Éowyn sat on the wide stair, enjoying a rare quiet moment. She wrapped her arms about her knees, the folds of her gown fluttering around her bare feet. She was uncloaked in the cool night air, gazing up at the far-off stars, glinting coldly in the bracing air. Her hair was unbound, and tumbled about her shoulders, pale gold on her wine-red gown. She closed her eyes, breathing deep, savouring the moment, for the instant that it would last. Passing as the spring showers, evanescent, her peace flowed over her, and she knew at any moment it would be gone… so she drank deep of the calm, and held it in her chest, basking in the momentary tranquillity.

The stone was cool beneath her, solid and rough. The two beacons were extinguished for the night, though their embers still glowed red, giving off gentle heat. Below her, the village slept. The alehouse windows were still lit, and she watched a troublemaker thrown from the wide doorway. A dog barked in a nearby dooryard, a horse whickered somewhere. The brisk wind ruffled her hair, bringing her the scent of herb gardens and fresh hay and ripening wheat in the fields. She could smell the flowing waters of the Snowbourn near by, the sweet wind blowing in the night off the mountains… She closed her eyes, not thinking, not feeling: spending a moment, just to be…

Éomer and Théodred would be gone in the morning. The thought came to her like a premonition, foreboding, and made her stomach clench. I don't want to be alone… But alone she was, and likely always would be; that was her lot of it, she couldn't do anything about it. No one was left but her, to guard the hearth. Éomer and Théodred would ride away, to defend the people who were dying out in the Foldes. The Uruk-hai gathered more in strength of late, and not just raiding, but burning and killing…. Just the day before, she had helped arrange and lodge a group of refugees. She clenched her fists in fury at the wonton killing, at beings that delighted in death. I hate them! They were responsible for all the suffering in her life. If it was not for the plunderers of Isengard, her parents might still be alive. She often wondered what things would have been like, if they had not died.

Éowyn sighed, wishing that she had not thought at all. It was easier, when one did not think. One did not worry, or hurt, or feel fear, or cry. She looked up at the sky, admiring a bank of clouds, backlit by the half-moon, the edges silver-lined black. She rubbed the chill off her arms, returning her mind to blissful nothingness. It felt good, to shut out the thoughts that plagued her during the daylight hours, and well into the night before she finally wrested a modicum of sleep from their grasp. She could not drive them from her mind, when they were forced into her hands. And now, she banished them, to let her mind recuperate, to make ready for the day ahead.

There was the gentle scrape of soft-soled boots on the stone above her head, and Théodred was sitting on the stone beside her. She offered him a rough hand, and he took it, pressing her spidery fingers tenderly. She breathed in, feeling the warmth of his body so close to hers, the crispness of the pleasantly cool night breeze.

Théodred leaned in, his breath hot on her neck, and pressed his lips to the bare skin at the hollow of her shoulder, kissing her softly.

"'Dred, don't." She half-moaned at him, feeling slightly disrespected. "It hurts too much when you go; you'll make this worse."

He accepted her refusal without spoken comment. He caressed her cheek, brushing the hair out of her face. "You look tired, cousin." Théodred commented, watching her bloodshot eyes, ringed by lack of sleep. And worn, too…

"Huhn..." She watched a bird soar below the clouds, highlighted by the brilliant moon.

Théodred grinned. "You're also inattentive."

"Hmm." The bird dove and disappeared above a silvery cloudbank. She blinked and looked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"You've not listened to a word I've said, have you?" He accused her teasingly, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

"Yes, I have!" She protested. "You said something about my being empty-headed, or some such tripe…"

"Ah, Éowyn." He murmured, looping a thick arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. She slid her own sinewy arm around his waist, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Do you remember when?"

"Yes…" She did not have to ask 'when.' She prized each memory with an aching sort of hunger, rueful yearning, she ran her mind around each remembrance, like tongue over teeth, studying each ridge and curve, each detail, savouring each fragment as a priceless treasure; they were all she had left.

