Brides should be happy, not mournful, Eowyn thinks.

She mourns the loss of Rohan, her home: a shimmering sea of grass, ten thousand shades of green and gold. Soaring snow-capped peaks sun-kissed at dawn, rose-brushed at sunset. Pounding hoofbeats, the surging pulse of the earth itself. Home.

Not only the land: the bones of her ancestors anchor her to where simbelmynë marks the trails of strength and sacrifice. Her people.

But it is ever the fate of brides to leave home, or how will new homes be made? She turns, smiling, and sets her course towards a new, green land.

~~~
For the tolkien_weekly "Mourning" challenge.