Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

[Warning] Written in English as a second language. Can be read as a standalone, though it draws lightly on plots from my earlier fanfics in Chinese.

The Golden Hall of Meduseld shimmered with firelight and rang with laughter. Mead flowed, minstrels played, and the banners of the Mark stirred softly in the hearth-warmed air. Éowyn sat straight-backed upon the dais beside the King, her chin lifted, hands folded in her lap. Her golden hair was tightly braided, her grey eyes clear and keen.

She was but fourteen that spring, and though still young, she had already begun to gather both murmur and marvel about her name.

She did not giggle like the court maidens. Her frame, though slender, bore the early strength wrought of long mornings with spear and sword. Théodred had taken her as his pupil, sparring with her in the yard beside the King’s stables, correcting her form with a soldier’s discipline and a brother’s care. He never mocked her bruises, nor bade her grow gentler. He adjusted her grip and praised her footwork, offered guidance without condescension—and when she faltered, he would grin and say, “Again, sister. You nearly had me that time.”

When she did well—oh, how he laughed! Once, when she bested him in a bout with the wooden sword, Théodred fell back upon the straw mat with mock despair and cried, “Béma shield me—the lady grows fangs!” And the King, standing nearby, chuckled deep beneath his braided beard. “Aye—may they grow sharper yet.”

It was the King himself who encouraged her, when she was found practicing with a most reluctant Éomer. In truth, Théoden often watched the three of them from the high ground, arms folded, pride softening the weathered lines of his face. He spoke of her as though she were his daughter, not merely his niece, and his approval gave her strength. When he said, “You ride as well as any of the House of Eorl,” she believed it.

She wished that Éomer might be more at ease. He would wince each time he glimpsed her scraped palms or dust-smeared brow—not from disdain, but from a fear deep-rooted and tender. Poor Éomer—he had seen himself as her shield since the passing of their parents, and the thought of her risking herself in battle chilled him.

“You are all I have left of our parents,” he said once, quiet and unguarded, after more ale than befitted his years. “I would not lose you to the blade of some Orc or wandering Dunlending.”

It was not that Éowyn did not understand him. Indeed, it was quite the opposite, for she loved him the same—if not more. She had been but seven years of age when their mother died of sickness and grief, not long after their father fell to Orcs in an ambush near Emyn Muil. Though still young, the ache of losing those loving hands, the embraces and laughter—and of leaving their childhood home for Edoras—had never passed from her heart. Théoden was kind, steadfast, and no less a father for being an uncle; and Théodred, a sure guide and the elder brother any soul might hope for. Yet the wound of being orphaned at the very gate of memory had shaped her early and deeply. For a long while, her silences were long, and her laughter rare. Even as joy found her in riding, and in the rhythm of steel on steel, sorrow lay quiet beneath her leather armour.

If Théodred made her smile, then it was Elfhild who made her laugh again—Elfhelm’s younger sister, three years her elder, a golden-haired tempest, strikingly fair, yet one who bore a sword with irreverent grace. They trained together when Théodred grew busy with the affairs of the Mark, and though Elfhelm grumbled ever to Théodred that Elfhild was “too wild for a maid,” the two young women sparred and sweated side by side until the guards, half in jest, named them shadows of sun and moon.

“I wish I could be as strong as they are,” Éowyn said to her once, panting and wiping sweat from her brow after a hard practice, as she watched Éomer and the others press on without pause.

Elfhild merely snorted. “Do you see the foals in the stables? A yearling is no match for a two-year-old—but give it time, and the difference shall vanish.”

“But they say men grow ever stronger than women, as they age,” Éowyn murmured, not wholly convinced.

Elfhild laughed then, as though some memory struck her as especially funny. “Men boast of many things—but we shall see for ourselves. Wait and see, my lady.”

Yet for all the delight she took in arms, a lady of the House of Eorl, dwelling in the King’s hall—even a shieldmaiden—had other duties. So that night in Meduseld, Éowyn wore a gown of deep green and sat with quiet grace. She watched the court not as a child, but as one who measured and remembered.

From the far end of one table, a woman in heavy fur murmured to her companion, “She bears the look of Steelsheen.”

Éowyn did not move, yet she heard it. Her face did not change, but her thoughts turned over the words like a coin in her palm.

Later, when the guests had departed and the embers burned low, she found her uncle—who had become as true as a father—seated by the hearth in the King’s chamber. He was polishing a sword with slow, absent strokes.

He set the blade aside. “I suppose it is because you put them in mind of your grandmother—my mother, Morwen of Lossarnach. Proud she was, and sparing of laughter. Her gaze could still a quarrel, and once her calm words alone stilled the whole court.”

The King shook his head. “She had fire—but she kept it hidden, like a blade beneath fine silk.”

He rose and went to a carved chest that seemed long unopened and untouched. From its depths, he drew forth a silver comb, shaped like the wings of a bird.

Éowyn took it gently. It was cool in her hands, and gleamed like starlight on steel.

“No. Yet she had strength enough to make kings sit straighter in their chairs,” he said, his smile touched with remembrance.

She hesitated, then asked, “I remember her not. She passed soon after Grandfather, did she not?”

The King did not answer at once. He turned to close the chest with care, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely distant.

“Aye. You would not have known her. She was gone. When my father died, she was but fifty-eight—and yet…” His voice trailed into silence.

He did not speak again for a long while. Éowyn had seldom seen her uncle thus—only when the memory of his wife, who had died in childbirth in the days before he bore the crown, was stirred.

That night, Éowyn placed the comb beside her training leathers and stood before her mirror.

Her reflection showed a girl with pale golden braids, sun-touched cheeks, and eyes that had known misfortune and grown hard against it. A girl who did not weep, nor plead, nor ask again when she was told no.

Steelsheen, she repeated in silence, and the name no longer seemed distant. It felt familiar—an echo from a past not yet wholly lost.

Perhaps it was but her imagining, yet in the mirror, behind her, the image of a lady seemed to gather—tall and straight, with dark hair like the shadow before dawn, and grey eyes bright as stars, though her fair face was softly blurred, veiled in mist.

The resting place of the Kings of the Mark lay beyond the walls of Edoras, where the hills fell away into the plains. High and green, the mounds were arranged in two rows; the western sides of each were strewn with small white flowers, glittering like snow—simbelmynë, that bloomed in all seasons. The road curved between them, silent and still beneath the clear sky.

Éowyn rode there alone the next morning, her grey mare, Frathwyn—swift and surefooted, as her name—carrying her with quiet grace. No one marked her leaving.

She dismounted before entering the barrowfield and walked. The mound of King Thengel was easy to find, standing tall and dignified as the last and latest on the right, its stone-marked entrance etched with careful runes.

Beside the name of the King, more modestly written, was another: Morwen of Lossarnach.

Later that day, back within the Hall, she spoke to one of the older court ladies who had remained after the feast. She knew she would have better luck with her kin—but she did not wish to sadden the King further after their conversation the day before, and Théodred would not have time until late in the evening. Her remaining aunts, sisters of her mother and the King, were not in Edoras, having long wedded in Westfold and Eastfold. She had no others to turn to just now, and she had not yet learned the patience to wait.

“I visited the mounds and noticed that the stone before her barrow bears no year.”

The lady blinked. “No year? Well… surely she passed some time ago—perhaps when King Thengel died, or not long after.”

“Do you know someone who saw her buried?” Éowyn pressed. “I would very much like to speak with them.”

“I suppose not,” the old lady admitted after a pause. “She was… very quiet in her final years. Some say she returned to the South. Others say she simply faded.”

Another lady added softly, “She stopped attending court altogether. I remember—there was one winter I thought she had gone to Gondor. She was from there, after all. But no one ever knew for certain.”

Troubled, Éowyn thanked them and made her way to the eastern wing of the Hall. She knew that old stores had been brought there for cleaning, after a long winter’s worth of ashes and dust—and she remembered glimpsing objects of southern make: modest in colour to the taste of the Rohirrim, but rich in pattern and craft.

There was much to sift through indeed. After some effort, she came upon a chest—carved with delicate, artful designs and bound in tarnished iron. Its lock was broken, and it bore the faint scent of cedar and the long years between.

Within, she found linen yellowed with age, a child’s cloak long outgrown, and beneath them, a stack of letters bound by a ribbon; a few drawings of distant lands—of water without bound, a vale full of flowers, and a glittering city half-veiled by white mountains, rendered in charcoal and ink—and, a journal.

The script on the cover was elegant, and decisive of hand. Éowyn had studied with the King’s Scholar, alongside Éomer, ever since they came to Edoras—as was expected of those of the King’s House, or so Théodred claimed. She knew the Common Speech well and how it was set to page, but this was not that tongue. It was Elvish, one of the High Tongues, which she had only just begun to grasp.

Taking a deep breath, she narrowed her eyes and tried to make sense of the first page. She stumbled through the shapes, sounding out what she could, guessing more than she understood. But the meaning eluded her, and the effort left her brow damp with frustration.

In the end, only one thing was certain: a name. The name she had been seeking—Morwen.

She gathered all the papers and carried them to her own chamber, then went to see to her daily routine. Before she descended from the Hall, she saw that Elfhild was already in the training yard, and Éomer was coming up the path—moving with apparent haste.

“You look as though a ghost were chasing you,” Éowyn said, as her brother climbed the steps two at a time. “Did Elfhild frighten you away?” she added with a smile. All of Edoras knew the tale of their encounter a few years past, though none would speak of it openly before Éomer—for he believed no one knew—and she would not be the one to tell him otherwise.

“I need to ride with Théodred—an errand outside Edoras,” Éomer muttered, flushing and grimacing in the same breath, and quickened his pace.

“Did you say something to Éomer?” Éowyn asked Elfhild later. The elder girl, rebraiding her loosened golden hair after spear practice, answered carelessly.

“Your éored?” Éowyn exclaimed. “You would need to be a marshal to have your own éored!”

“And I will be one,” Elfhild said as she finished her braid and turned to face her, eyes bright beneath the afternoon sun. “They shall see.”

Théodred and Éomer returned late that night. Supper had long since passed, and Éowyn had waited for them. Seeing the weariness upon her cousin—dear to her as a brother—she held her peace, greeted him softly, and withdrew to her chamber.

“You were looking for me, little sister—I could tell,” he said. “What was it?”

She had never been able to hide anything from Théodred. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “Do you remember our grandmother—Morwen of Lossarnach? I would like to know more about her.”

Théodred raised a brow, then smiled. “I wish I could tell you more. But I was only two when she passed.”

He raised his brow again, and grew thoughtful. “Come to think of it… I am not certain. I was too young. My first memories are of your mother—she is the beginning of childhood, for me. Why do you ask?”

So she told him of the name, the missing year upon the stone, and how strangely no one seemed to remember her fate. He listened attentively, then sighed.

“It is a hard world for the women of our line. They are sung of in songs, as mothers, sisters, lovers, wives, daughters… and then they fade. And none mark the day they pass from it.”

“I hope not,” he said, meeting her gaze, love clear in his eyes. “And I hope you find the truth of our grandmother.”

“Can you help me with something?” At that moment, she made up her mind. She could trust him with this—he would not stop her, nor dismiss it as a foolish notion.

She showed him the first page of the journal. Théodred glanced at it—and laughed.

“Little sister, I never thought I’d be asked to read Sindarin again,” he said with a wry smile. “But I suppose I still remember a few of the letters.”

“I thought so,” she said, beaming. “You always praised us as quick and clever with book-lore—just as you used to.”

“‘When you speak, daughter, do not ask for space—claim it. Dignity is a fortress with no gates but your own.’”

They both fell silent for a while. When he looked at her again, his voice was gentler.

“No wonder she was called Steelsheen.” He rose. “All the more reason for you to learn the letters. Let me know what more you uncover.”

That night, she placed Morwen’s journal beneath her pillow. The silver comb lay beside her on the table. Her sword stood in the corner, her belt looped carelessly over it.

And when she woke, she went to the King’s Scholar for the morning lesson—more determined than ever.

Light of late morning spilled through the windows of the Golden Hall, gilding the stone floors and high beams with a quiet glow. Éowyn sat at the small desk in her chamber, her brow furrowed in thought. Before her lay a sheet of parchment, a half-spilled inkwell, and the first page of Morwen’s journal. Théodred had translated only a single line that night—but that line had opened a door she could not now close.

Since then, Éowyn had returned to the journal often—her fingers tracing the lines of ink, her lips shaping the sounds of a tongue still strange to her.

The King’s Minstrel and Scholar, Master Gléowine, had blinked in surprise when she asked for further lessons in Sindarin. “Most folk in the Mark have no use for Elvish,” he remarked, though with a curious smile. “Still—your grandmother spoke it well, I have no doubt. You may learn faster than you think, as the Prince once did—though not without much protest and complaint on his part,” he added dryly.

For a moment, Éowyn wished to ask him whether he kept any records of Queen Morwen—but she refrained. It felt like a quest of her own now. Besides, she would not be content with official notes and annotations: black ink upon yellowed parchment, or names embroidered on faded tapestries. With the letters and the journal, she felt she held a key to the lady who had once walked these halls—a window through which to glimpse a life truly lived. She longed to know her, not through cold description in books, but through her own hand and heart.

As the scholar had foretold, she learned swiftly. By week’s end, Éowyn could sound out a few more lines. Théodred helped when he could, though his duties drew him away more often than not—for since the troubles in Eastfold, unrest had begun to stir in Westfold as well. Erkenbrand had sent warnings to Edoras: the Dunlendings were growing restless once more. The King, too, was more burdened than before, often postponing his meals, his hours consumed by the rising cares of the realm.

She wished she could help, but she knew well that she was still too young, and too slight, to be of any true use—whether at the council table or upon the battlefield. She set the thought aside and fixed her gaze upon the page before her.

