Disclaimer: I do not own anything that Tolkein wrote, specifically (in this case) Eowyn or Grima Wormtongue. (However, if Eowyn doesn't want him...) Also, I do not own Miranda Otto or Brad Dourif, whose appearances and performances in the movie made a great impact on the writing of this. Yeah.
Seeing
She smells like sunlight, like milk and warm bread. There is an air about her of bright steel, of horses, of good clean sweat - smells that belong in the open air, under the sun.
(He smells like neglect, like must, like forgotten rooms left unopened for years. He knows.)
Her hands are calloused from swordplay and riding. She has wrestled with her brother and her boy-cousins until she has grown fierce as they. Her body is slim and taut with muscle. To watch her run is like watching the best and fleetest of the mares on the plains; every step is swift and sure. When she pours drink for the men in her uncle's hall, she moves with that grace that only dancers or warriors acquire...and the lady does not dance.
(He is weak, pale - hiding so he won't be hurt. His hands are thin, white spiders, fit for nothing but scribe-work. Yes.)
Her hair is like the grasslands in high summer, like the thatch of Meduseld. Her skin is like cream in the wintertime; it burns golden-brown under the sun. In her eyes, one can see her high soul, her great heart. Her smile is bright and fierce and sad - it makes onlookers ache inside, yet smile with her, all the same. Even in the darkest places, she carries her own light with her, like moonlight on snow. It is inconceivable that she has no admirers.
(She has one admirer, at least, but he is ugly and unworthy. The closest he can come to light is marshfire and the drip, drip, drip of rancid tallow candles. He knows - he can see himself in the mirror.)
She is the true daughter of Eorl, born again to the land. This can be seen in her fierceness and her strength, in her beauty and her regal pride. Her greatest sorrow is that she was born too late. She chould have walked with the gods in the morning of the world. She should have run with the Meiras. She should have loved one of the fathers of Rohan, burning bright and strong and joyful. She deserves no less.
(He is no child of Rohan at all. His hair is dark, no golden. His skin is fish-belly pale, not sun-warmed brown. She was born too late and he was simply born *wrong*. That he loves her - with all his heart, with everything he is - is a great sorrow. Sorrow, because all he can hope for is her voice, her light - the pain of loving her from the shadows. The greater sorrow is that he knows what he is. He can see it in the mirror, in the eyes of those around him...in her face. He is ugly, weak, despised - deserving of nothing. He is nothing at all.)
Seeing
She smells like sunlight, like milk and warm bread. There is an air about her of bright steel, of horses, of good clean sweat - smells that belong in the open air, under the sun.
(He smells like neglect, like must, like forgotten rooms left unopened for years. He knows.)
Her hands are calloused from swordplay and riding. She has wrestled with her brother and her boy-cousins until she has grown fierce as they. Her body is slim and taut with muscle. To watch her run is like watching the best and fleetest of the mares on the plains; every step is swift and sure. When she pours drink for the men in her uncle's hall, she moves with that grace that only dancers or warriors acquire...and the lady does not dance.
(He is weak, pale - hiding so he won't be hurt. His hands are thin, white spiders, fit for nothing but scribe-work. Yes.)
Her hair is like the grasslands in high summer, like the thatch of Meduseld. Her skin is like cream in the wintertime; it burns golden-brown under the sun. In her eyes, one can see her high soul, her great heart. Her smile is bright and fierce and sad - it makes onlookers ache inside, yet smile with her, all the same. Even in the darkest places, she carries her own light with her, like moonlight on snow. It is inconceivable that she has no admirers.
(She has one admirer, at least, but he is ugly and unworthy. The closest he can come to light is marshfire and the drip, drip, drip of rancid tallow candles. He knows - he can see himself in the mirror.)
She is the true daughter of Eorl, born again to the land. This can be seen in her fierceness and her strength, in her beauty and her regal pride. Her greatest sorrow is that she was born too late. She chould have walked with the gods in the morning of the world. She should have run with the Meiras. She should have loved one of the fathers of Rohan, burning bright and strong and joyful. She deserves no less.
(He is no child of Rohan at all. His hair is dark, no golden. His skin is fish-belly pale, not sun-warmed brown. She was born too late and he was simply born *wrong*. That he loves her - with all his heart, with everything he is - is a great sorrow. Sorrow, because all he can hope for is her voice, her light - the pain of loving her from the shadows. The greater sorrow is that he knows what he is. He can see it in the mirror, in the eyes of those around him...in her face. He is ugly, weak, despised - deserving of nothing. He is nothing at all.)