Legal Disclaimer: I own nobody here. Please don't sue me.
Quality-Control Disclaimer: This is my first LotR fic. It hasn't been beta- ed, and I wrote it in the middle of the night when I should've been sleeping. Mostly I just wanted to post it while I still thought it was good.
A/N: Enjoy, and review. I'll pass on the flames, if you don't mind.
*****
"You're not going to kill many orcs with a blunt sword!"
The words echoed in her mind as she watched Merry run off in the direction of the blacksmith's tents. She turned back into her own tent and knelt by her bedroll, withdrawing her own sword, which she'd carefully hidden under her blanket. If Théoden or her brother saw it, they'd send an "honor guard" to escort her back to Edoras, and she'd be trapped there, helpless to affect the fate of a world that was just as much hers as her uncle's or Éomer's or any of the other male soldiers' out there. Even Aragorn, who seemed to respect her ability as a swordswoman, wouldn't be able to intervene once her uncle had made up his mind.
Aragorn. There was a small part of her, weak and wavering, that almost wished she would be sent back, so she wouldn't have to deal with the sight of him. His elf-maid, the one who'd given him the pendant, would always have his heart, even if she'd gone across the sea and left him forever. To see him, to fight beside him, while knowing the impossibility of her desire, was almost too much to contemplate.
But no. If he could press on, and ride into battle when his heart's desire was hopelessly and forever out of reach, then Éowyn would be damned if she'd do any less.
She stood and pulled the blade clear of its sheath, testing its edge on her thumb. "One thing's certain; this sword will see the inside of as many orcs as come within arm's reach."
She hated to deceive her uncle, but there was nothing else for it. If Théoden had his way, she'd be packed off to the castle to sit uselessly with the women, children, and infirm, waiting for Middle-Earth's fate to be decided by others. She'd been helpless before, when she'd impotently watched her uncle fall under Wormtongue's sway and her brother march into exile. Never again.
"No; never again. When the Rohirim ride for Gondor, Éowyn rides with them."
"I didn't know you were coming with us."
The voice startled her out of her reverie, and she quietly cursed herself for being so careless. Had it been her uncle, or Éomer, or anyone else but Merry who'd caught her, all her precautions would have been for naught and she'd be on her way back to Edoras at this very moment. She cursed herself again when she realized how much time must have passed for Merry to be back from the blacksmith already.
"Yes, well, neither does my uncle." She arched an eyebrow meaningfully, and Merry nodded. Éowyn drove her sword home in its sheath and knelt to replace it among her blankets. Then she noticed the puzzled frustration written on his face. "What's the matter?"
Merry sighed. He trundled over to where she knelt and flopped down across from her. He held his sword across his lap, fingering the blade. "I went to the blacksmith," he began. "He sharpened my sword well enough, but he looked at me funny when I asked him to; patronizing-like." He brought his gaze up from the blade in front of him, to meet her eyes. "Nobody really intends for me to ride out to Gondor tomorrow, do they?"
Even in the face of his dejection, Éowyn couldn't bring herself to be dishonest with him. He had courage; he was entitled to respect. She shook her head, and her voice was soft as she spoke. "Éomer doesn't."
Merry's face became earnest, and Éowyn noticed that the hand that gripped his sword was white-knuckled. "I have to go! I can fight; I want to fight! Aragorn says we're short of men, that we need every sword we can muster riding to Minas Tirith. And." He swallowed, and started again, his voice softer. "And Pippin needs me. He's waiting for me in Gondor. I won't abandon him."
The quiet determination in his voice gripped Éowyn. She reached out and grasped Merry's shoulder. "I promise you, Meriadoc Brandybuck; you will ride for Gondor tomorrow."
He nodded once, then exhaled sharply and gave vent to his frustration. "But why wouldn't they trust me to fight? I wouldn't run away. I can take care of myself. I-"
"Éomer doesn't understand, Merry. When he looks at you, he sees a child." Just as when he looks at me, he sees a girl: defenseless and in need of sheltering.
She looked into Merry's eyes, and saw in them the trust, confidence, and respect for her they held. In those eyes, she wasn't a helpless girl in need of coddling. In those deep, blue eyes, she was a soldier. Her gaze drifted from his eyes, to the soft brown curls, the strong jaw line, the full lips.
"I don't think you're a child," she whispered, and before she quite realized what was happening, her lips met his. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, moved to curl around the back of his neck, and she felt his hand rise to cup her face. A strong hand, small though it was, she noticed; a soldier's hand. For Merry was, she realized, every inch a soldier.
After a time, Éowyn couldn't say how long, they parted. She searched Merry's face for any sign of awkwardness or uncertainty, and found none. She gave him a slight smile. "Go get some sleep. We ride for Gondor in the morning." He nodded, stood, and turned to leave.
"Merry." The sound of her voice stopped him, and he looked back at her over his shoulder. "There's no man I'd rather have fighting by my side than you."
He gave her a broad smile at that. "Goodnight, My Lady." And he ducked out of her tent and was gone.
Éowyn shifted onto her bedroll and pulled the blanket over her, careful to ensure that her sword was still concealed. It reflected back a certain confidence she felt radiating from her; that, whatever the next few days held, she would be able to face it.