The journal was not in great shape. Some pages were missing; Éowyn could not tell whether they had been removed by the writer’s own hand, or simply lost over years of cleaning and re-storage. But for what it was worth, it seemed to begin not long after they had returned from Mundburg.

A simple line. Yet the hand—lighter, and more uncertain than before—together with the words, struck her.

She was… in her early thirties? Éowyn guessed. It was an age still distant, still unimaginable to her. But the thought of one—even a woman full-grown, with children already—who had come here, far from her home and kin, and must have felt alone at times…

Silently, a fear began to stir. She had seldom dwelt on her grandparents on her mother’s side; they had not been present in her childhood. There were only scraps of tale—of a love between two whose years lay far apart—seventeen years! More than her own age—and of a marriage that had bound Rohan even more closely to Gondor.

But was it true? Was their life together as blissful as that of her own parents?

“But I grew to love the plains, though the wind whispered things I do not understand.”

Judging by the sun, Éowyn set down the pen and parchment and tucked them away among her things. She could not miss the morning practice with Elfhild.

Elfhild had been grumpy of late, with a growing need to adjust her gear—complaining that her mail across the chest never sat quite right, and that no smith in Edoras seemed to know how to shape armour for a woman’s form. Éowyn was not yet at that age—still lean and light, and spared, for now, the burden of a fuller figure—her own armour untouched by such trials. But she listened, and she learned.

Beyond such trifles, Elfhild had grown more preoccupied in recent days: training harder, laughing less. Curious of this change, Éowyn had once asked her why—and she had not been greatly surprised to learn the reason.

Elfhild had gone to her elder brother, Elfhelm—newly appointed as a marshal—and asked when she might lead her own éored. He had laughed, good-natured but dismissive, calling it folly for a seventeen-year-old maiden to dream of becoming a marshal of the Mark, and urging her instead to consider tasks such as tailoring, sewing, and cooking—pursuits, as he said, “more fitting to a young woman.”

“Many of his men are no match for me in the saddle already. They may best me on foot—but with spear and bow, in the saddle, we are equals. And I am less a burden to the horse,” she told Éowyn, her eyes gleaming. “The Éothéod once rode with shieldmaidens, yet they refuse to believe it now—even when they see one. One day, they shall see us again.”

Éowyn admired her spirit for it, as Elfhild’s frustration stirred thoughts of her own battles—quieter, perhaps, but no less true. The struggle was ongoing, and she had yet to find a clear road before her.

She loved Éomer dearly. Though not so perceptive as Théodred, he had been her shield and comfort since the day their parents passed. He was quick to speak, quick to laugh, and quicker still to defend her—her safety and her honour—often before she had even drawn breath. He did not always understand her, but he never failed to stand beside her.

Even now, as he pestered the King’s stablemaster about Frathwyn’s saddle-girth, Éowyn could feel his eyes flick toward her now and again, checking to be sure she was well.

The trouble was just that. He was ever eager to shield her—when she no longer wished for the shield.

That, she thought with a trace of self-assumed wisdom, sighing as Théodred sometimes did—with solemn exaggeration and no small measure of flair—was how love could both bind and blind.

The next line she worked through from the journal took her the better part of two days:

“I did not love them.” It was the plains of Rohan—Éowyn recalled the line before. “Not at first. They were too open, too wild. I feared being swallowed by the sky.”

She could not help but smile at that. What a strange fear—no dread of boundless water, but of open sky? It made little sense.

Éowyn trained harder than usual the next day in sword practice. Elfhild was absent, so she sparred with the young son of Háma, Captain of the King’s Guard. The boy was taller and stronger, but she was swifter—and more precise. In the end, he yielded, her sword-point poised mere inches from his throat.

“My lady, you have won,” he admitted, blushing—but without resentment. Perhaps he had seen how she had honed herself over the years—or perhaps he was simply too young to feel the bruising of pride. “A warrior of the House of Eorl, you are.”

She lowered her blade and gave him a nod—relieved, perhaps, but the weight in her heart did not lift.

She returned to the barrowfield afterward. The simbelmynë still bloomed upon the graves—white as ever, silent as ever. In the tongue of the Rohirrim, its name meant evermind.

She had left a small offering there—a note, written in an unsteady hand, in a tongue she was still learning to wield. And she stood in silence, as though waiting for something unsaid to pass upon the wind.

Éowyn did not return to her translation for several weeks. In part, she was reluctant to read further—to pry into a private sorrow that had not been meant for sharing. But more than that, ill tidings had begun to darken the court, and the great hall of Meduseld grew quieter, its air thick with unease.

It was a stillness subtle and growing, like the hush before a shift in the wind. The court was more somber than it had been in springs past. Messengers came and went with greater haste, their faces drawn from long rides and the burden of darker tidings. Orcs had been sighted in the Wold and Eastfold—some even moving beneath the sun—harassing travelers, herdsmen, and scattered homesteads. Meanwhile, raids grew more frequent in Westfold, and the Dunlendings had begun to test the Fords of Isen, more boldly and more often. They were driven back, as in times before—but it was an ill sign.

“Crows gather where death lies,” they say. But where was the corpse now? And what had stirred their hunger?

Éowyn felt it in the rhythm of her days. The stablemaster warned her that she was no longer to leave the city without escort. It had become harder to find partners in the training yard, for many had been sent out on errand—patrolling, for the most part. Éomer, as one of the King’s Guard, had been appointed to oversee these duties, and it was now his charge to ensure the safety of the lands about Edoras.

Elfhild was still about, but she grew irregular in their daily sessions. When Éowyn asked, she only said it was duty that kept her—chores and burdens at home, now that her brother rode often with his éored.

Even the King’s hall had changed. Where once she had sat in lively company at meals, now the table bore empty chairs. Théodred’s place had not been properly warmed in days, and Éomer was abroad from sunrise until moonset more often than not. Only the King remained steadfast—and though he still sat tall in his great carved chair, his gaze turned often westward, to the Fords, and the borderlands beyond.

And yet, when he looked upon Éowyn, the light returned to his eyes.

“Come, daughter,” he would say, beckoning her to his side as the day’s business began. “These are matters for your ears as much as mine.”

So she sat at his right hand in council, listened in silence as reports were given, and asked quiet, piercing questions only when the moment called for it. She was young by all reckoning; she neither interrupted, nor sought to impress, nor spoke out of turn.

Not all welcomed the change—her brother not least among them.

“You ought not be so exposed to all this,” he said after one such meeting. “Talk of raids and border-scouts, of grain shortages and disloyal hill-clans—what good can it do you?”

“I learn,” Éowyn replied simply.

“You are but fourteen,” he said. “These are matters for those of fuller years.”

“I will be older soon.”

He hesitated, then his voice softened. “I would that you had more years of peace.”

“I know.” But she did not blink, nor did she step back—and that was when Théodred intervened, newly returned, weariness upon his brow, yet his voice calm and firm.

“Peace, brother,” he said. “Much as we might wish it otherwise, the time has come. It does no good to keep her blind to the dangers of the world.”

Éomer grimaced, but said no more.

Later, on the terraces behind the hall, Théodred found her seated alone.

“He means well,” he said. “He does not wish to see you burdened. Nor do I.”

“It is a burden I must share,” Éowyn replied. “And I do not wish to be caged in gold while the world changes around me.”

He smiled at that. “No cage would hold you long, little sister.” Then he added, “Though I hope you do not also harbour thoughts of becoming a marshal—like our warrior-lady friend.”

Indeed, she had begun to suspect that Elfhild was up to something—and her suspicion was soon proven true.

A few days later, a courier arrived with news. There had been an ambush near Snowbourn: two brigands, quick and vicious, who had sought to rob a merchant and his family on their way to Edoras. When the merchant was threatened with death, an unmarked rider appeared.

“He came out of nowhere,” the messenger quoted the merchant. “Slim-built and swift. He struck the first down unawares, then turned his spear on the other. Before we could thank him, he was gone—riding hard toward the city. We thought we might find him and show our gratitude.”

Éowyn heard the report just as she was about to resume her kitchen duty for the day—a compromise meant to placate her brother—laying out fresh spice leaves by the hearth. Elfhild rushed in then, panting, trailing a gust of cold air—and a faint scent of blood.

After a brief moment of surprise, understanding dawned, and Éowyn asked, incredulous—and more than a little thrilled, “Was that you?”

“Shhh,” Elfhild hissed, casting a glance about. Then, lowering her voice: “I have been here, going over these—whatever these leaves are—with you.”

Éowyn nodded, and swiftly tied an apron around her to conceal the bloodstain. By the time Théodred and Elfhelm entered, they were already absorbed in the tedious task of sorting herbs into baskets and jars.

“How fare things, little sister?” Théodred greeted her first, then cast a casual glance toward Elfhild. “It has been some while, Hild. What an extraordinary place to find you—you seem as deft with herblore as with warcraft.”

Elfhild answered with a wide smile, dropping a bundle of Kingsfoil into a pile of sage. “You are most welcome to sample the new spice, my lord.”

Théodred laughed. “I would consider it—if your brother were willing to taste it first.”

Elfhelm coughed. “The King is waiting, lord.” It was a tale well known in Edoras now—how Elfhelm had once forced his sister to cook, and how it had ended.

After they left, Éowyn could wait no longer. She pulled Elfhild aside, and when they were alone, she asked in a rush:

“It was you! How—how did you manage it? Was it dangerous? Was it…”

“Aye, it was,” the elder maiden acknowledged, as a flicker of reluctance—and something colder, almost like revulsion—ghosted across her fair face. Only then did Éowyn notice that she was trembling a little beneath the apron—not with excitement, as she had first thought.

Silent for a time, she reached out and embraced her. And Elfhild held her in return.

When their heartbeats had settled, Elfhild returned to her usual self. Her eyes sparkled once more. “It was not so hard, truly. I was well prepared—armour, spear, horse—and it was over quickly.”

“Did… did they bleed?” Éowyn asked, nodding toward the stain on her breeches.

Elfhild was silent for a moment. “Aye, they did. And they screamed.” Another pause. “They were not Orcs. They were men.”

“It is hard to take a life,” Éowyn said quietly. “Éomer once told me so.”

“Aye, and he was right in that.” Elfhild nodded. “Your brother is too serious for my liking—but he is a good man, and he spoke true.”

“And what sort of men do you favour?” Éowyn asked, hoping to change the subject and lift the mood. “I have heard the court girls whispering about Éomer—and Théodred, of course. What of the Prince?”

“The Prince is fine,” Elfhild laughed. “I like him. But no—not him either.”

“Why?” Éowyn pressed. “He is certainly not as serious.”

“True,” Elfhild agreed. “As I said, he is fine. But he is far too old—what, fourteen years older?” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Though I wouldn’t have minded it, if not for the rumour—” She stopped short.

And Éowyn, quick to catch it, narrowed her eyes. “What rumour?”

Elfhild hesitated, and it took no small amount of coaxing before she finally muttered, “They say the Prince has no liking for girls.” Then, as Éowyn gasped, stunned, she added quickly, “He is kind, and he will offer compliments, jest, and tease and all that—but he has never shown any true interest in the maids of the Mark, not since he came of age. Some say it is an Elvish thing. The King’s mother was said to be of Elven-blood, or near to it, after all.”

Éowyn simply stared at her, mouth slightly parted.

Remembering then how Éowyn was kin to the King, Elfhild coughed, flushed with embarrassment—a rare sight indeed—and fled. Éowyn had never seen her so awkward.

But the mention of the King’s lineage stirred something in her, calling to mind the task she had set aside. And part of Elfhild’s words lingered still—her remark about age, and how it need not stand in the way.

So—it was possible to care for someone much older; Elfhild had said as much. And Théodred was seventeen years her elder—just as King Thengel had been to Morwen of Lossarnach. Yet she had always found him admirable, and dear to her heart—at times, even more than her own brother. Of course, it would not be the same with a spouse… but if fourteen years were no hindrance, could seventeen truly make such a difference?

She would find out. Whether the tale was as it had been told, or hid some darker thread, she resolved she would not let it be forgotten or buried. She would uncover it—and remember.

That night, she sat once more at her desk and resumed her endeavour. She had come far with the language since last she worked upon it. With little trouble, she parsed the next two paragraphs:

“They looked at me as one might look upon a mirror that reflects too clearly. Not with hatred—but with distance, and awe. I was too tall, too proud, too still. They called me cold, though they did not mean unkindness. For they valued warmth, quick laughter, and a manner unshadowed by doubt. They are loyal, fierce, full of songs and honour.

“Though they feared change—and I was change.”

Notes:

I have no idea why Tolkien thought it natural for the heir to the throne of the Mark to remain unwed until 41—at least in Boromir's case, there was an explanation! I’ll just blame the Elves, as we mortals so often do. (The explanation I came up with lives in my other fics, written in Chinese, but it’s not important for this story.)

A breath later, another voice rang out—sharper, more desperate: “Water! Quickly!”

She sat bolt upright. Already, the night air bore the scent of smoke. Théodred and Éomer were both abroad. The King remained, but by the sound of it, the guards were already roused. From the stables below came the wild cries of startled horses.

Fire in Edoras, where all the houses were built of wood, was a grave matter, and called for every hand. She threw on her riding-cloak over her night-shift, pulled on her boots, and ran down the corridor to the courtyard—before even the servants and maids had stirred. There, figures moved swiftly in the dark, bearing buckets, sloshing water, calling one to another. From somewhere below, the cries of children rose. From where she stood, she saw it clearly: in the westward quarter of Edoras, a red glare flickered and leapt, casting up embers like a swarm of angry sparks. Smoke curled into the starlit sky, thick and rising fast.

