Chapter 6 is here, which means Lórien! Which means it's all downhill from here, people... We apologize in advance that it's a bit short...a little bare bones, that is. Elis' gripe is that there should have been more scenes with other Hobbits (aka Merry, who barely gets a word in here, especially given his little crush on Éohild...did you notice? We thought it only proper since he has one for Éowyn, and they're, you know, sisters), and Gimli, but Senna's defense is that this chapter is depressing. "De-press-ing," she enunciates while on the phone with Elis at three in the morning. She insists there was only so much depression to go around (Elis: i.e. she was a lazy bum and hasn't been listening to me lately), so anything more felt redundant to her, though she did try to add a bit of humor here and there.
In other words, it's all preparation for the first big finale. And did you also notice that I, Elis, have been trying to stop Senna from turning this into a Boromir fic? I think she fell in love with him writing their friendship scenes, and I've been trying to keep her on track. It's crazy. ALSO. Who's watched the Desolation of Smaug already? Senna is too excited to move onto Thorin already. You have no idea how many times I slapped her just to keep her in check. (Just kidding. No Sennas were harmed in the making of this chapter.) Anyway... Review replying time!
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vrzsk: Thank you very much! We hope this chapter is to your liking as well.
A reader: EEEEEEEEEEEEK. Thank you so much for the praise! But more than that, the concrit! You have no idea how happy your review made Senna. You noticed the appearance thing! Well, it was kind of impossible to miss given that Senna was rubbing it in everyone's face that Eohild has the dumbest priorities just because she's around a handsome Elf, but still, you pointed it out before this chapter came out! You'll see what we mean later. Aaand as for the Elf bit, there's a reason Legolas is aloof! Hehe. You saw in the past chapters that he was real nice to everyone, open, friendly, but in Moria he just got weird snappy about how Eohild got herself in trouble, but still saves her butt when she needs it. Eh? Eh? No? -cough- I personally would say they're both interested, but also don't know what to think of each other at the moment. He's old, she's young, she acts aloof toward him and he's not inclined to insist on a friendship if she wants to keep her distance for some reason he doesn't get-which he thinks he finally gets when she blames Elves for the whole Ring thing. Something like that.
And at the end, not sure if Senna didn't articulate it too well, but he wasn't aloof to the events/his companions. It is sad that the Elves were portrayed not as the merry party people they were in Rivendell but as solemn creatures, but we tried to show that they weren't all like that with Vinariel, one little smirk from either Elladan or Elrohir (we will never know) and a few more scenes with Legolas as more cheerful when with friends, but not in serious scenes. In the movie, you'll see that he did stand alone and peer into the distance sadly. Imagine some crazy crying girl blaming your entire race while you're trying to stand your ground and not let the man-tears flow for everyone else's sake (like Aragorn and Boromir, who are leaders). We don't think Book Legolas would have gone so far as to answer the way he did, but since we're tilting more in favor of Movie Legolas (instead of Book), who can be kind of vindictive, Senna decided a little stress and crazy girl can get even to an older Elf like him. Anyway! Thank you so much for your opinion! Helps us know what we're succeeding and failing at making come across to the readers.
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Also, sorry about the lack of POVs, guys. At this point we can say that it's Éohild's thoughts we'll mostly be seeing, at least until the end of FotR, since it's she who has to deal with Boromir's death the most. You can blame Senna and her not-so-secret love for the guy. And most likely we won't delve into the Hobbits, no matter how much Elis adores Pippin, especially since we all know what happens in the next chapter...
Anyway! Read on and tell us what you think!
And we almost forgot. Happy holidays, everyone! :)
The Province of Men
Chapter 6: Respite
They refused to perform a burial ceremony, seeing that there was no body.
A day or so was spent reaching Lórien following the river Nimrodel. Gandalf had mentioned in passing that it was named after a tragic character, but Éohild remembered nothing further than the way his eyes had glimmered when he spoke of the world and its former beauty. Aragorn allowed the Company a brief respite in the early morning, even though the tranquility of the outside world compared to the dangers of Moria only provided greater sorrow. At least then they were complete.
Whenever Éohild came to her senses, she found that her eyes had drifted to Legolas. She knew her actions immediately after their escape had been reprehensible. It was a grave thing to blame the Elves for the Evils wrought in the world, but how could she explain such a moment of weakness? It would only prove how incapable she was, the way he'd implied at the start of their trek through Moria. Éohild wished she could take everything back, and Gandalf's death, too.
Aragorn led them now. She watched him whenever she tore her gaze from the Elf and saw clearly why Gandalf had chosen him to take his place should he…when he was gone. The Man was capable of many things, no matter if he shunned his claim to the throne of Gondor.
He was the rare kind to whom one simply listened, even Boromir, who was accustomed to his wishes being fulfilled rather than an opposing opinion. Not that he and Aragorn had truly butted heads yet – she saw that Boromir had grown to care for Aragorn and agreed with him on many things. Or perhaps it was that the entire Company grew in love for each other when there was no one else in whom to take solace for the sacrifice of their Gandalf.
Except Éohild, with Legolas. They only turned askance when their eyes met.
In any case, Éohild was thankful for Aragorn's protection. She knew he looked out for them when they stopped for the weary Hobbits. They had all rested then, even the Elf, though Éohild awoke earlier than the rest due to another nightmare. She wanted to go and speak with Aragorn – but the action reminded her too much of how Gandalf had become dear to her. And Boromir looked so tired; his shoulders, when he thought nobody watched, were always slumped. She didn't wish to weigh him down with her burdens, too.
Gimli was the most heavy-hearted of them all, having lost a cousin, many of his people, and a great friend, but he remained strong, a rock for the Hobbits. They, in turn, held themselves with as much dignity as could be afforded their kind. The much needed rest aided their attempts not to dwell on Gandalf's death.
When they finally reached a forest under the gaze of the setting sun, Gimli was a little livelier, back to discussing things he knew about the place. He had known a little about the story of Amroth and Nimrodel, but decided to change the subject when he saw that they had come under the shade of a thick forest.
"Stay close, young Hobbits!" whispered the Dwarf, gripping his axe tightly. "They say that a great sorceress lives in these woods, an Elf-witch, of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell and are never seen again."
Behind them, next to Boromir, Éohild shuddered. The Mark, too, had stories about the Lady in the Golden Wood. A weaver of nets men could not escape, they called her, and she had thought it a mere myth until Gimli mentioned her. Éohild did not think she had the heart to face another challenge. Not now.
