returned, Meduseld would be as great as once it had been, and Théoden would be healthy.  She fixed her eyes on the sliver of moon that appeared in the sky and wished she could rid herself of this dumb, relentless longing that things be different; that her life would be, as it ought to be.  It did her no good to hold such longings in her heart, to pine over them, and yet she could not give them up, despite her conviction that somehow it would be better if she did not hope for something more.  She wiped a single tear from her cheek, and straightened her spine once again.  Somehow she bit back the urge to scream her frustration aloud – she could not stand it.  She was confined more and more to Meduseld; rarely was she granted time to ride, and always she had to bring a guard with her now.  She was never alone, save when she slept.  Someone always kept company with her – Grima most often of all.  His breath touched her skin, and she felt as though its foulness had sank into her.  Each time his gaze rested on her she could barely restrain the urge to scrub every inch of skin it touched until it was raw, purged of him.

A voice interrupted her reverie; “My lady.”  She turned, “Oh, Marshal Elfhelm, excuse me.”

“There is nothing to excuse my lady.  Will you walk with me?”

“Should you not be with Théodred?”

“My éored arrived fresh this morning – I give them this hour to rest up before the ride.”

Éowyn looked at him as he walked beside her.  He was a tall man, and broad, though not so broad as Éomer.  She guessed him to be about ten years older than her, though it was hard to tell.  He had an air of controlled energy about him, and yet his eyes were uncommonly shrewd.  She felt herself reacting to him strongly but could not name her reaction, not precisely.  He smiled at her, and she realised suddenly that she was being charmed – and she didn’t entirely dislike it.  Still she was the Lady of Rohan and so she smiled at him in return. 

They walked the parapet and as they came to the end he turned and said, “My lady, if you will forgive me, you should not be angry with your cousin.”

“What?”

“I could not help but overhear your conversation, and my lady you ought to understand – it is in our nature to wish to protect a beautiful woman.”

She gaped at him, and he took her hand, and kissed it – his finger caressing her palm in a fashion so forward that she nearly gasped.  He grinned at her, and she forgot to be offended as he walked away.  Somehow she gathered herself and re-entered the Hall, and Grima glided towards her.  Dread clenched in her stomach – could he not let her have even this moment, must he steal it from her?  For an instant she had forgot all that lay upon her shoulders and now he would gift it to her once again.

“I saw you were enjoying some moments conversation with the Marshal Elfhelm.”

“I was; he is a very charming man.”

“So I have heard it said lady Éowyn.  Indeed I believe many ladies in Rohan have held such a belief.”

She did not want to ask his meaning, but knew that as the night followed day, she must.  “Of what are you speaking?”

“I have heard it rumoured that the Marshal Elfhelm is, forgive my vulgarity lady Éowyn, fond of wenching and swiving.”

She shivered, but only said, “No such rumour has reached my ears Hala Grima.”

”Has it not lady Éowyn?  Perhaps that is because your brother, and even, the Prince, have been named as his companions in such scandalous activities.”

“But rumour is lying jade Hala Grima.”

“Of course Lady Éowyn, forgive me for distracting you with such useless information.  I simply wished to preserve you from any attachment to such a man; however, as always, I bow to your judgement.  I am sure you many duties to attend to, for our lord Théoden will be downcast with both his son and sister-son away at war.  It shall be your task to soothe his restless hours.”

Éowyn curtsied and said nothing, her nails gouging into the soft skin of her palms, but he was not finished.  “It is fortunate that King Théoden has as dedicated a nurse as you Lady Éowyn.  Many court ladies would wile the hours away with indolent pleasure; it pleases my heart to see you so intent on fulfilling your every duty.”

She wanted to hit him; she wanted to wipe his gloating smile from his ugly face, but she could not.  Shaking inside her skirts with suppressed rage Éowyn turned her back on him, and made her way to her room.  Once inside she tried to relax but she could not – she could not stand this room, this hall.  The walls pressed in about her, suffocating her, and even those who loved her most were determined to press her further inside, to keep from her lungs even the few breaths of fresh air she was still able to breathe.  She strained her arms against the post of her bed as hard as she could, only stopping when the bed had lifted onto two legs.  Stifling the urge to roar and rend her dress, she reached for the sword that hung upon her wall.  But even that gave her little relief – she could no longer practise outside, with the wind fingering her hair and the sky above her, for fear that she might be captured where she stood, five feet from the gates of Edoras. 

After half an hour she left the room, and returned to her post as nurse to her Uncle.

Glossary

Éohyrde = horse shepherd.

The Fall

Éowyn counted out the rings and gave them to each of the maids.  It had been an idea of her Uncle’s to grant each servant of their house a copper ring as a mark of their loyalty, but she could not understand it.  She stood and said, “My Uncle asked me to give each of you one of these rings to show that he has marked that each of you have kept faith with him, and to pledge that he will keep faith with each of you.  He thanks you.”  They curtsied as one and she watched as they filtered away from her.  It had been a tedious task, taking months of organisation.  She had had to count each servant of the King, even those who had retired, or who served him in far parts of the Mark and then find a blacksmith who would forge the rings.  Grima had claimed it was intended to build loyalty among the folk of Meduseld, and elsewhere, but as far as she could tell it had the exact opposite effect.  The servants felt as though they had been marked for the orcs to find – and she could not blame them when so many who served Théoden had disappeared.  Éohyrde’s body had been found after a two-week search, and the tortures and mutilations visited upon him had made all affeared.

After Théodred had brought Éohyrde’s body back Éowyn had woken every night for a month from nightmares of her father’s own mutilated body.  She held the screams behind her teeth and had woken with tears streaming down her face, but she would not cry out, she willed her hands into fists against any sound.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.  That had been a year before and she ought not dwell on it now.  She was so tired; her eyes were dry with it.

Her throat felt as though it was lined with thistledown and she gulped a mouthful of water.  Meduseld was temporarily deserted and she thought she might risk a brief visit to the stables.  She had not ridden Windfola in three weeks and feared the mare was growing restless.

As she stepped through the doors a twig broke beneath her foot and the tall Rider within turned to look at her.  He bowed courteously and Éowyn could almost feel the blush staining her cheeks.  It was Elfhelm, and he smiled, saying, “This is a pleasure I did not expect Lady Éowyn; I was told you would be occupied all day.”

“Then it is well for us both that I am not Marshal Elfhelm.”

He looked at her as though considering something and then said, “Have you a free hour this day Lady Éowyn?”  Her hands twisting together in her skirt she said, “I suppose I might have an hour.  Might I enquire as to why?”

“There is something I wish to show you.  Unless the Lady Éowyn is unwilling to risk her virtue and reputation with so dastardly a rogue as myself.”  Éowyn looked at him, her pride piqued, and she said, “I fear no man’s slanderous words Marshal Elfhelm.”

He laughed, “Of course Lady Éowyn; I would do well to remember that.”

She wanted to smile at him, but her lips wouldn’t move.  He grinned and said, “Well, saddle up then.  Unless you want me to do it for you?”  She lifted the heavy saddle into her arms and felt something in her spirit lift as Windfola whinnied at her approach.

They followed the Snowbourn River for five leagues.  Éowyn quizzed Elfhelm as to where they were going but he wouldn’t tell her.  Normally such reticence would have driven her to distraction but today it did not anger her.  Elfhelm did not need her to speak or be silent or indeed do anything other than sit with him and talk if she had a wish to.  He did not mind even when she rode away from him, whooping with delight at the speed and strength of Windfola beneath her.  Elfhelm only grinned and raced with her.

When they reached their destination he called her – she approached and road beside him.  “What is this place?” she asked as he walked towards her, having dismounted while she looked around.  He reached a hand up to her and said, “My father showed it to me when I was young.  I used to play here as a lad.”  His face was distractingly close as he spoke and one hand still lay flat on her back from when he had helped her off her horse.

They stood beside a set of bends in the river.  Steep hills cut off any view of the plains.  The white water bubbled and gurgled as it rushed through the rapid bends.  Éowyn smiled at him and ran to look at the river.  She gazed at it for a moment and then bent to pull off her shoes and stockings.  He looked at her and smiled saying, “What are you doing?” 

She looked back at him over her shoulder and said, “I’m going to paddle.  Avert your eyes.”  His gaze resting on the white skin of her ankles he said, “Must I?”  She stared him down and he said, “Of course,” and turned around.

Gathering her skirts in one hand above her knee, she stepped into the river, exclaiming, “Oh!  It’s cold!” as the water swirled around her feet.  From the calves down she was solid ice but she had to bite back a scream of joy.  The wind fanned her hair out around her shoulders and the clouds above were dark and threatening; the grass seemed deeply green and she could see it stirred by the wind on the far off hills.  She laughed suddenly and started a wild dance in the river.  Stones bit at her feet and the water splashed her knees but she could only feel joy; she was free of them, of the eyes and whispers of those who always watched her.

Elfhelm yelled, “What are you doing back there?” and she ceased her movements unchastened.  She made her way out of the water and dried her legs with moss.  She sat down and arranged her dress so that it covered all of her except her toes as she said, “You can turn around now.” 

He came and sat beside her, saying, “Shall you ever tell me what it was you were doing?”  She shook her head, “Not while the wind blows still in Rohan.” 

He laughed, shaking his head, “You stab me to the heart my lady.”

She rolled her eyes at his foolishness and said, “It is beautiful here – I thank you for showing it to me.”  His smile was gentle as he took one of her hands and said, “It is a fit setting for you Lady Éowyn.” 

She hardly dared to meet his eyes and after a moment he leaned over and brushed his mouth against hers.  She held herself completely still as his lips moved; it was overwhelming, the slight scratch of his beard against her skin, the heat, the scent of him and his body so close to hers.  Eventually she had to pull away from him.  He looked at her keenly and said, “Forgive me Lady Éowyn.  I hope you are not wroth with me.”

She met his eyes and said, “I am not angry, it is just…I have never been.”  Her voice trailed off and his eyes lit up with shock and he said, “With such a fine set of lips as those?” as he caressed her lower lip with his thumb. 

She stared at him mesmerised and he kissed her brow.  She smiled at him, regretful, and said, “You must think me dreadfully foolish.”

“Not at all!  I am simply surprised that I am the first to have stolen a kiss from the fair Lady of Rohan.”

She looked at her hands and said, “You are not the first to try.”  He lifted her face by the chin and she saw in his eyes the sharpness that made him a leader of men.  “Grima Wormtongue.”  It wasn’t a question.  She nodded and saw his eyes darken with anger.  She touched his arm and said, “It is nothing to rage over – he did not succeed.”

“But something must be done Lady Éowyn.  He cannot remain at Edoras after such an insult – unless you desired his advances?”

“I did not; I do not.  But Elfhelm, I told my Uncle and he did not believe me.  Were you to say anything Grima would have you destroyed.  Already he traduces you in Meduseld.”

“Why?”

“For you pursuit of me and…I do not know his game but surely you have seen that no Marshal has a fair name with my Uncle – even Éomer must tread carefully now.”

“But Lady Éowyn?”

“No Marshal Elfhelm.”

He fell silent and Éowyn sighed.  She felt old and weary.  A soft bed and a life of long, quiet sleep were all she longed for now.  She bent her head, wishing with all her heart that death would come upon Grima, hopefully in an ungentle shape, and then she might have a moment, just one moment, which he would not taint.  He had corrupted every instant of her life it seemed, and she could not escape him for all her struggles.  She felt like a wild hawk that had been caged and then bid, “Sing,” when all she wanted was to ride upon the winds.

Elfhelm cocked his head suddenly and she followed his gaze but could perceive nothing.  He stood, his hand resting on his sword hilt.  He looked at her and said, “I think I heard something.  Take my knife and if I am not returned soon ride for Edoras as fast as you may.  I am sorry – I should not have brought you here.  I thought it was safe.”  He pressed his knife into her hand and kissed her swiftly on the cheek, then quickly moved over the hill.

Éowyn pulled on her stockings and shoes as fast as possible, cursing the cold that had made her all  thumbs.  She caught both horse’s bridles in her hand and waited, shifting from foot to foot.  The wind whistled around her, and she felt very small and very alone on the vast plains.  She was starting to feel nervous when Elfhelm reappeared over the crest of the hill.  He came to her quickly but quietly and spoke in a low voice, “There is a party of orcs moving east – I think they make for Dunharrow.  We must ride for Edoras, and swiftly.  Ride ahead of me.  I do not think they heard me, but it is as well to be careful.”  He helped her on to her horse with a lack of ceremony, saying, “I will be right behind you but keep the knife, I would not take risks.”  He slapped Windfola and Éowyn bent low over her mare, urging her to speed. 

They reached Edoras as swiftly as anyone could, and as they dismounted Éowyn said, “I shall take him to the stables if you wish; I know you would want to find Théodred as soon as possible.”  He looked at her and nodded, “Thank you.”  She handed him back her knife and he smiled at her.  He squeezed her shoulder with his hand before setting off for Meduseld.  She bent her steps to the stables – she knew she would not be allowed to ride with them; again.

They had all left.  Meduseld was dark and she was alone again.  She stood outside, staring at the Moon for many minutes.  She shivered as the wind picked at her dress and hugged herself; nothing was easy anymore, and she wondered if it had ever been.  Had she been merely blind when she had seen good in Meduseld and Rohan – wilfully failing to acknowledge the corruption that simmered beneath their calm exteriors?  She felt so jaded, so tired of everything she did; each and every thing she did seemed foul and meaningless to her now. 

Finally she made her way inside and sought Grima’s room.  He had requested that she join him, and though it was against her most urgent wishes, she would attempt to do so with at least the appearance of grace.  She knocked on his door, and entered.

His office was a tiny closet, lit by a flickering fire, and stubby candles.  He sat behind a desk, barely rising as she entered.  He was glaring at her, and he said, “I thought you understood what kind of man the Marshal Elfhelm is, Lady Éowyn.”

“It is not your business to choose my company Hala Grima.  Why did you wish to see me?”

“Since your escapade today, my lord Théoden has requested that I communicate his displeasure to you.  Furthermore, due to the danger in which you were placed this day, he has ordered that you are to be restricted to Edoras until these dark times pass.”

