I would have you smile again. Not grieve, for those whose time has come.
Théoden to Éowyn, The Return of the King
Smile
There's something wrong with the girl.
Théoden knows this. He's not the only one, but part of his mind tells him that it is his duty to alleviate that. He watches her in the Golden Hall, as the court has their meals. Théodred and Éomer share tales and boasts of what they will do once old enough to wield spear and sword. Hama and Gamling roll their eyes and smirk when they believe their king is not looking. And all the while, Éowyn remains silent. Eating her food. Drinking her drink. Occasionally trying to join in the conversations with her brother and cousin, but regularly having her voice drowned out.
She sometimes glances in his direction. Stares at him. As if she wants to say something. To do something. But then her gaze lingers on Grima, and her gaze is averted.
She'll come to, Grima tells him. Look at her brother. He's over his parents deaths already.
He has a point, the king of Rohan supposes. He can always trust his advisor. He can give his niece time. If she wanted him to step in as surrogate father, then he'd be happy to, but as she hasn't done such a thing, obviously he doesn't have to worry about that.
And yet he does.
Théoden worries about a lot of things these days. He worries about his health. His body. His bones, which feel as old and weathered as those of a dragon long dead. He worries about his hall. Or his eyesight. It seems to have gotten darker over time, but that must be a trick of his eyes. He worries about his kingdom. He trusts in the reports Grima hands him, that all is well, but even so, he hears things. Whispers. Rumours. Some stay there's a storm coming, and not only from the lands of the east. Unfounded fears to be sure, but still…
Before long, dinner is over. Before long, the ballad begins, a song of the saga of Helm Hammerhand. All eyes are on the minstrel, especially those of his son and nephew. One day, Théoden tells himself, they will have sagas of their own. They smile and laugh as the lyrics of the ballad discuss, in not too graphic detail, how empty Dunlanding heads were carved in by the hero's hammer. Idly, Théoden turns away. He's heard the song many times. Not that he does not enjoy it, but he's feeling tired. Not that the moon is that high up in the sky, but still…he drifts off…his head lolling…
And then his eyes shoot back open.
His niece is smiling.
He stares at her as she stares in turn at the minstrel, the song now moving on to the moment of Helm losing Hama, his son. Possibly an unpleasant reminder of what she's lost, but for some reason, Éowyn does not seem to mind. She stares. She smiles. She seems entranced by the descriptions of battle, of honour, of renown. Like any man of Rohan would…key word being man. But still, that smile…it's radiant.
She glances back at her uncle, still smiling. But it fades for some reason. Sadly, she turns away. And he's left to wonder why.
"Pay her no heed," Grima whispers. "It is only a passing fancy. Leave such tales to men."
Indeed…Grima has a point. Sooner or later, Éowyn will have to remember her place.
And when she's happy in it, outside her cage of grief, no doubt he can expect to see that smile again.