Chapter 24 - Gathering Pieces

Elanor stared across the deafeningly silent meadow. The tents of the Rohirrim still swayed gently in the breeze, but the air was eery and forlorn. She had not felt this alone since the early days of arrival in Middle Earth, and she half-wished she'd changed her mind and gone with the company of Rangers.

Now, her shoulders felt heavy, and her heart like a stone within her chest. There was a multitude of internal troubles careering around her stomach, and she longed desperately to return to her bed.

As it was, she took a deep breath and turned her eyes towards where Lady Éowyn still stood.

The other woman was watching her, standing as if balanced on her toes. Her countenance was masked by grief and suspicion, and she made no move forward. Sighing, Elanor took several steps to lessen the gap between them.

"Lady Éowyn," she said, halting and favouring the other woman with a nod when she was about two metres away.

"Lady Elanor, I believe," came the response, and when Elanor glanced up the Rohirric woman had also performed a brief half-bow.

There was silence for a moment, as the pair sized each other up.

Like herself, Éowyn was clad in masculine-style clothes, wearing a tunic, breeches and boots. She had exceedingly long pale gold hair, which hung in soft waves to her hips. She was probably an inch taller than Elanor-5'10", or perhaps a little more-and very beautiful, though in a different way to the Elves. Her skin was fair and smooth and her eyes distractingly lovely, but she was not perfect by any means. Her eyes and nose were still pink from crying at Aragorn's departure, and her cheeks marked with dried tears. However, something about the slightly lopsided mouth was comforting and familiar; this was the first human woman she had seen in Middle Earth, and it was a stinging reminder of home.

Elanor swallowed with difficulty. Éowyn was still watching her, but at that moment she gave a small smile.

"Forgive me for my rudeness, Lady Elanor," she said, her Rohirric accent lilting pleasantly as she formed the words of the Common Tongue. "I was approached by two Elves last evening, who spoke of you to me, claiming kinship as your brothers. I had expected to discover an Elf-maiden," her eyes proclaiming a cool challenge, "and I will confess at being rather relieved to find you as much a human as myself."

Elanor smiled stiffly, wondering whether to be pleased or offended. The muted amusement which showed through on Éowyn's face decided her, and she gave a forced laugh.

"You are right," she said. "I am no real sister to Elladan and Elrohir; their father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, was kind enough to take me in when I appeared upon his doorstep. I have been trespassing on their hospitality ever since."

Éowyn nodded slowly.

"I know what it is to be a fosterling, Lady Elanor. I am pleased you shall dwell with us for a time, for I confess I have little knowledge of the Elves," she said. "Your foster-brothers are proud and lordly, and I am honoured to be acquainted with one who claims kinship with them." She laughed bitterly. "Though they seemed not a little reluctant to depart from you."

Elanor chuckled wearily in her turn then, somewhat bewildered by the aggrieved lines written about the other woman's eyes. Éowyn gestured towards a larger tent at the centre of the camp.

"You must be in need of refreshment, Lady Elanor; come, and break your fast." The words were delivered with taciturn civility.

Elanor nodded, relieved at the thought of food despite the impassive delivery of the suggestion. She longed to return to her bed, but found it hard to brush aside her gnawing hunger. Silence fell as they trod across the luxuriant, clover-studded grass of the meadow.

Whilst Elanor had come from a modern world where formal civilities were considered archaic, she had also quickly realised the importance of Middle Earth's customs. Nothing stood out so much as someone blundering about with an arrogant disregard for propriety, and she had drilled both Elrond and Glorfindel on how a woman in her position ought to behave. Yet, something about Éowyn's manner prevented Elanor from brandishing the lofty title of Lady or Rivendell that she had become accustomed to exploiting. For weeks, she had behaved more like a noblewoman out of a storybook than anything—which, she reminded, was precisely what she was aiming at. The Dúnedain had treated her like an Elvish princess, making her feel less and less human with each passing day. Her foster-family was Elvish, she spoke Elvish, she breathed Elvish.

And Éowyn was a sharp reminder that she was completely unremarkable, a woman from a modern world with no claim to rank or nobility. Amongst the Elves, she had been an unusual and honoured human woman. Here, she was just a human.

Éowyn paused to hold open the tent flap for Elanor, and she stepped carefully inside.