Gimli was saying something or the other about foxes and hawks when Éohild noticed an orange leaf twirling down to the toe of her boots. She bent down to pick it up, such a nice golden color it was. She thought that the trees here were unnaturally large, so perhaps they bloomed and aged differently. Then something twitched at the corner of her eye. She stood upright. Elves, bows and arrows ready to fire in their direction.
Their leader, golden-haired as the rest but with a certain edge to his apprehensive mien, stepped forward. Even as he drawled, his voice was velvety. "The Dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark."
The Elves had come from high above the trees. They were taken there immediately, to stable platforms amidst the highest branches, though all were quiet. The leader – Haldir – acknowledged Legolas and Aragorn in Elvish, which displeased Gimli. The Dwarf must have said something offensive, for Aragorn seemed upset with his words. At that hour, Éohild was indisposed to take a side. Everyone was tired. The rest of them who cared not for the argument fell behind.
"You bring great Evil with you," said Haldir, eyes on Frodo. Éohild stepped between them with a fierce gaze. Now she was in the mood. She would not allow one as brave and honorable as Frodo to be shunned by an Elf who hid in the forest. His tone angered her, but she was aware that it was caused by lingering fury for Gandalf, and that Elves knew better than Men about Rings of Power.
Haldir steadily met her gaze before shaking his head, firmly decided. "You can go no further."
Aragorn pulled the Elf aside and argued with him in words Éohild could not understand. Gandalf had taught her a little Elvish, but only for the sake of understanding his stories, and she wasn't even certain what kind of Elvish. So she sat with the others while Gimli muttered something about Elves. Legolas stood off to the side, as though waiting to intercede with Aragorn if their leader needed aid. She wished she could help, too.
"If they don't let us in because of…it," Sam began quietly, "we'll stay with you out here, Mr. Frodo."
"Rest assured," agreed Éohild. Though weary, Merry and Pippin nodded earnestly. They shivered in the cold, looking to Boromir who always made their fires, but he was in deep thought and stared only at the crushed leaves beneath his boots. It reminded Éohild of their first evening in Rivendell, only somehow worse. Perhaps it was the dirt miring all their faces, but her friend seemed to have aged greatly.
When he finally spoke, they were about to move. "Gandalf's death was not in vain. Nor would he have you lose hope." Boromir looked as though he understood the words he had so carefully chosen. Éohild felt that she did, too, but she would not grasp the extent of it until the occurrence of fateful events much later. "You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don't carry the weight of the dead."
They traveled another day to Caras Galadhon, the main fortress of the Elves in that forest. There was some issue about Gimli wearing a blindfold, but the idea was discarded in the end when an argument began to rise. The Company followed Haldir and some of his men through winding paths in the forest, all inhabited by Elves.
As they delved deeper, the trees appeared to rise to greater heights, stretching skyward, and as the day passed, several lamps lit the forest like silvery blue fireflies. The magic, perhaps, was in that none of them felt at all tired anymore. The fatigue no longer taxed on their body or movements; instead their minds and hearts were enervated.
Rivendell possessed a different kind of enchantment than this. With staircases wrapped around the trees, almost as if they had made a home for the Elves willingly out of their own bark and dew, Caras Galadhon was beauty defined. So it was only right that its Lord and Lady were as glorious as Éohild had imagined, his hair like moonbeams and hers like the first rays of the rising sun. Aglow and hand-in-hand, the two descended the highest flet in the forest city to meet the Fellowship.
Lord Celeborn spoke first, and then the Lady Galadriel, their voices ethereal, like a thought too quick to grasp but one that engulfed her entirely. Gimli stiffened beside Éohild like he was no longer breathing, though it was something that hardly crossed her mind. She broke out of her stupor when Legolas addressed them. Both because she had not heard him speak since the quarrel she began with him and because he spoke of their journey through Moria, which had become something of a forbidden topic after they agreed that there would be no final ceremony for their Wizard.
"…For we went needlessly into the net of Moria," Legolas finished.
"Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his whole purpose," rebuked Galadriel, though she was the epitome of Caras Galadhon and sounded as though she had meant instead to soothe. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dum fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin."
Gimli looked up, and in his eyes Éohild saw hope. It struck her then that in the midst of their journey, she had convinced herself that they could defeat anything.
She felt so foolish now. So childish! They had encountered no threats save Caradhras and the crebain, and so she had thought it permissible to entertain thoughts she had not since she had first thought a man handsome. Éohild recalled vividly her reflection before Moria, before that creature in the lake attacked them.
She had looked upon herself in the lake and been troubled; as though the grime on her person had warranted concern! She had been embarrassed by her show of weakness before Legolas and the others when she should have summoned strength instead. Why had she turned to such worries?
Éohild knew the answer. Rivendell had given her hope for true change in the world, enough to believe she could turn her mind to subjects Vinariel and other women in the court thought more proper for a lady of her stature. Éohild believed that their Fellowship, because of its grand quest, was – though constantly afflicted by danger – invulnerable. Immune to death. At least, until the Orcs began their volley of attacks and Frodo had survived by the power of an old gift and Gandalf did not. And he was their most powerful member.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she fought hard to will them away. They could only face the coming dangers now, and head on, she knew, for the Hobbits. For that was exactly what they would do. And Boromir, and Gimli, and Aragorn. Legolas, too. Éohild felt like the weakest of them now, for having cared solely for petty matters and her own sorrow.
"For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands, love is now mingled with grief."
Galadriel's eyes passed many of them, and when Éohild's met them she was struck by a fierce longing to return the Riddermark, where her place was certain in her cousin's éored, with a certainty of defeating Orcs and an actual hope of overcoming them rather than joining a quest whose outcome she no longer knew, especially with Gandalf's passing.
Even then she feared the fate of the Mark. With Saruman's betrayal and her Uncle's weakness, the Wizard could ambush and lay waste to her home, to the villages on its outskirts, to Edoras! But that was for Théodred and Éomer to contend with, was it not? She was sent here. Or was she? Perhaps she had presumed incorrectly and Théodred, had he known of the perils of their quest, would have had her return home? She did not possess his foresight or wisdom. What if—have hope.
The feeling of breaking out of her stupor was the same as rising for air from the water, though now it felt like she had fallen into Galadriel's gaze—only for the Queen of the city to pull her to safety with her voice. Éohild trusted her words, though there could be no reason behind this easy willingness other than how Gandalf would have told them not to despair. He had trusted them to go it even without him.