By the time she reached the terrace at the foot of the Hall, the water-channel beneath the stone carved like a horse’s head was overflowing with folk. She joined the others—household hands, townsmen, and even a few elder boys—with her own bucket. Soaking herself first, she filled it and followed the press of bodies running down the paved way. The dry summer air, and the heat of the fire, pressed upon them like a wall as they drew near.

Éowyn handed off her bucket to a man as he stepped forward. She turned to fetch more when she heard it—a thin, high wail that cut through the shouting. A child’s cry. It came from a small house near the blaze, half-veiled in smoke. The door had caved in beneath a fallen beam.

Her heart quickened, but she gauged the house swiftly. There was a window—low and narrow—still passable for one of her growing frame. Drawing her cloak over mouth and nose, she bound the fabric tight and slipped inside.

The wood gave way easily beneath her shoulder. Smoke thickened the air; it clawed at her eyes and throat. She moved by instinct—low and swift, her training guiding her steps. The cries came again, nearer now, from behind the bedstead in the corner.

A little girl, no more than five, cowered behind the wooden post, coughing and weeping.

Éowyn gathered her into her arms. In that instant, the ceiling groaned—and a portion of the rafter above gave way. She turned, shielding the child with her body. Debris fell in a cascade of heat and ash, and for a moment, all was black.

She held her breath and listened—to the creak of timbers, to the faint whistle of air—and called to mind the room’s lay. Her eyes stung, but she crawled, the child held close, toward the opening. Her hands found the fallen beam—hot still, but bearable. Bracing herself, she heaved against it and slipped through a narrow gap where the fire had not yet taken hold.

She emerged coughing, soot-streaked, hair unbound, the child still cradled in her arms. A gasp rippled through the gathered folk. The girl’s mother, eyes wide with fear and wonder, rushed forward with a cry and caught the child to her breast, weeping with relief and murmuring thanks.

Only then did someone cry out, “Hold—’tis the Lady Éowyn! I knew her from the King’s stables!”

She stood before them in her boy’s shape, still dizzy from smoke and her eyes stinging, in no wise like a lady: her face was smeared with ash, her hair tangled and singed, her night-shift blackened, her elbows scraped, and her hands red and blistered. Nearby, the smoke still hung heavy in the air, but the worst of the fire was spent. Buckets moved swiftly now, and the flames had been driven back.

None spoke for a while. Then one man, older and weather-worn, stepped forward and laid his fist to his breast.

“Lady,” he said, and bowed. Then he turned and called out, “Gríma! Where is Gríma? Someone fetch the leech! We shall need salves and clean linen.”

When the last of the flames were quenched and the horses soothed, Éowyn returned to the Hall. Her shift had been exchanged for a clean tunic, but her hands were wrapped in linen steeped in salve, and the smoke still clung to her hair. The court had not yet assembled, yet word had flown swifter than any herald’s steed. Within, the King did not wait seated, but stood in the hallway near the great doors. He had been roused at the first cry, though the guards had kept him from the smoke. He stood watching, silent, as Éowyn drew near.

“I have heard what you have done,” he said—not as accusation, nor yet as praise, but as plain fact. His voice was quieter than usual, lower than his wont.

A long pause followed. Then she heard slow footsteps, and a shadow fell across her.

“You acted where others might have faltered. You did not wait for orders, nor for leave. You saw what must be done—and did it.”

The King’s voice rang close at hand: deep and even, with little hint of what stirred beneath.

She lifted her eyes to meet his. And to her surprise—and wonder—she saw it: a glimmer of light in his blue gaze, tears unshed and shining.

“You have the heart of the House of Eorl, daughter,” he declared, his voice clear for all to hear. Then, more softly:

The King did as he promised: he did not bid her refrain—but he ordered her to remain in her chambers and rest for half a moon’s time. No reasoning, nor protest, nor plea could move his mind. In truth, she only tried the first, whereupon the King smiled and said, “I would save the effort, child, were I you. It is not as though I learned nothing raising Théodred.”

So she obeyed—for she had her long-overdue task, and idleness would not trouble her. Her desire to read of her grandmother had returned with new strength, for as she passed among the folk of the court, she heard the murmur again—the name: Steelsheen.

She laid her bandaged hand gently upon the desk. The linen was still fragrant with balm, and her fingers were stiff—but not without use. Some pages were missing where last she had stopped, so she turned the leaf with care, and found—between firmer, more assured strokes of ink—the next entry she could piece together:

“The cold has set in early this year. Even within the Golden Hall, one feels the chill creeping beneath the doors. Word came this morning of fever in the lower quarter of the city: three children ill, and two grown folk, with no leech at hand but Gálmód, who is sorely pressed.

“I asked for the herbs I knew: athelas and golden root, dried yarrow, elderbark—” Éowyn stumbled on some of the names, uncertain what each truly was, but she pressed on. “—The stewards frowned, and one muttered that such things were unheard of, and that a rite might serve better.

“I did not argue, but only showed them how to steep the herbs, how to draw the steam beneath linen, and when to stir honey into the bitter draught. I taught one of the weaver’s daughters how to mix and measure.”

It stopped here. Then followed another entry, penned some time later by the look of the ink and the hand.

“The worst came to pass in a lane nearby. As no other knew enough of leechcraft, I went myself and remained two days, tending the children there. One boy was no older than my son. He knew not my name, and at first he called me ‘Dark Lady’—but when he grew stronger, he named me ‘Lady with the warm hands.’

“They watched me when I returned—not with awe, but with something gentler. Perhaps, at last, we begin to understand one another. Life is much the same, in Gondor or in Rohan. It is the will to tend it that matters.”

Éowyn ran her finger along that last line, her lips moving silently. For a long while, she did not turn the page. It was near to evening now, the westering sun sifting through the window, through air made clean again—thanks to the wind from the plains.

But in the dimming light, she could almost see it: the Queen of Rohan, kneeling beside a hearth in some humble house, sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hair drawn back in braids and covered with a kerchief, hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of bitter draught.

“She had fire—but she kept it hidden, like a blade beneath fine silk,” the King had said. And Éowyn saw now what he had meant—at least the first part of it.

When she was ready to move on, she heard the horns at the gates, sounding the return of the Prince and his éored. She closed the journal, and sighed.

They would hear, soon enough, what had passed. And the thought of facing them—she who had not flinched to run into flame—made her cringe, if only a little. But there was no escape.

It seemed no time at all had passed when the door opened without a knock, and in stepped Théodred and Éomer, both still clad in their armour.

“It was no tale to gladden the heart, little sister—beginning with you running into a burning house in your night-shift,” Théodred said with a smile, though he regarded her from head to toe with no small measure of concern in his eyes. “And ending, by our folk’s eager telling, with you lifting five fallen beams and hauling out an éored’s worth of elders and babes. I am far too old for such surprises.”

Both startled and amused by how the tale had grown, Éowyn gave a dry laugh—but Éomer, on the other hand, did not smile. His face was pale as snow in the dead of winter, and Éowyn saw the strain in him, drawn tight as a bow full-strung, so she braced herself for a storm of concern, blame, and all the things she should or should not have done.

For a moment, he was not her bold, brash brother, but the boy who had once stood beside her in the stables, brushing her mare’s coat in silence after their mother’s passing.

“They are calling you ‘our lady’ now—and making songs, of course,” Elfhild said when she came the next day, bringing word much like the Prince’s—though rather more embarrassing, if somewhat less flamboyant. “You will hear them soon enough, once you are out of here.”

Éowyn was a little abashed. “You would have done the same, had you been there. And folk must have done such deeds before—they were simply not of the King’s—”

“No need to make light of it,” Elfhild cut in. “You risked yourself and saved a life, and so they love you for it.” She made a gesture, then grimaced—almost in spite of herself.

“What is it?” Éowyn noticed her stiffness, and guessed. “You were out again.” It was no question.

The elder girl winced as Éowyn’s bandaged hand brushed her side. “Not badly—just a bruise,” she said. “I took a spear-haft when I should not have, is all.”

“I am not alone,” Elfhild replied. “I always know where the men are—those under your brother’s command, and mine. And I do not go far. I mean to be a marshal, not die before I have earned it, so of course I am careful. But you are not, it seems.” She nodded toward Éowyn’s hands.

“One day, they shall see you,” Éowyn said after a pause. “Ride safely, Hild.”

“Rest assured,” Elfhild said with a grin. “If not safely, then at least swiftly. That much you can believe.”

Éowyn’s burns healed in time and left only faint marks. During the days she was ordered to remain indoors, she nearly finished reading the entire journal—though she was still often unsure of the exact meaning of certain words (alas, Sindarin was no small feat). She was greatly relieved to find no trace of unbearable sorrow, though she also felt a flicker of disappointment—thus far, aside from a few entries at the beginning, it seemed largely… ordinary.

It spanned a wide stretch of years, with entries growing sparser—often weeks, at times even months apart. There were notes about the children (she glimpsed mentions of the King and of her own mother, though she had great difficulty imagining the King as a five-year-old boy—noisy and particular about which horse should be his in the stables, declaring he would ride only the finest mearas—and her mother as a little girl who always stumbled at the doorstep, and quarrelled with her elder sisters over whose hair was fairest; she and the King being the only two among the five with bright golden hair); and other notes, on the goings-on of the court, both great and small.

Occasionally, there was a faint wistfulness, a trace of remembrance—a mention of the flowered vales and the warmer airs of the South—but no regret, and no resentment, as Éowyn had at first feared.

Until, leafing once more through the journal near its end, she came upon a small slip of parchment, nestled between two pages—folded, worn, and nigh hidden in the spine. She had almost missed it. The paper was finer than the rest, the ink faded, the hand, by the feel of it, not one she knew.

There was no signature, but the script was neat, spare, and steady—like runes carved in stone. A man’s hand, Éowyn guessed. She turned back to the journal. Just before the place where the note had been tucked, the writer had set down only a single line:

“Grain, tributes, and routes must be reconsidered. The lords will gather tomorrow.”

After the page where the note had been hidden, the writing resumed—and was still plain:

“Fair skies today. The wind from the West carries the scent of the high fields. We rode beyond the wall this morning, he and I. He laughed again, as he did when we first met.”

Intrigued, Éowyn slipped the note into her pocket and made her way to the eastern wing of the Hall. There, in a small chamber lined with scrolls and bindings, Gléowine was sorting his charcoal sticks.

“Master Gléowine,” she said—with courtesy, though little delay, for they were well acquainted by now, and more so of late—“Have you the court records from the year 2974? In the spring?”

He lifted his brows. “Aye. We kept few written records before that time; it was only with the return of King Thengel that such matters were set in order.”

This did not surprise her, yet her curiosity stirred. “And before? How were such things remembered?”

“We wrote them not,” the scholar said. “We sang them. What do you seek?”

“I do not know,” she answered. “Yet I may know it when it lies before me.”

“At your service, Lady,” said the scholar with a smile. From the depths of the archives, he brought forth a bundle of parchment and set it before her. A dry scent of dust filled the room.

“Ah, that year,” he mused. “I fear it shall bring little cheer. The years before were hard, and folk grew ill at ease. Quarrels and tallies, mostly.”

“Dispute arose between the lords of Eastfold and Westfold concerning tribute and the grain-routes. The debate grew contentious, and questions were raised concerning the Queen’s lineage and her right to be present in the King’s hall for such matters. Remarks were also made alluding to the King’s favour toward Gondorian counsel.

“Then the Queen rose, and with a steady gaze and a calm voice, said only: ‘The Lady out of Gondor, as you name her, knows enough of the Mark to know that pride does not feed the hungry.’”

There were no details of what followed—only that judgment was swiftly rendered, and the matter was laid to rest.

“Thank you.”—the note must have been written by Grandfather, she thought. For her grandmother had stood before the lords of Rohan—not as a stranger, nor as a daughter of Gondor only, but as their Queen; and her words had cut clean through pride and grievance alike. Perhaps a blade beneath fine silk is the sharpest of all.

She returned to her chamber as the sky darkened. Reaching the end of the journal, she felt a reluctance, and a quiet, inexplicable sense of loss. Standing before her mirror once more, she gazed at her reflection. But this time, the dark-haired lady was no longer there—though she bore her stature, and held her strength within.

She told herself she would leave the last few pages, and the letters, for another day.

As autumn came to an end, the troubles at the borders seemed to ease. Théodred and Éomer were in the city once more, and life appeared to have returned to its former rhythm. Elfhild, too, had returned—no longer venturing out in secret, for it had become harder to conceal the use of war-horses. Éowyn was relieved—only then did she realise how deeply the worry had weighed on her—and they spent time again in the training yard, as they had before.

Time flies when one is growing, they say. And so it felt—for in the blink of an eye, two years had passed since the fire. Folk still called her “our lady,” and the tale was told at hearth and forge, in stables and kitchens alike. She had long ceased to count how many versions there were—or how much they had been embellished. The King now brought her more often to council, and the court had grown accustomed to her presence. Yet with Éomer come into his own and Théodred often at her side, she still listened more than she spoke.

For a time, she thought Elfhild had given up. The maiden had not taken up those pursuits “more fitting for young women,” yet neither did she openly challenge the common understanding. Fully grown, Elfhild shone like the sun in Edoras, drawing the eyes of young and old alike. She laughed and teased, playing the part as expected—as though her ambition had been set aside—but in truth, she waited for her chance.

When spring came and word spread that the Dunlendings had begun raiding again, she disguised herself as a rider—clad in her carefully fitted mail, her face hidden beneath a helm—and rode with her brother’s éored when they were called to the Fords to scatter a raiding host.

No one knew it was she until the battle was near its end. She had unhorsed their chieftain in single combat and lost her helm, revealing her face—yet she drove her blade clean through that fierce wild-man. The tale spread swiftly: the bold young warrior was none other than the marshal’s sister, and Elfhelm, they said, stood gaping like a fish freshly hauled from the river.