The tent was more like a large pavilion, though the sides had been lowered to ward off the cool spring breeze. Within was a fair-sized table resting upon the grass, and surrounded by a collection of aged and mismatched chairs. At one end of the tent were two armour-clad men, soldiers in the green and gold of Rohan. They stood to attention as Lady Éowyn made her entrance, and one moved towards a smaller table which held various cloth-covered dishes. As Éowyn gestured for Elanor to take her seat, the second soldier appeared at her left hand. He placed a plate and cutlery before her, and moved to do the same for Éowyn.

As Elanor glanced across the table, she realised that Éowyn was watching her with piercing curiosity. She seemed to have gathered herself from her recent distress, though her expressions were veiled and her eyes chilly. Like all the Rohirrim Elanor had seen, her brow was smooth and proud, and her grey eyes shrewd. Beneath the weariness and disillusionment, however, Elanor thought she glimpsed a mischievous girl, with good humour and quick wit.

No wonder she's so cold though—Théoden must've been a nightmare to look after while he was half-crazed, her brother's away most of the time, and she has just said goodbye to the man she thinks she's in love with. If I were her, I'd probably be crying in a heap on the ground. I wish I could cheer her up… but what to tell her? "You fight the Witch-king of Angmar and nearly die?" Or how about, "Your Uncle dies in battle?" I wish I could hint about Faramir, but that could wreck something. And then who will she marry? Gee, having foreknowledge sure isn't easy!

"I hope I do not speak out of turn, Lady Elanor, but I would ask a question of you," Éowyn began, and Elanor waved her hand dismissively.

"Not at all," Elanor replied, nodding in thanks as one of the men waiting on them placed several dishes on the table. For some inexplicable reason, she liked Éowyn, despite her rather cool manner and the painful memories of home she inspired. It had been too long since she had conversed with a woman near her own age. Pushing aside thoughts of the future, she leaned forward a little. "What do you wish to ask?"

"Had you not proclaimed your home in the North, I should have supposed you one of the Eorlingas," Éowyn said, using the word the Rohirrim applied in reference to themselves. She frowned thoughtfully, though it did not mar her beauty. "Though by your accent I know it cannot be."

Elanor smiled down at her plate. "You are not the first to make such an assumption. The Elves presumed as much, as did a man of Gondor whom I met upon the road. It is my hair, I suppose." Her fingers sought out the end of her golden braid, which hung long past her shoulder. She smirked slightly, thinking of Legolas' peculiar theory about how fast it had grown.

"Not just your hair," Éowyn returned, tearing off a piece of bread. "Your eyes also, and your bearing. You should not appear out of place amongst the noblewomen in Meduseld. Where then, are you from, if not the Riddermark?"

"An island far to the south. Though I believe our people were some distant kin of Eorl the Young in years forgotten," Elanor added. She'd made that lie up to appease Eärendur when he had questioned her concerning her heritage. He hadn't found it easy to grasp that nations in Elanor's world did not all share a set of physical attributes, as did the lands of Gondor and Rohan.

"I see."

Elanor watched her for a moment, noting the purposeful grace that Tolkien's heroine displayed even as she buttered bread and took slices of ham.

I suppose there is something in what she says; until now I've ignored the comments, but if I ever had to blend in… well, Rohan would be the place.

"You honour me with such a comparison," she said, after some consideration. It had ceased to surprise her how easily the phrases of the land slipped off her tongue these days.

Elanor was rewarded for her compliment by a smile—it was stiff, but the first warmth Éowyn had shown.

"Courteous indeed are the children of the Elves."

Elanor swallowed a mouthful of bread. "I speak as I find, Lady Éowyn."

That sounded like a line straight out of Jane Austen!

What, you expect me to fabricate my civilities when I could steal from one of the world's greatest authors? No thanks! Much easier to

Éowyn seemed to brighten a little at that, and for a few minutes the two women ate in silence unmarred by tension. After Elanor had devoured a generous hunk of bread with butter and ham, she brushed the crumbs off her hands. Once Éowyn had also finished, she turned to the two soldiers who were still standing to attention.

"You may go."

Both men bowed low and departed with the sound of clinking armour. As they disappeared through the tent flap, Éowyn sighed and visibly relaxed.