“What?”

“I know it may cost you some pangs Lady Éowyn but you must treat your life with greater care.  After all we cannot allow the Lady of Rohan to wander defenceless on the plains.”

“I am not defenceless.  I am a Shieldmaiden.”

“Indeed, Lady Éowyn.  However I must ask that you comply with your Uncle’s request – I do not wish to see you in danger – and the King suffers much worry on you account whenever you leave the city.”

“But not even to ride?  My Uncle could not be so cruel as to ask that of me.”

“It is not cruelty but love Lady Éowyn.  You are too valuable to all of us, to be risked in the open.”

“But I can defend myself!”

“Of course you can, Lady Éowyn.”

She wanted to leap across the table and rip at his face – and she could barely contain a shriek at the thought of being confined to the city permanently.  She would not be able to bear it; she would be caged away from the wind and the plains, and she would wither like a poorly transplanted flower.  Oh she would die; she could not stand it.  She would not.

The poor light bounced off something on Grima’s desk with a golden sheen, and she stepped forward, touching it lightly with a finger.  It was her Uncle’s chalice.  She picked it up and stared at him accusingly, “How come you to have this?”

“I found it, Lady Éowyn.”

“Found it where?  It has been going missing often for years now – where did you find it?”

“That is not your concern.”

“Know you ought of the cause of my Uncle’s decline Hala Grima?”

He came to stand in front of his desk and said, “Nay Lady Éowyn, for I know little of leech craft.  All I know is that some die upon the first thrust, some by a thousand little deaths and some feel nothing all their lives and die of the lack.”  He moved closer to her as he spoke until she could feel his breath come and go on her face.  She was sickened – she could see the grease in his hair, smell the ale he must have drunk.  Somehow a question slipped from her lips, “Which would you prefer?”

He lifted an eyebrow and said, “All I can tell you Lady Éowyn is that I would always choose a glut over a fast – and I am a man to get my desire.”  He sniffed at her hair, and her hand scrabbled desperately for the handle of the door.  His body was all but pressed to hers, and he whispered in her ear, “You’ve felt it haven’t you?  The wyrd stalking you – sometimes just behind you, sometimes on your shoulder?  It’s coming for you Lady Éowyn, it’s coming, and it will make you his whether you like it or no.”  She opened the door and stepped back from him.  She held herself stiff, as if neither his breath nor his words had touched her, and said, “Good evening, Hala Grima.”

She walked away slowly until she heard his door closing, and then she ran, dashing into her room and seeking the privy.  She vomited for she knew now exactly what it was he wanted.  A thousand little deaths.  She sobbed into her hand; what would he do to get it?  He wanted her, and now she was to be caged in this decaying city until he got his desire.  That was his policy; she saw it all to clearly.  And Théoden, Théoden had spoken with Grima’s desires, had granted him the means to achieve them. 

She must say nothing, tell no one, for if she did they would be endangered.  She wiped her mouth and returned to her room.  She knelt in front of her room, and clasped her hands, thinking, “Mother, Father lend me your strength now most of all,” but she felt no flicker to signify that they might have heard her plea.  She was all alone now, and she wished that she might die, for at least then it would be over.

She might die.  Éowyn shied away at this thought but it stayed in her mind however much she tried to ignore it.  She could die – it would be better than being Grima’s…mistress.  Anything would be better than such a foul fate.  Death might not be so foul as she had always thought.  She would be free – no cage would bind her. 

She sat up straight as she realised how dangerous such thoughts were.  How low had she fallen that such  was her choice of escape?  Oh Éomer could not help her now, nor Théodred, nor Elfhelm.  She had sunk so low that they could never find her – for none saw the depths in which she wallowed.

She dried her eyes.  Grima should not have her yet.  If a mistress was what he wanted then he would have to try harder before she would fall to him, of that she was sure.  No cage was unbreakable, and if she had to force the bars apart herself then she would do so.  She was the Lady of Rohan, and she would not succumb so easily.  He would find that he had made himself a most implacable opponent, she thought as she straightened her shoulders.  She reached for her book of maps and stared at the cover – she had shed his blood once, if necessary she would do so again.

Author’s Note

The key to the conversation between Éowyn and Grima is the idea of ‘the little death’, which is a synonym for orgasm. 

In The Breach

Éowyn let the last drop of mead settle and then lifted the tray, suppressing a grunt as she did so.  Her sleeves hung almost to her knees and she swore inwardly at the weight of her gown.  The brocaded velvet seemed to slow her steps and force her to consider every movement – it was stiff, constricting, and she longed for a chance to undo the buttons and breathe deeply.

Still, now was not the time to indulge such desires, and Éowyn hefted her tray once more.  Éomer, Théodred and Elfhelm were enjoying a rare moment of celebration for Boromir, Gondor’s Heir, was visiting for a short period.  She had banished the maidservants so that they could relax, free from any gaze.  Unfortunately it meant that she had to ferry their drinks to and fro - inevitably she would tire of the task and dump a jug of ale in front of them, refusing such service – but for now she would smile.  The baking days of summer seemed to encourage all their enemies to attack.  She had not seen Éomer and Théodred together in four months.

Éowyn sat beside Elfhelm and gave them each their goblet.  She raised her glass and saluted Boromir, loving the honeyed slip of the mead down her throat.  He smiled at her but she could discern that strain and worry had left a mark on him, as they had on them all.  Lines fanned out from his eyes and she could just see a few streaks of grey in his hair.  His laughter had a strained, bitter undercurrent that had not been there when she first met him.

After a few scant minutes of laughter Éomer lowered his goblet and fixed Boromir with a glance “Is it true that you journey north for naught but a dream?”  Éowyn wanted to stop him, for he had imbibed much this night and the King’s mead was strong, even for such as Éomer, but Boromir was not offended.  He sighed and said, “Where did you hear such a tale Éomer?”

“From Grima – but I can scarce believe it.”

“That is not all that might be told.  What tidings have you had from Gondor?”

Théodred leaned closer to Gondor’s Heir, and as Éowyn met his eyes for a moment, she could sense his burning curiosity.  His voice when he spoke however was even, “Of late but few and rarely even those.”  Boromir drank deeply and said, “Then you have not heard that we are newly besieged?”

“No.”

“It came upon us in June.  Long have the men of Gondor stood against the hordes to the East, but they assailed us as a sudden flood when summer began.  But this was not the worst.  Some dark purpose was at work, for it was not by numbers that we were defeated.”

“What was it then?”

“I know not – some saw him as a rider in black, but none know for certain.  It is sure though that when he came our foes were newly enraged and even the boldest among us fell to some madness of fear.  All men retreated before him, abandoning Osgiliath, and in their frenzy they threw down the bridge on which my company stood.  A dream that came often to my brother, and once to me, seemed to speak of some hope in such dreadful time, and so I determined to journey north to seek Rivendell, in search of our deliverance.”

Éowyn looked at the other men’s’ faces – no laughter graced them now; even Éomer seemed old and grim.  She saw shadows of times past in Boromir’s eyes and knew it had been a dark and bitter battle.  She could not but ask, “Was it a wyrd?”

“I scarcely know Lady Éowyn.  Even my father, the Steward, would not name his apprehensions as to the Rider.  Your venture is as close to the mark as any I would wager.”

Éowyn shuddered, if a wyrd had come forth, come from the great darkness to the East, than it was a fell day for Gondor, and for Rohan also.  She looked to Théodred but he sat as if pondering what Boromir had said and so she said nothing.

“Lady Éowyn, I must speak with you for a moment.”  Grima often reminded her of apples that kept their shape even when rotten and she wondered what she must do to expose the corruption that lay inside.  Now though, she stilled her face in to smoothness and stood to greet him.  A voice rang out in the hall, “Who are you, Wormtongue, to speak to Lady Éowyn with such presumption?”

Éowyn hardly dared look at Elfhelm, fearing that he had lost his wits, but look she must, and so she turned to see his furious countenance.  She spoke softly, “Elfhelm it is no matter…” but Grima interrupted her, saying, “I cannot quite agree with you there Lady Éowyn – they are only a few scant questions with regards to your Uncle’s health, but I, for one, hold the Lord of the Mark, and my loyalty to him above all things.”

He paused and Éowyn could see that he got some kind of amusement from this contest of words.  “Think you that our lord Théoden shall be able to visit the stables tomorrow or is he yet infirm?  I have been told that the horse, Snowmane, pines.”

“I hardly know Hala Grima – but tomorrow I shall decide if his health permits it.”

He half-bowed and said, “As always Lady Éowyn you command obedience.  Marshal Elfhelm?”

“Yes?”

“Your interruption puts me in mind that Théoden has ordered that you ride out at first light to join with Erkenbrand.”

“But my place is with Théodred – who shall replace me?”

“That is not your concern.  You ought not question the King’s will, Marshal.”

Grima bowed once more and left, Elfhelm’s eyes marking him as an archer marks a target.  Éowyn spoke as acidly as possible, “Might I speak with you for a moment Marshal Elfhelm?”  He followed her to a far corner of the hall and she turned to him, saying, “What were you doing?”

“Lady Éowyn he presumes too much…”

“And do you truly think that you were helping me?  Grima could have you banished from Meduseld for this.”

“Am I supposed to watch him take liberties with my…”

“With your what?  I am not yours to rescue Elfhelm!”

“Éowyn!”

“No.  I am my father’s daughter.  I am not afraid of anything; but this will end.  You will not give him yet more cause to strike against you, do you understand?  You are too important a Marshal to fall from my Uncle’s grace over something so petty.”

“Yes Lady Éowyn.”

He bowed over her hand and she said, “And Elfhelm?”

“Yes?”

“Have a care.”

He smiled and kissed her hand before bidding farewell to Théodred and leaving.  She returned to her seat.  Éomer had fallen asleep, for he had ridden two days so that he might meet Gondor’s Heir.  Théodred cast her a sharp look, for she had spoken with Elfhelm in fierce whispers, but he was deep in conversation with Boromir and asked her now no questions.

Elfhelm – he had become another fear in her heart.  He cared so much for her honour, her safety yet he did not understand.  If it had been simply a matter of herself and Grima she would have unmanned him long before now, but there were others, who he could use, were she to strike against him.  Her heart froze as she looked at Éomer and Théodred, and she realised afresh that Elfhelm did not understand.  For all his shrewdness he had never learned that sometimes the only defence lay in leaving oneself open.  Only by feigning acquiescence to Grima’s snivelling demands would she protect what mattered most – her King and her brothers.  She hated it, it burned her, it scalded to swallow the bitter words she longed to say and lock them in her heart; but that was the price.  A hard acceptance of it had been wrung from her heart, and all of Elfhelm’s protests, and this was not the first, merely made her part the harder.

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap as Théodred spoke.  “My father’s policy is to hold in fastness such fortresses as we have, and pay scant regard to those bands of orcs who cross our lands.”

“What think you of it?”

“I am not so sanguine as my father; I fear that soon we shall be tested, but the orcs cannot be pursued without the order of the Lord of the Mark.”

“Will Rohan still come to Gonder’s aid?”

“Always.  Are you in any doubt?  The men of Eorl hold true to their oaths.”

“There have been whispers in the dark that Théoden’s Riders might not heed the call.  I see though that my father and brother were right to pay them no heed.”

Éowyn stood – tiring of policies not her own – and said, “I shall now retire.  Good e’en to you.”  They stood and bowed but were too consumed with conversation to pay her much heed.  They were a pair – the Heirs of Rohan and Gondor – fair as men could be, wise and each had won renown to the honour of his house.

As she reached her door she heard Grima’s voice, and she stiffened her shoulders against his tone.  “I hope you are not too distressed my Lady; but if you are I shall offer every comfort it is in my power to give.”

“Why should I be distressed, Hala Grima?”

“Your great lover departs tomorrow morn does he not?”

“I have no lover.”

“Indeed?  Has he plucked you yet Lady Éowyn?  Does he plough the earth often?  Marshal Elfhelm is said to be skilled in such ‘country matters’.”

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and said, “Neither you, nor I, know anything of such matters.  I am yet chaste, and you have never known love.” 

Her hand was on the door when he said, “You know what it is he wants?”

“What?”

“You did not think he wanted to take you for wife did you?  No man could.  You are cold Lady Éowyn – over time you would freeze any man’s ardour.  He does not love you – there is only one who can love you.”

She turned to face him and said, low and vicious, “You revolt me.”  She wanted nothing more than to spit in his face but instead she stepped quietly into her room and closed the door.

The next morning Éowyn awoke early, to bid the men farewell.  She felt as though a sudden chill had descended upon her, but she could not summon up the will to seek warmth.  She looked on Elfhelm’s face and, with a coldness she did not like in herself, realised that he did not matter.  He was too dangerous; his actions left her too open to Grima’s machinations, and she did not have the will to risk her kin for such as he.  As she looked upon his face, Grima’s words sounded in her ear, and she remembered all the matches she had seen where love had burned quick and hot and then vanished.  The thought of such a match, with such a man, the thought of the marriage bed, of wifely duties performed when the heart was absent, repulsed her, and she wondered why Elfhelm would wish such evil upon her.

He touched her hand and she trembled at the touch.  His eyes admired her; but suddenly she could see only Grima’s leering desire in them, and she wished Elfhelm away.  The beast with two backs was but a beast and a foul one at that.

Théodred came and he embraced her, and she found herself clinging to him a little.  He chucked her chin and said, “One of us shall return soon Éowyn, I swear to you; we shall not leave you alone for so long.”  She could say nothing, but she smiled as he said, “And do not leave any candles lit at night.”

She walked to the doors of Meduseld and bid Boromir of Gondor farewell.  She watched as they all rode away; Théodred, wheeling to wave at her one last time and Boromir on the horse Théodred had given him.  The hot summer winds blew about her, swirling her light dress to one side, and suddenly she shivered.  She had an ill-divining soul.

The Children of Éomund

Éowyn smiled at Hama as he opened the door.  She was to visit to the healer Cynefrid, and as she stepped out in to the chilly morning air, she mentally listed off the herbs she needed.  He had visited Diancecht in Minas Tirith and had learned much herblore during his stay.