"What now becomes of this Fellowship? Without Gandalf, hope is lost," enunciated Celeborn. Éohild heard his words but overlooked them. Galadriel shone brighter in her eyes.
"The quest stands on but the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all," warned the Lady. "Yet hope remains while the Company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you will sleep in peace."
Aragorn sat next to the resting figure of Boromir on an outlying root. His body had felt extraordinarily weary since their climb from Moria. Perhaps his allowing the Company to rest while he kept watch and woke them when necessary had not aided him, but nevertheless, he could not have slept. Even now, beneath the boughs of Caras Galadhon, cloaked by the moonlight and their lament for Gandalf, he had kept on his feet until he'd ensured the safety of his fellows.
Though he knew enough not to dwell when unnecessary, it was a task not to see the events of the past days in his mind's eye, over and again. What they could have done. What he could have done. It would have been too dangerous to tread where Frodo and Éohild had tried, but it lingered on him and hung in the air between them all, that what if.
At the very least, Gimli had found some cheer in the presence of the Lady Galadriel. He deserved that; and it seemed to have been common ground for him and the Company's Elf. After all their subtle slights at one another, at Gimli's lowest Legolas had become a comfort, more than happy to show him the wonders of Lórien alongside a few new friends. The Hobbits, too, felt rested after their meal and felt, for the first time, well enough to speak with one another of Gandalf and his deeds. But Éohild had departed not long after they began, insisting on the desire to see the forest and promising not to stray. Boromir had kept to himself as well, but confided in Aragorn his troubles in the end.
A familiar patter of footsteps approached from the path to the right and broke his reverie. Aragorn knew their footfalls now by heart; Legolas possessed the lightest, like leaves touching still waters. Boromir walked in long, heavy strides, similar to Gimli, save that their Dwarf took quicker steps. Frodo was slow and calm; Pippin and Merry jumped at times, though the latter did only in pursuit of the former. Sam was hesitant at times, though much less now than before. And Gandalf…Aragorn sighed as he remembered. His had never been too quick, or slow; simply purposeful.
But these belonged to Éohild, and though she hid behind her tunic and blades, hers held still the dignified bearing of a woman. A soldier indeed, with an even, full gait, yet nimble. When she found them, she set her weary eyes on Boromir first. Aragorn greeted her with a welcoming smile. "Rest."
The true way of it was that she had sat alone, some ways from the area they had been granted to rest. She had gathered her thoughts, spreaded them out and sorted them properly – about the Mark and her Uncle Théoden, her unending worry for Éomer, Éowyn, Théodred, and the quest that faced their Company now that Gandalf was lost. It felt as though they had taken it upon themselves to grasp the moon. Her mood had risen and fallen as the night went on; filled with hope at times, then hopeless. It was enough to drive her mad.
Boromir was slipping past her, and he was her closest friend in the Fellowship. Éohild loved him, but she could not understand how to reach out to him. There was a time in their days journeying together when they would simply glance at each other and know that the other was troubled about their home, their people. Now his eyes were guarded, and when she asked what his troubles were, he only patted her head and bade her rest while he left to sit here, by himself. She was glad Aragorn had found him. Aragorn was a good man.
"I am tired," she admitted, sounding as though the confession pained her. Pippin had once asked Boromir if Éohild had been raised a man, prideful as she was at times and and often unreserved in her instruction of battle. Boromir had replied only with laughter. "We all are."
"Gandalf was beloved to us all. It is not wrong to weep."
At the mention of their Wizard, Éohild swallowed. She gave a hoarse laugh after a moment, but he thought it sounded contrived. "You saw the outcome of my last bout of tears. It was unbecoming, to say the least."
Aragorn neither agreed nor disagreed. Both would have upset her, and none of their company required more than had already transpired. He moved to the side and patted the space between him and Boromir. Wearily, Éohild obeyed. "Do you understand the lament for Gandalf?" he asked, motioning to the surrounding trees.
Éohild had heard the haunting voices of the Elves since a little after they brought the terrible news, but she hardly knew their language. "No. I know they called him Olórin. They mentioned the sea… and that he was a Maia." She sighed. "He taught me only a little from his stories."
"Do you wish to know what they sing?"
She did, and Aragorn gave it to her. As he murmured the meaning, he looked lost in sorrow himself, and Éohild could no longer help it. "I do not understand…why," was all she could say. At a loss for words, she fell silent, and saw in the light of the trees that Aragorn had permitted himself a tear. Éohild was tempted to embrace someone, anyone – if Éowyn was there, her sister would give her that, but she and Aragorn were not warm enough with each other for this, not someone she could hold like Boromir without the threat of impropriety.
Instead, she clapped his shoulder. "But I think he knew."
Aragorn met her shoulder and smiled, albeit with some confusion. "Hmm?"
"I think he meant for you to lead us, Aragorn." His smile lessened. "I meant – I meant to lead the Fellowship. We look to you now. You understand."
Aragorn breathed deeply. Éohild was a proficient swordsman and had proven trustworthy in and out of battle, but at times her subtlety was wanting, especially with regard to this. He suspected it was Boromir's influence, though the man had insisted on her dismissal of it. Aragorn would have skillfully deflected the matter had she not herself seemed to realize it.
"The Elves are kind," she offered instead. "Lady Galadriel must have known of my… about the Rings. Yet she accepted me into her home, and…I never meant to unleash my- my pointless anger upon him."
Éohild felt uneasy. It was starting to sound like an excuse now.
"I am certain he knows it," said Aragorn, knowing immediately of whom she spoke. It pleased him to know this troubled her. She had always seemed rather aloof towards Legolas despite his openness towards all the Company, save Gimli, and her apparent friendship with Vinariel. He rested his hand on her shoulder for comfort. "He is patient."
"Perhaps," said Éohild, hopefully. Reaching over and patting Boromir's arm, she rose. "We should both rest," she suggested. "Preferably somewhere I cannot hear Gimli's peaceful slumber…"
Aragorn gave a hearty laugh at that, and Éohild giggled until his mirth faded into a smile. He had not seen her shoulders loosen since before they took the doomed path to Caradhras. Having now witnessed every member of their Fellowship put at ease, he felt his mood brighten, a burden he had not known lift. Suddenly Aragorn felt peaceful, if only for the night, knowing that repose was in reach as it had come to the others.
And then, footfalls from the foliage ahead of them. But he recognized them, despite his fatigue, and wore a pleasant smile.