"I shall not deceive you, Lady Elanor," she said, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples with her long fingers. "I have little love for formality, and my uncle, King Théoden, has bestowed upon me the cares of my people. Hope is scarce in such times as these, and one must keep up appearances." She smiled wearily at this and fixed Elanor with sharp eyes. "I believe you to be a straightforward person, Lady Elanor, or I should not have spoken to you of such things. As it is, I have many troubles, and the prospect of a companion near my own age is a great comfort to me."

Elanor was besieged by a rush of affection for the noble woman, swamping her already tangled feelings.

"I feel much the same, Lady Éowyn," she admitted, relieved to see the icy wall the other woman had erected begin to melt. "Much has occurred in the last few months, and it is all rather overwhelming. I am glad to be here, and not approaching the war."

"You do not wish to ride to battle?" Éowyn inquired, retreating behind a shield of suspicion.

"I am ill-equipped for such a venture," Elanor back-pedalled swiftly, "though I do wish I could do more than remain on the sidelines."

"I would ride to battle if it were permitted me," said Éowyn, a touch fiercely. Elanor could have kicked herself for her defeatist statement; she certainly wouldn't win favour with the shield maiden of Rohan by expressing her desire to retreat to safety.

"You are brave and skilled, Lady Éowyn. Tales have reached my homeland of your courage and valour—" Éowyn eyes widened "—I have only held a weapon for a short amount of time, though I was taught amongst the Elves. Elladan and Elrohir—my foster-brothers—are fierce and skilful warriors, and I also learned from an Elf of Mirkwood. They were fond of joking about how long I should last in battle—and trust me, the estimates were not flattering!" Elanor glanced down again, for though she smiled at the recollection, she found her eyes filling with tears. The strain of the previous weeks was beginning to catch up on her, and all she really wanted to do was think—and sleep.

Thus, she was exceedingly startled when the woman across from her laughed heartily.

Elanor's eyes flashed upwards, for Éowyn's laughter was as clear and sweet as an Elf's. All the traces of iciness in her gaze disappeared like an Australian frost. After a moment she ceased chuckling, and looked at Elanor with surprising warmth.

"Lady Elanor," she said, solemnly, "I will confess that I expected you to be—well… it is no secret that we in Rohan harbour great suspicion of the Elves, for we scarcely venture beyond our borders. Few have passed beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood, where it is rumoured lives a mighty Elf-witch. I beg your forgiveness if I treated you with rudeness and suspicion earlier; war is a sorrowful time, and I was overcome by my own grief. May we begin again?"

Elanor nodded emphatically. "Of course. I am from a land far away, where... well, it is a small world. We have means to travel swiftly, and are well acquainted with those hundreds of kilom—miles distant. I forget sometimes that it is not so here, and that travellers from so far North are rarely seen in the Riddermark." She smiled, hoping to lower Éowyn's guard. "Besides, I have only lived with the Elves for the last six months; before that, I have always dwelled amongst other humans."

"You come from a land beyond Middle Earth, then? What is the world beyond like, Lady Elanor? Is it possible that some distant kin of the Rohirrim reached such a place?" Éowyn cried, leaning forward in eagerness.

"Not very different to here, I'm afraid," Elanor said, feeling weary at the thought of exchanging stories then. "I would love to tell you about my home sometime, Lady Éowyn, but I'm—I'm hardly—" She broke off, wishing fervently that the war did not press upon her with such a sense of urgency.

Éowyn nodded, her eyes softening. "Such is the way of the world. You are weary, and I have detained you too long." She rose and pushed back her chair, and Elanor did the same.

"I would not mind some more sleep," Elanor couldn't help laughing, "though I am equally desirous to stay and talk with you. I have had no female company in—well, a long time."

"It grieves me that you come at the brink of war!" cried Éowyn, a trace of her former distress in her voice as they departed the tent. "Were the manner of your coming different, there are many things we could have spoken of, and much time to be spent together."

Elanor sighed a little sadly, a heaviness resettling on her heart. As they emerged from the tent, she realised that the sun had risen, spilling bright gold across the landscape.

For a moment, Elanor could do nothing but gasp in amazement at the scene set before her, all melancholy thoughts forgotten. She had been too frazzled to notice the scenery as the Dúnedain had dashed southwards, and it had been dark when they arrived at Dunharrow the night before. Now, she was stuck by the full splendour of Ered Nimrais.