“Will she be allowed to ride as a Rider now?” Éowyn asked Théodred. “Might she one day become a marshal?”

“She has earned her place. As for becoming a marshal—that remains to be seen,” Théodred answered. “It is no easy road, little sister.” Then he grinned. “But for now, I mean to collect my wager from Elfhelm. I laid it years ago, that Hild would have her way. Will you come with me?”

Later, Éowyn offered her praise to Elfhild in private, and asked, “How did it feel?”

“Free,” the young woman answered, with a light in her bearing that Éowyn had not seen before. “Not from judgment of worth—that shall ever remain, for any one—but from the burden of proving it could be done.”

Then she turned, and her eyes met Éowyn’s. “What is it you seek, my lady? For what end have you trained these many years?”

With no clear purpose in mind, she arrayed herself in the guise of a Rider and rode out behind Éomer’s riders as they passed beyond the gates. He caught her, of course. Now full-grown, a man of renown not lesser than their late father, and already proven in the field, it was only natural that he would see through her.

Yet still, he did not wholly understand her—for he had deemed she sought to follow in Elfhild’s path.

“If that is your intent,” he said, “then at least let it pass as such. Your hauberk fits poorly, you still wear earrings, and your hair is not braided fitly for a helm. If I turn a blind eye, how will my Riders regard me?”

Though it was almost comical to see him strive to mimic Théodred’s tone and bearing, he had reason, and so she held back a smile and yielded. Yet neither of them had looked to hear a voice from nearby.

“Long have I heard tell of our lady, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Were Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach to walk once more in the Riddermark, she would be as this.”

It was a man of no great stature by the measure of the Mark—pale and slight of frame, with more wit than might. She saw Éomer stiffen, but she raised a hand to stay him, unwilling that her brother should answer.

“The fault was mine. Let it rest.” With that, she turned Frathwyn and began the ride back.

Behind her, she heard Éomer’s voice—low and stern—as he addressed the man ere riding on.

Somehow, she did not urge her mare to trot. Something was amiss. The name—Steelsheen—he had spoken it out of place: as far as she had learned, there should be little likeness between herself, in this guise, and her grandmother; Morwen had not been a warrior. Yet he had spoken it with a surety that carried a weight too deeply settled to be cast off lightly.

The man caught up with her on foot before long, and they walked together toward the city gate.

The name sounded familiar. “Are you the leech?” she asked, thinking back to the night of the fire two years past, a vague memory stirring. “And—Gálmód, you said? Did your father serve my grandfather?” she asked further, the name now rising from the pages of the journal to her thoughts.

For Morwen’s heritage, and her influence on her descendants with King Thengel in terms of height and hair colour, see Unfinished Tales.

When Éowyn returned to the King’s stables, she was half-surprised to find Elfhild there within, brushing down Théodred’s horse—a spirited grey of six years, white at the feet.

“A new Rider in the ranks, set to stable-boy’s work?” Éowyn said, lightly.

“Aye—sentence for ‘withholding counsel of import from one’s marshal,’ and ‘acting without leave or pressing need,’” Elfhild replied with a rueful breath. “Half a moon’s time, by the Prince’s word.”

“That is not too harsh,” Éowyn said, smiling—for it was just like Théodred: fair and firm, yet never without a trace of jest.

Elfhild cast a glance at her attire and raised a brow. “And you? What were you about? Your hauberk—”

“Yes, I know,” Éowyn broke in. “And my earrings. And the braids—though those are soon mended.” She looked down at her armour, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. “It seems I must seek out the smith you worked with before.”

And indeed, she had grown—swiftly, and not a little. Though Elfhild was three years her elder, they now stood equal in height, and Éowyn’s growth had not yet run its course at sixteen. It was often said that all the children of King Thengel stood tall among the folk of the Mark, a trait ascribed to the Lady out of the South—a gift much spoken of and well praised.

“Hold!” Elfhild cried suddenly, turning sharply to face a figure lingering near the stable gate. “What are you doing there?”

Éowyn turned—and saw Gríma, the leech. His gear was packed for travel, and an aged horse stood waiting just beyond the threshold.

He gave no answer to Elfhild, though she was one to draw the eyes of men at once. His gaze turned only to Éowyn, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth—too smooth, like oiled wood: fair to hear, yet ill to trust.

“I came to bid farewell to Lady Éowyn,” he said, bowing low. “It was an honour to make her acquaintance upon the road to the city.”

“You are leaving?” Éowyn asked, somewhat taken aback—for he had given no earlier sign of departure.

“Aye,” he replied, inclining his head. “And I hope our paths shall cross again.”

“What was that about?” Elfhild asked, frowning as she watched the man lead away his weary horse. “I would not wish my path to cross with his again—not for a long while. And he seemed known to me.”

“Aye, he is the leech,” said Éowyn. “Their craft is worthy of respect, but I would not wish the need for it upon any. I chanced to speak with him earlier.”

She did not speak further of their meeting to Elfhild. Walking back to the Hall, she recalled it—and though the questions that had weighed on her mind had been addressed, she was left unsettled. The man was strange. He was unlike the men Éowyn had known all her life: broad of shoulder, and proud of it; men who held honour and valour above all, who spoke plainly, and who loved and hated with equal force.

This one was slight of frame, his words smooth and courteous, but with a manner of humility that bred not trust. And though she had not spoken her thoughts aloud, he spoke of her grandmother once more—unbidden—as though he had read them.

“My father had the honour of serving the late King,” he had begun thus. “He advanced the craft of healing with knowledge passed down by the Queen. Our allies in Gondor surpass us in such arts, as all would grant, and she brought that lore with her—lending aid in times of plague.”

He paused, as though awaiting a question. But she remained silent. After a moment, he went on.

“Your grandmother was no warrior—but she wore mail, once.”

Seeing her eyes turn toward him now, he spoke on.

“To the barracks—when the need was dire in Westfold, and a muster was called in Edoras. I was a boy then, and I saw her. She looked not queenly in the ill-fitting gear… but she shone, as if in cold light. She bore no blade—only bandages and salves. ‘If you would bleed for the Mark,’ she said, ‘you must also learn to staunch the bleeding.’”

Another pause. His voice dropped almost to a murmur.

“You shone in that same light, for a moment, down there.”

She had not expected it. The words, quiet though they were, struck more keenly than they ought. There was something in the man’s tone—unsettling, almost seeking—that set her on edge. She became suddenly aware of how close he walked beside her, and how intently he watched.

No man had ever dared speak to her so—not with Éomer always near, and the favour she bore from the King and the Prince so openly known. Among the folk of Edoras, she was held in love and deep respect—sometimes even in awe—but never thus.

“My brother was right,” she said, her voice cool. “I am not for your trifling words. Thank you for what you have told me of my grandmother, Master Gríma—but we had best part ways here.”

That evening, Éomer was late to supper. Éowyn had bid the kitchen keep food warm for him, and when at last he returned, he bore a mingled air of excitement and vexation.

“Congratulations on your first day leading the ride,” she said as he sat beside her. “I did not mean to mar it.”

“Aye, I know—and you did not,” he replied, his tone easing as he looked at her. “It was gladdening, in truth, to see you out there before the company rode forth.” He turned back to his meal. But after a pause, he added, “Keep clear of that leech—he was fortunate to be gone when he was. He ought to learn what is and is not fitting. If he ever dares to trouble you again, speak to me at once.”

She blinked, taken aback. “There is no need for concern—I mean to do just that. But how did you know he had gone?”

Éomer did not look up from his plate. “The stablemaster told me. Said some pale fellow followed you to the stables, but Hild turned him away—and well she did, say I. She has my thanks.”

Éowyn rested her elbows lightly on the table, watching him. “You meant to seek him out?”

“I asked, that was all,” Éomer muttered between bites, and then added, under her quiet, steady gaze, “Though I would have sought him out, aye.” He took a long draught, then leaned back, his ire cooling. “He should not have spoken so of you—that pretentious, presumptuous, wretched creature.”

Éowyn shared his unease, but felt he had already overstepped, and so kept to herself what the man had said afterward—pretentious and presumptuous though it was, it ought not to warrant a duel that might end in blood.

And she had not seen the man again until two years later, when she turned eighteen.

She was now taller than most maids in Edoras, no longer in the boy’s shape but a young woman in bloom. Her presence at court had become the norm. The King’s trust in her only deepened, as he began to feel the first signs of age—groaning as he rose from his chair or stretched in the morning. “My old bones are growing stiff,” he would say, then glance at Théodred to silence any remark before it came.

He asked her to read the letters—mainly those from Gondor and the Lord Steward—to record the names of new recruits, merchants, and refugees, and to keep tally of the arms and provisions needed to hold all in order. Working with Master Gléowine had become a daily duty, and she was glad for her years spent learning book-lore as she grew up.

She sparred and rode less, but never gave it up. Elfhild was a captain now—though not yet a marshal. Tested and tempered by patrols and skirmishes along the western marches, she was like a blade unsheathed: her beauty, weathered by sun and scar, was overlooked by some, but all the more striking in Éowyn’s eyes. Stationed in Westfold, she returned at whiles to Edoras to see her kin, and it was as Éowyn stood at the city gates to see her off one morning that she heard a familiar voice.

“It has been long indeed, lady,” it said, “And heart-warming it is, to find Meduseld still proud upon its hill—and the Lady of Rohan gleaming brighter than the hall that crowns it.”

Both young women turned, and Elfhild, after a moment’s reflection, remembered who he was and muttered, “Shall I strike him now, and be done with it?”

But before Éowyn could answer, the man stepped back and bowed.

“Though ever a pleasure to behold you, my lady, I must away to duties long overdue—there are folk here in need of my craft. And as I passed the outer fields, I glimpsed the Prince’s banner to the west. He should be arriving ere long.”

The joy of hearing of Théodred’s return overcame her. It had been many months since the Prince had ridden to Hornburg to aid Erkenbrand in holding the defense against the Dunlendings. Éowyn had not seen him in all that time.

“Come,” she said to Elfhild. “Pay him no heed. I would see my cousin with my own eyes—and meet him on the road.”

Afterwards, of course, Éomer grumbled about her riding out without proper escort—as was his wont—and Théodred, as ever, came to her defence, though not without a firm reminder of the peril. All was as it had ever been: familiar, fond, and well known to her.

The return of the leech to the city slipped from everyone’s thoughts, until one morning, early in the new year, the King failed to appear at breakfast. A serving maid ran back, breathless, reporting that the King was stricken with a high fever.

He had been hale and strong the night before—but by dawn, the illness had taken him. He lay now in a burning fever, lost to the world in a heavy stupor. Éowyn, seated beside him, pressed a cool cloth to his brow, which burned like glede, and had just wrung it afresh when Théodred stepped in, plainly in haste.

“The King is ill,” she said. “We must send for a leech.”

Gríma, long known as a leech in Edoras and son of Gálmód the elder, was summoned to the Golden Hall without delay, despite what misgivings the Prince and his cousins might bear toward him. Happily, the man proved true to his repute. After a day and a night of unceasing effort—with draught and steam, and no small labour to keep the fever down—the King at last opened his eyes.

“Our lord King has borne much toil and care in these past years,” Gríma said to Théodred outside the chamber, with Éomer and Éowyn nearby—his face pale as linen, yet his manner composed, flawlessly courteous, and offering no fault even to the most discerning eye. “Though he has weathered this trial, he will require closer care for a time. With your leave, my lord, I would dedicate my service to the King and remain near, that his needs might be swiftly met.”

He had reason, so Théodred granted his proposal. The Prince took up his father’s charge without dispute, ruling from Edoras, and entrusted the outer defences to Erkenbrand and Éomer, while Elfhelm remained in command of the garrison of Edoras. The court murmured, as it ever did in times of change—but the murmurs faded when, a few days later, the King returned to council: weaker, yet still sound of mind. But ere long, he was again too unwell to attend.

This happened more than once. The King’s strength seemed to sway between gain and loss, waxing and waning with unseen tides. Meanwhile, Gríma’s pale presence became a familiar sight in the halls and corridors of Meduseld. He spoke little at first, delivering now and then quiet messages of the King’s needs and rest, and bearing requests too slight to contest: fewer visitors to the King’s chambers, fewer lights by night, fewer foreign tongues in the hall.

“It is not against them,” he once said softly, intruding upon Éowyn’s question to Háma as to why a guest had been turned away. “Only that our King’s strength now wanes more swiftly than before. The clamour we once called life presses upon him like thunder.”

Éowyn beheld the change with her own eyes. Her uncle—once high and proud in the days of his youth—was, day by day, bowed and dimmed by some unknown torment. There was now more grey than gold in his hair and beard; more fog than fire in his eyes. And it made her heart ache—so deeply that no word, in any tongue she had learned, could name the pain.

She set aside her training and riding, and lightened all other duties, that she might spend more time in the King’s chambers. Though he dozed often, when waking he seemed to seek her presence. He would take her hand, and once she heard him murmur—not to her, but half in dreaming, or in some moment long gone—“Théodwyn… little one. Your hair shone like molten gold.”

Then his gaze cleared a little, and he called her daughter again. “You look pale, and troubled,” he said. “Do not fret over these old bones—they ask only for a little rest. I am so weary.”

After a moment, he slipped once more into sleep.

She felt he was slipping from her—in mind, and in truth. She did not remember how her mother had declined, being but seven then, yet she remembered the sudden loss, and the grief. That same dread—the deep fear of losing those dearest to her—returned, growing heavier with each passing day, drawing her back into the old wound of childhood, and making her more and more sparing of speech.

Éomer plainly shared her fear, though he did not speak of it. He came back to Edoras whenever he might, and sat with her beside the King—he, a man now in his full strength, yet with fire in his eyes kindled not by hope, but by sorrow and wrath: wrath that he had no power to shield those he loved from the fate of mortal kind.