The night had fully settled, lamps lighting his path through the trees to find the rest of their Company. Gimli had tried his best to stay afoot, but in the end surrendered to his weariness and asked to be led back to Camp. Legolas returned to the Elves of Lórien stayed with them till late into the evening, but made for the others once more. He had grown to care deeply for them in the season they had spent traveling together.
Though days and weeks were often short to him when measured against the perception of his companions, time seemed to have stretched since their departure from Rivendell. It had only been months, yet he had felt each day pass; it was as watching a trickle of dew fall from the tip of a leaf with the utmost concentration, and he had not done such a thing since he was a child. That time, too, was long past.
He thought it might be the Fellowship. Gandalf and Aragorn had been known to him, surely, but perhaps he had kept company with his kinsmen for so long that his curiosity of other races and his learning of them made it as though time stood still. The sincerity of the Hobbits brought him joy, though Frodo at times put him ill at ease. Not for the Ring but for his worry for the Halfling; Frodo was distinguished to Legolas in that he looked exhausted, at times, even when the others were sprightly. Gimli, though at first something of a source of distaste, had become a trusted ally and, he believed now, a friend. Boromir and Éohild were good Men.
Gimli had unceremoniously brought up his exchange with the latter after Moria and decided, on his own, that it must not have been true hatred of Elves that drove her to say such a thing. Legolas doubted, for she had always been indifferent toward him, but he understood it well enough. He had weakly refused to relate the lament to Gandalf to the Hobbits for fear that grief would overcome him.
Perhaps anger was Éohild's way. He remembered Pippin suggesting that she was very much like a man, to which Boromir responded with laughter. Legolas had found it amusing as well, for, save perhaps that she was the only woman of her kind he had ever heard of taking up a sword, Éohild was in all ways feminine. Nevertheless, he hoped to mend their friendship, for he had thought it there despite her coolness. Anger was certainly not his way; and though she had spoken ill of his kin first, he should have known better—knowing she was still young, and he had felt the same of Dwarves not long ago. His fault lay in responding in kind.
But for now he meant to speak with Aragorn. To his surprise, he sat some ways from the Company with a slumbering Boromir and Éohild between them. She appeared to be in deep thought while Aragorn looked to have expected him.
"My friend," he spoke in his native tongue, "We have had little opportunity to speak since … that day. And my words, as to—"
Aragorn shook his head. "They were words spoken in anger. I would be a fool to think you meant them."
Legolas smiled, gratefully inclining his head. He missed the way Éohild looked to Aragorn, who returned her gaze with a meaningful look. She recognized it easily – the kind of expression her Uncle Théoden wore whenever she had begun a fight with Éowyn. Éohild encouraged herself with a sigh and stood.
"Legolas," she ventured, taking a step forward. "May I have a word?"
A moment passed, and he replied, "Yes."
"Time to rest," Aragorn grunted, nudging Boromir awake. The larger Man sat upright as if in a panic, and reached for his sword hilt. "What?" he asked, eyes wide open, but Aragorn only lifted him by the arm, telling him they would sleep better in the shade the Elves had prepared for them. Boromir relaxed instantly at his soothing words, and once he received a nod from Éohild, his eyes returned to their groggy state. He allowed Aragorn to lead him away.
"Good night," Éohild called out, resisting the instinct to clutch at her throat when the words came out almost shaking.
"Good night," said Legolas in unison, covering the sound of her voice. When Aragorn disappeared into the lights and the trees, the Elf turned to her, eyes shifting to something over her head when hers met his. "…Shall we?"
She nodded. They walked for a time, searching, Éohild supposed, for a secluded area where they might speak, but to her it felt too short, not enough time to prepare for what she should say. As the two passed by the Hobbits tucking themselves in to sleep, Gimli gave a loud snore – they jumped, as did the Hobbits. All exchanged glances as if to laugh despite themselves, and then did, until Éohild and Legolas met eyes again.
"We'll be on our way," Éohild cleared her throat. "Good night, Merry. Pippin, Sam, Frodo."
"G'night," Sam answered for them all, though the others waved. Merry watched them go with a slight frown. "I think those two," he began, eyes squinting, and looked around. Pippin ignoring him for sleep was natural, but even Frodo stared absently away. Sighing, he threw the blanket over himself and rested.
"What is it?"
They sat a few trees away from the Hobbits, walking until they could no longer hear Gimli. The weight on Éohild's heart was more burdensome than ever, but the Elf's question was not one that demanded an apology. It was as real as the silver lamps that lit his eyes.
"It was unjust of me," she began. "It was unjust of me to demand of you what both our races could not give, in our best efforts. The blame for its continued existence rests on us all. Forgive me."
"No."
Éohild blinked. That was more painful than she expected, but she found she could not blame him for it.
"The Balrog struck me with fear," uttered Legolas, seeing that she had misconstrued his answer for rejection. He lingered on each word as though it would delay his eventual confession. "It escaped me that a Man – and a Hobbit – would so love Gandalf that you could move to save him."
"I feared it too," said Éohild, bowing her head. "And I am sorry I raised my voice at you and spoke such harsh words. I had no right."
"Understand," said Legolas, "that I am not of Celebrimbor's kind. Yet I have long felt that—in the wisdom of the Firstborn, the Elves could have checked Sauron's power. We failed to stop him. All of us. It is why I fight. And you needn't apologize."
"Oh." Éohild nodded. It was an honorable thought, but absurd. She understood now. "It shouldn't rest on you to right the wrongs of your people. But whatever your reason, Legolas, I am – I am glad you're part of the Company."
Legolas stood. He wished to speak, but words failed him, and not for lack of eloquence, he thought; he only knew he was at a loss for some indiscernable reason. But the Elf forgot it when she rose after him, and he held his fist over his chest to bow with a smile. It was the first time they had ever spoken outside necessary conversations and compliments.
Éohild felt heartened. She had always wished to be friends; only her stupidity and silly dreams had prevented her from taking such an approach with him. Then Legolas looked up, his head tilted as though listening. The Elves continued to mourn for Gandalf. Tearing her eyes from him, she listened, too. Some of the words she understood better now, from what Aragorn had mentioned.
"You understand," Legolas broke the silence with a wistful smile.
Éohild shut her mouth. She didn't realize she had mouthed the phrases she learned from Aragorn, the ones that meant the most to her. Legolas was watching her now, a curious expression over his serene visage, but it appeared natural now to her. That she had ever thought her new friend distant or unreachable had truly come about from her own nonsense.
"Only a few things Gandalf mentioned once or twice," she answered. "Aragorn, too, before you arrived."
