A/N: We know what Aragorn thought of Eowyn at first, but what did she think of him? I do not own Tolkien, Middle Earth, or these characters—though I love them. This one-shot is half book, half movie. The sentiments are inspired by the book, but Eowyn standing on the balcony is from that really epic scene from the movie (cue Norwegian fiddles playing!). I rather prefer it to their meeting in the hall as they did in the book.
"When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel."—Aragorn, on first seeing Eowyn
When First She Saw Him
The morning air was light with the sweet scent of grass and the fresh dew of the night. The pale golden sun, shaking off its sleepiness, had risen to beam with benevolent might upon the fields of Rohan.
Yet its warmth did not stir the heart of the fair maiden of Edoras, she who stood upon the raised balcony of the Keep of Meduseld, with clear eyes gazing across the plains. Beautiful was she, but cold—her ivory features making mockery even of snow.
Her uncle the King, she attended with every kindness that was the office of a daughter. Her people, she led in the absence of uncle, cousin, and brother. Her own lot, she cursed.
Alone. Loveless. Afraid.
This she would never admit to any living being—that she, a shieldmaiden of Rohan and daughter of kings had ever felt fear. She, who would have looked unblenching into the face of any enemy—any enemy but the one she now faced.
For she was facing a prison. A prison with cold cruel bars, wrought by the increasingly meaningless mumblings of the King, by the snake-like whispers of his vile advisor, by every hoofbeat of her brother's eored, riding North.
Every day the bars grew stronger.
Every day she had less power to fight them.
And so, she was afraid.
But never show it. Let no one see. Be cold and hard and proud.
The wind whistled in her ears, and above her she heard the sound of cloth straining and tearing. She watched the tattered royal banner break free and tumble outwards, pushed and pulled by the wind, floating ignobly downwards to the matted plains beyond the city walls.
See how it shreds, tears, falls.
Like your courage.
Her eyes followed the banner's descent, until they lighted upon a more curious sight—three small figures growing ever larger as they neared the city.
Three horsemen.
Travelers?
It had been many a month since any had ventured thus far, riding freely under the encroaching shadow. The last had been Gandalf the Grey, who had taken with him Shadowfax, fairest of horses—and her uncle's wrath.
But was this not Shadowfax once more? With an eye trained in horses, she looked and saw again the gleaming white neck, the flowing mane.
Gandalf, then, had come again.
But who now were his companions?
As they rode into the confines of the city, she perceived them more clearly. An elf, fair of face, and a stalwart dwarf rode together on a horse that she recognized to be of Rohirrim breed. The other companion was a man—grey-cloaked like the rest, with the outline of a sword beside him.
He was attired in weather-beaten garb, and his face was proud but rugged. Ageless. Wise. Something about it—even from so far—stirred her heart, heretofore so well hidden beneath her steely exterior. She longed to see him closer. He had the quiet, bold bearing of one who had seen much—and who had not been afraid.
The wind seemed to carry between them a whispering message of hope.
He could set me free.