As she walked down the steps of Meduseld she saw an old man, hooded and cloaked.  She paused beside him, wondering why he sat on their steps in the rough autumn winds.  He looked up at her and she exclaimed, “Gandalf Greyhame?  Why do you sit so on our doorstep?”

He stood up, leaning on his staff as if weary “I seek the aid of your King Lady Éowyn.  I arrived yesterday.”

“Yesterday?  And you were not offered the sanctuary of the Hall?”

“No, Lady Éowyn.  I believe the doorwarden was ordered to forbid me entrance.”

“Truly?  Forgive me Greyhame – I was not aware that you had come.  Would you care to join me for the morning meal?  I shall arrange for you to see my Uncle.”

“It would be my honour, Lady Éowyn.”

He offered her his arm and she took it, wondering how such a thing had occurred.  She had heard some whisperings against the Grey Pilgrim but she had not realised that her Uncle’s ire had been raised to such a degree.  As they walked through the doors of Meduseld she caught Hama glancing at them with suspicion.  He did not, however, presume to question her.

Silence spread through the hall as they walked to a bench.  Éowyn nodded at a maidservant, and she approached with food and drink, glancing at Gandalf fearfully.  The old man smiled at Éowyn and said, “It is good to see that Rohan has yet such strong youths as yourself Lady Éowyn.”

“Thank you, but, forgive me Gandalf, but, why have you come to the Golden Hall so”

“I am not angered Lady Éowyn.  I was held captive by Saruman the White in the tower of Isengard, and must now journey far to the North.”

A deadly silence broke in the air and Éowyn could not look around for fear of sparking a fire that ought not be lit.  She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of many eyes on her back, but she said only, “You must have had a swift and difficult journey.”  Conversation burst behind her like a sudden cloudburst, but she turned and said, “All of you, to your posts now.  This is no time for idle chatter.”  She sat down once again, and heard them slowly filter out of the Hall.  When the last of them had left she looked at Gandalf and said, “You ought not have said that.”

“I do not fear the Wormtongue my lady.”

“Nor do I, but he will have heard of this – he might seek to twist my Uncle’s heart further against you.”

“Further?”

“I have heard whisperings, that the King names you Lathspell, he believes you to be a carrion crow.  I do not believe it, but many of the people of Edoras do.”

He sighed deeply “I see – it was not known to me that things had reached such a pass in Rohan.”

“We are not all in shadow yet.  There are some who still hold true to the old ways.  I did not know that the honour of Meduseld had slipped so far that an old friend and ally would be left on our steps.”

“Is Théodred in Meduseld, or Éomer?  I hope to see them before I depart.”

“Théodred rides still over the fields of Rohan – he may not return until the first snows of winter fall.  I believe Éomer may be at Aldburg.”

“Well it is decided then; speed is of the essence, and I cannot spare the time.”

“I would send for him if I could Gandalf, but there is no messenger whom I trust that can be spared, and I myself am confined within the walls of Edoras.”

“What is this?  Lady Éowyn how dared you allow such a one within the walls of Meduseld?”

She saw Grima and her Uncle approach and stood to meet the accusation.  Théoden sat upon his throne, shivering as if suffering from an ague, his hands clenched on his crutch, and glared at his niece.  She almost stepped back upon perceiving his wrath but she straightened her spine and said, “Uncle you told me, when I was just a girl, that Rohan had no greater or truer ally than Gandalf Greyhame.  Am I to be chastised then for allowing him entrance to this Hall, of which I am mistress, when you spoke so of him?”

“Lord Théoden Lady Éowyn has allowed the entrance of one who works against Rohan in secret, who toils endlessly in shadows seeking our ruin.  She has permitted him to enter the Golden Hall.  Surely this is unacceptable?”

“It is not so Uncle!  I have never seen any evidence with my own eyes of this treachery Hala Grima describes.”

“Lady Éowyn men say…”

“Men have said many things Hala Grima, but the saying did not make them true.  Some men said that it would be good to make war on the Valar, and so Númenor fell.”

“Peace Éowyn.  Your fault was most innocent and so there shall be no punishment.  I ask now, why have you come here Gandalf Stormcrow?”

“I escaped the tower of Isengard yesternight Théoden King, and I come to you seeking aid and succour.  I must reach the North – it is imperative.  All our fates depend on it.”

“I doubt his words Théoden King.  We have no reason to believe this ragged interloper – and if we shelter him we may bring Saruman’s wrath upon us.  We are not strong enough to stand such a test, and indeed his very presence may strain you beyond what you can sustain.”

Théoden sank even further into his chair, and Grima officiously tucked the blanket around his knees tighter.  The King sat in thought for a few moments and then raised his head, saying, “Take any horse, only be gone ere tomorrow is old.”

Gandalf bowed and said, “I thank you Théoden lord of the Riddermark.”  He grasped his staff and walked from the Hall.  Éowyn looked at her Uncle, he leant against the side of his throne, gasping as if exhausted.  Grima glared at her and she followed the wizard.

He awaited her on the parapet and when she reached him he said, “I see now how things are.  I would that I could set this all to rights Lady Éowyn but my errand is most pressing.  Might I ask your advice?”

“Of course.”

“Which is the swiftest horse in Rohan?”

“All horses in Rohan are swift…but – can you promise me that this shall not prove ill for my King?”

“I can lady Éowyn.  What doom awaits Rohan, it shall not come for the lack of a horse.”

“Well, there is one.  He is named Shadowfax and is counted surpassing swift by all.  A friend of my cousin’s bred him for the House of Eorl, and he is the lord of all horses.  But, he is one of the Mearas, I do not think he will accept you as a rider.”

“Thank you lady Éowyn.  Where is he kept?”

“In the stables of Edoras – when he has a mind to be penned, which is not often.  He roams freely across the plains, for none would dare wound or affront him.”

Gandalf bowed to her and said, “I know what it is you fear Lady Éowyn, but it shall not come to pass.  Stand strong as you always have, and I promise you, it shall not come to pass.”  He walked away and for a moment she hugged herself, holding his words to her heart, hoping that they might prove to be true.

Éowyn sighed and stretched her spine.  The day had been long, and there had been no rest in it.  Théoden’s burst of better health meant that he had spent the day at judgement, and she had had to stand behind him, silent.  Few now were allowed to speak when the King was at judgement – not even his own kin.  It was exhausting to stand so for hours, unable to speak or even look at anything other than her King. 

Once Théoden had retired for the evening she had visited Cynefrid, and then she had been called upon to mediate a dispute between two of the maidservants, and decide which meat should be salted for the winter ahead.  She was just about to seek sleep herself when Grima called to her. 

They were alone in the Hall, and shadows danced across his face as he spoke, “I thought Lady Éowyn that you understood the order of things now?  Or are you perhaps confused as to what your role in this Hall is?”

“I am byrele of Meduseld Grima – mistress of this hall until our King take a wife.  Are you confused as to that?”

“And what is it that a mistress does lady Éowyn?  Exactly what she is told – that is all she is good for.”

“I broke no command of my Uncle’s.”

“If you were mine you would know something of the virtue of obedience.”

”But I am not yours, and so I must live without that virtue.”

“Are you not?  Do not mistake me Lady Éowyn – I shall not be crossed again, not in this hall.” He placed a hand on her cheek, and pressed his lips against hers.  It was only the briefest touch, and she pulled away, trembling in revulsion.  His eyes took her in as he said, “You are mine.”

“I am no man’s creature.  Keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Perhaps you are not but you will be.  You will be mine.”

He stared her down and for the first time she broke away from him.  Not caring as to what he might think she ran for her room.  When she reached she slammed the bolt home, before leaning against her door, her hands shaking.  He was foul, fouler than anything else that grew.  He had touched her – he had placed his flesh upon her – oh she would die – she was shamed again.  She had sworn that never again would his hands find purchase on her skin, and now she was forsworn – and she had fled from that cursed creature.  But she could not flee from him, not truly, for she was penned in Meduseld with him – penned in the city.  Oh it was not to be borne!

Without realising it she had set her cloak about her shoulders, and as she touched the rough fabric she decided that she could not stay.  She would not.  She opened her door, and moved silent and swift through the hall.  Soon she had opened the doors and made her way to the stables.  Her mare whinnied when she entered, and Eowyn held her head, saying, “Hush Windfola.  Come, we have leagues to go before the night is done.”

She left Edoras quickly, leaving through a hole in the walls.  It was a mystery to many why the walls were kept in such bad repair but not to her –somehow Grima had convinced her Uncle that the walls did not need reinforcement urgently, and so they had been left for several years without any kind of repair.  Once she had breached the walls of the city, she hoisted herself into the saddle, and spurred Winfola’s sides.

She did not know how long she rode, only that when she reached Aldburg her hands were stiff on the reins and she had been nearly deafened by the howling of the wind.  Éomer’s doorwarden looked on her with suspicion, as if doubting her identity, but he allowed her entrance and went to seek his master. 

After a few scant moments, during which she smoothed her hair and her dress, Éomer entered the room, bright eyed with tiredness.  He was alone and looked at her fearfully and said, “Is it Uncle?  Has something happened in Edoras?”  She looked at him and suddenly burst into tears.  She felt it rise up within her and break all the bonds she had set upon it.  She could not remember the last time she had wept in front of another, and she looked at Éomer, terrified at this breach in her control.

He swept her into his arms, saying, “What is sister?  What is it?”  She sighed and tried to speak but sobs rose in her once again and she could not.  She felt Éomer kiss her hair lightly and cried all the more.  It was many moments before she could speak, and then she could only babble brokenly, “It’s so awful – he’s twisting me Éomer – he’s twisting me.  Anything that was ever good or beautiful in me is gone, and this is all that is left.  Please, please don’t send me back.  Don’t make me go back to him.”

Her brother said nothing, only held her and stroked her hair, and finally she slipped into a half dazed silence.  He must have thought her asleep, for he lifted her and carried her into another room, setting her down on a bed and covering her up.  As he closed the door, she saw him pause to blow out the candle.  She was uncomfortable in the bed, missing the sheepskin she had slept with since she was a baby, and it took her a long time to find sleep. 

Éowyn woke the next morning confused as to where she was.  A weight rested on her head, and she felt as though she had not slept a moment.  Still she rose and sought Éomer.  She found him cosseting Windfola in the stables.  He grinned at her, and she managed a wan smile in return. 

They sat outside the stables and he said, “Why did you come last night?”

“I hardly know Éomer; I just could not face the thought of staying.  I needed to see you.”

“But what happened.”

“Gandalf came yesterday – and I let him into the Hall.”

“These are tidings indeed.  Is he still in the Hall?”

“No he left in the afternoon.  But, for receiving him in Meduseld, Grima was enraged with me.”

“What did he say to you sister?”

“Peace Éomer.  The words hardly matter do they?”

Éomer looked at her, confused, and said, “Well, then why did you leave?”

“I just – I could not stand it any longer Éomer!  I felt as though the walls were pressing in upon me.”

He looked at her seriously and said, “Éowyn what is it?  What are you not telling me?”

“I…I’m so frightened Éomer.  Every day it gets worse – I cannot bear to stand there, and do nothing, each and every day.  I am just an ornament to the hall – they would be as well to carve a statue beside the King’s throne and call it Éowyn.”

“Sister you know that is not true,” he paused, “Elfhelm’s éored is here.  They will escort you to Edoras before they continue to meet Erkenbrand.”

She looked at him, her mouth open in shock “Return to Edoras?  But why, why can’t I stay here Éomer?”

He knelt beside her and took one of her hands in his “Éowyn you know there is nothing I would love more than to have you live in my hall and be its mistress; but who would care for our Uncle if you came here?  Your duty is with him.”

“My duty?  Aye, my duty is there, but…”

“What?”

“It is no matter.  When must I return?”

“Well they are ready to leave now, but there is no hurry.  I would escort you myself, but Sigeberht has been found, and I must speak with him ”

“I thought the orcs kill all the prisoners they take?”

“It seems not.  He said he was being brought to Isengard for some other purpose before he fell into a swoon.  I will speak with him further… Are you sure you must leave so soon Éowyn – you could go back this evening.”

“No I should return.  I thank you brother.”

Éowyn reached Edoras mid-morning.  She would have arrived sooner, but for Elfhelm insisting that they speak awhile.  She closed her eyes at the memory.  He had stood before her, earnest, and asked her to be his wife.  And she had refused, for as she said, “It would be base to marry without a heart.”  She would never forget his face when she said those words, and he had said, “Would it be so completely without love?” 

Éowyn had not known at first how to answer him, but at last she had stumbled across the words.  She told him that he would always be one of her truest friends, and her knight; that she would always remember his many kindnesses, but her duty bound her to her Uncle.

She shrugged the memory away, and was about to open her door, and find her bed and sleep until all the world had changed, when she heard Grima calling her once again. 

He kissed her hand and said, “I had heard that the lady Éowyn had vanished, and none knew where, but in truth I did not believe it until I saw you return with Elfhelm’s éored.  Where did you go?”

“To Aldburg.  I had a need to speak with Éomer.”

“Indeed.  Tell me lady Éowyn are you familiar with the tale of the children of Hurin?”

“A little.”

“Perhaps you remember that I taught it to you long ago.  Túrin Turambar fell in love with his sister Nienor, and wedded her, unaware of their closer tie; his name has been stained with that dishonour through all the ages.”

“And?”

“And it would be a shame were Eorl’s house to receive any such stain upon its honour.”

“What chance is there of that?”

“Perhaps more than you are aware lady Éowyn.  You are, of course, the fairest of all ladies, and already many say that you and Éomund’s son share an unusual closeness.”

“People have foul minds…Wormtongue.  Éomund’s daughter does not fear such.”

He moved closer to her and toyed with a lock of her hair, “Yet it were possible to cease the spread of such foul ideas by wagging tongues.”

“How so?”

“Marry my lady.  An old friend of your family and confidant of you uncle – then your honour and your brother’s would be saved from such a foul stain.”

