We learnt about Helm. The great hero. Why is it that the word hero fills me with this the strangest feeling; as if I thought about that word enough I could fly away. But no horses have wings, and besides, they would never let me go.
No, only the sun and moon, the twilight and the shades of dusk came to visit Eowyn in her exile, to comb her whiteblond hair from her lonely brow but in whose embrace she could almost escape her bower and fly. It had been a childhood wish of hers, until jumping from one of the few trees to be found her side of Fangorn she fell and thumped the ground and her cousin and brother rolled on the ground laughing. From then on she desisted flapping her arms but this wish turned inwards and climbed in her; it took root and became as much a part of her longing as her longing was.
Right now, the long day had passed and another long day promised to stretch in front of her. Ay, that was a true promise that could not fail, because the people of Rohan could not fail and as such there were the daily tasks undertook, the food found the shelter prepared the fortifications lest her Uncle indeed fall made as firm as her remaining resources could muster. And so she held close to her breast this discrete time for herself. Pressed so close against the window and the fading light, she could see in deep amber the wind-burnt fields rocking. She could see them undulating like wild notes of music and suddenly the longing was so strong she thought her heart might try and fly out of her body. The name breathed out of her and was stretched along that wind before she knew she had uttered it. Here, she reasoned, she could allow herself to relax just a little bit; to climb just one more branch and almost see the hill opposite that held such promise.
Aragorn, Aragorn, Aragorn. What are you doing right now? Right now, can you feel my thoughts pressed upon you, can you feel me…aching? For so long I have felt nothing, which terrified me even more than this heat does now, this need to have us be on our horses, flying together. Surely I cannot be without merit – surely you must think of me too?
But no. The realization as the candles and rushes were lit into their sockets and the outlines of the mountains faded from view was as before. Men don't think of those left behind before the battle, in their quest to be heroes. And as they fight, as they hack and haw they have no time for longings or urges other than that of battle and staying alive. Eowyn cursed it then, what she perceived as a female weakness. Let me too turn to business, then she said. "Hamath!" She called. Let me see the charts again. As she looked over the fortifications that were to be erected in Dunharrow, the site of the migration for those left in Edoras, anew she willed her mind off dreams.
The middle of night she was roused from her exhausted sleep by the sense that she was suffocating. Part of her was urging to go back to sleep, to get some rest for whatever road lay ahead. But she lifted her legs from the thick white covers and unto the cold flagstones. The fire still coaled banked in the hearth and the wine untouched where the servant had laid it. Wine was weakness and she disliked it these days as she did food. She determined not to wear a coat as she walked out the rear doors of Medulseld, and unto the night. Though the wind brought tears to her eyes she welcomed it. Let it come. The moon had now risen and she had come to greet it; though her thoughts in truth were less turned to her lunar lover than what it illuminated across the miles. She thought she could see heavy clouds reaching along the blue-white peaks; but perhaps she was mistaken?
Who was he? Who was this man who strode with such strength and came to take away her brother and uncle and the soldiers? Why could she not go too? Her heart beat fast and fingers trembled as though they longed to reach out. She should quell this feeling, the feeling of connectedness before it grew to hurt her. She was climbing too high, and she would surely fall again. That thought of humiliation still nagged. And yet she could not help her heart from hoping. That Aragorn might see into her and lift her up further than this. So one might say that it was his doing; that this iron-willed Shieldmaiden broke under the pressure of wanting to be with someone that much. But she knew what she was doing, even if she could not help it. She knew that she would try to fly again. And for those brief days of exile before the return of the King to the paths of her death and rebirth she felt the wind from the tops of the tree, coursing through her veins, and she was almost sure that she was flying. That freedom, that glory, were only one step away.
And as the statue of Helm Hammerhand watched over the battle and heroes were made on the ramparts and in the mud she stood alone in the silence, willing herself to be free.