I own nothing.
The day dawned unusually warm for so early in the year, and beads of sweat roll down the back of Éowyn's neck, pooling beneath her collar. She gives no sign that she can feel this, gives no sign that she finds the heat uncomfortable. The funeral procession draws near the tomb, and she is fighting to keep her voice steady long enough to do her duty. The other women about her can weep. They have that luxury. She does not.
And yet, Éowyn can feel a lump growing in her throat, but there is none of the telltale prickling at the corners of her eyes that might accompany it. Her eyes are dry and have no wish to grow wet. She may well have done all her weeping already, at Théodred's bedside when she first realized that he was dead. Her eyes are dry and have no tears left to shed. The others will think her brave and stoic. Éowyn just feels empty, as hollow as a dry reed and every bit as brittle. If the wind blows much harder, she may well blow away.
As the funeral procession draws ever closer to the tomb, Éowyn wishes her brother was here. Éomer has never known how to handle his sister when they are afflicted with a common grief, but his very presence in the procession would count as a comfort to her. She is surrounded by strangers, or so it seems to her. Faces that were once familiar now seem strange to her. She is alone here.
The funeral process reaches the tomb, Théodred's body borne back on his shield. Drawing a deep breath, feeling the sun beat down on her back worse than ever, Éowyn lifts her voice in song.
Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
Giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende…
This is the tune of the funeral dirge, that which has been sung on these hills since Meduseld was built by Brego, son of Eorl, many centuries past. It is sung for Kings, the sons of Kings, and no others, meant to be sung by the surviving women of the royal family. In centuries past, there would come a great chorus at the burials of the Kings and Princes of Rohan, when their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters would sing them into the cold earth. Éowyn can still remember tales told of the burials of these King of old, and not once did she, even acquainted with death as she is, imagine that she would be singing the dirge for any member of her family.
Much less did she imagine that she would be doing so alone.
Éowyn listens during her song, and hears only the echo of her own voice. Why did I expect to hear anything different? she wonders bitterly. There is no other. I am the only woman of the royal family left alive to farewell her men into the beyond. This is no way for Théodred to be farewelled. This is no way for him to be sent out of the world and into the cold earth and the dark beyond, the voice of only one woman risen in song as though he was a poor peasant's son.
Then, the house of Eorl has long been decaying, its people moldering in the earth and its glory and honor forgotten. Long has Éowyn watched her house darken.
As Théodred is shut away in his tomb, beyond all recalling, Éowyn decides that he is perhaps more fortunate than her. He was at least allowed to die a valiant death, without having to bear witness to the utter collapse of his house and kingdom. Éowyn doubts she will be so lucky.