Éowyn trembled but only said, “I would not marry such a one as I could not love simply to prevent ideas from springing in foul minds – for all ideas in such minds have fertile growth.”

She stepped into her room and closed the door softly in his face – sliding the bolt closed as silently as she could.  She moved quietly to her bed, knowing that he stood outside the door, listening.  She lay upon the soft covers but her body was rigid – she could not soothe her muscles into stillness.  Must she lose Éomer as well?  Would Grima plant such a foul thought in her Uncle’s mind?  He was almost all she had left in this world, and now she must be like ice to him for fear that men would ‘say’ that she was…oh she could not even contemplate such an idea.  He was her brother, her brother – how could she simply let him go?

But how could she not?  The punishment for such a crime was death – and while she did not fear the excecutioner's axe, she would not allow Éomer to fall beneath it.  Oh death – if only death would come upon her on swift wings.  Grima was going to win – he was going to wrest each and every person she held dear from her grasp until there was nothing left between them.  At that moment she wished that death might come for her, like a great black wyrd, for then at least it would be over.  What a tale of grief this was.

Author's Note

Just to make it clear - the man who bred Shadowfax is in fact Helm.  This, of course when he was still a Rider in Théodred's éored.

Be Not Far From Me

Éowyn stretched and stifled a groan as she awoke.  Her neck was as stiff as a board, and her eyes were caked with sleep.  She glanced around the room blearily for a moment before realising where she was.

Éomer had returned with Théodred but two days past.  Rohan’s Prince was gravely wounded and Éowyn had sat with him through the days and nights, for there were none she could trust to sit with him.  Éomer had vanished, none knew why or where, and Elfhelm was not at court.  She must have succumbed to sleep at some stage, though she could not remember when.

She touched Théodred’s forehead to check his fever and drew her hand back in horror.  It was so cold – cold as the sausage stored in the icehouses of Meduseld in winter.  She would not…she did not believe it.

She shook him gently, calling his name.  It wasn’t possible, he couldn’t be, he wasn’t… “Théodred.  Wake up Théodred.  Wake up.”  He did not stir and she bit back a sob, calling him again, “Théodred!  Wake up, Théodred…Please”

He still did not move and for a moment she sat back on her heels, and then she shook him harder, calling him again and again, “Théodred, please, please don’t go.  You’re not dead, you can’t be dead…please don’t leave me.”

She kissed his hand over and over again tears threatening to steal her voice “Please Théodred, please don’t leave me…don’t leave me here alone…please I’ll do anything, I’ll try, I’ll try to be stronger, to do better, just please, please don’t leave me here…I’ll do anything, I will, just please, please don’t go.”  Her voice increased in pitch as she spoke and she found herself shaking him in anger, all but shouting at him, “No.  No.  You can’t die, you can’t!  I need you, please Théodred, I love you, please don’t go!”

He was still and silent, and finally the sobs she had restrained burst forth.  She lifted her cousin by the shoulders, yelling at him through her tears, “Ne beo ge nateshwon deade Théodred!  Ne beo ge nateshwon deade!”  He fell back, silent on his pillows, and Éowyn wept at last her bitter tears, cushioning her head on his chest.

She did not know how long she wept at her cousin’s bedside, but at last she stood, her eyes dry, but bitter from the many tears she had shed, and went to her Uncle.  She told him of Théodred’s death – and he did nothing.  He did not seem to understand what had happened – he looked at her and there was no recognition in his eyes.  She wanted to shriek, to tear that dreadfully blind old face; but she was so tired.  She was worn down; thoughts of Théodred sapped all her strength.

She went briefly to her chamber, and washed and changed her clothing, for the Lady of Rohan must always present her fairest aspect to the world.  She felt as though a thick woollen veil came between her and all the world, and she was numb with it.  Her head ached, and her movements were deliberate, as though she were wading through porridge. 

She filled a bronze basin with water, and brought it to her cousin’s room.   Though when they laid him out he would be cleansed, she wanted to rid his body of the worst of the stains upon it.  She rinsed a pure white linen cloth in water and gently wiped away the blood and sweat that remained on Théodred’s body.  She set her lips and focused her will on maintaining a steady hand for the task.  She could not look upon his face, for it would break her resolve, and so she held back her tears until she had placed his coverlet over him once more.

Then she wept as though the last part of her heart had broken; she looked upon Théodred’s fair face and wail after wail broke from her throat.  He it was who had taught her the blade, who had tucked her in at nights when the darkness was still full of terrors.  He had eased her heartache, and lightened her days with laughter, and now he was gone.  She clasped his hand in hers and whispered a brief petition that he would reach the halls of their fathers; but though she had faith that they would welcome Théodred with the love and honour he so richly deserved it did not comfort her. 

She heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and knew whom it must be.  He had come to gloat – to pick over her sorrow and feed on the parts that pleased him most.  She straightened her spine and kissed Théodred’s hand, promising him that she would not let it happen.  Rohan would not fall; Grima and his master would not have victory, not while she had strength left.  If she had to slit his throat with her own sword, and so be damned, well then so be it.  She would not let it happen, she swore it by the blood of Eorl that ran through her veins.

Her interlude with Grima was painful and for the second time she fled from him.  For a moment she had been almost beguiled by his words – what was there left to fight for?  Théodred was dead, Éomer gone and Théoden…Théoden had passed beyond anyone’s reach.  And so she had considered his words, and all that was weak in her had longed to lay down her shield, to let him win, to cease the struggle that cost her so many pangs, but she held firm. 

Still as she watched the white horse upon green blow away as dust in the wind, she wondered if there was any virtue in such strength.  She could not save Rohan, she could not even save her own kin, and all her promises to her Prince were in vain.  She felt a grim certainty that Rohan would fall – there was naught she could do to prevent it – and now the thought brought only a dull resignation to her heart.  There was nothing she could do – the storm might blow itself into nothingness, or it might blast them all as sheaves of grass, she could only wait.

And so she turned and returned to her hall, though she noted three riders making their way through Edoras.  She walked through the hall, planning on making her way to the kitchens, to find food for the King.  The knife in her boot was not tucked in far enough, and the hilt scraped at her ankle – she wondered how long it would be before she would be called upon to use it.  She bent to secure it, hopping a little until she managed to lean against the wall for support.  It took her some moments to replace the blade, and when she straightened up she heard a voice that kindled hope in her heart anew.  She walked back up the corridor, increasing her pace as she became that yes, it was he. 

As she entered the hall the word “Greyhame” died on her lips.  Gandalf threatened her Uncle with his staff, she could not fathom why.  She stared at the scene for a moment, and then darted forward.  She would hinder it if she could – Théoden should not suffer any more. 

But she was pulled back.  Strong hands held her arms, and the man, a dark man, hissed, “Wait!” in her ear.  She would have all but fainted in shock from the touch – none touched the Lady of Rohan save her kin, and even that was rare – but all her energy was concentrated on what lay before her.  Théoden spoke to the wizard in white, but it was not with the voice of her Uncle.

She started forward when she heard the words “If I go, Théoden dies,” but the man’s hands held her firm, and she watched as the confrontation built to its peak.  And at the last moment, when she thought verily her Uncle and her King had fallen, he changed.  Théoden became, before her very eyes, the man she had known in her girlhood.  The man who had inspired respect and awe in all around him, not pity.  And he knew her name. 

Things moved swiftly then, and Grima was cast from Meduseld.  The dark man convinced her Uncle not to kill him, and Éowyn wondered that she did not feel any lust for the Wormtongue’s death, but inside she was only desolate.  The wind plucked at her dress and hair, and she looked at the elf beside her, and the crushing weight that was her grief for Théodred fell upon her once more.

She heard Théoden’s say, “Where is Théodred?  Where is my son?” and looked up to see all eyes upon her.  She made her way down the steps as her Uncle searched the faces around him, trying to find that which was most beloved.  He looked upon her with relief and said, “Éowyn, sister-daughter, know you where Théodred is?”

She motioned desperately with her hands, and said, “Uncle will you not come inside?”

“Where is he Éowyn?”

“I will tell you Uncle, but please, let us return to the hall.”

“Éowyn where is my son?”

He had all but roared the last sentence at her, and she paused screwing up the courage to tell him, to see the pain chase across his face.  She took one of his hands and said, “He is dead Uncle.  He was ambushed by orcs and the wound was mortal.  He died some time in the night, I know not when.”  She watched his face collapse and felt as though a knife had sliced through her heart.

“My son?  My heir?”

She reached out to him, saying, “Uncle?” but he pulled back with a low cry of “Leave me!”  He walked past her, and returned to the Golden Hall.  She wanted to follow him, but thought better of it.  Some griefs could only be borne alone.

She stood for a moment in contemplation, and then looked up.  The dark man stared at her, and as she glanced around she saw that all eyes were upon her.  She could not endure it, and so she made her way to the stables, ignoring those few who called to her.  She saddled Windfola as swiftly as she could, her hands shaking as she cinched the knots.  She was all but ready to go, when a commanding voice gave her pause.

“Lady Éowyn where are you going?”

“Greyhame?  I thank you for your healing of my Uncle…”

“Why do you saddle your horse?”

“I must leave, I cannot stay.  Please, let me go; it will be only for a moment.”

“Surely the lady of Rohan cannot be so desperate to ride the plains?”

“I am my lord.  I have been confined to Edoras for nigh on year, and I must get out!”  She realised that she was upon the point of breaking down, and thought that she would be shamed beyond imagining if she wept in front of the wizard.

“Lady Éowyn, it is too dangerous.”

“I can defend myself Gandalf!  And I shall not wander far from the city walls.”

“Go then, but mind that you return with all speed.”

“I will.”

She mounted Windfola, and rode swiftly from the stables and out through the gates of Meduseld.  Soon she was hunched over the mare’s neck, tears streaking her cheeks as she urged her horse to greater and greater speed.  If she rode fast enough she could not hear the sobs that tore through her body.  The wind dragged her hair out behind her and Éowyn laughed bitterly – she had longed for that very sensation for months.

At last she came to a stop.  She wiped her eyes roughly on her sleeve, and turned Windfola for the ride back to Edoras.  She tightened her hands on the reins when she saw that she had been followed.  Even now he approached her, and the fury in her blood determined that she would not allow him to catch her.

She dug her heels into Windfola’s sides and raced for Meduseld.  She did not care if her pursuer wounded himself or his horse in his attempts to catch up with her – she hoped in fact that he did.  She did not look back, but prayed that he was not too close.  Her face was tear-stained, and she felt unhinged – the last thing she wanted was the challenge of sustaining scrutiny. 

When she reached the stables, she discovered that he had indeed followed her back to Edoras, for he was stabling his horse beside hers.  As he dismounted she turned away from him and ignored his approach until he said, “My lady.”

She turned then, and answered him, “Yes?”

“I hope I have not caused offence.”

“Why did you follow me?”

“Gandalf asked me to accompany you – the plains are dangerous for a rider alone.  He did not wish the lady of Rohan to ride forth unprotected.”

“I do not need your protection!  I need to be left alone!  Can I not even grieve for my cousin in peace?”

“My lady I did not intend to intrude…”

She turned away from him, more tears stinging her eyes.  “Well you did!  I am surrounded by people always; is it so much to ask that you grant me a moment’s peace?”

He said nothing, and she took a few deep breaths, containing herself once more, and turned to face him, saying, “Who are you?  And where did you get a horse of Rohan?”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, a ranger of the north, and Hasufel was granted me by Éomer, Marshal of the Mark.”

She stared at him in shock, “You have seen Éomer?  When?  Where did this happen?  He was in health?”

His eyes widened, and she answered his unspoken question, “He is my brother, and I have been greatly worried for him since he left.”

He was about to answer her when a voice called out from the entrance, “Lady Éowyn?”  It was Hama, and as he approached he smiled at her, glad to have his King returned to him.

“What is it Hama?”

“King Théoden awaits you my lady.  Preparations must be made for Théodred’s funeral.”

“Of course.”

She nodded at Aragorn, and followed Hama.  As she made her way to Meduseld she bid her fathers once again to welcome Théodred to their halls and grant him a place by the fire.

Author’s Note

I have diverted into movie-canon for this chapter, and shall for the next.  I hope this does not cause too much irritation, as it was necessary.  Unfortunately however I could not divert so far from canon as to allow Théodred to live. The title comes from Psalms 22:11 in the Bible - "Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help."

Glossary

Ne beo ge nateshwon deade - You will not die at all

Sound The Deep

Éomer walked through the keep of Helm’s Deep, greeting those he knew and nodding at others.  Finally he passed into the hall, sinking on to a bench and gratefully accepting the mug of ale Gamling passed him.  His body ached from countless days and nights spent in the saddle.

The three he had met before sat across from him.  Aragorn dabbed at his face and hands with a rag and water, while Legolas sat, his eyes seemingly turned inwards.  Elendil’s heir was more matted than any man Éomer had ever seen, and in that, and the orc blood that was crusted yet on his hands, Éomer saw the proof of his valour.  He and Gamling had spoke after the battle, and Éomer knew all that had happened.

He sighed and rested his head on his hands – soon he would seek a soft bed and sleep.  As Éowyn passed through the hall he thought that perhaps he would have to wait a little longer before he found rest.  He could see the anger and exhaustion in her gait – it rolled off her.

She placed a tray in front of him – it held a basin of water, cloths and a jug of ale.  He looked at it with trepidation, “What’s all this?”

She looked at him, irritation deepening the shadows under her eyes “Do you want to eat?”

“There’s food?”

“But little Éomer, yet there is enough for tonight.  Still if you wish to break your fast this night my brother you must first cleanse yourself.”  She glanced around the room and raised her voice, “You should all mark my words.”

The riders left the room as one, and he saw a thin smile grace his sister’s face.  She turned to him and gestured towards the basin.  He sighed and dipped his hands.  Éowyn sat beside him, her hair hanging down in front of her face.  He wanted to put an arm around her, but felt certain that she would flinch.  She looked at him and seemed to take a breath before saying, “Why did you leave?”

He looked at her and asked, “Do you not know?  Grima had me banished.”