Éowyn stared out at the distant horizon, where sky met plains in hazy grey, marvelling at the stillness of the night. "It's so beautiful. And when I wake up tomorrow, it'll all be over, and you and Éomer will be gone. I'll be left alone, to wait, on the sword's whetted edge. Another day, just like the last, and the morrow no different… Will there even be a morrow?" She wondered aloud, softly, speaking almost to herself.

"There will always be tomorrow, Éowyn." Théodred told her unfalteringly, ready, as he always was, to answer her insecurities. "Are you eating enough?" He asked abruptly. He could feel her ribs pressed against his, and could have counted them.

"Yes," she answered absent-mindedly, automatically.

"I don't believe you," he told her, frowning comically.

"Don't you?" She demanded sternly, chin thrust forward defensively, brows raised. She sighed, shoulders drooping, head bowed, seeming to ebb as she lost the will to defy, lost against unnamed fear, against exhaustion. She looked diminished: drained, worn-out, aged beyond her scant years. "He doesn't, not nearly enough." They both knew of whom she spoke. "It's a wonder he's alive. Sometimes, I wonder if he is at all." She looked up at him suddenly, eyes naked and glittering with tears. "Théodred… I'm scared." She admitted bluntly. From her, this was a taxing confession.

"I know, 'Wyn." He held her close to him, smoothing her hair. She fingered the brocade of his leather tunic, almost fretfully. He took both of her hands in one of his, keeping them still. At his touch, her resolve broke.

Utterly unveiled, and unafraid to lay open emotions that had past been barred behind her mask of stone, Éowyn clung to his shoulders, letting him shield her. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, dampening her own yellow mane, her cousin's dark locks, the wind and the night and the warmth of his touch cleansing her clotted chest.

When the watch changed, Théodred hauled his little cousin to her feet, an arm about her waist. All their tears long since dried, she was left with a tear-stained face and smarting eyes, and the intermittent dry sob. Arm in arm, they walk back into the Hall, evading the late-night servants, hurrying from the kitchen to sleeping quarters.

Éowyn broke away from him at the door of her chamber, laying her fingers upon his chest one last time, eyes lowered; she feared that if his gaze met hers, she would cry again. Théodred tilted her face upwards, smiling gently. She smiled back, almost weakly, chest and eyes threatening to spill over. He put his arms around her in a rough, tight embrace. Unable to bear it, she stood on tiptoe, cradling his firm, straight jaw in her two hands, she brought her lips to his, kissed him roughly. She felt the giddy warmness of his hands on her hips, his fingers in her hair, on the tender skin of her neck, his lips hard against hers. She felt suddenly light-headed. Slowly, Théodred lifted her off shaky knees, and moved into her room, barring the door behind them.

☼

Éowyn woke, as the horns blew for the sun's rising. A number of cocks crowed in the village below. She was bare under the blankets, her hair fanned and tangled. She lay for a moment, breath deep and even, eyes shut tight.

Théodred had gone already. He had placed the medallion he had always worn on a chain around his neck, between her curled fingers. Tooled leather on discoloured iron, engraved with golden enamel. Where will wants not, a way opens…

Éowyn rose and dressed, steeling herself to meet the day. If he was gone, then he was gone, and wishing would not bring him back. She went from the chamber, and found her uncle, already dressed if not entirely awake. She held vigil over him, talking absently to him to keep him quiet. He was pale, today. But he drank without her help, and only spilt half. He would not eat that day. And at midday, they were joined, always watched. She would pretend not to notice, not to shiver when the Worm's eyes lingered overlong over her body. She felt utterly alone, hopeless. She wished… she wished for she knew not what. For life to be simple, as it had in the bygone days of the childhood she could scarcely remember. She remembered through the day, the pleasant burning of Théodred's lips on her bare skin, praying the battle would go well, that he would return to her soon.

Two days later, word came from the Fords of Isen that Théodred son of Théoden had been slain.