Stiff between sheepskins I lie, the cold dancing from the shuttered window over my bed, unseen feet printing ice where the hides don't lie close to my skin. I, Eowyn Eomund's daughter, hereby do swear by my freezing noble blood that this hour is to be cursed.
I hate it.
The cold and the dark that presses us by day takes form at night, with only my tiny wonky candle stubs pressed into the hot wax of the one spilled before to break the shadow shapes.
It's too grim a reminder of the day that flies hither again, where somehow I must keep burning, pressed into the previous pools of endurance, defying the dark while my wick topples and flame guttering, drops.
Strange to think for all my visions of glorious battles for righteousness that I ended up struggling for the battle of my life in silence, that when I finally fall defeated it shall be in darkness, with no victory to mark my sacrifice, or songs and stories to inspire other warriors.
No.
No one will ever know of Eowyn, Dreamer of Warriors, candle-stub, who clung to what had been placed in her for as long as she could.
My biggest regret is that: it has been for nothing. Ignominy as part of greater glory and restoration of right is one thing, but this is no mere unimportance. If my light is snuffed, it will be darkness, untouched by my battle I fought.