She turned and looked at him wide-eyed “Banished?  No one told me.”

“Did you not ask Uncle?”

“Uncle could hardly speak Éomer.”

“He had signed the paper.”

She laid a hand on his “He was not in his own mind Éomer.  When I told him about Théodred he hardly knew what it was I said.”

As she spoke the words Éomer could see a great wound in her eyes.  He swallowed and said, “Was he in pain?”

“He had a fever, and then he died in his sleep, I think.  When I woke on the third day he was gone.”

Éomer noticed that Aragorn had dropped his rag and was listening intently; Éowyn however was unaware of the man’s scrutiny, and Éomer gave him credit for that.  She would never speak honestly if she thought he was watching her.  She rubbed her eyes and said, without looking at him, “How many are dead?”

Éomer sighed looking at her, he did not like to see such a weight on her shoulders, “Does it truly matter Éowyn?”  She looked at him then, her eyes flashing, and said, “Of course it matters Éomer.  How many?”

“Most who defended the keep have fallen, I think.  Few of the riders who came with me died, and none of name.  Hama fell…”

“I know, Uncle told me.”

“And Helm.”

“What?  When?”

“One of the men told me.  He stepped into a sword thrust which was aimed at a young boy.”

Éowyn stood and started to pace, her hands wringing her sleeves.  She had walked the length of the hall twice before she said to Gamling, “Could you find Modwyn, Helm’s daughter for me?”  The older man bowed and left the room and Éowyn resumed her pacing.  Éomer walked with her asking, “Why are you so upset?”

“I spoke with some of the women from their village last night brother; Blostma died when the Westfold fell, and Modwyn is twice orphaned now.”

“So why did you send for her?”

“She must be told Éomer.  Do you wish to do it?  In truth it is a duty I love not.”

“Éowyn, be at peace.”

She turned to him, and he was startled to see tears in her eyes.  But these were not the tears of grief she had shed earlier in the day, when she sat beside Haleth son of Hama’s deathbed; no, these were tears of pure rage.  Her fists clenched, and she spoke in a dangerously quiet voice, “Be at peace?  How is that possible Éomer?”

“We have won the day Éowyn.”

“Aye, we have.  And there are boys, younger than I was when I first took up the sword, lying dead in this keep.  Tell me Éomer how am I to find this peace you speak of?”

“Éowyn – it was not your fault that battle claimed them.”

She ceased her pacing and turned to look at him, all her energy straining upwards as she clenched her slim shoulders and stared him down.  “Éomer I have trained with the blade since I was but a girl.  I disarmed you and Théodred, the finest of the Rohirrim, and yet I sat in the caves, while boys were fighting and dying.  What peace is there for me to find in that?”

“I know not Éowyn – I am only glad that you were not called upon to fight.”  He instantly knew that he had said the wrong thing, for all the blood drained from her face and she stared at him, her eyes wide and shocked. 

“Glad?  You are glad?  Well I am not, brother.  I am not.  It is not any joy to me that I cowered in the caves while children’s blood was spilt on the rocks outside.”

“Éowyn that is not what I meant…”

“Is it not Éomer?”  She paused for a moment, and seemed to stifle a sob, “Well that matters little to me.  Mothers are outside, keening for their sons, and I most walk among them, when all know that when the time came the Shieldmaiden did not stand and fight, as she ought, no she cowered in the dark, while the blood of children was spilt!”

“Éowyn it was not your fault!”

“Then say they are not slain Éomer.  Say they are not slain – but dead they are.”

Her face was white and still as stone as she said the words, and Éomer was at a loss as to what he should say to comfort her.  Suddenly her gaze shifted behind him, and he turned to see Gamling escorting a small girl into the hall.  When he met his sister’s eyes once again, he saw that they were the only parts of her face that were yet living – the rest was stiff as stone.

She sat down, at the other end of the bench from Aragorn, and beckoned to the little girl, who came and stood in front of her.  Éowyn spoke very softly, “Do you remember me Modwyn?”  The girl nodded, her face very grave, and said, “Why am I here?”

“Your father fought in the battle Modwyn.”

“I know.  He’s very brave.  Where is he?”

Éowyn reached out a hand to stroke Modwyn’s hair, and said, “It was a huge battle Modwyn, and the enemy had many more fighters than us.  Your father fought very bravely, but there were too many of them, and he fell.”  Modwyn gasped and fell against Éowyn, very still.  The image awoke memories in Éomer, and he blinked against them.

Éowyn lifted Modwyn into her lap, and the little girl clung to her as she stroked her hair.  She whispered something to Éowyn, and Éomer heard his sister say, “Of course you can Modwyn, but not yet, is that all right?  First the gebyrdwif must see to him, do you understand?”

“But, why?  Why can’t I see him now?”

“Modwyn, he fought in a battle.  He is dirty and he must be cleansed before you can lay eyes upon him.  I promise you Modwyn, you shall see him before he goes to his pytt.”

Éowyn held the girl close, and rock her to and fro, murmuring comforting words in her ear, her face oddly set throughout.  Food for Éomer, Aragorn and the others was brought in, but Éowyn just sat upon the bench.  Eventually Modwyn fell asleep, and Éowyn stood, still holding her, and said, “Well, I bid you all good e’en and sweet repose.  I shall now retire.”

Éomer looked at her and said, “And what about Modwyn?”

“She shall sleep in my chamber tonight; and then tomorrow, when it is done, she may bid her father farewell.  There is no one else to care for her Éomer.”

He could see that Éowyn’s arms were trembling from the effort of holding the girl, who looked to be about nine years old, and Éomer was about to step in when Aragorn stood and said, “Let me carry the child Lady Éowyn.” 

Éowyn raised her chin and said, “I do not wish to take you from your rest Lord Aragorn.  I can carry her.”

“I do not doubt it my Lady, but it would be my honour to bear this burden for you.”

She smiled at him then, and let him take the girl from her arms.  She kissed Éomer on the cheek, and nodded to the other men, before leaving the room with Aragorn.  Éomer drank deep from his mug of ale, wishing that it were stronger; something about the way she had looked at Aragorn son of Arathorn worried him, though what it was exactly, he did not know.

Glossary

Gebyrdwif – a compound of the words ‘birth’ and ‘wife’ which I have glossed to mean midwife, since I couldn’t find a word with that meaning.  Traditionally midwives did not only help when women gave birth, but also laid out the dead.

Pytt - Grave

Some Foreign Field

Éowyn had expected to feel fear when she looked upon her first battle; she had expected to have to fight against her every instinct to flee.  In Meduseld she had heard old warriors describe their first battles and on one point they had all agreed – the first blood was an experience like no other.  It marked men for the rest of their lives, and how they withstood that first trial was the surest test of their character.

But she was not afraid.  She looked upon that great mass and felt only coldness.  Her mind had sharpened to an icy point – her only desire was to slay as many as she might before she fell.  “Let me do my part with honour,” she thought, “Let the Shieldmaiden’s blade at last taste the blood of her enemies, and then let me go to the Halls of my fathers.  Let me be free.”

It seemed to her that she had spent all her life searching for liberty – and yet it was never to be found where she sought.  Always it was just beyond the horizon, mocking her, for she could feel its nearness – it sang beneath her skin.  And when she had finally given up her hope of freedom it had come to her – it had slept in her hall and broken bread with her, and she had thought it within her grasp.

Now it was gone.  He had left her on a grey morning, with nothing but his pity and an entreaty to stay.  Like all the others, he bid her to content herself with the bars of her cage – to stay safe within her bower even when her kin, the very dearest of her heart, were slaughtered on the fields of battle.  Yet he would never take such a course, he would feel it to be a stain upon his honour – as would all the men she respected.  Yet they never allowed that she might have a care for her honour – that she would feel the weight of those who died in her place.

She lifted her sword and rode with the King’s éored.  Fierce pride ran through her veins, and she lifted her voice and sang with the Riders.  No longer was she a creature skulking in darkness behind the King’s throne, as good to Rohan as a painted statue.  Now she had found her place; she lifted her sword and played the part she had waited so long to fulfil.  How could she not feel pride in that?  All had doubted the strength of her arm, the speed of her thrust, but now they should have their answer.

She looked for her Uncle.  She would die in his defence – she would at last succeed in defending him from those who would prey upon him.  And so she rode beside him, and she sang with him, and she slew all that came close to him.  Her blade was black with the blood of her foes and for an instant her heart was light with joy to see it.

Théoden felled the Black Serpent and for a moment Éowyn revelled in his triumph.  But then darkness came and fell about them like it was their doom.  The Dark Rider came and Éowyn remembered Boromir of Gondor’s words, and felt a madness of fear pass through her; but she had known fear for many years, and had held her place beside Théoden King through it all.  In this final, dark place, she would not leave him.  She could not leave her Uncle to such a fate – to die in such darkness – she could never abandon one she loved to their doom.

Windfola raged across the fields of the Pellenor, breaking an obedience of ten years to her mistress, but Éowyn paid the mare no mind.  Slowly she sought to stand between her Uncle and the Rider.  Yet when she came closer she looked upon the beast and saw that it was no beast, but the wyrd that had haunted a thousand nightmares.  A wyrd.

Still she stiffened her spine and whispered a petition, “Father, Mother lend my swordarm your strength; bend my steps to your halls if it be your will.”  And she felt a new resolve her heart – if this was to be her end then she would meet it as befitted a daughter of kings.  She heard her voice speak words her mind had not formed “Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!  Leave the dead in peace!”  She could only remember one other occasion when her voice had spoken before her mind, and wanted to laugh, glad that she would not die forsworn; she would fulfil the oath of her nemnan-dogor.

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!  Or he will not slay thee in thy turn.  He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Éowyn knew that she ought to have trembled, she ought to have begged for his mercy – but she would not so humble herself as to beg a second time, and her knees were locked rigid, and, perhaps in a fey mood,  drawing her sword she said,, “Do what you will; but I will hinder it if I may.”

“Hinder me?  Thou fool.  No living man may hinder me!”

And then she laughed, for how could she restrain her mirth, bitter though it may be?  “But no living man am I!  You look upon a woman.  Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.  You stand between me and my lord and kin.  Begone, if you be not deathless!  For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

The great black creature he rode upon shrieked at her, but she did not faint in fear, and when at last it attacked her, she dealt it such a blow that its very head rolled from its shoulders.  But the wyrd was not slain, and stood, and for the first time Éowyn felt fear.  She would not falter however, and so she stood and did battle with the Nazgûl King.  When at last he dealt his blow, and she fell to her knees before him, she fancied that she heard singing, and smiled to think that soon she would have rest. 

Her race was not yet run however, and when he fell before her, crying out in pain, and the young hobbit called her name, she called up her last strength.  Struggling to lift herself aloft, she clove the neck of her foe.  As she fell to the ground, she heard a shrill cry such as a wyrd would make upon receiving a deathblow, and she smiled to think that at least she had accomplished that much.

Éomer stared at his sister’s face.  Two days it had been since the battle of the Pellenor, and still her face was pale and still.  Éowyn did not get sick – he could not understand why she did not fare better.  It cut his heart to see her, so small upon the bed, so forlorn.  He wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, but he did not know how to fight the melancholy that rested on her.

She was still sleepy but she shifted in her bed, and sat up.  He grinned at her, for he had not seen her awake since Aragorn had healed her.  She took a deep breath and said, “What is that scent?”

He was confused and said, “What do you mean?”

“That scent.  It’s familiar.  I’ve smelt it before.”

“Aragorn used a herb, athelas, to heal you.  Is that what you mean?”

Éowyn’s face tightened at this mention of Aragorn, and Éomer instantly regretted it, but she only said, “No, I don’t think so, maybe…that’s not what I mean though.  It’s…” she screwed up her face in concentration, “It’s kingsfoil.  That’s it.  Mama used to grow it – her mother brought it from Lossarnach.  Do you remember?”

“Is that what brought you back?”

“I hardly know.  I remember darkness, and voices swearing that all was lost, that Rohan had fallen, and you with them, and then that smell, and light, and your voice.  But that’s all.  It comes back to me in dreams sometimes.  I won’t lose you, will I, Éomer?”

“Éowyn, the war is not yet done.  We ride for the gates of Mordor tomorrow.”

“What?  Why would you ride against the Dark Lord Éomer?  You have no hope of victory.”

“There is still hope sister – a small hope, a fool’s hope – but we may not ride to ruin.”

She looked at him, her eyes blazing in a wasted face, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding herself up, and demanded, “Take me with you.”

“No Éowyn.  You cannot go to battle.”

“Why not?  Surely I have accounted for myself as well as any other, brother?”

“You are not strong enough Éowyn, not to ride into battle.  Aragorn says…”

“I know what he says brother, but I tell you, I will not stay here.  Do not ask it of me – I cannot bear it.”

“Éowyn you must stay abed – you are not yet healed.  If you ride out to battle you will surely die.”

“Well then so be it Éomer!  I won’t be like Mama, I won’t!  I would rather die ahorse, on the field of battle, than decline in this prison.  Please – I don’t want to die of grieving Éomer.”

“Hush Éowyn.”

He stroked her hair, and gradually soothed her into sleep, concealing his own distress.  Finally when she seemed to be sleeping calmly, her face smooth and peaceful, he stepped outside the room, wiping at his eyes.  He was pulled up short by the sight of Aragorn, but the older man said nothing, and after a moment Éomer sat beside him.  “I suppose you heard that.”

“Yes.”

“She has not awoken to forgetfulness.”

Aragorn’s silence somehow induced Éomer to speak further, and he said, “I would not have you think that I blame you at all.  Even she does not.  Do you know the story of our mother?”

“But little of it.”

“When our father died she just faded away.  She loved him very much, and she could not live without him.  She drifted off – and in the last days Éowyn had to sit with her.  A woman must be seen off by her female kin, and Éowyn is the last woman of Eorl’s house left.   When our father died, Éowyn saw his body - it had been mutilated by orcs, and she would not speak for nearly a year afterwards.  She sat beside my mother for four days and she never said a word – she could not.”