The King once called him Éomund, mistaking him for their long-lost father; but he did not correct him, only held the old man’s hand, as she did. Yet he could not linger. Now lord of the East-mark in all but name, Éomer had much to see to, and was ever called back to Aldburg—to ready it against the Muster of the East-mark, should the need arise, and to restore their house and name, the inheritance of their line.

“Take care of the King,” he told her as he departed, “and of yourself. Send for me if you have need of anything.”

“I will. And do you take care as well,” she answered—though in her heart, she knew she would not send for him, save the need grew too great for her alone to bear. It was a burden they all must carry.

Yet things had long been slipping toward what was ill—or, at the least, unlooked-for. When the King was strong enough to sit in council, it was not she alone whom he summoned. Gríma son of Gálmód was ever at his side: watchful, silent, leaning close to speak when the King faltered or sat in doubt.

“This need not weigh upon you, lord,” he would murmur. “Your son is in his prime, and your knights are bold and eager. Let such matters lie in their hands.”

Often the King would rise early from the council, leaving the governance to Théodred and the lords. Éowyn could not remain behind, but followed after him—and after his pale companion, who seemed now less a servant than a shadow, ever clinging close.

The court grew uneasy. Small shifts were enough to stir whispering, and whispering, in time, gave way to division. Gríma was no longer named merely the leech, but began to be called “the King’s ear.” And when word spread that he might be named a counsellor of the King, there was no small measure of concern—and no little tumult.

It was Théodred who quieted the stir, denying the appointment outright. Long acknowledged as heir, he had acted in the King’s stead whensoever need arose.

Soon thereafter, Gríma came before the Prince with the manner of one bearing weighty counsel, while Éowyn stood beside her cousin, aiding him in sorting the letters and scrolls that bore urgent tidings. He bowed low and said:

“The King wonders if certain burdens might lie less heavily upon him—and more swiftly upon others. In days such as these, my lord, he fears… misunderstanding.”

Éowyn did not at first grasp the full meaning of those words. But as she pondered them, a frown gathered upon her brow—startled by the accusation they carried beneath their courtesy.

Théodred, meanwhile—not clad in mail but in his plain attire—regarded Gríma long and level. Then he gave a laugh, soft and without mirth.

“Is it the King who wonders thus, Gríma—or is it you?”

Gríma bowed lower still, his hands folded with the measured grace of studied humility.

“Only that the burden might rest more lightly, my lord—shared more evenly, perhaps, and more fitting to the King’s waning strength. These are days of unease. One word too many, or a judgment ill-timed, and men begin to mur—”

“Come,” said Théodred, cutting him short. With no more than that, he seized Gríma by the arm and strode toward the King’s chambers. The leech was all but dragged along, stumbling to keep pace, but knew better than to protest. Éowyn, wordless, let the scrolls slip from her hands and followed.

They found the King seated in his great chair by the hearth, though the season was early summer. Thick furs were drawn about his shoulders, and he seemed half-asleep.

“Father,” said Théodred, releasing the leech at last, “I am told you harbour concern—that I might overreach, and take your authority before its time.”

The King stirred at the sound, and for a moment his eyes searched the room in confusion. “Gríma?” he said, faintly.

“That,” said the leech at once, “was… a misapprehension. I fear the Prince has misunderstood—”

“Hold your tongue,” Théodred said, and his voice left no room for reply. “I have no need of a middle man to speak with my own father and lord.” He stepped forward and knelt before the King, lifting his gaze to meet his sire’s. To Éowyn’s surprise, he did not seem troubled; rather, he smiled—and a glint of mischief gleamed in his eye.

“I deem your would-be counsellor has overlooked something of weight, father—to suppose there might be strife between us. If, some twenty years past, when the thought was raised—and by me, indeed—you had no mind to wed again, nor to beget another heir, then surely you would not consider it now—or, would you?”

The King blinked, and for a moment only stared. Then, as if memory had stirred from long-buried years, Théoden King rose. He stood with a swiftness that belied his age—not like one bowed by sickness, but as a man still in the full strength of his days. And when he spoke, his voice rang clear and strong, though in his eyes dwelt both mirth and weary affection.

“To ask that question anew—I deem you miss the whip, my son.”

Théodred rose and caught his arm to steady him, and laughed—long and full-hearted.

“Gladly shall I take it, if it brings your strength back.”

Then the King turned, and his eyes fell on Éowyn.

“Daughter—see that a feast is made ready. I am well today.”

The King seemed restored for a time—some months of steadiness, to the joy and relief of all. Though not as in the vigour of his early days, he could now sit through the councils once more. Yet more and more, his gaze turned to Gríma, and even Théodred could not completely turn the tide.

Gríma, for his part, kept low for a time. He moved with care, made no further remarks concerning the Prince, and kept well out of Théodred’s path. Instead, his attentions turned toward Éowyn. Often he would draw near with quiet inquiries, asking after the King’s habits of old—claiming it was all for the sake of better care. His tone was ever courteous, ever soft-spoken.

But Éowyn had not forgotten the words he once dared to speak. Now full-grown, and wise beyond her years, she understood better what such words might portend—and so kept her guard ever high. Her cool reserve and distant bearing held him at bay—for now. Yet she could not wholly avoid him, for he had won the King’s trust, and she would not forfeit her place at her uncle’s side—her concern for the King, who had long been as a father to her, forbade it. She would not leave him to the leech’s counsel, nor yield his care to one she could not trust.

Still, unease grew in her heart. She began to feel his gaze linger—longer than was fitting, yet never long enough to call out. When Théodred was away in Mundburg for counsel with the Lord Steward of Gondor, there came a time she thought she heard footsteps behind her in the dim hallslow and measured, keeping pace with her own. She turned swiftly to catch the one who followed, but the sound had vanished, and the corridor lay empty.

That night, she sat in her chamber with the door bolted and her sword within reach. She looked into her mirror, and thus into her own eyes. In the flicker of candlelight, her reflection seemed pale and strange—clad in white, the young woman who bore steel in her heart looked more ghost than maiden, though still in the full bloom of her years.

“Shall I strike him now, and be done with it?” Elfhild’s words came to her unbidden—half in jest, back then, but now they held a sharper edge. The thought had its lure. Could she speak to Éomer or Théodred when they returned? Or must she act alone, if anything were to happen—once and for all?

To take a life was no light thing, and might bear grave consequence. But she was well prepared. What stayed her hand was neither revulsion nor fear of retribution, but a colder, more measured thought. She had not his craft, nor the healing arts he claimed to possess. The King seemed hale enough for now—yet she had seen how swiftly such strength could fail. If she struck down this serpent, what then? Would there be time to send word to Théodred—to entreat aid out of Gondor?

She felt powerless—as she had but once before, in the years of her youth—for she had come to understand that there was evil in the world that could not be met by the sword alone, and that she was bound, willing or no, in a cage forged not only of tradition, but of love as well.

A glint caught her eye. She turned, and there lay the silver comb that had once belonged to her grandmother, shaped like the wings of a bird in flight. She reached for it, felt its cool weight in her hand, and closed her fingers about it with quiet resolve.

Steelsheen, she said to herself. Steel would endure—pressed, but not broken. She would endure. She would defend herself. The man was no match for her in arms—that much was plain. If need arose, she would guard herself—and the King.

Fortunately, it did not come to that. Naught befell until Théodred’s return. Yet in time, she began to hear other murmurs—of orders issued out of Edoras, bearing the King’s own seal, yet bypassing the Prince; and of marshals and captains who had begun to slight the authority of both the King and his heir. Her brother’s name, unsurprisingly, stood foremost upon the list.

Théodred must have read the trouble in her face, and as ever, he knew her mind. So he sought her out, and asked her to sit with him upon the terrace where Meduseld stood, as they had often done in her younger years. And he spoke to her with naught but quiet affection in his eyes: “If a man must mistrust even his own kin, sister, then what remains worth living for?”

She was a little ashamed that she had ever doubted him. She wished to speak an apology, but he only smiled and waved it aside. “Save it for when I start growing suspicious of the stable-cats,” he added lightly.

Then for a time, it seemed peaceful—as far as peace might be reckoned in those days—until the morning she stepped into her cousin’s chamber for the daily brief, and knew at once that something was amiss.

“I have grave tidings, sister,” he said, looking up at her. His voice was steady, but low; the ever-present glint of jest was gone.

“Elfhild has fallen. Her brother is, even now, bearing her home.”

Éowyn did not weep.

Not when Elfhild was borne back. Not when she beheld her face—once bright and radiant as the sun, now dimmed and veiled beneath the shadow of death. Not when she sat in Elfhelm’s house, in Elfhild’s chamber, where the light no longer seemed to reach. Not when she removed her armour, piece by piece—the very same she had shaped and fitted over the years—now dented and stained. Not when she unfastened the mail, ripped through at the flank, or peeled away the blood-soaked linen beneath. Not when she washed the blood from her face and limbs, slowly, with water grown cold. Not even when she saw the wounds—gaping, red, and cruel—where her foe had struck, again and again, with anger and fear, until—and even after—the life had fled from her.

She had been feared by the wild men, it was said—and bitterly hated. “The witch who bore a sword,” they had called her. And so they had not been content to cut her down. They meant to bear her broken body back as a spoil for all to see—had not Elfhelm’s éored overtaken them.

But she was not what they believed her to be. She was the sister Éowyn had never known; a companion such as she would seldom find again; a friend, dear beyond telling—a presence that had shown her what might be possible, if one only dared and persisted.

It was only when the task was done—her body cleansed and clothed anew in her Rider’s attire, then wrapped in the decorated cloak befitting a captain of the Mark—that Éowyn rose and stepped out. Elfhelm sat nearby in silence, one hand pressed to his brow. At her approach, he spoke at last, his voice rough and unsteady.

“Had she not chosen this,” he said, looking away, “she would yet be alive.”

“Perhaps—for now,” Éowyn answered, her voice calm, dry, yet not without warmth. “But she would not have been happy. Nor free.”

The pyre was raised that evening, beyond the city, past the barrowfield, on a high clearing where the wind ran unbound. Around it, the grass rippled like the sea, and the flowers—few and fading in autumn’s wane—bowed low before the wind.

All Edoras knew by then, and the folk gathered in solemn ranks: Riders and townsmen, elders and kin. Elfhelm stood by, silent as stone. Théodred came, and Éomer behind him. Éowyn saw her brother bearing a bruised eye and a split lip, and other hurts besides, if the stiffness in his step spoke true. But she did not ask—for she had already guessed the cause, piecing it together from what she had heard.

They laid Elfhild upon the bier with honour—her sword upon her breast, her helm at her side, her hair unbound.

And Gléowine sang.

His voice rose—low and strong—across the field, carrying old words in the tongue of the Mark, heavy with sorrow. He sang of her birth beneath the blossoming boughs of spring; of her laughter that rang bright through the stone-paved ways of the city; of long toil unhonoured, and of the ride that first earned her renown—the path of a warrior, unveiled at last, revealed in battle and blood.

“No bloom may brave the frost for long,
No sword may cleave the doom once drawn.
Yet light once kindled is not gone—
She rides the wind, and still rides on.”

And Éowyn stood unmoving, watching as the flame took hold. She saw the wind scatter the smoke across the plains of Rohan, bearing her friend’s spirit beyond all sight and song.

Éomer found her after the funeral, when the embers were cooling and the folk had begun to drift away. Elfhelm held back, and Théodred had gone to speak with him—the Marshal who had just lost his only sister.

“It was my fault,” Éomer said, his voice low and dry. “She sent for aid, and when Elfhelm asked me, I… hesitated. I delayed.”

Éowyn turned to him slowly. “Why?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“Was it doubt?” she pressed, her voice quieter, but no gentler. “Did you doubt her?”

“No,” he said at last. “I… was troubled by the order. There was one—sealed by the King—forbidding any Riders of the garrison of Edoras to leave the Folde.” He paused, as if bracing himself. “I feared what might be said—how it might be perceived—if I gave command against it.”

She looked away then, for she saw the pain, regret, and shame in his eyes—and turned toward the smouldering ash where the flame had died. For she knew well whence that order had come, and how she and Théodred had failed to catch it in time—or to stay it.

Anger flared in her then—hot and white—yet with no outlet. Whose fault was it? The King’s? The Prince’s? Her own? Her brother’s? Or the pale, cunning shadow that had already slipped deep into the Hall?

For a moment, she considered it—telling her brother what she had seen, what she had heard. The footsteps behind her in the halls. The words, the looks, the subtle shifts that no one else would name aloud. Gríma. The change in the King’s eyes. The chill that settled like frost through the air of Meduseld. The orders, sealed and sent without counsel. And the fear—the fear that some spell had already been laid, not by chant or charm, but by whisper, silence, and slow decay.

But she had seen Éomer’s face—her dear brother, ever striving to take more upon himself, even when it was not his to bear; still seeking to shield her in all ways he could, yet only finding himself called away more and more. And she had seen Théodred’s face, no less strained—perhaps more so—as the King now seemed to drift toward a most unfortunate state: well enough to sit in council, yet ever more wilful in judgment.

It was the ageing, Théodred had said—for such was the word of the healers in Gondor, when he had described to them what had passed: alas, the doom of mortality, against which no art may long contend. So long as we love him, and hold fast in our loyalty to him—our father, our King—we are bound to endure the serpent, she thought, until another healer—equal or greater in craft—can be found. And if that be so, what good would there be in speaking of these things now?

She saw what her cousin and her brother bore—duty, burden, and now guilt—and she could not bring herself to lay more weight upon their shoulders.

“There is no shame in tears, sister,” came Théodred’s voice then from behind—soft and low, gentle as a hand laid over the heart.

