Brides should be happy, not mournful, Eowyn thinks.
She mourns the loss of Rohan, her home: a shimmering sea of grass, ten thousand shades of green and gold. Soaring snow-capped peaks sun-kissed at dawn, rose-brushed at sunset. Pounding hoofbeats, the surging pulse of the earth itself. Home.
Not only the land: the bones of her ancestors anchor her to where simbelmynë marks the trails of strength and sacrifice. Her people.
But it is ever the fate of brides to leave home, or how will new homes be made? She turns, smiling, and sets her course towards a new, green land.
For the tolkien_weekly "Mourning" challenge.
I am tired. My back aches, my feet are swollen, and I neither sit not lie comfortably. Winter in Ithilien means the constant patter of raindrops streaming off green leaves. When shall we see the sun again? Will this child ever be born?
Faramir comes, bearing a steaming cup. Warmth, and comfort, and the scent of … flowers?
“Jasmine tea. I remembered it from Dol Amroth, so I asked my uncle to send some, to cheer you in these grey days.”
Dear, sweet man. The child shifts a bit, and I can breathe, inhaling deeply the essence of spring.
Dedicated to the Stash Tea Company, and the lovely UPS man who delivered my package one evening at 9:30 pm, because it was promised to me that day.