Chapter 1. A Voice from the Past

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.

No epitaph. No date of death.

She stood there a long time, watching the flowers shift in the breeze.

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.

“Do you remember Queen Morwen—my grandmother?”

The lady nodded, a little uneasy. “Surely, my lady. Why do you ask?”

“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.

“I asked if he would be interested in a place in my éored.”

“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.

But not long after, there came a knock at her door. It was the Prince.

“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.”

“So she did pass when Grandfather died?” she asked, a little unsettled.

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.”

“Is that what will happen to me as well?” she asked, her fists clenched.

“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.”

Théodred laughed once more, then read the script aloud, slowly.

“‘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.

She slept without dreaming.

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