"He is strong. I could not tell the Hobbits earlier this eve. But Sam spoke his own song for Gandalf… "
Éohild smiled softly at that. "I heard it. Samwise Gamgee: a creature both brave and poetic."
"It is no little wonder he…loved Hobbits from the very beginning."
"…The beginning?"
Legolas turned at her in surprise. "Did he not tell you of Frodo's uncle, Bilbo Baggins? He was in Imladris when the Council convened."
"I did meet him, and Frodo made mention of an old adventure of Bilbo – where he received the Mithril, was it not? What is the full story?" she asked, curious, though it was unclear from the way she yawned.
Legolas took note of it and smiled. "I will tell you another day. But you needn't know the tale to understand why Gandalf trusted them."
Éohild languidly returned his smile. "I trust them, too."
The loss was no less taxing, but it eased them both to share the burden. A moment or two passed when Legolas tilted his head and caught Éohild by the shoulder as she fell a step forward in fatigue. "Shall we retire, Éohild?"
She agreed, though she did not remember the trek back to camp, or the way he guided her to her bedroll by the elbow. "Good night, Éohild," was all she remembered.
"Good night, Legolas," she mumbled, patting his hand on the edge of her blanket, and worried no longer as she yielded to the siren call of slumber.
Dawn had not yet broken when she opened her eyes. The Hobbits were still asleep, as were Aragorn and Boromir. She had no intention of searching for Legolas, whose bedroll was empty. Éohild wanted time to think for herself and, for Gandalf had said looking behind was at times necessary but generally nasty business, perhaps look ahead to the path that now lay before them.
Mist pervaded the air surrounding the river Anduin, through which they would seek the Falls of Rauros, rest before the cliff, and journey onward. It was not the eerie fog that had cast itself as over the Greyflood but a morning dew that blessed its dwellers with a crisp awakening. Great swans sat still across the water, and for a moment Éohild thought they might beckon until she saw that they were in fact boats of the Elves. Reeds, too, huddled together by the bank and tickled her shins.
She stood among them, though they were different from reeds at home. Could this have been the message of her vague nightmare? That she would come here in sorrow, tending…? Tending what? But the details were highly inconsistent; and there was no simbelmynë. Éohild heaved a sigh and shook her head. That dream had become like a memory, and it frightened her that she could almost remember every moment of eternity she had spent before the Snowbourn. She was hard-pressed at times to remind herself that it was a thought that should have departed when she awoke in Théodred's arms.
"Ah," said a calm, deep voice behind her. In the haze of the morning, Éohild could hear him all around her. "Anxious to leave Lórien?"
"Yes," she answered, eyes on the swan ships. "The quest lies ahead of us, though I wish I could stay. Visit home, even."
He made a sound of comprehension. "Rohan. Home of the Horse-lords."
Éohild smiled instinctively, shoulders straightening with pride at their title. "Yes, we are known for our mighty steeds. But more than that, I long to see Edoras. It is nothing to Caras Galadhon, perhaps not even to the early architecture of Minas Tirith, of which Boromir speaks so highly. But to stand upon the steps of golden Meduseld and behold the city, its verdant pastures and shimmering Snowbourn that stretches beyond the eye can see" – the momentum in her voice rose as she continued, as though it would ease the ache – "the land home to my people."
The Rider sighed. "Be they serving men or hunters, Riders or herders, they are resilient. We have always – simply gone on. I must go on to see that Thing destroyed, or leave them to a fate chosen by the creatures of the East."
Her companion did not reply, and Éohild fell to her thoughts once more until he spoke. "I have never heard a Man speak of her home with such ardor, as we do."
Quickly reflecting on his words, Éohild realized she was not alone. She felt as though she had only been indulging in her own meandering thoughts. "Haldir," she recognized. "I had no idea it was you. I had no intention of complaining. Please, forget I said – well – anything."
"It is no matter," said Haldir, stepping forward with a small smile. It was a trivial gesture that shocked her all the same. She had only seen him smile once, when speaking of his land and its Lady. "What moved you so that you left your home?"
"Rumors came of the weapon of the Enemy," answered Éohild, trying to ignore how inept she now felt for her thoughtless confession; and silly, for making herself emotional by thinking too much on the Mark. "I was asked to seek validity. How could I not? I would never return, if it meant keeping it safe."
Haldir nodded in what appeared to be approval. "I had not heard of the women of your kind taking up arms," he admitted, "but you are an honorable Man nonetheless. I, too, feel this way when I must depart from Lórien to seek news of Middle-earth."
"You would not be faulted for it. It is magnificent," said Éohild, motioning to the water before them. "And the river reminds me of home."
"How so?" asked the Elf. So deep were they in their exchange that they did not notice the footfalls behind them pause, then turn and leave.
"Before we departed for Rivendell, I dreamt of the river outside my city. Snowbourn. White swans lay across it, and simbelmynë drifted in the water." There were also the reeds, but she did not mention them. "There is no simbelmynë here, but I saw the boats and remembered it."
"Hmm. Swans are known to—" Haldir paused when they now heard the approach of another. It was not his footsteps which gave him away but the rustling of leaves as he brushed past the foliage to reach them.
"Legolas," greeted Haldir, and uttered something Elvish.
The Elf of their Company returned it before glancing at Éohild. "Good morning. Did you not sleep well?"
Éohild had the presence of mind not to allow the heat to rise in her face in embarrassment. So he had noticed that she was the last of the "Big People," as the Hobbits called them, to wake most often. It was the effect of staying up with Gandalf all this time. But before she could answer, Haldir spoke again in Elvish. They had a rude habit of speaking in languages others could not understand; but this was their native language, she supposed. She knew more of the Common Tongue than Rohirric and spoke the former when she could.
"You dreamt of swans?" asked Legolas, turning to her.
It was still new, how he addressed her now so easily that they had spoken and agreed to be friends last night, but if it came naturally to him then Éohild would act the same. "I did," she replied. "Why? Does it mean anything?"
"Swans bring good tidings," offered Haldir.
"If not," added Legolas, "I have heard that they are good-natured creatures who serve the Valar."
Gandalf had told her a little of the Valar and those from whom he had learned many things, most of all patience. But why would she dream of their swans, of all things?
"The Lady Galadriel might understand your dreams," said Legolas, placing a hand on her shoulder when he noticed she had drifted.
