A Time to Cry
Éomer laid down his bow, having been dismissed from his archery lessons for the day. He neatly plucked the arrows from the target—he was getting better, his tutor said. His uncle the king would be pleased.
Tediously, he stowed away his arrows, making sure each one was in its proper place. He had begun to take such careful pains with all his tasks since he and Éowyn had come to live at Meduseld. He had grown quiet as well, no longer taking as much joy in riding and learning the sword as he had before, when he had had parents and a happy home. Even his older cousin Théodred, whom Éomer had always found fascinating, could not rouse his spirits.
The eleven-year-old Éomer made his way back up to the hall of Meduseld, where he turned corners very carefully, keeping away from the presence of anyone, even servants or Riders. Especially the Riders. They reminded him of his father, with their helms and swords and bold armor. The last thing he wanted now was to remember his father.
He pushed open the heavy door of his humble bedchamber, sighing in relief to be able to spend a while alone, without care and without memories.
That idea vanished, however, when his tiny sister, Éowyn, sprang out from behind his door, dragging the sword he kept on a hook there.
"On your guard, soldier!" she chirped, trying to lift the heavy sword with both hands.
Éomer sighed and took the weapon from her, watching her face fall as he replaced it carefully. "Haven't I told you not to touch that?" he said, a little too sharply, perhaps.
Éowyn crossed her arms, glaring at her brother with all the sauciness she could muster for her seven years. "You won't let me touch it only because it was father's! You don't care if I play with the sword Uncle gave you!"
Éomer glared at his nuisance of a sister. "Out, you," he said, pushing her towards the door. But she turned nimbly and sat on his bed.
"No," she said sulkily. "I want to play. It's no fun to sit with the ladies and watch them weave and sew banners. I want to play with swords, like you and Théodred!"
Éomer glared at his sister and grabbed her arm, dragging her roughly off of his bed and towards the door. "It's not play, Éowyn," he said. "Now get out, before I tell Uncle you've run out on your lessons again."
Éowyn's eyes filled with angry tears as she wrenched her arm out of her brother's grip and glowered at him from the doorway. "You're no fun anymore, Éomer!" she cried woefully. "We used to play all the time."
But Éomer turned away and made for his bed, ignoring her. Éowyn fumed for a moment, trying to come up with a biting remark.
"Mama always said you were supposed to take care of me," she finally spat, tears making rivers down her cheeks. "She wouldn't love you if she saw you now! She'd tell father to take the strap to you, or turn you out."
Éomer froze in mid-step. For so young a child, Éowyn had always known how to reach her brother. When he turned to look at her, he could read the fear in her grey eyes, and somewhere in his subconscious, he couldn't blame her. If he had been a seven-year-old child who had spoken thus to her brother and saw him in such a fey mood, he would have turned and fled. But Éowyn stood resolutely in the doorway, tilting her chin up defiantly, despite the trembling of her lip.
"You shouldn't speak so," he said finally, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. How dare she, this tiny child who had no more wisdom than an insect---how dare she strike so true a chord?
"But it's true!" Éowyn wailed. And when Éomer looked at her again, he saw not his irritating little sister dressed in rough clothes but his mother, reflected there in her eyes, kind and gentle as always, but firm. She had had spirit, and that which she had, she had passed to her daughter.
Pangs of grief punctured Éomer's heart like the arrows that had pierced his practice target. Without knowing how he had gotten there, he found himself lying facedown on his bed, crying like the child that he was, as he should have been allowed to so many months ago.
A tiny, warm body crawled onto the bed and curled up beside him, and Éomer wrapped his arms around his little sister, thinking how oddly ironic the moment was when their roles had been reversed, for it was the younger who then comforted the elder. For Éomer had been strong for many weeks while Éowyn wept, and now her eyes were dry, and his overflowed.
"You mustn't go to supper, brother," came her tiny voice when finally Éomer had collected himself, and they lay still curled up on his bed. She squirmed out of his embrace. "I shall tell Uncle you are ill."
"No," Éomer said, sitting up and wiping the last of the tears from his face. "We'll go together." He smiled a little and offered her his hand, which she took gleefully. They made their way through the halls, Éomer walking slowly to allow Éowyn's small legs to keep up. She chattered away as though naught had passed between them, and Éomer found himself listening with interest to his sister's escapades for the first time since they had arrived at Edoras.
On their way to the supper table, they passed many servants who watched with startled expressions as Éomer smiled and laughed at his sister's tales, as he held her hand and spoke kindly to her, as he carried her the length of several corridors on his back, for never had the house of Meduseld seen the king's nephew less solemn, or so playful.
They passed several of the Riders, who acknowledged the nephew and niece of the king with smiles and nods, and Éomer found himself examining them curiously, without remorse, and pride rose in him that his father had been one of the greatest of the realm of Rohan.
The two arrived red-cheeked mussed, and breathless before the seat of Théoden, their uncle and king, and he looked on them with a stern face and merry eyes.
"You are late," he said to Éomer, who was helping Éowyn slide from his shoulders. "Is something wrong, my child?"
Éomer shook his head. "No, Uncle," he said. "All is well."
And their uncle smiled and bid them sit and eat, and Éomer talked merrily and listened attentively to his cousin Théodred's tales, and he felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his heart, making it light and merry. Perhaps he had not needed order to correct the flaws of his life. He had only needed a time to cry.
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Aww, the healing power of tears...anyway, I wrote this in under an hour...trying to time myself...I actually made it in 59 minutes, whoo hoo! So review, if you'd like, for I would greatly appreciate it! ~Ellie~
Éomer laid down his bow, having been dismissed from his archery lessons for the day. He neatly plucked the arrows from the target—he was getting better, his tutor said. His uncle the king would be pleased.