At those words, her grief gave way at last—and Éomer silently drew her close against his breast, while Théodred rested a steady hand upon her back.

When they returned to Meduseld and had Éomer’s bruises seen to, it was already late into the night. After bidding goodnight to her brother and her cousin, she found herself alone in the hush of darkness. Loath to sit idle, and with no thought for sleep, she began to sort through the things in her chamber. Since the King had taken ill, she had scarcely spent time within. Now, she meant to find a dagger—a gift from Théodred on one of her birthdays—for she felt the need more keenly than ever to carry a concealed blade.

“What is it you seek? For what end have you trained these many years?” Elfhild had once asked her. At the time, she had found no answer—but she knew now, and perhaps had always known: to protect. To protect herself, that she need not be protected; to guard those she loved from peril, with whatever strength was hers to wield; and to shield the helpless from the evil that now revealed itself more boldly with each passing day. She must be ready—ready to act, to strike, should the need arise.

Her wardrobe had never been overflowing; her tastes were simple, even plain, for one of her rank and standing. But now she was glad of it—for it would have been far harder to hide a blade beneath gowns of finer make or more delicate cut.

She found the dagger soon enough—lying atop a bundle of old letters, with a journal beneath, her grandmother’s own. She had set them both aside long ago, saving the final pages and the letters for another day. And now, for reasons she could not name, it seemed that day had come.

She picked up the letters, still bound by their old ribbon, and regarded them.

The ribbon, once silver, had faded to a hue of steel-grey, and the envelopes and parchment bore the creases and wear of long keeping. With care she unbound them and began to sort through the contents. There were five in all. One was a missive, written in the script of High Elvish and in an official hand—clearly from Gondor; another, penned in a hand unknown to her, seemed by its opening to be from her grandmother’s kin—a family letter, most likely. But it was the third that drew her breath: within were a few sheets of finer, firmer parchment, upon which were rendered drawings of people.

These portraits had been rendered in ink and soft colour. The first was plainly King Thengel in his prime—she could now see the likeness to her uncle in the shaping of the brow and the cast of the gaze. She knew the second and third at once: her uncle as a youth—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—proud, golden-haired, his smile wide and unguarded, so like Théodred, though her cousin was said to take more after his late mother; and her father, the later First Marshal of the Mark—bold and brash—and with it, memory stirred. Her childhood recollections, long faded, came suddenly clear beneath the vivid hand of the artist: Éomer was his very image. And for the first time that day, a faint smile touched her lips.

But the fourth was a man unknown to her: dark-haired, with grey eyes like storm-lit stone. He was beardless—whether from youth or by choice, she could not tell. His attire was that of a Rider, yet he was not one of the Rohirrim. Beneath his likeness, in a steady hand, was written a name: Thorongil.

Éowyn frowned slightly, puzzled. Thorongil—the name was surely of one whose folk were well-versed in Elvish, likely of Gondor. In Sindarin, it meant “Eagle of the Star.”

Vaguely, she recalled a tale the King had once half-told: of a man from without, who had served King Thengel in Rohan and won great renown—but who had not lingered for rank or office, and had departed instead for Gondor, or so some had said. A stranger… and yet, the Queen of Rohan had kept his likeness among those of the lords of the Mark?

At last, weariness overtook her. She set the pages aside and tucked the rest of the letters away, then made ready for sleep. When she sank into dreams, her heart was full of strange minglings: sorrow, wonder, and the ache of names half-remembered.

The world was changing. Some felt it in the water, some in the earth—and those who dwelt in the wide plains of Rohan smelled it in the wind.

The King’s condition seemed to have settled into a steady state. Aged and faltering, seldom leaving the Hall, yet not wholly incapacitated, he ruled still—with his pale counsellor ever near, whispering and interfering. Orders were issued, through that mouthpiece, to Háma, Captain of the King’s Guard, and even to Elfhelm, the Marshal commanding the garrison of Edoras.

Gríma, son of Gálmód, had risen to become the most trusted and relied-upon among the King’s company, though he was held in contempt by many and openly distrusted by the King’s Heir, who strove ever to keep his influence bound within Edoras. Yet the shadows within Meduseld seemed only to deepen—as surely as those along the borders. Théodred had been riding often, answering the mounting needs of both the East-mark and the West-mark, and had begun, though with reluctance, to entrust more of the court’s affairs to Éowyn, loath as he was to lay further burdens upon her.

“I owe you my thanks, sister,” he once said. “To keep you thus occupied at your age—when you should live more freely, as the Lady of Rohan—is no light matter. One day we shall ride again, to lands your eyes have not yet beheld, and come to know those you may yet hold dear. Let us abide in patience, until all this lies behind us.”

“I only wish I could aid you more,” she had said—but both knew it well: her training in arms served her well enough as a warrior, yet it was not sufficient for the burden of command; and for now, the governance of the court was the charge laid upon her by duty—and also what she did best. “Take care, my brother.”

For I could not bear the thought of losing any of you—those were the words unspoken. In the unceasing warfare of recent years, they had received many sorrowful tidings: all their other close kin—the aunts who had wed lords of Westfold and Eastfold, and the cousins born of them—had either perished of sickness or fallen in battle. When word came from Erkenbrand that his lady wife had passed, it became plain: the King, his son, his nephew, and his niece were all that remained of the House of Eorl. She would do all that lay within her strength—for the three dearest to her in all the world.

As the high summer of the year 3018 waned, more grave tidings came from Gondor, their allies in the South: Osgiliath, the old capital, had come under renewed assault from the East, and the bridge over the Great River had been broken at last in desperate defence. Soon after, Boromir, elder son and heir of the Lord Steward, came to Edoras, seeking passage through the Gap of Rohan to go north—on an errand whose full purpose he was not at liberty to reveal.

Éowyn knew Boromir but slightly; though a great friend of Théodred, the Captain-General of Gondor had seldom ridden to Rohan in many years, his time and strength ever spent holding the eastern front. But the next visitor she knew better. In the turning of the season, when autumn came, Edoras received a guest—unexpected, or expected, as some might say: Gandalf Greyhame. He came first in rags and reeking foully, little better than a beggar, and was turned away at the gates. When at last—after no small labour of cleansing and preparation—he was granted audience with the King, he bore dark tidings: that Saruman the White, once hailed as ally and friend, had betrayed them, and now brewed war against the Mark. Turned away yet again, he departed—but not before borrowing Shadowfax, finest of the mearas, unmatched in living memory, and leaving the King to grumble ever after.

The old wizard had visited Edoras more than once before—known to the children for his fireworks and curious marvels, though he came but seldom, and trouble was often in his wake. Éowyn had never spoken with him in private; but once, she had overheard him outside the King’s Hall, standing near the training yard where she and Elfhild, then still in the first bloom of maidenhood, were sparring. “The days of the shieldmaidens are not ended,” he had said, watching, a glint of certainty in his voice. “Nay—they are yet to come.”

Until now, Éowyn had not seen the days he had foretold—and now that she thought on it, she even wondered whether Elfhild’s unwavering resolve had been kindled by his counsel. But in this time of Saruman, his words were proven true. Riders came in haste from the west, bearing dire news: Saruman had at last shown his hand—outposts put to flame, villages laid waste, and worse besides. Orcs bearing the White Hand, his mark, now moved freely across the land.

This was war. Théodred took command at once, without waiting for word from the King; and when approached with concern, he named Gríma, in scorn, a title most fitting: Wormtongue.

“How many feeble, hollow decrees have we obeyed—neither my father’s nor mine, but hissed forth from the forked tongue of this snake?”

The name took root swiftly thereafter—even the King, long fickle in mood and mind, was heard to laugh softly—and that sealed it.

Of late, the King had grown ever more reliant upon Éowyn, since war had broken out upon the western borders.

He had begun to seek her presence, and would fret or murmur if she were not near. He would not let her pass from his sight, but kept her close from morning until late, though he indeed asked little of her—as though her nearness alone were a balm to his spirit, like a drowning man clinging to a shard of driftwood upon a dark tide.

Éowyn found herself no longer able to tend to the affairs of the court beyond the council sessions. And even there, the King had grown more wilful of late, speaking with a newfound resolve—though by now, it was no surprise that his words so often bore the shape and shadow of Wormtongue’s speech.

She was troubled by this change, fearing for a time that the King’s strength and mind had waned yet further. The dread of losing him grew anew within her, and she tended him in all the ways she could: bringing fresh, fragrant herbs sought with care even in the lean days of winter, listening attentively to his wandering recollections of years long past, and seeing to his every need with diligence. At first, she was also concerned that she would be compelled to endure more of Wormtongue’s presence, for that man now seldom strayed from the King’s side. But her unease was soon in part allayed, thanks to Éomer: the King gave orders that two guards should remain ever at Wormtongue’s side, “to shield him from insolence—and from certain inappropriate threats.”

It was not long after Théodred assumed full command of the military that Éomer sought her out, asking after Gríma—and whether that man had ever done anything that might rightly be deemed unwelcome, or a cause for alarm.

“Speak, Éowyn,” he had said to her in private, his voice low, yet charged with urgency and restrained wrath. “You must know—I stand with you, now and always.”

She was put on her guard, yet her voice remained steady. “What is it, brother?”

He did not answer at once. A long breath passed between them.

“I—and Théodred—beheld him… following after you. And the way he looked—” He met her eyes then, grey to grey, unwavering. “For that look alone, I would call him forth to answer.”

Yet he could not—for Wormtongue, well aware of his intent and loath to face his wrath, had struck first. He had contrived to secure the King’s protection, and in addition to the guards, the King himself laid a warning upon Éomer: that in the Hall, no man was to draw sword.

When Éomer was called to depart for Aldburg once more, he was visibly troubled. Éowyn had seldom heard him speak so much to her in a single evening—from how late she ought to stay awake, to what food she should give heed to—and so, ere she bade him goodnight, she showed him the dagger she had carried ever since the loss of Elfhild.

“I regret beyond words that you must bear this, sister,” he said at last, and clasped her hand firmly. “But wait—only a little longer. Wait for us to set all in order. We shall rid the Hall of this snake.”

“It is our uncle and King for whom I fear the more. As for myself, I can fend well enough. But you—do take care as well,” was all she said in return.

Later she thought, with both relief and a strange sense of loss, that he had changed—and for the better. He did not overreach as much this time, as though beginning to accept the truth that, however willing, he could not shield her from all of this alone. That truth angered him, and brought him frustration—but it also brought growth.

He was soon nominated to the rank of Third Marshal, though not without scrutiny and doubts stirred by Wormtongue: “Are we to encourage this restlessness, this unruliness of youth, that sets itself against the wisdom of both the King and his Heir?” But Théodred stood by his cousin, and with a wry smile and calm authority, dismissed the charge: “Or are we to foster this folly, this suspicion more often found among the faint of heart, that sets us against sound judgment, and turns us one against another?” And so it was done.

Now that his long labour in fortifying Aldburg for war had at last borne fruit, he could return to Edoras more often than before; the Riders under his command formed a great part of the city’s defence, and Elfhelm was frequently called away by the needs of Théodred.

Théodred. Her heart turned ever more anxiously toward him. She missed him keenly, and was swift to read each message that came from the west, in whatever little time she could spare from the King’s side. It had been more than a month now since last she saw him, and already the season was turning to early spring. With war now waged openly against Saruman and his allies, the Prince and Second Marshal had removed his seat to Helm’s Deep, whence he now directed the defence of the Fords and the western marches.

It was just past noon when Éowyn heard the horn sounded at the gate—a single blast, short and sharp, not the long cry that welcomed returning riders. She paused, listening where she sat. The King had finished his morning drill and now dozed by the hearth in his chamber. Wormtongue was not about; he had been rather busy of late—no doubt spreading fresh lies and sowing discord, she thought coldly.

She rose in silence and withdrew. The horn signalled a messenger, and she had not been able to look to the tidings these past three days, for the King had taken a sudden turn—weaker than was his wont—and had only now begun to mend. When she stepped through the doors of the Hall and stood atop the high stair, she saw that the sun hung high, yet veiled by a thin drift of cloud, and the air was still. But the wind had turned in the night, and now blew keen from the East.

Guards saluted her as she passed. When she reached the foot of the stair, she saw a messenger being led up in plain haste. One glance told her all: something grave had come to pass. Dust-covered and hollow-eyed, his hair clung to his brow, and his hands trembled with the weariness of long and hard riding. As he and the gate-guard beheld her, he bowed at once, clearly recognising who she was.

“My lady,” he said—and no more. His throat moved once, then twice.

She stepped forward. “What news?”

Her calmness seemed to lend the man strength.

“The Fords,” he said at last. “The Fords were attacked.”

She grimaced. Dire news indeed—but not unexpected. They had long known that, to invade Rohan, the troops of Isengard must first strike at the Fords.

But the messenger had not finished. He looked at her with a helplessness that could not be explained by the weight of such tidings alone. Meeting his gaze, her heart sank.

“What is it?” she said—quietly, yet with a steady command that permitted no evasion.

“The King’s son is fallen,” he forced the words from his lips with great effort, and avoided her eyes. “The night before last, at the Fords.”

All sound fled. It was as though the wind itself had been struck dumb.

She stood still as stone. Her hands, which but moments before had rested lightly at her sides, now clenched into fists so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She did not move. She did not speak. She did not breathe. She did not think. Her mind was swept bare, and her gaze grew hollow, as if all meaning and sense had, in that instant, forsaken the world.

It was a voice from behind—feeble, trembling, and uncertain—that called her back.

“Daughter,” it said. “Why are you out here? It is so cold.”