It woke her with a jolt. Legolas removed his arm in similar surprise, and Éohild attempted to ease the situation with a laugh and an apology. "I was away," she said, shaking her head. "Thinking on that dream. I could never trouble the Lady."
"I do not think the Lady would refuse…" Haldir started, then paused when two more Elves appeared from their left and right. They looked alike, together with Haldir, and inquisitively glanced at her and Legolas, whom they greeted in Elvish. Terrible habit, thought Éohild. They spoke with Haldir in hushed tones until the Elf glanced his new friends and smiled apologetically. "I must see to the details of your departure, it seems." Inclining his head, he disappeared into the wood with those two.
Taking note of Éohild's slightly irritated expression, Legolas explained, "Brothers of Haldir, Rumil and Orophin. They cannot speak the Common Tongue, but they did bid you good morning."
"Ah."
"Yes." Legolas nodded, looking around the river. For some reason, he appeared unable to stand still, walking around her and picking at tall reeds. "I am glad to see you faring better with Elves."
Éohild's eyebrows furrowed. "I did not mean to speak against Elves, Legolas. It was only a fool's anger that drove—"
"I need no more assurance," Legolas chuckled, a mischief on his face she had never seen before, even with Aragorn. His eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled, and instead of a toothy one his lips were pursed in what may have been a smirk, though it was too kindly to be one.
"This is how you treat new friends. I see," scoffed Éohild, though she could not subdue the widening smile and was forced to turn away if only to hide how easily – perhaps even uncharacteristically, if he noticed the sudden change – his words now amused her. Legolas, on the other hand, showed no restraint in his mirth, and a surprisingly companionable silence passed them.
Pale sunlight had already touched the beak of Galadriel's swan ship when they decided to return to camp, though clouds overhead were creeping in. The rest of the Company had awoken, packing what they could carry. Most of it went to Sam, of course, though Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli had their own small pouches.
"There you are, lad!"
The two turned their heads at the gruff voice. "Good morning, Gimli," said Legolas, quirking an eyebrow. "Earliest to sleep and last to wake?"
"Lad, try keeping your eyes closed when the Hobbits are bustling around you," grumbled the Dwarf, still shrugging on his tunic. "Haldir has given them your Way-bread; they are making a fuss over it."
"Lembas," Legolas explained to Éohild. "It keeps one sated through long journeys."
"Ah, lass!" Gimli blinked at Éohild and glanced between her and the Elf, taken aback that they had spent time together despite Moria. "I see the Elf has grown on you."
"And you," said Éohild, tone similarly shocked.
"He isn't so bad," shrugged the Dwarf, standing next to her and peering at their Elf. Éohild smiled sheepishly, sneaking a peek at Legolas' indignant expression and trying not to laugh. When had they become friends enough to tease like this? It made her a little jealous – of them both, for Gimli had been one with whom she could exchange banter in this way, and she never thought she could laugh at fun poked at Legolas without grinning a little too widely as she was at the moment – but she brushed it away. It amazed her to see them smiling together at all.
"Is it customary for mortals to share tales before the subject of their gossip?" Legolas wondered aloud, brows furrowed.
Éohild bowed her head, ashamed of her own beaming, though she still fought to keep it down. "My apologies."
"Don't apologize," said Gimli. "You can be assured that the lad talks about us just as well. In Elvish!"
She knew he expected her to agree, but Éohild wished to see how well they knew one another and replied with a diplomatic, "Perhaps."
Legolas gave her a grateful expression while Gimli looked absolutely horrified by this sudden turnaround. "Traitor!" he accused, shaking his head in disappointment. "One frolic in the wood with an Elvish lad and you fancy them all, do you, lass?"
"N-No!" she gasped, crossing her arms.
"Who is it?" asked Gimli, searching the Elves roaming the camp for an answer. "Ah! It's that Haldir, isn't it? Aragorn mentioned you he saw you two by the river. Laddie," he said to Legolas, "it appears you've protected our only female from a possibly passionate encounter."
Their Elf's lips twitched before forming a solid smile. "Ah, you wish to plight your troth with Haldir? That is…"
"When did he—" Éohild shook her head fiercely. "No! I am interested in no one. Gimli, truly, do you think being a woman gives me a certain susceptibility in matters of the heart?"
The Dwarf stared at her with a fuzzy brow quirked before bursting into laughter. "Oh, lass! You play along better than the lads at home!"
"Play along?" Éohild looked confused, and Legolas with her, though the Elf recovered a mite faster. Shrugging, he said, "Gimli, would you like to look around before we depart for good? We may not see Lórien for a long time, at least for you mortals – and Lord Celeborn has given me leave to show you visions from their most sightly flets. Éohild," he smiled at her, "You are most welcome to join us."
"Oh, yes!" Gimli agreed, not caring much for the changed subject. "Let's go."
"I would love to," said Éohild, who now understood how Sam felt when he was being teased about marriage back in Rivendell. She always still wondered who it was they teased him about, but he seemed to blush about it so and stammer that she had never asked. She could always ask Pippin, she supposed, who would likely be more than willing to sell out the poor Hobbit, but she hoped Sam would tell her in his own time.
They were leaving camp when she caught sight of Boromir staring at his sword in his hands and sheathing it. Éohild would have left regardless had she not seen his shoulders rise, then quickly fall as he shook his head. "I'll—" she pat Gimli's shoulder before her. "I have something to discuss with Boromir. Go on without me."
"All right, lass," said Gimli, and hurried a curious Legolas onward.
Éohild approached her friend, rounding from behind him and making him jump as Haldir had her near the river. "Sneak," he accused.
She shrugged. "I've learned in battle. Or perhaps – you were in deep thought?"
Boromir frowned, then smiled, as though he couldn't decide which expression to give. "Deep thought?" he laughed in a manner she had never heard before, and she knew at once it was contrived. "Éohild, perhaps it is you who thinks too much."
"No, Boromir," she took his forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. Éowyn always did this to let her know she could tell her how she felt – not that it always worked, especially when Éohild felt that Éowyn had enough on her own mind, but she wished Boromir would just tell her. "You've been quiet."
"Only because," said Boromir, smirking, "I believe you speak well enough for us both, my friend!" He removed her hand from his arm and pat her shoulders, instead. Even gave her hair a bit of a ruffle. "It is nothing, Éohild. We are all the worse for wear for Gandalf's fate. You needn't worry."
Éohild searched Boromir's eyes, seeking the lie. She knew there was something with the way he nodded too insistently, but she had no way of knowing what it was. Perhaps he was right. They were all weary from Moria, and she had focused on him for he was her closest friend. "All right. But only if you are certain."