Éomer sighed and swiped at a tear that had trickled down his cheek, saying, “And when Théoden brought us to Edoras, every night she would sneak into my room to make sure I had blown out my candle as Éomund taught us.  And then she would climb into my bed and sleep there – but before she slept I would hear her weeping quietly between the blankets.  And she would never say a word.”

He looked at Aragorn, ashamed to share such memories, but Elendil’s heir merely laid a hand upon Éomer’s shoulder, and somehow Éomer found the strength to speak further.  “And even later, when she started to speak again, there was always a shadow in her eyes.  It has never left her.  All I ever wanted, all I ever fought for, was her happiness.  I wanted to see her without the shadow, but it was never enough.  Éowyn wanted to make the world better – she wanted it to be right – and I do not think any of us could ever do that for her.  Except for you – and you would not.”

Aragorn looked at him sharply, but Éomer was not angry, save with himself.  She should not have come to such a pass – she should never have been allowed to fester in such bitterness and sorrow.  It had been before his eyes all this time, and he had been blind to it, thinking that so long as her body was whole, her heart would be happy.  He shook his head, “I am a fool.”

“Éomer my friend none of this is of your making.”

“Perhaps not – but she came to me Aragorn.  Less than a year ago she came to Aldburg begging me not to send her back to Edoras, and when she would not say what it was that ailed her, I let it go, and bid her take up her place in the Golden Hall.  She wept, and I sent her back there.”

He heard a low cry come from Éowyn’s room, and stood to go and comfort her when Aragorn said, “Let me.  I shall not wake her, I promise.”  It was weak of him, but Éomer let him have his way.  He sank back down into his chair, exhaustion sweeping through his body.  He could hear Éowyn’s pleading voice calling out from some nightmare, and Aragorn’s deeper one, soothing her back to sweet sleep. 

Soon Aragorn returned, his face heavy with grief, but he said only, “She bears many weights your sister.”  Éomer sighed, and would have spoken further, when the Warden of the houses approached them, bowing to Aragorn, saying, “My lord, my lord Steward wishes to meet with you briefly, if it is not too much of an inconvenience.”

Aragorn stretched his stiff limbs and said, “Of course.  Tell him I shall come in a moment.”  The Warden left and Aragorn fixed Éomer with a beady eye, “I know lord Éomer that you wish to do nothing more than keep vigil at your sister’s door, but I must insist that you get some sleep this night.  You ride for battle in the morning.”

Éomer laughed aloud, wondering at himself, saying, “Never did I think to hear my sister speaking with your mouth Lord Aragorn – but it does give me hope.” 

Aragorn smiled and said, “There is always hope Éomer, my brother.  I must visit another now who needs my counsel, but do I have your word that you will rest?”

“Aye.”

After Aragorn left, Éomer briefly entered his sister’s room.  Éowyn slept peacefully, one hand cushioning her head, and Éomer bent and kissed her brow.  He smiled down at her and whispered, “Did you hear that sister?  There is always hope,” before he left to seek sleep himself.

Author’s Note

The title is a shameless reference to the Rupert Brooke sonnet “The Soldier”, written during the First World War.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Made Glorious Summer

As they approached Edoras Éomer called his sister to him; she would ride through the gates at his right hand.  She joined him with alacrity, grinning at him as Winfola fell into step with Firefoot.  The two horses bore themselves proudly and Éowyn laughed joyfully at their prancing.  Éomer looked at her in awe; he had never seen Éowyn laugh with such open delight nor smile so readily.  Though he did not know Faramir of Gondor well, for the change he had wrought in his sister, Éomer was ready to thank the Steward.

He remembered vividly the day when Merry, Holdwine of the mark, had arrived at the Field of Cormallen without Éowyn.  Éomer had taken the hobbit aside, wanting to hear how his sister fared, but loath to broach the subject in Aragorn’s presence.  He asked Merry why she had not come and the hobbit had replied, “She said that the Healers bid her remain.”

“Is that true?”

“I do not know Lord Éomer.  I think there is another reason but she would slay me where I stand if I told you.”

“Well Éowyn is not here – and if she were I would protect you from her wrath.”

Merry had bent his head with a conspiratorial grin “Well my lord Éomer, I have heard it said that she has formed an attachment with the Steward of Gondor.”

“Is this the hobbit pertness Gandalf spoke of?”

“No my lord!  Truly he has a great love for her, and she has some regard for him as well.  And Lord Faramir is a very good and honourable man.”

Éomer still smiled at the recollection – especially his close questioning of Aragorn about his Steward.  The King had been most bewildered – wondering if Éomer suspected the man of some treason.

Éomer heard a sound of disaproval from behind him, and turned to see Diancecht gazing pointedly at his sister.  Éowyn sighed but pulled her blue and silver cloak closer.  She caught Éomer’s eye, and he had to stifle his laughter; Diancecht’s fussiness had nearly driven Éowyn to distraction during the journey.  She had commented that even Aragorn was preferable as a healer, after one particularly vexing discussion with Diancecht.

They had entered Edoras now, and Éomer could see the people bowing to him, the King returned.  He looked at his sister, but she only smiled at him, and he squared his shoulders; he was King, the Riddermark was now his charge and his care. 

Édoras’ healer, Cynefrid approached and bowed.  “My lord, my lady, it is good to have you returned to Meduseld.  I took up the rule of Rohan in your absence – I hope to your liking my King.”  Éowyn seemed uncomfortable at his words, but Cynefrid only continued, in a slightly gentler tone, “We have heard of your valour Éomer King, Lady Éowyn.  It was a most mighty deed to slay a wyrd.  None can remember any such since Scatha the Worm was destroyed.”

Éowyn smiled, and Cynefrid turned them both around.  The folk of Meduseld bowed on bended knee before them.  Éomer stepped forward “People of Rohan, we have many tales and tidings to share, and tonight we shall celebrate our victories.  But tomorrow we must begin our work of setting this land to rights; it may be long and hard, but before this year is out, I swear, Rohan’s glory shall be restored.”

They cheered him and he sighed in relief – it had not been so difficult after all.  He rejoined Éowyn and Cynefrid and they made their way to Meduseld, with Diancecht and the elven twins in tow.  Cynefrid spoke again, “May I ask my lord why our lord Théoden has not been brought home?”

“I judged it best that we should not lay him in the ground until we had restored order, and all of Rohan might honour him as one.”

Cynefrid was silent, and when Éomer looked at him he was heartened to see that the healer’s countenance expressed only approval.

Éowyn spoke with a maidservant as the healers, Diancecht and Cynefrid, reacquainted themselves.  Éomer sat beside them, worn as from an ordeal, as Diancecht said, “Aye I learned much in Gondor during the war, and so I hope to be of aid to Lady Éowyn.  She fell to the Black Breath after the battle.”

“The Black Breath – what manner of malady is that?”

“None I met, save Elessar the newly returned King, understood it, except that it is brought by the wyrd which lady Éowyn slew.”

“Truly?  And are its effects long-lasting?  Is it easily cured?”

“Well with the judicious application of athelas, or kingsfoil, danger can be averted; but few knew this during the dark days in Minas Tirith.”

“Kingsfoil?  I thought it was only used to freshen a sick room or cure a passing heaviness…”

The two men wandered off together and Éowyn sat, passing water to Éomer, Elladan and Elrohir, and rolling her eyes.  Éomer smirked at her “What is the matter sister?”

“Éomer!  Now I shall have two healers, both of them fussy, hounding me instead of one.”

“I take it Aragorn is still preferable then?”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose “Infinitely.  He rises in my estimation with every day I spend in Diancecht’s company.”

“Well soon you will be far away from Diancecht and can see Aragorn all you wish.”

“Éomer!  Is that your idea of secrecy?  This was your idea.”

“What secret is there?” Elladan enquired, raising an eyebrow.

Éowyn blushed and Éomer nearly fell from his seat at the sight.  “I am to be married.”

“To whom?”  Elrohir asked, his tone mild.

“Faramir of Gondor.  Aye, my only sister intends to abandon me for a Gondorian, so strong are our bonds of affection.”

Elladan smiled sadly “We too know what it is to be abandoned for a Gondorian Lord Éomer.”

“Forgive me, but I do not understand.”

“Our sister, Arwen Umdomiel, is to marry the King of Gondor.”

Éomer grinned at the two elves “Well this night let us drown our sorrows at having two such faithless sisters.”

“Éomer!  My lords, how long shall you honour our halls – if you will forgive the question.”

“Of course Lady Éowyn.  We must wait till our sister’s escort reachs Edoras, and then we shall join her in her journey to Minas Tirith.”

“I hope not by the same Paths you took before.”

“As do I Lady Éowyn.  Forgive me, but is there some room where I might…cleanse myself?”

Éomer could see that Elrohir thought his comment indelicate to the point of rudenesss, but Éowyn only said, “Of course.  If you will follow me?” before sending Éomer a borderline murderous glance when Elrohir said, “What is it exactly to drown one’s sorrows?  I have never heard that revel explained.”

Éowyn sighed and touched Windfola’s velvet muzzle gently.  She had had a most trying afternoon, including arguments with Éomer’s newly appointed seneschal and the Master of the Horse.  She brushed a few strands of hair from her face; there was no need to be downhearted.  Rohan’s fields had mercifully in the main survived the war, and there would be food enough for winter if the people could be organised.  That was her task – while Éomer roamed the fields of Rohan, hearing the stories of every man and woman and giving them hope, Éowyn organised the gathering and transport of essential supplies, sending them where he told her in his messages. 

She placed a gentle kiss between Windfola’s eyes and made her way out of the stables.  She missed Faramir more than she could say – she did not understand how, after such a short time, he could understand her better than people she had known her entire life.

Elladan approached and Éowyn smiled at him.  She liked the elven brothers – it had become a great pleasure of hers, since Éomer was abroad, to spend an hour or two in their company each evening.  Though not always light-hearted – indeed some sorrow seemed to rest on them at times – they knew many songs and much lore that Éowyn was enthralled by.

She hailed Elladan as he approached her, “My friend, I thought you had ridden abroad with your brother?” 

“And you are right Lady Éowyn.  We found what we sought sooner than we had expected.  May I introduce my sister, Arwen Umdomiel?”

A tall figure behind Elladan came forward and removed its cloak.  Éowyn met the woman’s eyes for an instant and bowed her head immediately.  She was not fit, oh she was not fit to look upon such a creature – shame poured through her very soul that she had ever dared to think of supplanting this woman.  Arwen was like nothing Éowyn had ever seen before – her eyes held wisdom beyond anything she had ever imagined.  Éowyn could not meet that gaze for long.

She felt cool fingers slip under her chin and her head was lifted.  She met Arwen’s eyes; afraid of she knew not what.  Arwen spoke softly, “You must not bow so to me Lady Éowyn.  You must not bow.”  Éowyn did not understand it, and yet she felt close to weeping as Arwen stepped back and said, “All have heard of the valour of Éowyn of Rohan, and I see now that you are as fair even as my brothers have said.”

The words ought to have sounded like some dreadful mockery coming from a creature that resembled the light of the moon made flesh, yet somehow Éowyn found herself believing them.  Arwen’s eyes, like Faramir’s, held not only wisdom, but also kindness.

Elladan spoke and Éowyn smiled at him – it was easier to look upon his face than that of Arwen.  “Lady Éowyn my father and others await you in the Golden Hall.”  Éowyn lifted her hands to hair in an automatic smoothing motion, but she stopped halfway through, realising that there was no need to pretend to be the fairest woman in the Hall.  She looked at Elladan and said, “Your father and others?”

“Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and many others.”

“Oh…and Éomer is twenty leagues from here!  We have little fit provender for such guests…”

Elladan smiled at her gabbling, and as he and Arwen followed her to Meduseld Éowyn considered her appearance.  She had no pretensions to beauty among elves, but desired nonetheless to appear neat at least.  She wore a perfectly servicable court gown and, as far as she could tell, it was not stained in any way.

She entered the hall and stood, half-stunned, for a moment.  A veritable hoarde of elves stood in the Hall of her fathers.  She took a breath, wondering if any other mistress of Meduseld had ever received such guests, and said, “Forgive me my lords and ladies for the ungracious welcome you have received.  My brother the King rides yet abroad, but as mistress of this hall I bid you welcome.  It is our honour to host such guests.”

She could hardly stand the scrutiny of so many bright eyes and was a little startled when a man, like to Elladan and Elrohir, came forward.  He bowed to her and said, “Lady Éowyn, I bid you accept this token of our gratitude.”  He placed in her hand a great emerald set upon a chain.  Éowyn smiled, though she felt as though in a very mist of astonishment, and said, “I thank you.”

Elrohir came forward and said, “Lady Éowyn, this is my father the Lord of Rivendell, Elrond Peredhil.”  Éowyn sank into as low a curtsy as she could manage, feeling awkward beyond all imagining.  Yet she could look upon Lord Elrond’s face and so she preferred him of all the elves.

They spent that night at talk and song.  Éowyn thought she had never spent a stranger evening in Meduseld.  She sat at the high table with the ladies Arwen and Galadriel, wishing that she might hide herself away.  She felt like a blot upon their beauty – they were too high for her.  Yet the thought did not bring her great pain, for there was no room left in her heart for anything but awe.  The Lord Elrond spoke some friendly words to her, and some songs were sung, and so she passed the night.

Little more than a day later she would bid them farewell, giving Elladan letters to give to Faramir and the King, who must be kept informed of Rohan’s condition.  She looked upon the Elven horses, and though they were fair and she did not doubt swift, she did not see the same heart in them as she had always seen in the horses of Rohan.  When she returned to Meduseld she saw that without the elves it was not nearly so bright as it had been, and yet, it was hers once more.

“No the wool is to be sent to the Folde.  Though the crops were untouched all their animals were slaughtered.  Cattle and draught animals have been sent from Harrowdale and Westemnet, but there will be no sheep until next years lambing.  They need that wool for warm clothing for the winter.”

“Very well my Lady.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I have nothing further my lady.  The child Modwyn waits outside.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The seneschal left and Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief.  Modwyn, wearing a clean but worn dress, edged through the door.  Éowyn smiled and said, “Sit down child.”  She poured her a glass of milk flavoured with cinnamon.  Modwyn sat, her hands in her lap, before saying, “My lady, why am I here?”