Éowyn did not know how she had supported the King back inside, to his warm, fire-lit chamber. Her body moved without her mind’s command, as though she had become an empty shell, acting on instinct alone—as if thought itself had perished within her. She did not know how to speak the news to her uncle—and even if she did, she was not certain he would understand. He seemed utterly bewildered. When at last the old man fell asleep again, after no small measure of care and quiet reassurance, she rose once more, passed into the Hall, and felt the cold settle upon her like creeping frost.

The messenger had been received by Master Gléowine, as she remembered—with what remained of her mind. And so her steps turned that way, to the east wing, where the King’s scholar was wont to work. As she approached, Gléowine rushed out, his face pale as snow—he had, it seemed, already heard the tidings. But when he spoke, his words were not of consolation, as she had expected—and could not have withstood.

“My lady,” he said, in a tone grave and unwavering, “you must hear this.”

She was led to his study, where scrolls and parchment lay scattered about them—records half-read and hastily set aside. The messenger was there, seated now, some small measure of vigour restored.

“The Fords were attacked two days ago,” Gléowine began, “and the Marshal, Elfhelm, received the Prince’s summons and set out at once. Edoras has since had no further word—”

“But the Marshal left word!” the messenger broke in, though plainly wearied. “The Prince called for aid, and the Marshal answered without delay—but he also sent the alarm, requesting reinforcements before he rode out, for more would be needed if it came to open war. Of this, Lord Erkenbrand was made aware.”

In her numb, slow mind—thickly clouded by a suffocating darkness—a flash of lightning tore through. The words struck her with the weight of a blow, but deeper still was the chill that bloomed in her chest. Amid the maelstrom of grief and disbelief, something cold was beginning to take shape.

The sudden change in the King’s condition. How she had been kept from all matters beyond the council sessions. A suspicion had taken root—and now, she had to be certain.

“Tell me everything,” she commanded, with a calmness unnatural, yet strangely well-suited—dismissing their concern with a silent, unwavering gaze. And so she heard it all—the battle, the loss, the still-unclear aftermath, and the Prince’s final words. She listened with a face set as steel.

Then, without a word, driven by a sudden renewal of strength, she turned and went straight to the chamber where the daily affairs of the realm were handled. Scrolls, letters, and loose pages lay scattered across the long table—records of duty and routine, dry as dust, lifeless as old bones.

She searched—quick, but methodical. At last, beneath a cluster of lesser reports—livestock, fodder, a scribbled request for woollen cloaks—she found it: a note from Elfhelm, bearing the Marshal’s hand and seal, and marked urgent. It was addressed to the King, but unopened. With a trembling hand, she broke the seal.

It was a summons for aid, plainly written in haste—urging the King to send Éomer with all the Riders he could spare, and echoing the counsel sent this very day by Lord Erkenbrand, who had further advised: “Let the defence of Edoras be made here in the West, and not wait until it is itself besieged.” Dated two days past. [1]

Slowly, she sank into a chair and sat in the dim chamber, until the candle guttered low, the crumpled message clenched tight in her fist.

“It saddens me greatly,” came a voice from the doorway, soft and cloying, as if out of nowhere—when it seemed an age had passed. “To see you so troubled and grieved, my lady. How tragic, for our beloved Prince—”

“Silence,” was the first word she had spoken in hours. Rising and turning, she faced him, her voice ragged, stripped of all warmth. “Spare me your words. You never loved him.”

The man who was named Wormtongue by her cousin slipped into the chamber, cloaked in shadow, dressed all in dark—like an ill omen. “It is unwise, my lady, to refuse consolation freely offered for your comfort.”

“My comfort is none of your concern,” she said, staring at him, unable to fathom how he could speak with such shameless boldness. “All I see is you gloating over the fallen—for it was you, you who sought to withhold his further aid.”

Wormtongue recoiled slightly—not in shame, but in faint surprise, and with calculated retreat. “That, lady, is a grave charge.”

She cast the note at his face. It struck its mark, though he did not flinch.

“He despised you—and rightly,” she said, her voice cracking with wrath, her fists clenched—not in fear, but with the effort of restraint.

“Yes, of course he did,” the man murmured. “These powerful, simple men—always bristling with swords and fury, always adored, always loved for it.”

There was something in his tone that stilled her blood—poisonous, thick with envy and long-harboured spite. Yet she stared at him, unwilling, yet unable to look away—like a bird caught in the gaze of a serpent.

“And all those High Men—ever condescending, as though all wisdom were theirs—like those allies, the ones of Gondor,” he whispered, stepping nearer. “Gondorians, Eorlingas—what sets them apart, save that long ago their forebears cast their lot with the power that prevailed, and so reshaped the world?

“But it does not last, lady. No—the world of Men ever changes, and so too does our fate. The time has come again to choose wisely—to align ourselves with those who shall shape what remains, when the tide turns.”

“And who are they?” she asked, her voice sharp and cold as steel. “Whom do you truly serve?” She stepped forward and looked at him levelly, for she was of a height with him, if not taller.

“Have you considered,” she said slowly, the words rising unbidden, yet so naturally, like water from a spring, “that the Men of old did not choose out of greed or fear, but for good and for evil? These allies you praise—does this power you serve sow deceit, treachery, and betrayal for gain? Then it is evil. It is the voice of the Shadow. We have heard it before, in the dark years long past. And the House of Eorl shall never hearken to it.”

Gríma laughed softly then—a laugh without mirth, only scorn.

“The House of Eorl,” he repeated, his tone thick with mockery. “I have never understood from whence this pride arises, my lady—despite the regard, and yes, the affection, that I bear for you.”

She shuddered at his open declaration—not in fear, but in revulsion.

“The Golden Hall you treasure is but a thatched hall of wood,” he went on, “the heritage you boast, no more than the dream of a herdsman’s song. Where is the splendour, when your King is old and frail? Where is the Rider, when the world no longer trembles beneath their hooves?”

He stepped back into shadow.

“The world has changed, lady. Rise and embrace the new power—or fall, and perish with the old.”

She returned to her chamber, exhausted, and bolted the door behind her. She stood with her back against it, and stillness closed around her.

At first, she thought she did not—and could no longer—weep, for she was utterly numb, as though the very capacity had been taken from her.

But then—a wetness bloomed upon her breast, darkening the linen of her gown. She looked down, bewildered, and only then did she realise her cheeks were wet with tears.

Her sorrow came not as a storm, but as a tide. In the darkness, impenetrable as ink, with the walls seeming to close in about her, she slid to the floor and curled there—wordless, trembling.

She dared not sob aloud—not here, not now, not with ears perhaps behind every wall, not with the serpent listening for weakness—so she wept as soundlessly as she could, her breath catching, her chest tight, struggling for air.

Only then, in the fog brought on by near suffocation, did she dare to think of him—Théodred: her cousin, dear as a brother; her teacher and guide; her liege-lord to be, and her most trusted friend. Buried in haste, far away, with no pyre, no funeral, no song. The one who had watched over her not from duty, but from love—who had known her heart and never mocked it.

She thought of his voice, and of his laughter, of the strength in it—so often wry, so often steady. She thought of his hand on her shoulder, and of the way he used to call her little sister, though he had ceased once she came of age. She thought of the way he stood, the way he strode, the way he rode—tall and proud, yet always with a light-hearted charm, commanding even silence with ease. She had grown so accustomed to his presence—and to her brother’s—that she had never imagined he could be taken. So suddenly, and by a viciousness wrought in the dark.

And her brother. Éomer. Éomer was away in Eastfold—or was he still? Did he know? Where was he now? Would he be safe? Or would the next dawn bring another blow, another name to mourn?

Was this her lot now? To endure, to wait, to persist—in this Hall whose splendour was fading, whose gold had lost its sheen—watching one she loved waste away, while others, one by one, fell into peril? To listen in silence, to bear it all, yet hold no power to mend it, nor to turn its course, nor to forestall its coming?

She stared into the dark, her fingers digging into the wooden floor.

I am done with enduring, she told herself. Béma bear me witness—I shall endure in silence no longer.

She rose then—not steady, but resolute—and reached for her dagger. It lay well hidden at her side. But a wave of dizziness struck her, and she swayed, catching herself with a hand upon the table before her mirror, for she had taken neither food nor drink since noon.

Something cool touched her fingers then. Bracing herself, she groped and closed her hand around it.

It was the wing-shaped silver comb, once owned by her grandmother. Slowly, she closed her fingers around it. The wing-tips dug into her palm, drawing blood, but she did not flinch—as though pain had no claim upon her.

Steel endures—and it cuts. So she thought, a coldness rising from the depths of her despair. If it must come to blood, so be it.

But it did not come to that.

Not to the unjust and unauthorized spilling of blood, as Éowyn had feared yet steeled herself to commit, should the need arise. Rather, it ended—at least for a time—not in ruin, but in something she had never thought to find again: a flicker of hope, kindled amid the ashes of despair.

Since that darkest day, she had kept watch with a stillness like frost. The last sheen of warmth in her gaze had been extinguished. It was cool now—detached, unshaken, even in the face of cruelty cloaked in courtesy. A shadow had passed through her soul, and left it tempered.

She delivered the sorrowful news to the King—there was no way around it, and she could not bear the thought of leaving it to Wormtongue. He listened, but after a long silence, he only nodded and turned away, indifferent, as if it were but a passing wind at his ear. Yet she, observing all with a resolve-honed keenness, caught a flicker of pain in the depths of those fogged blue eyes—once so bright, so piercing, so full of vigour.

Then understanding came upon her. He knew it. But he could not bear it—so he would not accept it. Better, perhaps, to slip deeper into the oblivion born of grief and age. And when she saw this, she had no heart left to force his eyes open, no will remaining to rouse him back to care. Her agitation cooled into pity. For it would be kinder thus—for the one she loved as a father—to suffer less.

Fortunately, the dread she bore for her brother came to nothing—no fresh blow fell, no new name to mourn. Éomer was alive, and seemed never to have learned of the peril at the Fords—not yet. Indeed, a report reached Edoras the next morning: the Third Marshal had ridden out from Eastfold around midnight, in pursuit of an Orc-band that had come down from Emyn Muil—in open defiance of the King’s command.

“Ever seeking to rise higher,” she heard the whisper—the sort of comment that had grown more frequent of late, sly and quiet as worm-sign beneath the floorboards. And the voice that had once answered such slanders with firm, unfaltering clarity—her cousin’s voice—was heard no more.

She swallowed the loss that had wounded her to the core, and deemed it not yet the time to act. With Éomer away, any move she made would be reckless, desperate—or worse, deemed treasonous. One misstep, and both she and her brother might be accused of conspiring against the King and his Heir. For the worm was not alone; he had sown ambition and greed in more than a few hearts. She could not risk bringing ruin not only upon herself, but upon the House of Eorl—not now—even if it meant ridding them of the serpent at last. So she would wait. She was patient, after all. How could she not be, after so many years of practice—willing or no?

Only a few more days, till her brother’s return.

It proved to be three—merely three days, and yet they felt as long as a lifetime.

And in that span, ill luck found her—for she was taken unwell the day after the tidings: a dull ache low in her back, a faint chill, and a weariness that needed no name. Her courses had come—sudden and unbidden, as though summoned by grief and strain—and by the third day, the worst of it was upon her. She was forced to leave the King’s side, even during the customary hours, and withdraw to her chamber to bathe and change her linens and garments. It did not take long—perhaps an hour—but when she returned, she was told that the King had gone to the Hall, Wormtongue beside him, for Éomer had returned, and had asked audience at once.

She heard raised voices, and then the clash of struggle, as she hastened toward the Hall. But when she entered, it was already done: her brother stood held fast by Háma and the guards, disarmed, stripped of his weapons—unconscious.

Her breath caught; her heart stuttered. “Éomer,” was all she could utter.

At the sound of her voice, Wormtongue cast her a glance, and turned to the King. In his ever humble, ever honeyed tone, he said: “My life is given wholly to your service, my lord, and it grieves me more than I can say when the Third Marshal believes himself entitled to take it, despite your decree. Yet I know the King’s heart is ever kind, even toward those who have not earned such trust or mercy. For his own good—and for the good of the realm—perhaps Lord Éomer should remain under guard, until his fire is cooled.”

So it was settled. Éowyn followed Háma to the guard-houses, and Háma—who had never faltered in his loyalty—was stern, yet not without a trace of sympathy. “We will care for him,” he said, offering her what reassurance he could. “And we will send for you when he wakes. I regret what passed in the Hall, but your brother drew sword first—and swore to kill Wormtongue.”

Then she heard from Háma what Éomer had reported to the King: the Orc-hunt, and the strange encounter with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf—who claimed to have been received with honour by the Lady of the Wood, and, stranger still, had come forth alive. “Sounds like fancies and dreams, even from your brother, my lady,” Háma said at last.

She was greatly relieved to see her brother returned safe and sound—but no less puzzled than Háma, and more than a little troubled. Later, when she returned at Háma’s summons, Éomer had already stirred and come back to wakefulness. The moment their eyes met, she knew: he had heard. And he, in turn, saw the pallor in her face, and a flicker of sorrow and regret passed over his own. “I should have refrained,” he said, his voice rough with weariness. “But I could not. That snake—he schemed to—”

“I know.” She took his hands and looked into his eyes, long and searching. And in them, he read the question she had not spoken.

He grimaced. “Do not, sister,” he said, with a quiet urgency she had never seen in him before. “I feel it in my bones—change is coming. When I dealt with those strangers, I did not act in haste, nor without thought, whatever others may judge.”

“Are you certain?” she asked after a pause. “In a time such as this, you truly believe they… they will keep faith—and stand by their word?”

“Aye,” he said. “And when they come, you shall see it with your own eyes.”

And she did see it, with her own eyes.

It was the strangest company she had ever beheld: Gandalf Greyhame—now revealed in raiment of white—with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf beside him, just as Éomer had foretold.