Boromir nodded, sighing now at her persistence, and bade her pack. She was the only one who hadn't, now, she realized, though there was nothing much besides her one change of clothing, honing steel, and other necessities Éowyn had packed so many months ago. The worst part was the bedroll, but to her pleasant surprise, that had already been fixed. "Thank you," she called out to whoever had done it, taking it up in her arms.
"Who are you talking to?" asked Pippin, strolling past with a yawn.
"Whoever fixed my bedroll, of course," she answered, showing the neatly packed mat to him. Her eyes narrowed. "Was it you, kind sir?"
"No, milady," said Pippin, as though he found the very idea absurd – he disliked rolling up even his own – but with a chuckle that surprised them as much as her own playful tone. "We're about to leave. By the river, you know!"
"Already?" she nearly whined. Glancing around, she realized she really was the only one still at camp. "I missed Legolas and Gimli walking by. I thought they had gone up to the other flets."
"Them?" Pippin scratched his nose in an attempt to remember. "No, er…yes, I saw them. They turned back for the boats. Say," he said conversationally, leaning against a tree, "have you tried the lembas?"
"The way-bread? No," said Éohild, suspiciously recalling Gimli's words. "Why do you ask?"
"Nothing," said Pippin, looking slightly disappointed, and if they had not been traveling companions for more than a month, Éohild would have believed his innocent smile.
The Hobbit went ahead while she finished, admittedly stalling. She had spent even less time here than she had in Rivendell, but places of beauty like this could never be removed or replaced in one's memory. Éohild would always remember the song, the sorrow, the soothing, the despair and hope that had touched her in so few hours, and that spot in the reeds where she saw not simbelmynë and heard not swans but the love in Haldir's eyes, for his home, and the friendship Legolas carried in his tone, now, for her.
Their Company was lined up at the dock when she arrived. Hovering near them, Haldir hurried Éohild over and fastened a cloak over shoulders with a silver-veined leaf brooch. Then he motioned to the end of the row, beside Aragorn. The Lady was giving – gifts? As she passed them, Éohild saw Sam reveling in new rope and some soil, Legolas tracing his fingers over a new bow, and Boromir trying on a belt of gold, among others.
Galadriel spoke with Aragorn now in Elvish, and Éohild smiled at her in embarrassment for her tardiness before bowing her head. She felt even a little afraid. She had not spoken with the Lady face-to-face and feared admonishment, but she knew it only foolish guilt in her heart when Galadriel finally looked upon her with a kind gaze.
"The worth of a maiden is measured not by the wreath woven on her crown, but by the lengths she goes for her people. Ease the burden on your heart, Éohild of the Mark. You have done well for your kingdom."
Saying this, the Lady placed a satchel in her hands. Without opening it, Éohild dared meet her eyes once more and smiled. "Thank you, milady."
Giving a nod, Galadriel went to speak with Frodo. Once her back was turned, Éohild loosened the satchel and removed something soft wrapped in leaves. "Lembas," murmured Aragorn, nodding at the packed food. And a whole lot of them, Éohild saw with wonder. "A queenly gift."
When the Fellowship dispersed, preparing then to set off, a foreign hand found its way on Éohild's shoulder. It was Haldir. "May we speak again," he said with a warm smile. "And may your journey beget an outcome that sees to the prosperity of our homes."
"Of all Middle-earth," agreed Éohild, imitating the gesture on his shoulder. She was honored. "Till our next meeting."
With a smile, he withdrew his hand and bowed. Éohild watched him retreat into the forest with his brothers with a small wave, and turned to their boat. Jest or not, Gimli was wrong. She was certainly not susceptible to giving her heart to every kind Elf who passed her way.
"Do you have everything prepared, Éohild?" asked Legolas, walking by with his bedroll to the shore. "We're to share a boat with Gimli."
"All prepared, yes," she chuckled, patting the satchel in her arms.
Depositing her pack and gift at the boat with their Elf, Éohild looked to the forest one last time. They had left nothing behind; save Gimli, perhaps, who would leave his heart. It was almost amusing to see him so heartbroken over leaving a place he would have condemned days before, but she understood him. Moria had shattered the Fellowship, and it was Lórien which put them back together, mended their hearts, if only slightly. It had been respite all the same.
Now the path before them was clear. Anduin, through Rauros, then Emyn Muil, where Orcs had slain her father Éomund. This was on the west side of the bank much further south; still, she would always hate those hills. For their quest they would turn east, on for the Dead Marshes, and past that…nothing but darkness and gloom, despair, battle, surely, death…
She found herself by reeds again, when she came to her senses. Not far from her, she spotted Sam and Frodo speaking in hushed tones. They looked unhappy, but nodded in acknowledgement as soon as they noticed her. Éohild approached them with as genuine a smile as she could muster and gave their shoulders a squeeze. She meant to say something wise…what would Gandalf had said, to lift their spirits? He had always known what to say, like Théodred, even when he was grumpy. But all she blurted out was, "I'm going to miss this place."
Frodo looked taken aback, almost offended, even, but Sam spoke first. "So will I, Éohild. Do you think we'll ever see it again? The lamps at night…their flets and their songs…"
"Yes," she answered thoughtlessly, trailing off as she looked into the river.
"Éohild, are you all right?" asked Frodo, worry fixed into his expression. The apprehension from moments before had gone when he saw her eyes misting.
"Yes, forgive me," she smiled, blinking several times. "But I know we shall see Lórien again. Together. Isn't that something to look forward to?"
"It is," said Sam, suddenly cheerful himself. Frodo said nothing, but gave them an encouraging smile. Éohild's heart felt full. How could she have said otherwise to anybody she loved? And she did love them—the Fellowship. She knew at once, watching these two, that it could not possibly end in death. Gandalf had said so himself—there would be hope. Return to us with good tidings, were Théodred's orders. And she would.
They left not long after. Aragorn rowed for Sam and Frodo, Boromir for Pippin and Merry, and Legolas for their boat. Éohild thought she saw Rumil in his shadow grey uniform watching them from the trees by the bank, once again pervaded by cold mist, but he disappeared as soon as she raised a hand. Their final departure from the Lady and Lord of Lothlórien was as watching the last rays of the sun wane behind the mountains. If only she had known how dark it would be.