Éowyn smiled “Well Modwyn I thought it was time we had a talk, you and I.  Where are you living now?”

“Well one woman lets me sleep on her floor, and another gives me dinner each day.”

Éowyn set bread in front of her, thinking she might be hungry.  “Is that what you would prefer Modwyn?”

“Of course not!  I mean, no, not really, though I am grateful.”

“Well then Modwyn you have some choices ahead of you.  Let me see; Blostma said once that you have kin in Folde; it may be that they could take you in.  Or, if you do not wish that, Éomer could find a place for you in Meduseld.”

“Well Lady Éowyn I have never met my kin, I know almost nothing of them.”

“There is another option.  I have need of a handmaiden – a quick girl to do some small tasks, care for my gowns and such, and run errands.  But you must consider this carefully Modwyn.”

“Why, my lady?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course Lady Éowyn.”

“I am to be married – so if you take a place with me it would mean leaving for Gondor.  I would teach you Westron, and you would always have a place in my home, but this may not be what you would prefer.  Do not give me your answer immediately but think on it.  I would be very glad if you came.”

Modwyn stood and said, “May I come back and tell you when I decide?”

“Of course.”

“Forgive me Lady Éowyn, but who are you to marry?  Not the King.”

“No.  The Steward, Lord Faramir.”

“Is he a kind man?”

”Aye Modwyn – he is the very bravest and best of men.  All love him – as do I.”

Éowyn found herself smiling as she spoke – even though she felt a painful tug in her heart at the thought of Faramir.  She followed Modwyn out of the room and made her way to the parapet of Meduseld.  She stood facing south, and whispered a few words of love into the wind, hoping it might bear them to his ears. 

Author’s Note

The title is a reference to the opening lines of Richard III by Shakespeare

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;

Inheritance

Éomund’s daughter joined Elrond of Rivendell with a smile.  She had plighted her troth to the Steward of Gondor this very day and her joy at it shone still in her face.  Elrond had often wondered what it was in men that allowed great joy to give them a beauty that they did not own.  The goldenhaired woman before him reminded him of the valiant folk who had dwelt once far in the North – yet to her they were only the stuff of legend, venerated but imperfectly remembered.

She stood with him in silence for a few moments, watching the dancers.  He was glad of her quiet, for there was no fear in it, yet still he roused himself and said, “I congratulate you my Lady.  All are most glad to hear of your match.”

A smile graced her face then, and she bowed her head, her cheeks flushed.  “I have truly been more fortunate than I could ever have hoped Lord Elrond.  Such joy dwells in my heart – all unlooked for.”

“These restored days have brought joy to all Lady Éowyn, yet it is not of that which you speak.”

She raised her head and looked at him proudly, “In truth Lord Elrond, it was not the fall of the Shadow that brought forth my Spring.”

“Lord Faramir?”

“Aye.  I have no words fine enough with which to praise him – but it was he who freed me from most bitter pain.”

Elrond felt a flicker of surprise – he had thought that Aragorn had healed the Lady of Rohan, and yet from her words, it seemed that such was not the case.  He wondered if perhaps there might be more to the tale than he had been aware.  They stood again in silence, and he surveyed the woman beside him.  She was one of the fairest daughters of men he had ever seen, and yet, he could see the steel in her – in the line of her spine, in the set of her shoulders.  He hoped that Arwen would befriend this woman – the Lady of Ithilien would be a most formidable ally for Gondor’s Queen.

A Marshal of Rohan approached her and spoke some quiet words.  She nodded and said, “Lord Elrond if you will forgive me, I must speak with an old friend.”

He inclined his head, “Of course Lady Éowyn.”  She curtsied and made her way quietly to the far end of the Hall.  The Marshal followed her with his eyes.  Elrond spoke, “You are Marshal Elfhelm are you not?”

“Indeed my Lord.”

“It was with your éored that Lady Éowyn rode, and so a great deed was done.”

“Aye my lord.  And so Rohan’s Lady found her happiness.”

The Marshal sighed lightly as he finished, and Elrond intuited much that the bards had not sung of.  The Marshal bowed once more and said, “My Lord.”

Elrond watched the man leave and stood in thought for a moment.  The King of Gondor approached and Elrond bowed his head.  Aragorn looked at him with a most pained expression and Elrond said, “Elessar.”

“My Lord, I would not have you address me in such wise.”

“Estel then.  Have you enjoyed this night’s festivities?”

“Of course.”

“I was most surprised to discover that Lady Éowyn once cherished an affection for you Estel.”

The King’s eyes widened in shock but he only said, “Forgive me Lord Elrond – it was born of desperation and none now wish to publish it for fear of embarassing her.”

“Ah I understand.  Perhaps that is how she herself feels towards Marshal Elfhelm.”

“Marshal Elfhelm?”

“Did you not percieve his love for her?”

“Indeed I did not.”

“That may be because there is none Lord Elrond.  If Marshal Elfhelm has any affection for me it is for the Lady of Rohan, not my very self.”

“Forgive me Lady Éowyn.”

“I am not offended.  Did you not see what I saw?”

“I did Lady Éowyn.”

“You percieve much.”

Elrond looked upon her more carefully as she spoke to Estel, “My lord have you seen my brother or Lord Faramir?”  Her face was very pale and Elrond asked, “My lady are you well?”

“Oh I am quite all right Lord Elrond.  I am merely a little distressed by some dreadful news.”  She dabbed at her eyes and Elrond shared a glance with his foster-son.  Estel looked at her gently and said, “Might I enquire as to what happened?”

“I have just spoken with an old friend.  I had not heard but his wife died when the Westfold fell – and his son… his son was blinded.  The boy is only four years old and he shall never again look upon this world.”

Elrond percieved both her grief and her anger but could only say, “He was a dear friend?”

“Aye.  We used to dance together when I was young – he gave me flowers once.  He was a friend of Éomer’s but he was always very kind to me, and he was a valiant Rider.”

The King of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor approached as she spoke.  When she saw her brother Éowyn’s tone changed and she asked, “Éomer why did you not tell me what had happened to Poldon?”

”I did not wish to upset you Éowyn – you have been so happy these past months.”

“But Éomer we should have sent Diancecht or Cynefrid to look to the boy – he suffers daily.”

“What do you mean sister?”

“Léofwine was blinded Éomer; did you not know?”

“No.  I had heard of Wynsum’s death but not…I shall send Diancecht tomorrow.”

Estel had watched the exchange with both sympathy and a certain amount of amusement but at this point he glanced at his foster-father.  Elrond spoke, “Lord Éomer perhaps I might visit the boy?  Elvish medicine is reckoned very fine.”

Hope lit in Éowyn’s eyes and she said, “Truly?”

“At the least I could prevent the boy, Léofwine, from suffering any further pain.”

The Lady of Rohan made a low curtsy and said, “You have my deepest thanks Lord Elrond.  It will do my heart good to know that Poldon and Léofwine’s burden will be lightened.”

He bowed and she left them then to take a turn with the Steward.  Estel became engrossed in a conversation with Mithrandir and so Elrond spoke with Rohan’s king.  It was many minutes however before the Elven Lord could pose the question he most wished to hear answered.  “Lord Éomer, do you regret your sister’s marriage?”

Éomer seemed to consider for a moment before he said, “It is not in me to wish things different, though I would a lesser distance lay between Rohan and Ithilien.  Lord Faramir has brought happiness to my sister – that is worth any distance between us.”

“You have a most generous heart.”

Though bewilderment marred Éomer’s features Elrond did not clarify his words.  His was not a sorrow that could be understood by men.

Thy Mother's Glass

Faramir followed Éowyn through the door asking, “Why are we here?”

“Because of Éomer.”

“What exactly does Éomer have to do with the King and Queen’s bedroom?”

Éowyn sighed patiently “Faramir my love it is really very simple.  Éomer bedded the head maidservant last Middwinter and then insulted her by talking about the Queen.”

Faramir cocked an eyebrow at her, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms full of blankets.  Éowyn threw her arms up in frustration.  “Fine.  Éomer said that beside the Queen of Gondor all the women of Rohan are as mules beside a thoroughbred.  Let it be said, she was not the only woman in Meduseld looking daggers at my brother upon those words.”

Faramir looked at her in astonishment but only said, “Your brother is plainly blind my lady.”

A slight blush rose in Éowyn’s cheeks and she smiled at him, saying, “Sweet talk will not sway me Lord Faramir.”

“Truly Lady Eowyn?”

Despite the dry tone of his voice the moment hung between them and eventually Éowyn turned away from him, blushing.  He looked at her elegant form for a moment, saying, “But that still doesn’t explain why we are here with bedding.”

He could definitely detect irritation in her tone but she only said, “Éomer said it last night and so this morning when she changed the bedding, she put on the roughest blankets we have.  I would not have the King and Queen insulted, not in the Golden Hall.”

“I see.  Then, why am I here?”

“Have you no notion of how heavy a mattress is?  Shieldmaiden I may have been but even I cannot lift it alone.”

“So this is a test of my strength?”

“You could look on it that way my lord.  Who is to know if a Gondorian has the same manly strength as one of the Rohirrim?”

Her head was bent and he thought he could see her shaking in silent laughter.  “The Rohirrim measure manly strength by the ability to make beds?”

Éowyn’s voice was thoughtful as she said, “Well, beds come into it a little.”

“Éowyn!  I never thought to hear you say such…”

“And I never thought to see the Prince of Ithilien and the Steward of Gondor make beds like a woman.  It seems this is a day of surprises for us both,” she continued in a more serious tone, “Forgive me Faramir, I did not mean to…”

“Do not fret Éowyn.  The ladies of Gondor can hardly mention a bed without blushing.   I had forgot that Rohan is a nation of horsebreeders.”

“Indeed my lord.  You shall have the finest horses in all of Gondor if I have my way.”

Éowyn bent to strip the bed and Faramir copied her.  It was, he realised, a harder task than he had thought.  The furs and blankets were heavy, and it took several hard tugs to pull them from under the mattress.  Éowyn piled the discarded bedding beside the door, and they got to work on remaking the bed.  Faramir had to hold the mattress up while she tucked in the sheets.

They were almost finished when a young maidservant came rushing in.  Éowyn’s face was immediately clouded by irritation and she let out a small sigh.  They spoke rapidly in Rohirric and Éowyn’s voice became a little sharp before they were finished.  As the girl left she turned to Faramir and shrugged, her lips curving in a half smile.  “The cook does not want to salt the fish – but no one here likes smoked fish, and they do like smoked pork, and we don’t have a huge amount of salt…”

Faramir burst out laughing, leaning back on the bed and shaking with mirth.  At first Éowyn laughed with him but eventually she smacked him on the chest, saying, “What, pray tell, entertains you Lord Faramir?”

He managed to swallow his laughter and said, “Forgive me Éowyn it is just…from all the songs I have heard the Rohirrim sing of you, I never imagined that salted pork would cause you such worry.”

The corner of Éowyn’s mouth twitched and she lay down beside him, propping her head on her hand, and said, “Ah, but songs are sometimes deceptive.  At least they do not tell the entire story.”

He touched her cheek and brought her head down for a gentle kiss.  He could feel her smiling against his mouth, and he stroked her arm gently.  He moved to kiss her again but she pulled back saying, “I’m not…forgive me…this feels odd…it’s not…”

“Because it is the King’s room?” he said, he hoped sympathetically.

She looked at him as if the thought had not occurred to her and said, “It was my Uncle’s room.”

That he could understand; he did not imagine that he would wish to spend time with Éowyn in his father’s bedroom either.

She pushed herself off the bed and he wondered if perhaps she was a little annoyed with him, but she only said, “My hands are all dust.  I told them to clean the room thoroughly, I don’t know why…”  She made her way to the privy – presumably looking for a washbasin.

Faramir had just bent to pick up the fur that should cover the bed, when he heard a muffled cry from the privy.  Éowyn barrelled back into the room, her cheeks flaming and one hand covering her eyes, “Tell me I didn’t see what I think I saw,” she said, in a mortified tone of voice.

“Éowyn what?” but Faramir was interrupted when Aragorn Elessar, High King of Gondor and Arnor emerged warily from the privy, bare-chested.  Éowyn turned to face the other direction as he stalked over to a great chest and seized a shirt.  As he pulled it over his head Éowyn burst out, “I thought you were riding with my brother!”

“I was… We saw a convoy of riders approached with the last prisoners from Isengard.  Éomer returned to make preparations for them.  You can turn around now Éowyn.”

The White Lady of Rohan turned to face them and Faramir was surprised to see her grinning, though her cheeks were still pink.  “Honestly,” she said, “And Legolas had me believing that you never wash.”

Aragorn looked positively affronted, but Éowyn only laughed and came to stand beside Faramir, slipping her hand into his.  A smile broke across the King’s face and he said, “Why are you two here?”

“Well Éomer insulted a maid and she gave you bad sheets because she dislikes the Queen so we were changing them.”

Aragorn looked slightly bemused and raised an eyebrow.  Faramir shrugged and said, “It’s…complicated.”

“Actually I hoped to speak with you in any case Éowyn.”

“Oh?”

Aragorn searched briefly on the desk and then laid a stiffened cloth folder in front of them.  “Open it,” he said and Faramir felt Éowyn stiffen beside him.  She extended her pale fingers and flicked open the cover.

It was filled with sheets of vellum.  Éowyn gasped as Faramir lifted each sheet.  On every one there was an image of Éowyn drawn in charcoal.  Faramir could see her grow paler as the drawings progressed.  A feeling of revulsion filled his breast – no one should be stalked so.  No one should have such unrelenting scrutiny focused upon them.