They came to the Golden Hall in the early morning, and with their coming, the shadow that had long lain upon it was lifted. The splendour of Meduseld was restored—not only of the house, but of the spirit of its lord.

“The time for fear is past,” the King told her. And she turned as he bade, holding all turmoil within, for she could not yet fully believe what had just come to pass. But there was more. Something stirred at the edge of memory—something that felt as though she had seen it before, somewhere, long ago.

As she slowly approached the Hall, she paused at the doors and looked back—at the King, and at the newcomers—once more. And then it struck her: where she had seen the likeness of this Man before—tall and wise, grey-cloaked.

For a moment she stood still as stone, then turned swiftly and passed through the doors.

She hastened to her chamber, almost at a run. Bursting into the room, she flung open the wardrobe and began to search—and in no time, she found it: the letters, and the journal of her grandmother.

With unsteady hands she opened one of the letters—the one that held the portraits of the lords of the Mark… and a stranger: Thorongil.

It was he. She stared at the likeness, and the features—the bearing—shone forth, clear as crystal.

How many years had passed since then? If the man had stood in his prime during her grandfather’s rule, he would now be over sixty—perhaps even eighty. Yet his face bore not the marks of such years. He looked older, yes—or rather, more seasoned—but still he remained a man in the height of his strength, not one fading into the twilight of age and waning days.

He must be of the High Blood—one of the Númenóreans, the Kings of Men—whose ancient homeland lay beyond the mortal shores, far across the vast waters of the world.

With one hand holding his image, she opened the journal—as if guided by an unseen hand—and turned to its final pages.

The writing was Morwen’s—decisive, elegant, as ever. Yet now Éowyn discerned in it a resolve she had not seen before: quiet, but unyielding. The date marked the year 2980—the year her grandfather passed, and the year her grandmother faded from memory, and, as long presumed, from the world of Men.

Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

“I knew this day would come—that you would depart before me.

“You have walked long beside me, and now your steps are ended. I watched you fade, like autumn into winter—slowly, with dignity, as golden leaves fall, never to return.

“There is no bitterness in me. Only sorrow—and a quiet release.

“I have done all that was asked of me. I stood beside you in court and in counsel, in war and in waiting. I bore the burden of silence when words might have betrayed my place—not for honour, but for love.

“I wed you ere I loved you. I forsook my homeland and my kin. I raised your children, and I learned to live as your people live. I do not repent of any of it—no. But the fire abides in me still: the longing for my roots, for the mountains and the sea, and for the freedom I have long desired, yet cannot claim freely—for the love I have borne.

“With you gone, I will not be a queen of ghosts. Farewell, my beloved. As we long spoke among my people—a people you are well acquainted with—may we meet again beyond the circles of the world. For now, for a little longer, I shall go where my heart is bound.”

With a trembling hand, she turned the page.

“And with the aid of Captain Thorongil, who returned unlooked for—and who, it seemed, had at last achieved much of what he had long laboured toward—my journey home shall be made in safety.”

She did not pass that year! Éowyn’s eyes widened in shock and wonder. Her grandmother—after a life lived in a land not her own, and a love that had grown slowly, truly—had departed of her own will, to the vales of flowers where she came, when her duties were ended. And the King—he must have granted it, though never spoken of it; and Thorongil—no, Aragorn, son of Arathorn—had aided her, too.

Éowyn broke into tears then, and wept hard—not with constraint, nor with fear, but with a freedom long withheld. And hope, for the first time in many long months, rose up within her—like rain falling on withered grass, like frost retreating before the first light of spring.

She held that hope high, with a passion she had never known before, her eyes ever fixed upon the one she deemed had wrought the change and rekindled the flame. Nor did her heart falter, even when she was bidden to lead the people to Dunharrow in the mountains, while the King rode forth with the Riders to Helm’s Deep—sent once more to abide, to endure. For she loved her people, and was dearly loved in turn. In those first days of unrest, when the King was enfeebled and her kindred away, it was she who had gone among the folk: speaking with farmers driven from their homes, herdsmen bereft of flocks, and mourners of kin lost—father or mother, husband or wife, daughter or son. It was she who had hearkened to their grief, who had given grain and goods with her own hands, and who had spoken comfort: that the King would be told, and the lords of the Mark kept watch, against foes both old and newly risen.

But it failed her.

It failed her—not in the ill turns of battle, nor in the fall of those she held most dear, but in a calm and honourable refusal, veiled in flawless courtesy and born of true concern. A gentleness that cut more keenly than cruelty, and left no wound to show. In speaking with him, she came to understand: he did not truly see her—not what she had witnessed, nor what she had endured; not the fears that clung to her, nor the longing that stirred deep within. He mistook her fire for restlessness, her frustration for heedlessness, her resolve to go forth for a hunger after renown. Yet what she sought was not glory—not glory alone—but freedom: the freedom to choose, to follow where her heart was drawn, and to guard what she loved, rather than wait to be guarded.

And so the flame guttered—not for want of wind, but for want of air.

She remembered the ghostly hush beneath the stones, the way the wind itself held breath when Aragorn spoke of the road he would take—the Door under the Haunted Mountain, the path from which none returned. Awe had fallen upon the faces of the men, and fear as well. But in her, a cry rose—silent, fierce, unyielding—not for safety, but for a place among them. Not for a deed remembered, nor the songs of later years, but to stand where her sword might serve. That was the right she asked for. She did not fear that road. She feared only being left behind—to endure once more, to wonder, to wait in silence while others went forth and chose the fate of her, and of all she loved.

As she watched the man she thought she loved vanish with the Grey Company, and turned to stumble back to her lodging, a question trailed her like a shadow: Why had she asked for leave—and placed her hope in another’s hands? She had knelt in her tent, silent, head bowed, the ache in her chest as sharp as the thought that pierced it. In her hands lay the journal. There, the woman who had crossed mountains for love and stood unflinching before a foreign court had written: “When you speak, daughter, do not ask for space—claim it.” And Éowyn—who bore steel at her side, who had stood by the dying and led the living—had asked: for a place, for a purpose, for a heart never hers. That, she saw now, had been her error.

Her heart had mistaken him—not in honour, nor in stature, but in what he gave, and what he could not. She had seen in him the light that once touched Morwen’s face—in the likeness of Thorongil, remembered in portrait and in word—one she had believed would understand. But she had misread the tale. Morwen Steelsheen had endured, yet never wished to be a blade. But Éowyn—Éowyn desired more.

What love she bore for him had changed its shape: not broken, but dimmed. Not for any fault in him, nor in herself—but because the hope she had wrapped about him like a banner no longer fit, no longer held. It was simply no longer true. Yet she had learned from it. Not all aid will come. Not all doors open. Hope may falter—but even in the waning of hope, one may still act.

And soon she came to see that, by acting, she might yet aid another—the little Halfling, who also wished not to be left behind.

So, when the day came, when darkness gathered and no sun arose, she buckled on her armour. It fit her now, adjusted and reforged with the aid of the smith who had once served her friend. She gathered her few possessions—the letters, the journal, the comb—and stowed them in her saddlepack, beneath her cloak. Then she stepped into the cold air, the wind from the East stirring the grass about the stones.

She went to the horse-lines and found Windfola waiting—the great grey stallion who had once borne Elfhild through battle and fire. Since her death, no one had dared ride him—none but Éowyn, who had tended him faithfully ever since.

She bridled him herself. The morning was dark, and even the horns were hushed. Then she went straight to Elfhelm, who stood apart, watching as his Riders made ready.

“I need your help, Marshal,” she said, helm in hand, her braid bound tight and perfect. “I shall ride in your éored.”

Elfhelm looked at her—looked truly—and his eyes widened with recognition. Not in surprise, nor in confusion, but with the slow dawning of something long foreseen: a thing he had feared, and yet known would come.

“My lady, I cannot—”

“Do it,” she said quietly. “For Hild. For those who had no choice. And for me.”

Of the great battle of that age, the War that changed the world, many songs were sung, and many tales told. One of them spoke of Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, who rode in secret guise beneath the name Dernhelm to the field of battle, and there, with the aid of a Halfling out of a far land, struck down a foe no man could withstand. Thereafter she was known as the Lady of the Shield-arm in the Riddermark, and her tale lived long in the mouths of men.

The world, though scarred, endured. And in its quiet turning, there came a season not only of rebuilding, but of remembrance—of wounds that showed, and wounds that lay hidden deep; of names nearly forgotten, and of fires that, once kindled, never wholly die.

In the first spring after the fall of the Shadow, Éowyn departed from her new home in Emyn Arnen and crossed the Great River at Harlond, journeying westward. Her road led to Lossarnach, the vales of flowers. She spoke of her errand to none but Faramir, who knew well the tale of her grandmother, and the quiet legacy she had reclaimed. He offered to ride with her, but she declined, deeming the quest her own.

The road lay open now, green once more, and the orchards of the vales bloomed with promise. The air was rich with the scent of new earth and old memory, and the wind stirred softly through birch and ash.

“One day we shall ride again, to lands your eyes have not yet beheld, and come to know those you may yet hold dear.” She thought then of her cousin’s words, and answered in her heart: I have done so, brother. I only wish you were here, to see what I behold.

She bore with her two letters—the last she had not read ere the war: one, formal and sealed, affirming a claim to a small holding in Imloth Melui, granted in the final year of Thengel, King of Rohan. The other was from Finduilas, wife of the late Steward—indeed, Faramir’s mother—written with grace and marked by quiet sorrow; it spoke of a promise kept, a final wish fulfilled, and the aid she had given Morwen in securing the Steward’s assent.

So she came at last to a hillside where flowers grew wild and free: a modest cottage, half-veiled in vine, with white lilies bowing beside a low stone wall. Far below, the two rivers—Erui and the great Anduin—glimmered in silver threads, winding through the folded land, past groves of olive and ash. It was a place unmarked on any map, unnamed in song—yet in that hour, it seemed not newly found, but remembered.

No one was there; indeed, the cottage seemed long abandoned, as she had expected. She dismounted, and bade her horse wait.

Beyond the garden, where tall grass met the wood’s edge, she found it: a cairn of river-stones, veiled in ivy, set apart in the hush of wild blossoms. No name was carved. No boast, no sigil. Only the stillness that follows when a tale is ended, and the world has no further need of remembrance.

For a long time she stood in silence, the wind stirring her cloak, the scent of earth and rose about her. Then she knelt, and laid her hand upon the stone.

She had not come to mourn—for grief, fierce and scalding, had passed through her long ago. Nor had she come to honour the dead with lofty words. She had come to see that her grandmother had found what she herself had once sought: not renown, nor escape, nor even love—but rest, in the place where her heart had ever dwelt.

Éowyn had seen war—its fire, its terror, its reckoning. She had fought, in the depth of her despair, to defend what she could not bear to forfeit. Her blade had been her voice, when none would heed her words. But war was not her calling—it had been her answer.

And when the dust had settled, and the world turned once more toward peace, she understood at last: her will to fight had been born not of pride, nor of ambition, but of fear—fear of powerlessness, of watching others suffer, and being unable to lift a hand to stay it. She had never longed to slay, but to shield; to preserve; to mend what had been torn.

And in the slow unmaking of her uncle, and in her grandmother’s written words, she had glimpsed what few would name: that healing was no lesser strength, but the rarer. That her people, bold though they were, had yet to learn how to tend wounds that did not bleed. That the hands of a healer might carry as heavy a burden as those that bore the sword.

She brought no garland. But she brought a chisel, and the strength of her hand.

She cleared the stone, brushing away time and ivy. Then, with slow and measured strokes, she carved a name—not in flourish, but in the ancient runes of the Rohirrim, grave and enduring. Not the name sung in mead-halls, nor the name spoken in the courts of kings, but the name that had withstood the years:

Steelsheen

When the carving was done, she set aside the tool and laid her palm upon the stone. The stillness that settled over her was not emptiness, but peace—deep and unwavering, like the hush that follows a storm.

For in that moment she knew, with an inexplicable certainty: her grandmother had chosen the hour and place of her passing—not as retreat, but as resolve, in the manner of the Men of old. As one who had walked a long road, and at last laid down her burden—not in defeat, but in dignity.

And Éowyn, too, had chosen.

She had not turned from war out of weariness, nor taken up the healing arts to be spared the blade. She had faced the shadow and passed through it. She had looked into the abyss—and risen above. And now she turned to the work most needed, and least sung: a labour no less demanding. She had learned swiftly to tend wounds of battle in the Houses of Healing, but herblore and leechcraft, alas, would ask much of her—effort, patience, and long years of toil, like the art of cookery, as Faramir had gently told her.

She rose, and the wind stirred the grass about her. When she turned to go, she did not look back. Yet her hand lingered a moment upon the old gate-post, roughened by weather and worn by time.

Then she mounted, and rode on—back to where she had come.

And in the turning of the world, her name was not lost—nor the name she carved, which weathered time, and outlasted stone.

It began with a quiet discovery: that Morwen of Lossarnach—she whom Éowyn was said to resemble, she who was called Steelsheen—had no year of death recorded.

I had set out to tell another tale. But that small omission, that silent absence, changed everything. From it, another path unfolded—a thread slipped loose from the great tapestry of legend, one I could not help but follow.

For there are names that fall between the lines, voices lost beneath the songs of kings and wars. Yet these women—fierce, steadfast, and full of grace—deserve more than silence. Their memory should not be forgotten. Nor their stories left untold.

Writing in a language I’m still learning to wield has been its own kind of journey. Éowyn’s struggle with Sindarin in this story mirrors mine—twice over: I’m learning Sindarin too, and it is difficult; and English isn’t my first language, so shaping it into something Tolkienic hasn’t been easy. But I hope the story found its shape—and that it speaks as I meant it to.

Steelsheen by Ecthelion of the fountain