The White Mountains were indeed aptly named. All about them were magnificent peaks, rearing their majestic heads in craggy formations and snow-capped ridges. The lofty altitude at which Elanor stood only accentuated the impressiveness of the scene, for stretched out far below them was a long, sloping valley. Harrowdale, Elanor realised. The river Snowbourne cut across the lower meadow, a dark strip amongst the vivid green of grass and tree. All across the meadow were rows of white tents—soldiers of the Riddermark, Elanor realised, already gathered to ride to war. The pink of the swift-brightening sky formed a breathtaking contrast with the grey and white of the mountains, spilling down onto the emerald below. It was utterly unlike anything Elanor had ever seen, for the mountain ranges of Australia were covered in scrub. These peaks were bare and stony, more like the images she had seen of Switzerland in the summer. Except, somehow, the sight of Rohan's White Mountains far surpassed even her loftiest imaginings of Mont Blanc's grandeur.

"Beautiful, is it not?" murmured Éowyn, from her right. The woman was staring out at the landscape, the cool breeze caressing her magnificent gold hair.

Elanor could only gape. "I don't think I have ever seen anything so lovely."

This seemed to please Éowyn, who smiled wistfully.

"I wish I could stay to appreciate it."

"Oh, forgive me! I have forgotten myself once more," Éowyn said, hurriedly. "I do not wish to detain you if you should desire to rest. I also seek solitude," she admitted, "though it is hard to find when one has been handed command of the kingdom."

"I can imagine."

Éowyn sighed. "It is of little import; King Théoden will arrive ere long, and shall resume command." She turned to Elanor, smiling a little wearily. "Do you know the way back to your tent, Lady Elanor?"

"I think so," she replied.

"Good," Éowyn nodded. "I will see you later."

She half-turned to leave before stalling, an expression of shy nervousness on her face.

"Lady Elanor?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to share the noon meal with me?"

The request was soft, and so unlike the stern independence that Éowyn had previously demonstrated. Tolkien had portrayed this warrior-woman as being rather grim and proud, but even in reading the books she had seen that a lonely and desperate girl was trapped beneath the outer facade.

Elanor smiled warmly. She had precious little opportunity for companionship, and she would eat her own boots if she didn't make the most of this chance.

"I would love to."

Ten minutes later, Elanor was back in the comforting solitude of her tent. Flopping down heavily on her camp bed, she tugged her boots off and threw herself backwards onto the blankets.

For some time, she lay with her eyes closed and breathed.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

It was all she could do to impress her lungs to do their job. Eventually, she rolled over to one side and tugged a blanket over her body. It was cold, for Dunharrow was high in the mountains and it was only early spring.

Where to begin?

That was the question which troubled her.

So much had happened.

And so much is yet to happen!

Breathe. Focus, and breathe.

Forcing herself to sit up, Elanor clambered reluctantly from the protection of her blankets and moved to her pack. It had been placed neatly against the foot of her bed, courtesy of Glorfindel. Rummaging past her clothes, Elanor grasped a hard package and yanked it out. It had been a risk to bring The Lord of the Rings on her journey, but she had been profoundly thankful for it more than once. Returning to her bed, she pulled it from the cloth wrappings and leafed through until she came to a page marked with some folded parchment.

Elanor had always enjoyed studying. Her quick mind had revelled in the perusal of history, and it had been almost enjoyable to mark out a Middle Earth timeline using The Lord of the Rings as a reference. She was thankful for it at that moment, unfolding the parchment and running her finger down a line of neatly marked dates. Frowning, she attempted to work out how many days had passed.

I know we met the Rohirrim on the morning of the 6th of March… which means… hang on, it can't be only the 8th… it's been longer… hasn't it?

But as she returned to her meticulous notes, she was again surprised. Written in looping cursive under "8th March" was, Aragorn takes the Paths of the Dead at daybreak and reaches the Stone of Erech at midnight.

"Geez," she muttered, placing the book down and pulling up her blanket so it draped around her shoulders. "It's been a long two days!"

Which meant that in another two day's time, the Rohirrim would ride out from Dunharrow and go to fight in Minas Tirith.

Well at least the book timeline is still in place.

C'mon Elanor, think! This means that in two days, Éowyn and Merry will be sneaking into the army, and everyone will be thundering off to fight for Gondor. What will you do then?