Éowyn held one particular sketch in her hand – she was trembling.  Faramir looked at her, alarmed, and saw that her face was completely white.  For a moment he feared she might swoon and he caught her round the waist and sat her down.  He knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.  She was shaking all over but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.  She held the sketch out so he could see it; in it Éowyn lay, seemingly in sleep, cushioning her head on one hand.  Her voice was low as she said, “That one.  Théodred gave me that nightgown as a Middwinter gift when I was eighteen.  He must have come into my room…at night…and…”

She turned eyes upon him that, scant minutes before, had been full of laughter, yet now were haunted.  There shadows of a terrible past in those clear, candid eyes that he loved so.  He reached up a hand to cup her cheek.  She smiled at him and continued, “He was always watching me, but I never knew that it went so far.”

“Éowyn love, he’s gone.  He can’t hurt you anymore.  I swear to you.”

Suddenly a smile broke across her face, like the sun coming out from behind clouds.  She kissed him – she had never kissed him before – and started to laugh.  “I’m sorry love,” she said, “Just once I would like to see you when my eyes aren’t red.”

She stood up and straightened her dress.  She held Faramir’s hand and played with his fingers as she said, “Where did you find these, my lord?” 

Aragorn looked mildly irritated at her formality but said, “I didn’t.  Arwen found it in a drawer of that desk.”

“Was there anything else there?”  Her voice was oddly brisk.  Aragorn looked confused but he handed her a sheaf of papers.  Éowyn looked through them quickly and said, “Ah, this what I thought.”  She answered their unspoken questions by saying, “I wrote to Diancecht in Minas Tirith so many times, and I never got a response.  I kept wondering – I knew it!”  Bizarrely she seemed almost satisfied by the discovery.

A young girl knocked on the open door, and curtsied when they looked at her.  She started to say something in Rohirric, but Éowyn coughed, and she continued in Westron.  “Lady Éowyn, the King, that is Lord Éomer, bid you come to the gates of Edoras immediately.”

Éowyn stood gracefully, saying, “Of course Modwyn.  Did he say why?”

“No my lady.  Just that it is important.”

“Very good Modwyn.  Can you bring these to my room?”  She handed her the folder of Grima’s drawings, “And go to the kitchens and get something to eat.  You look peaked child.”

The girl raced off and together they left the room.  Faramir couldn’t control his curiosity and asked, “Why did you have her speak in Westron?”

“I want to bring her South as my handmaiden.  Her foster-family died during the war, and she has no kin she knows, so I offered to take her in.  It is very hard to be an orphan.”  Éowyn’s voice was pensive and she seemed to rouse herself as she said, “I shall burn those sketchs this evening.  I wonder why Éomer wants me.  I hope nothing bad has happened.  Did he say anything to you my Lord?”

Aragorn rolled his eyes at her formality – behind her back – and said, “No Éowyn, though he was concerned about the prisoners.”

Éowyn walked quickly through the streets of Edoras, Faramir and Aragorn following in her wake.  She was truly glad that Aragorn bore no grudge against her; but she wished, an odd wish in truth, that he would not be so friendly.  She wanted to behave with absolute propriety towards him, so that all suspicions as to her heart would be put to rest; but he insisted on calling her by her first name, and seemed completely blind to all the hints she gave suggesting that it was not desirable.  Still, though it might expose her to some impertinent remarks, she could not bring herself to entirely regret that he treated her like a sister; and at least he was subtler than Éomer, though that was not, in itself, any huge feat.

They reached the gates quickly and she saw Éomer turn to look for her.  The look on his face stopped her in her tracks – he looked as worried as when she had first awoken in the Houses of Healing.  Aragorn, absorbed by his conversation with Faramir, nearly ploughed into her back but she ignored him.  Éomer walked over to her and as he turned she caught a glimpse of a body on a stretcher. 

Her brother squeezed her shoulder but said nothing until she met his eyes.  His voice was very gentle as he said, “Éowyn, the last prisoners of Isengard have arrived.”

“What does that have to do with me brother?” she heard the fear spike in her voice.

“Éowyn one of the prisoners…they took far more than we knew at the time sister.  All those men and women who disappeared were held in the caverns of Isengard.  Most did not survive.”

“And?  Éomer what is it?  What has happened?”

“Those that arrived today are the weakest of those who survived Saruman’s keeping.  Éowyn the woman on the stretcher – it’s Elfara.”

“Impossible!  Éomer what kind of joke is this?”

“No Éowyn.  They captured her and kept her.  She says Grima asked her many questions about you.”

“But she died, you all said, she died.”

“She barely survived it Éowyn.  The healers do not expect her to last the night – the journey was too much for her.  She wants to speak with you.”

Éowyn nodded, hardly taking in his words, and moved around him to approach the woman.  What she saw nearly made her cry out – the woman’s face was old and wrinkled, and somehow uninhabited.  There was no expression in her eyes, no life in her countenance – until her gaze shifted and she saw Éowyn.  Joy filled her eyes, joy and sorrow, and the woman spoke in a dulled, grave voice, “Éowyn is that you?”

“Aye Elfara it is I.”

“I would hardly know you, you have changed so.”

“Truly?”

“Aye my daughter.  They told me of your deeds Éowyn – you are a Shieldmaiden after all.”

“I am.”  Éowyn bit back a sob as Elfara spoke again.

“I knew I would see you again.  I always knew that my daughter.  You have grown so much – you are so beautiful.”

“Elfara – I missed you…”

“Hush love.  Are you happy?”

“Yes.  Very happy.”

“Are you wed?”

“Soon.”

Elfara shifted where she lay, and Éowyn noticed the iron-grey hair that covered her head – and she was not an old woman.  “Not that Poldon you used to like?”

“No.  He is of Gondor.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Very handsome.”

Elfara smiled and said, “And you love him?”

“Yes.  Very much.”

Elfara sighed and seemed to take a moment to catch her breath.  Éowyn was about to touch her when Cynefrid leaned forward urgently “No my lady.  She has the coughing disease.  You cannot touch her – it spreads…”

Elfara spoke again, “Where is Théodred?”

Éowyn’s heart leapt into her mouth and she spoke with great trepidation, “He died Elfara, in the war.”

The older woman sighed again, “I’ll see him again soon then.  Is there anything you wish me to say?”

Éowyn blinked back tears but said, “You’re not going to die Elfara.  There is a king in Gondor now, he will heal you I’m sure of it.”  She caught Aragorn’s eye and he shook his head – she dashed tears from her eyes. 

Elfara smiled at her, “No Éowyn.  It is my time.  I just wanted to see you before…what would you say?”

“Tell them I love them, and I miss them.  And I think about them.”

She desperately wanted to reach out and touch Elfara, to say goodbye somehow, but Cynefrid’s warning kept her mindful.  A sob tore out of her throat, and she watched as tears fell from her face to Elfara’s.  Her friend opened her lips one last time but could only manage a gasp.  Her eyes slid closed and the dreadful rasp that had been her breath ceased.

Éowyn stretched out a hand in disbelief but snatched it back.  She laid a hand across her chest, trying to control her breathing, which heaved within her.  Slowly she stood and straightened her dress; she was preparing to make her way back to Meduseld and her bedchamber when she turned and saw Faramir.  He opened his arms and she buried her head in his chest; he stroked her hair.  He was warm and solid and she could shed her tears quietly in the safe haven that he offered.

After a few minutes, she was calm, and she looked up in time to hear Aragorn ask Éomer, “Who was that woman?”

“She was a friend to me…a mother really.”

He looked as though he understood but she continued anyway, “Our mother died when I was very young, and I do not even really remember her, so Elfara was…”

“Why did she ask about Théodred?”

Éowyn looked at her brother in surprise and said, “She was in love with him.  Did you not know it?”

“No.  Théodred never said anything to me…”

“He didn’t love her.  He used her, but he didn’t love her.  At least not until she was gone.”

“Oh.”

Éowyn huddled once more in Faramir’s arms, unwilling to face Éomer’s curiosity or Aragorn’s courtesy.  He stroked her cheek and, at a cough from Éomer, said, “Shall we ride together my lady?”  She nodded, and they made their way to the stables together.  She was glad he did not ask her questions – he let her muse in peace and she was glad of it.  Yet when he extended a hand to help her mount her horse she was glad of that too – indeed she thought perhaps it was, that he was near, that filled her heart with gladness.

Author’s Note

The title is a quotation from Shakespeare’s third sonnet:

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.

Modor His Dohtor

Éowyn looked about her in wonder.  She sat in the private audience chamber of the King of Gondor, and she sat beside her husband of two days.  She felt as though she were brimming over with something light, something golden and glorious.  For the first time she did not feel as though she were bound to earth – she felt light, and dizzy, as though she had danced for too long and had to cling to her partner for balance.

Gondor was strange to her – in Rohan people tilled a living from rough fields.  It was a struggle – every year there were shortages in some part of the land.  And yet in Gondor it was not so – her lands were rich and they did not fight to return to some wild state.  It seemed that life was easier in Gondor, and yet Éowyn knew it had not made them soft – it had tempered their mettle and made them all the stronger.

She fingered the embroidery at the end of her sleeve.  It felt strange to wear such light dresses, but the velvets and heavy wools she had always worn in Rohan would have been too hot.  She saw Aragorn raising an eyebrow at her, but she met his gaze without flushing – she saw no shame in admiring a thing of beauty.

The ladies of Gondor all wore such gowns.  Éowyn had seen some of them, and thought they grouped together like a flock of elegant, twittering birds.  They smelt of rosewater and soft soap, and had a kind of vicious elegance that was like nothing Éowyn had ever encountered before.  She did not doubt that she could learn their ways and find a place among them, for she was second only to the Queen – but she was glad that Arwen Umdomiel was not of their ilk.  Somehow she had become fast friends with the Queen – an occurrence that was as unexpected as it was delightful.

Éomer entered the room, a grin lighting up his face.  Éowyn was still unused to the sight of her brother without his armour, and it seemed odd to see him in the elegant clothes of a King.  He sat on one of the low, soft chairs with a sheathed sword set across his knees.  He smiled at her and said, “I have news from the Mark sister.”

“Really?  What has happened?”

“A despatch rider arrived today.  Marshal Elfhelm has married.”

Éowyn tightened her hand on Faramir’s, and tried to restrain at least some part of her joy, for fear it would be improper.  Still, questions poured from her lips, “When?  Who?  Did you know about this?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Éowyn.  Hush.  I didn’t know until I received today’s despatch.”

“And?  Who is it?  Do I know her?”

“Her name is Claennis.  You may know of her.”

Éomer looked uncharacteristically nervous and Éowyn stared at him in confusion.  It was several moments before the memory came to her and she burst out, “But I thought she was disgraced… How did they even meet?”  Éowyn knew what the fate of women such as Claennis, who had been disowned by their families, and it was not generally a happy one.

Éomer bowed his head, seeming shamefaced.  “I took her in,” he said, “As keeper of my hall at Aldburg.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Éowyn – half the women of Aldburg would not even speak with her.  I thought you would not approve.”

Éowyn stood and embraced her brother.  “I am so glad Éomer – you are so good.”

He blushed and shook his head, looking like and overgrown boy, saying, “It was nothing sister.”  Éowyn took a careful look at him and subsided. 

“Now sister,” he said, “If you can keep silent for a moment, I have something to give you.”

Éowyn sat down and shut her lips as Éomer unwrapped the sword he carried.  He laid it in her lap, and she looked up at him in shock.  “Éomer you cannot give me this.”

She stared at the sword in awe, barely daring to trace the hilt with a fingertip.  She heard Arwen say, “What is it?” but ignored the Queen as she drew the blade and saw it glimmer in the lamplight.

Éomer spoke first, “It is the sword of our grandmother.”

“Dædfruma,” she interrupted him, “It is Dædfruma.  The sword of Morwen Steelsheen, the greatest of all the Shieldmaidens.  She beat the orcs back from the doors of Meduseld with this very sword.”  She could not keep the awed tone from her voice and suddenly she stood and passed the sword through the air in a well-practised movement.  “I have heard tales of her all my life – I wanted to be just like her.”

“You are.”  It was Aragorn who spoke and he looked at her kindly.  “I rememer her,” he said, “It was I who bound her wounds at the end of that long day.  You hold your head in the same way she did – it struck me the first time I saw you.”

Éowyn stared at him, speechless for a moment.  Was it possible?  Yet she could not but believe him, and so she bent her head and accepted his words as truth.  She turned to Éomer once again and said, “Éomer, why are you giving it to me?”

“Our Uncle always intended you to have it.  He told me once that he would give it to you when you wed.”

“But Éomer… you will have daughters.  They will need this in dark times, to give them hope.”

She made to give it back to him but he closed her fingers around the hilt once more, saying, “It belonged to Gondor once Éowyn – it shall again.  Besides, I still have your sword.”

Éowyn felt tears prick at her eyes but she grinned at her brother and said, “You know the blade is missing don’t you?”

“And is it impossible to reforge a sword sister?  Your King may tell differently.  Are you not going to use it?”

Éowyn was still doubtful, and her brother must have seen it in her face, for he said, “Let Gondor have Morwen Steelsheen Éowyn – the daughters of Rohan will still have the Lady of the Shieldarm.”

“But Éomer, I am a Shieldmaiden no longer…”

“And so you will cease all practise with the blade?  I do not believe it Éowyn.  Fear of sloth wil drive you to pick up the sword – you used to dance for two hours each day.”

“Dance?” Faramir enquired, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Éowyn smiled at him and said, “It was how I learned the sword.  Pattern dances.  Théodred tried to teach me, but he was too strong, and I kept dropping the sword.”

She started to move through the motions of a dance, and only stopped when she saw the look on her husband’s face.  She smiled at him and sheathed the blade, moving to sit beside him.  She whispered in his ear, “I shall keep it – for our daughters.”

He smiled into her face, and she felt dizzy once again.  Faramir brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.  He slid an arm around her, and automatically she laid her hand on his where he grasped her waist.  She liked the hard warmth of his body beside hers.

Author’s Note 

Dædfruma – Doer of deeds

Modor His Dohtor – Mother of Daughters

I have now come to the end of this tale, and I just want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed and hopefully enjoyed Freedom From Fear.  Especially French Pony – thank you so much for all your reviews, they were appreciated more than I can say.

Keep an eye out for a (much) revised version of “In The Forests of the Night” to be posted soon.

Thank you.