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.