Tediously, he stowed away his arrows, making sure each one was in its proper place. He had begun to take such careful pains with all his tasks since he and Éowyn had come to live at Meduseld. He had grown quiet as well, no longer taking as much joy in riding and learning the sword as he had before, when he had had parents and a happy home. Even his older cousin Théodred, whom Éomer had always found fascinating, could not rouse his spirits.
The eleven-year-old Éomer made his way back up to the hall of Meduseld, where he turned corners very carefully, keeping away from the presence of anyone, even servants or Riders. Especially the Riders. They reminded him of his father, with their helms and swords and bold armor. The last thing he wanted now was to remember his father.
He pushed open the heavy door of his humble bedchamber, sighing in relief to be able to spend a while alone, without care and without memories.
That idea vanished, however, when his tiny sister, Éowyn, sprang out from behind his door, dragging the sword he kept on a hook there.
"On your guard, soldier!" she chirped, trying to lift the heavy sword with both hands.
Éomer sighed and took the weapon from her, watching her face fall as he replaced it carefully. "Haven't I told you not to touch that?" he said, a little too sharply, perhaps.
Éowyn crossed her arms, glaring at her brother with all the sauciness she could muster for her seven years. "You won't let me touch it only because it was father's! You don't care if I play with the sword Uncle gave you!"
Éomer glared at his nuisance of a sister. "Out, you," he said, pushing her towards the door. But she turned nimbly and sat on his bed.
"No," she said sulkily. "I want to play. It's no fun to sit with the ladies and watch them weave and sew banners. I want to play with swords, like you and Théodred!"
Éomer glared at his sister and grabbed her arm, dragging her roughly off of his bed and towards the door. "It's not play, Éowyn," he said. "Now get out, before I tell Uncle you've run out on your lessons again."
Éowyn's eyes filled with angry tears as she wrenched her arm out of her brother's grip and glowered at him from the doorway. "You're no fun anymore, Éomer!" she cried woefully. "We used to play all the time."
But Éomer turned away and made for his bed, ignoring her. Éowyn fumed for a moment, trying to come up with a biting remark.
"Mama always said you were supposed to take care of me," she finally spat, tears making rivers down her cheeks. "She wouldn't love you if she saw you now! She'd tell father to take the strap to you, or turn you out."
Éomer froze in mid-step. For so young a child, Éowyn had always known how to reach her brother. When he turned to look at her, he could read the fear in her grey eyes, and somewhere in his subconscious, he couldn't blame her. If he had been a seven-year-old child who had spoken thus to her brother and saw him in such a fey mood, he would have turned and fled. But Éowyn stood resolutely in the doorway, tilting her chin up defiantly, despite the trembling of her lip.
"You shouldn't speak so," he said finally, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. How dare she, this tiny child who had no more wisdom than an insect---how dare she strike so true a chord?
"But it's true!" Éowyn wailed. And when Éomer looked at her again, he saw not his irritating little sister dressed in rough clothes but his mother, reflected there in her eyes, kind and gentle as always, but firm. She had had spirit, and that which she had, she had passed to her daughter.
Pangs of grief punctured Éomer's heart like the arrows that had pierced his practice target. Without knowing how he had gotten there, he found himself lying facedown on his bed, crying like the child that he was, as he should have been allowed to so many months ago.
A tiny, warm body crawled onto the bed and curled up beside him, and Éomer wrapped his arms around his little sister, thinking how oddly ironic the moment was when their roles had been reversed, for it was the younger who then comforted the elder. For Éomer had been strong for many weeks while Éowyn wept, and now her eyes were dry, and his overflowed.
"You mustn't go to supper, brother," came her tiny voice when finally Éomer had collected himself, and they lay still curled up on his bed. She squirmed out of his embrace. "I shall tell Uncle you are ill."
"No," Éomer said, sitting up and wiping the last of the tears from his face. "We'll go together." He smiled a little and offered her his hand, which she took gleefully. They made their way through the halls, Éomer walking slowly to allow Éowyn's small legs to keep up. She chattered away as though naught had passed between them, and Éomer found himself listening with interest to his sister's escapades for the first time since they had arrived at Edoras.
On their way to the supper table, they passed many servants who watched with startled expressions as Éomer smiled and laughed at his sister's tales, as he held her hand and spoke kindly to her, as he carried her the length of several corridors on his back, for never had the house of Meduseld seen the king's nephew less solemn, or so playful.
They passed several of the Riders, who acknowledged the nephew and niece of the king with smiles and nods, and Éomer found himself examining them curiously, without remorse, and pride rose in him that his father had been one of the greatest of the realm of Rohan.
The two arrived red-cheeked mussed, and breathless before the seat of Théoden, their uncle and king, and he looked on them with a stern face and merry eyes.
"You are late," he said to Éomer, who was helping Éowyn slide from his shoulders. "Is something wrong, my child?"
Éomer shook his head. "No, Uncle," he said. "All is well."
And their uncle smiled and bid them sit and eat, and Éomer talked merrily and listened attentively to his cousin Théodred's tales, and he felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his heart, making it light and merry. Perhaps he had not needed order to correct the flaws of his life. He had only needed a time to cry.
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Aww, the healing power of tears...anyway, I wrote this in under an hour...trying to time myself...I actually made it in 59 minutes, whoo hoo! So review, if you'd like, for I would greatly appreciate it! ~Ellie~