He had promised her hope. He had promised her joy. He had promised her
life.
He had promised her so much in those earlier days, when they stood high
atop the walls of the White City. She had been so happy then, always
greeting him with a smile. She had shone then, glowing with the light of
the Sun itself. Now it seemed as though the light had all but faded away.
He realizes then, she doesn't smile anymore.
~But a memory of loveliness in far days and of his first grief~
He corners her one night, in his study. "I am going away. The King requests my presence, I shall return with the new moon." He turns to go and would save the small noise that draws his attention back to his wife. Still she stands, like a statue of marble. Her head is held high and her shoulders are still, an embodiment of cold perfection. He stares, longing for the woman he had married. No statue of marble to grace a Steward's hall but a living breathing person of flesh and bone.
~But now she shivered beneath the starry mantle, and she looked northward~
"What duty would my lord have me do?" her voice betrays no emotion, and her face is blank. But her eyes, ever blazing eyes, show him what she feels. Bitterness mixed with great sorrow. He sighs, the weight in his heart growing. He has done this to her. Too often left at home, too often shut out. "I-" he falters. Then bowing his head, whispers softly, speaking more to himself then to her. "I would see you happy." He speaks his wish, willing the perfect stone floor to open then and swallow him hole. But all was still and they stood in silence.
~The lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted ~
He looks up and sees her head too has dropped. "I am happy." No gilded words of joy. Simple and blunt in her own manner. He looks at her, searching, though he does not know for what. She steps forward then and reaches out. She is no longer made of stone then. She is real once more, too real for him to face and so he steps back recoiling as though her touch might burn. She frowns then, eyes widening in shock. She draws her hand back staring at it as though it were something new. "These hands killed the Lord of the Nazgul, yet I see no reason now to fear them, my lord. They have softened; a shieldmaiden's hands have become those of a healer." She shows him her palm as though to make a point. He is struck by fear then, for flesh and bone can be hurt more easily then stone. But his legs move against his will and he steps forward again, reaching out his own shaking hand. She meets his half way. Her hand is soft and her skin warm, and images of dark waves and blue fabric with silver stars fill his mind.
~Their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it~
He stops then, all thoughts leaving his mind as he stares at her.
~'Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!' ~
She was smiling.
A/N: I don't own LotR, Tolkien does. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote this, but I like it... Please no flames, though I'd accept constructive criticism.
~But a memory of loveliness in far days and of his first grief~
He corners her one night, in his study. "I am going away. The King requests my presence, I shall return with the new moon." He turns to go and would save the small noise that draws his attention back to his wife. Still she stands, like a statue of marble. Her head is held high and her shoulders are still, an embodiment of cold perfection. He stares, longing for the woman he had married. No statue of marble to grace a Steward's hall but a living breathing person of flesh and bone.
~But now she shivered beneath the starry mantle, and she looked northward~
"What duty would my lord have me do?" her voice betrays no emotion, and her face is blank. But her eyes, ever blazing eyes, show him what she feels. Bitterness mixed with great sorrow. He sighs, the weight in his heart growing. He has done this to her. Too often left at home, too often shut out. "I-" he falters. Then bowing his head, whispers softly, speaking more to himself then to her. "I would see you happy." He speaks his wish, willing the perfect stone floor to open then and swallow him hole. But all was still and they stood in silence.
~The lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted ~
He looks up and sees her head too has dropped. "I am happy." No gilded words of joy. Simple and blunt in her own manner. He looks at her, searching, though he does not know for what. She steps forward then and reaches out. She is no longer made of stone then. She is real once more, too real for him to face and so he steps back recoiling as though her touch might burn. She frowns then, eyes widening in shock. She draws her hand back staring at it as though it were something new. "These hands killed the Lord of the Nazgul, yet I see no reason now to fear them, my lord. They have softened; a shieldmaiden's hands have become those of a healer." She shows him her palm as though to make a point. He is struck by fear then, for flesh and bone can be hurt more easily then stone. But his legs move against his will and he steps forward again, reaching out his own shaking hand. She meets his half way. Her hand is soft and her skin warm, and images of dark waves and blue fabric with silver stars fill his mind.
~Their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it~
He stops then, all thoughts leaving his mind as he stares at her.
~'Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!' ~
She was smiling.
A/N: I don't own LotR, Tolkien does. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote this, but I like it... Please no flames, though I'd accept constructive criticism.