They spoke joyfully of their gifts come midday. Mirth abounded when Pippin was refused as he asked Éohild for her satchel of lembas, and Gimli recounted Galadriel's generosity, among other things, but the hopeful mood dissipated swiftly after sundown. Though the song of the Elves remained with them, protecting them from falling back to utter despair, without Gandalf, the coming journey loomed over them like a stormcloud.
They were silent as they ate dinner, banking in the night. Aragorn insisted that they wake early and stay the course until the next late evening, though he himself rowed languidly. No one found reason to protest—their quest was urgent, but it would have been madness to race to a destination of their kind.
Their second day on the river passed without event, and on the third the forest flanking the river thinned out and withered. Even Aragorn couldn't say what had happened there. It was a dreary sight and it smelled like ash. Éohild sat with her knees up to her chin when Legolas took the oar for his turn to row. The waste surrounding them reflected on the water, no longer tranquil but eerie to her.
Suddenly a million thoughts filled her mind, like voices crying out, or screeching it was more like. Then a shadow came over the river, blanketing it with silence, and Éohild watched a swan withdraw its nightlike plumage as it descended onto the water. The rest of the Company kept to themselves, but she reached out for the long-necked fowl, glorious even with its dark feathers. It moved close to her, leaning to meet her hand, when she met its beady red gaze.
Terror struck her heart. "Why?" she asked, unable to breathe for the dread. It made her want to writhe, baseless though it was, but she clenched her fists and kept her hunched posture. "What did I do…?"
The black swan stared at her, unblinking, and she wondered aloud if it could not feel pity. It reared its head and replied with a peck at her stomach.
Éohild screamed and opened her eyes, reaching for her back, but the weight had lifted. The black swan was gone. A dirty glove covered her mouth and hissed, "Shh! What do you think you're doing, lass!?"
Batting Gimli away, she took deep breaths. The rest of the Fellowship had turned back, eyeing her with worry and some discomfort, especially Boromir. Her face burned with humiliation.
"Apologies," she murmured, for breaking the silence in which they'd taken cautious solace. Aragorn had been telling the others about the path that could lead to the Riddermark to the southwest when she'd woken. At any other time she would have loved to fill in details of his praise for the rich grasslands of her home, but her dream was too fresh in her mind. Éohild spent the rest of the day wondering what it might mean.
"All your life you have hidden in the shadows! Scared of who you are – of what you are!"
"…I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city."
Éohild kept still when Aragorn stalked past her prone figure. It was their eighth night, and the unease days ago had seeped into her slumber and manifested in the general mood of the Company. Save for Legolas, amicable as always, and Gimli, who insisted he could not possibly be tired at all, they were irritable, listless, or simply quiet. She was frightened. Sleep was fitful and every creak and droplet had her hair standing on end.
The Ring shone stark against Frodo's robes now more than ever—it came to her on more than one occasion that perhaps it could tell her the meaning of her dreams, allay her fears and give her the strength to vanquish them, if there was reason for it—but always she turned away. Only by thinking again of Lady Galadriel's benevolent swan-ship and the veil of sunlight that had given them such hope could she divert her thoughts.
Tonight she was roused by their argument—Aragorn and Boromir's, with regard to their options. To continue on their path to Mordor or to stop and gather strength at Minas Tirith? Aragorn refused to even consider the latter, which greatly upset Boromir. He'd been very quiet of late; overwrought, even more than she. She'd offered him food the other day and he whirled at her as though she'd lost their horses again. He apologized and said he thought he'd heard something was all it was, but with all this talk about his home…his timorous voice betrayed him.
When Aragorn was gone, Éohild climbed out of her blankets on the lumps of rock and stood next to Boromir by the riverbank. Past cliffs and stony hills under paling skies they had approached Sarn Gebir, rapids which disturbed Anduin's peace, and tomorrow they would follow a portage-way on the road before setting back for the river where it calmed once more. Her friend fixed the bubbling white water with an angry gaze.
"Boromir," she called, following his eyes, "Aragorn does what he thinks is best for the Company. You know this."
"Then it is 'best' to leave my people to the will of Mordor?"
"You know I mean no such thing. I know what taking it back to your city would mean for your people…"
"Then speak, Éohild!" demanded Boromir, raising his voice within the whisper. "This is no longer the Council. Think for yourself, just this once!"
"I…I do!" frowned Éohild. "The chance to return to home did not present itself to you alone! On the west bank before night fell there was a beaten path where Orcs must traverse to capture the steeds of my people—it was the third day. I remember, and you know well that I never count the days! It has plagued my mind since Gandalf's departure. The Weapon would end the suffering of my kingdom! Yet…Frodo is the Ring-bearer, and he has chosen to follow Aragorn. Rest would be a boon, but…
"But there is no choice," she murmured. Even as she spoke she wished to change her mind, but she summoned the memory of Lord Elrond at the Council. The urgency in his voice, and the agreement of Gandalf, and they knew better…even as neither of those wise men experienced the terrors now of dealing with Orc raids? All her fallen comrades? Yes, she insisted to herself. Their Wizard, their friend, had died to protect their cause! "The Ring must be destroyed."
"Choice?" Boromir gave a dry laugh. "What do you know of it, Éohild? You did not broach the matter for you know not the burden of a kingdom that rests on your shoulders!"
"Do you think me a child?" gasped Éohild. "Ever is my mind fixed on the Riddermark—on my ailing uncle, our suffering kinsmen!"
"Yes, your mind, yet you do nothing! Théodred and Éomer would know to act, but you – looking always to be led – know nothing of true responsibility."
Éohild looked like he'd run her through with her own blade. Doubtless she was a mere cavalryman compared to her Marshals. It never escaped her that this was all Théodred's idea, taken up by the Wormtongue to send her away, but she had come to think of herself as vital to their Fellowship as any of them. Boromir's words were an unanticipated blow, and the pain was bare on her face.
"…You're right," she said, voice dying in her throat. "My brother and cousin would have known what to do. Was it your misfortune, or mine, that Gríma chose to send me with you?"
Boromir's face was unreadable in the night. He was silent, shoulders tight, as he turned away from her.
Of their Company she might have expected Gimli to bear such an opinion, brash and candid as he was. And she would have challenged him – or anyone, if they had spoken in the same manner – any of them but Boromir. He had said it himself, in better days: he knew her best. Her strengths, faults, and most which ailed her. How he had divined this self-doubt she had not shared even with Éowyn she could only attribute to his knowledge of her. And that was why it seemed so…true. For all she had withstood against the Ears remarks and being a woman, she could not find the strength to contest his words. And so, utterly defeated, Éohild withdrew to camp.