Quality-Control Disclaimer: This is my first LotR fic. It hasn't been beta- ed, and I wrote it in the middle of the night when I should've been sleeping. Mostly I just wanted to post it while I still thought it was good.
A/N: Enjoy, and review. I'll pass on the flames, if you don't mind.
*****
"You're not going to kill many orcs with a blunt sword!"
The words echoed in her mind as she watched Merry run off in the direction of the blacksmith's tents. She turned back into her own tent and knelt by her bedroll, withdrawing her own sword, which she'd carefully hidden under her blanket. If Théoden or her brother saw it, they'd send an "honor guard" to escort her back to Edoras, and she'd be trapped there, helpless to affect the fate of a world that was just as much hers as her uncle's or Éomer's or any of the other male soldiers' out there. Even Aragorn, who seemed to respect her ability as a swordswoman, wouldn't be able to intervene once her uncle had made up his mind.
Aragorn. There was a small part of her, weak and wavering, that almost wished she would be sent back, so she wouldn't have to deal with the sight of him. His elf-maid, the one who'd given him the pendant, would always have his heart, even if she'd gone across the sea and left him forever. To see him, to fight beside him, while knowing the impossibility of her desire, was almost too much to contemplate.
But no. If he could press on, and ride into battle when his heart's desire was hopelessly and forever out of reach, then Éowyn would be damned if she'd do any less.
She stood and pulled the blade clear of its sheath, testing its edge on her thumb. "One thing's certain; this sword will see the inside of as many orcs as come within arm's reach."
She hated to deceive her uncle, but there was nothing else for it. If Théoden had his way, she'd be packed off to the castle to sit uselessly with the women, children, and infirm, waiting for Middle-Earth's fate to be decided by others. She'd been helpless before, when she'd impotently watched her uncle fall under Wormtongue's sway and her brother march into exile. Never again.
"No; never again. When the Rohirim ride for Gondor, Éowyn rides with them."
"I didn't know you were coming with us."
The voice startled her out of her reverie, and she quietly cursed herself for being so careless. Had it been her uncle, or Éomer, or anyone else but Merry who'd caught her, all her precautions would have been for naught and she'd be on her way back to Edoras at this very moment. She cursed herself again when she realized how much time must have passed for Merry to be back from the blacksmith already.
"Yes, well, neither does my uncle." She arched an eyebrow meaningfully, and Merry nodded. Éowyn drove her sword home in its sheath and knelt to replace it among her blankets. Then she noticed the puzzled frustration written on his face. "What's the matter?"
Merry sighed. He trundled over to where she knelt and flopped down across from her. He held his sword across his lap, fingering the blade. "I went to the blacksmith," he began. "He sharpened my sword well enough, but he looked at me funny when I asked him to; patronizing-like." He brought his gaze up from the blade in front of him, to meet her eyes. "Nobody really intends for me to ride out to Gondor tomorrow, do they?"
Even in the face of his dejection, Éowyn couldn't bring herself to be dishonest with him. He had courage; he was entitled to respect. She shook her head, and her voice was soft as she spoke. "Éomer doesn't."
Merry's face became earnest, and Éowyn noticed that the hand that gripped his sword was white-knuckled. "I have to go! I can fight; I want to fight! Aragorn says we're short of men, that we need every sword we can muster riding to Minas Tirith. And." He swallowed, and started again, his voice softer. "And Pippin needs me. He's waiting for me in Gondor. I won't abandon him."
The quiet determination in his voice gripped Éowyn. She reached out and grasped Merry's shoulder. "I promise you, Meriadoc Brandybuck; you will ride for Gondor tomorrow."
He nodded once, then exhaled sharply and gave vent to his frustration. "But why wouldn't they trust me to fight? I wouldn't run away. I can take care of myself. I-"
"Éomer doesn't understand, Merry. When he looks at you, he sees a child." Just as when he looks at me, he sees a girl: defenseless and in need of sheltering.
She looked into Merry's eyes, and saw in them the trust, confidence, and respect for her they held. In those eyes, she wasn't a helpless girl in need of coddling. In those deep, blue eyes, she was a soldier. Her gaze drifted from his eyes, to the soft brown curls, the strong jaw line, the full lips.
"I don't think you're a child," she whispered, and before she quite realized what was happening, her lips met his. Her hand, still resting on his shoulder, moved to curl around the back of his neck, and she felt his hand rise to cup her face. A strong hand, small though it was, she noticed; a soldier's hand. For Merry was, she realized, every inch a soldier.
After a time, Éowyn couldn't say how long, they parted. She searched Merry's face for any sign of awkwardness or uncertainty, and found none. She gave him a slight smile. "Go get some sleep. We ride for Gondor in the morning." He nodded, stood, and turned to leave.
"Merry." The sound of her voice stopped him, and he looked back at her over his shoulder. "There's no man I'd rather have fighting by my side than you."
He gave her a broad smile at that. "Goodnight, My Lady." And he ducked out of her tent and was gone.
Éowyn shifted onto her bedroll and pulled the blanket over her, careful to ensure that her sword was still concealed. It reflected back a certain confidence she felt radiating from her; that, whatever the next few days held, she would be able to face it.