It was fortunate that Elladan and Elrohir had not known of Éowyn's plans to ride with the Eorlingas. Perhaps if they had, Elanor would have been dragged along in the wake of the Dúnedain. She had to admit it would probably be safer than risking her neck alongside Éowyn; at least if she'd gone to deal with the Corsairs, she would have four Elves to watch her back. Here, she had no one, except the heedless niece of the King. Éowyn was, admittedly, very likeable, but hardly good company for a defenceless girl who wanted to remain alive.

Elanor's stomach clenched as she thought of what lay ahead. Even her brief visit to the battlefield of Helm's Deep had made her recoil in horror. Now, her friends—including Éowyn—were about to march into the most perilous battle yet. And it was no longer just Elladan and Elrohir she had to worry about. Glorfindel and Legolas were also there, and Aragorn. She still held book-Aragorn in high esteem, her estimation of him only enhanced by Arwen's love-struck tales.

And now, I have Boromir to worry about! He's probably in Gondor by now, and goodness knows if the book is going to revolt at him surviving the attack and kill him off in some other grisly way… I'm glad he made it, though. I wonder how Glorfindel managed it…

What about Eärendur?

Groaning loudly, Elanor flopped dramatically back onto her bed.

What on earth am I going to do about him?

She had completely banished the young Ranger's confession from her mind whilst she was dealing with Éowyn. Deciphering the heroine's moods and feelings had been hard enough without the added complication of an unknown character falling in love with her.

It wasn't like I sought this out…

Um, are you forgetting the son of Denethor? You kissed Boromir!

That was painfully true. Apart from that blunder, however, Elanor had remained mercifully free of any tangled fan-fiction romances. It helped that she had Tim in the back of her mind, like a soft ache that never really went away. If she was honest with herself, she had harboured a (slight) girlish crush for Glorfindel, but their relationship was purely platonic. He was handsome and noble, but transcendently Elvish.

Probably good I left Rivendell when I did, otherwise I would've forgotten I was a human at all, and gotten some highfalutin notion of being an Elf and falling in love…

But no, she had Tim.

And Eärendur!

That was a frightening notion as well; the young Ranger was certainly handsome, clever and kind. But, search as she might, Elanor could not find anything more than friendship for him in her heart. Her love for Tim left no room for anyone else. It made her feel heavy with guilt, but she would have to tell the poor boy 'no' sooner or later.

The later, the better.

Tim.

Tim was the kind of guy all the girls had liked in high school. Truthfully, Elanor had numbered among them, and been amazed and delighted when he had reciprocated her feelings. She knew there was scant likelihood she would ever see him again. Whilst even a sliver of hope remained, however, she would cling to it like a lifeline. Kissing Boromir had been a silly mistake—he was good-looking, sure, but she'd never had feelings for him. Drinking that night had been a grave error, and one she would strive not to repeat. Boromir of Gondor was forty at least, and she only twenty-two. No, even if Tim were not in the picture, she would not pursue Boromir's love.

I still love Tim, that's the thing. It's only been six months; we didn't break up, so I can hardly force myself to get over him. And he's… he's the most wonderful guy I can imagine. No one here could be that perfect…

And what about in a year's time? Will you still remain faithful to someone you will likely never see again? Would you expect Tim to do the same for you?

Yes! came the defensive reply, and her other internal voice scoffed.

What? If your boyfriend disappeared, presumed dead, you would never date again? That's very righteous of you!

…well, when you put it like that it sounds silly!

That's because it is silly!

Elanor shook her head stubbornly, hating herself for musing on it.

Look, I'm not deciding anything until the Ring is destroyed. We're just getting to the most intense part of the whole thing—not exactly the time to be having a discussion on the morality of dating someone new when you're forcibly parted from your boyfriend for six months! Besides, I have trouble enough with my assorted friends and adopted family. They're all over the place now, all in harm's way—except Elrond and Arwen—and I'm "in the keeping" of one of the most reckless women in Middle Earth! Imagine adding a boyfriend to that mix!

Despite the gravity of her situation, Elanor smiled to herself. Her thoughts continued to rush around like Boxing Day shoppers in the Queen Street Mall.

