Chapter 2: Under the Moon of Ithilien

There is no east wind here. This is the East. No wind blowing from that direction could breach the rampart of the Mountains of Shadow, which stand at the backs of the lovers. So the night is quiet, and only the occasional sounds of beasts and insects rise to where they are sitting.

Wild moonlit Ithilien is sprawled before them and beneath them. Ithilien, she thinks. "The land of the moon. Splendidly appropriate for such a night.* She wonders if he has though of that as well. Perhaps that's why he brought her here, and not just because Minas Morgul is pretty much around the corner.

Who needs fancy furniture when you have this? She wouldn't trade this rocky outcropping for the most exquisite feather pillow as long as he is beside her. She's indulging in his closeness, yet not quite daring to touch him. A couple times in the past she attempted to cup his face; the results were dubious at best. Also, he finds it kind of corny.

"You know, all this 'slave of the will of the Dark Lord' thing is just temporary," he's saying. "I plan to be my own boss one day. Just wait and see."

He has rolled a new smoke from his pouch and lit it with a shower of sparks struck with a flint from the blade of his Morgul-knife. The smouldering tip is a spectral glow in the dark, like a will-o'-the-wisp, only sexier. It gives her eyes something to focus on.

She tried the thing once. She had wanted him to think her as cool as he was. The experiment resulted in her hacking her lungs out while he rolled on the floor laughing. Once was enough.

She can tell he's looking at her now. And not a good way.

"What are you looking at?," he blurts out.

"Nothing."

"It's my hair, is it? You don't like it?"

"No, no! It's fine." She knows what could happen if she failed to reassure him promptly. "It's just…"

"It's just what? Spit it out, woman!"

"Just… Well… A greased toupée floating in midair is not exactly my idea of…"

"Curse you!" He springs to his feet and towers over her. "I'm wearing this for you! You don't think I can do anything right, do you?"

He makes a show of throwing the weed-roll to the grass. He could just as easily put it out with the tip of his boot, but he's too legit to care about fire hazards.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, lowering her eyes to escape his burning gaze.

She would cower under this rock if she could. The closest she manages is to contemplate her toes and pretend she's not really there. She hears his frantic footfalls coming and going, crushing the grass and the pebbles.

What was that?, she wonders. Everything was fine just a moment ago!

Finally he stops muttering to himself and sits down next to her again.

"I have an idea, baby," he says after a while, as if nothing had just happened. "Right behind these mountains, in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, they keep a Dwarvish shirt made of mithril. You've never seen anything like that. They found it on the high pass. Apparently its last owner was eaten by the spider that lives there."

"That's horrible!"

"No, they washed the gory bits off. And I think it'd look great on you."

"You think so?"

"I mean, if you're not afraid of skimpy see-through clothes."

"What?"

"Or spiders. Or Orcs."

Her brow rises and her eyes blaze proudly in the face of the implicit challenge.

"I am not afraid of anything. I'm a shieldmaiden of Rohan."

"Well, yeah. I meant to talk about that too." She can't quite see his eyes, but she can certainly feel his keen stare. "Especially about the 'maiden' part."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know. You and I have been dating for some time now…"

Even on his invisible face, his raunchy wink couldn't be any more notorious.

"You must know," she says stiffening, "that I have pledged my maidenhood to the man who takes me as his wedded wife."

"Oh." His disappointment doesn't sound entirely spontaneous. "So you're of that kind."

"What kind?"

"You know what I'm talking about. The kind who dreams of a big white wedding and a house with a front garden and noisy children. And dogs. And a boring husband."

"I am not!," she protests. But inside she's saying, you would not be a boring husband.

"Then will you–?," he says. "C'mon, baby. Just see what you do to me."

And, before Éowyn knows what's going on, he's on his feet again and drops his breeches in front of her face.

"I see nothing," she says, astounded.

"And now you mock me!"

"I didn't–"

"Come not between the Nazgûl and his self-esteem!"

"I'm sorr— What are you doing?"

His breeches are again fastened around his waist and he's thumping heavily towards the grazing fell beast. Well, it isn't exactly grazing, but the goat on whose carcass it's feasting probably was, so in an indirect way it may count as such.

Éowyn hurries after him. He's already on the saddle and holding the reins when he catches up with him.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Dark Tower," he answers matter-of-factly. "The guys said there'd be something good on the palantír tonight."

"And you're leaving me here?"

"You can walk home."

"Walk home? It's a several days' ride! And I don't even have a horse! Or shoes!"

"Well, you should have thought of that before you laughed at me, shouldn't you?"

"But I never–"

There's no one there to hear her words. The black steed is soaring on the putrid wind of its own wings and it soon passes from sight. No token is left behind of its earlier presence save an acrid whiff that is quickly vanishing.

It takes a while to sink in that he's not joking.

Could Éowyn's feelings at this time be described? It seems to her that the stars have grown colder and dimmer, and the face of the moon smirks cruelly. It had all started so wonderfully! Now she would feel relieved if the sky came crashing down on her.

Is this why I turned away from my lord, my kin and my country? Is this my reward? Tears well up in her eyes, and now she knows that no wind is their cause.