Ok… what can I actually deal with right now? she pondered, her rational side making a welcome reappearance. Eärendur is a problem for later. I don't want him to be killed in battle—though that would be… no, that's a horrid thing to think, Elanor Ravenscroft! No. I can put him off after it's all over, and he'll go back to Arnor and find a nice Dúnedain girl to marry instead. That's easy. Sorted. Elladan and Elrohir… and Legolas and Aragorn and Glorfindel and Merry and Pippin… and Gandalf too… well at least if the book follows it's course, none of them will be harmed. Goodness, let's hope it does… Sam and Gimli! Oh dear, that's hardly in the novels, is it? I hope… if they shouldn't… oh that doesn't bear thinking of…

Rolling over to her side, Elanor pulled the blankets up close to her face and stared listlessly at the tent wall. She had never been a religious person, for the grey areas of morality made faith a tenuous path to walk back home. Too many issues were difficult to comprehend, and the idea of praying to a deity she couldn't see was almost ridiculous. In Middle Earth, however, the distinction between good and evil was profoundly different; it was a matter of Sauron and his servants against the other free races. It was much easier to know what was the right thing to do.

Not to mention she'd come a long way from "seeing is believing" after magically appearing in a fantasy novel, contrary to everything she had believed possible in the realm of science.

She had read quite a bit about the god of Middle Earth in Elrond's library—called Eru—and had vague memories of Georgia saying that he was based on the Christian god. Six months previously, she would have been baffled and incredulous had someone suggested that she pray. Now, lying in a Rohirric camp and with the fate of the world lying heavy on her shoulders, Elanor closed her eyes and sent her thoughts skyward.

I don't know if you can hear me… but I guess there's no harm in trying, she began. I won't beat around the bush; there's a lot of awful stuff happening here. I never really thought God was real, to be honest, and I'm not even sure if you're the same as God, or if Eru is someone completely different. But if you are there… and you are loving and merciful like those weird Christians on the street once told me… please please make all of this work out. Help Sam and Gimli to get to Mount Doom and destroy the Ring, and help all of my friends to stay safe in battle. Let everything just… work. And help me to do something useful and good. All I've really done is save Boromir and eat Elrond's food, so that doesn't really count… anyway… yeah. Please help. Amen.

Fervently hoping that people hadn't been rattling on about faith and religion for nothing, Elanor adjusted herself in the cot until she was comfortable. There was honestly nothing more she could do—there was still the decision to be made about where she would go next, but that could wait. She pressed her eyelids closed and willed sleep to come. As she slipped towards darkness, several images came unbidden to her mind...

Georgia's laughing face morphed into the frown Tim wore when he was concentrating hard. She saw her parents embracing, love so evident in every line of their bodies that she felt her chest tighten. The images were brief and heart-wrenching, as she saw her dearest friends and the beautiful old house she had grown up in. There was Georgia's big mongrel dog, named Sirius in homage to the Harry Potter novels, and a collection of galahs and parrots her father had rescued at various times and cared for until they had been naturally absorbed into the Ravenscroft household….

I'm a Ravenscroft…

Those last few weeks in Rivendell, Elanor had felt a transfixing kinship to Lord Elrond and his family. She had given her lonely heart over to him, allowing herself to be nurtured and loved as a daughter for a time. And then, some cruel twist of fate had compelled her to leave, venturing southwards in an effort to be… well… useful...

All the journey had served to do was become a poignant reminder that Rivendell was not her home, that Elrond was not her father, and that she was painfully small and tired.

She had no special role, no magnificent destiny. If there was a reason beyond saving Boromir that she'd been dragged to Middle Earth, she had not discovered it. She'd had a blissful time in Rivendell, pleasantly ignorant of how far she fell short of being an Elf. Dwelling in Lord Elrond's house was the dream of most Tolkienites, and she had physically experienced it.

I always thought I'd go back to Rivendell, she thought, her mind becoming gradually dimmer as she floated towards sleep. Now, though, I'm not so sure… could I go back, when the Ring's destroyed? The Elves are fading already… most of them… leave once it's done… I love them all… Elrond… but is there any real point to clinging to another family I'm just going to lose?

I'm sorry that this piece is so dialogue-heavy and reflectiony, but I felt like Elanor had done so much rushing round that she needed to sort her head out. She's the kind of person who needs introspective time, or else she feels like she's going loony. (Convenient for us readers, as we get to listen to her mental processes). As it is, I thought I would permit her a few hours of thinking in her tent before the action picks up again!

What did you guys think of my portrayal of Éowyn? She has to be one of my favourite Tolkien Originals, and I want to get my representation of her good. If you have suggestions, please let me know. I am not adverse to going back and editing some of the chapters if a few of her mannerisms are off-target.

Thanks for your support and reviews everyone! :)

Finwe.