Her days were spent in solitude, but for her brother's promised visits. Éowyn could not decry the treatment she received, for Merthwyn was truly dedicated, for all she almost never had the time to spare for idle chatter. Running to and fro all day, she passed her time, while for Éowyn, the hours crawled. Such a day was the one she found herself living.
The healer's aide had departed just a moment past, taking what remained of the food with her. What she'd consumed warmed the pit of her stomach, even as she wished for some food of her own country. Chiding herself for ingratitude in the next moment, Éowyn became alert as a knock rang throughout the chamber. "Enter," she called out, inordinately pleased with the way her own voice carried.
Éomer's head poked in. "Sister, I come to sit with you." It was earlier than his usual time. Worry burrowed deep in her breast, but she spoke not a word of it.
"Be welcome then, brother," Éowyn said instead. "And tell me of your day." Looking for all the world as she recalled their departed kinsman in his days of glory, he cemented the uneasiness in her heart just by sitting, perched on the edge of her bed.
"Mayhap such talk will tire you, Éowyn, but with the standing of things, I must. Forgive me the burden I place upon your shoulders." His hand rose to stroke at her unbound hair. "All preparations are at an end. On the morrow, the army rides and I with them, to cruel battle and a bitter end or unexpected glory."
"Am I to lose you as well, Éomer?" The soft question floated between them. Pretty lies helped no one, as far as she could tell. And in point of fact, no one had ever thought they might help her. When her sire was slain, she heard the whole sordid tale, and when her mother perished, heart-sick and fading day by day, she'd witnessed it with her own eyes. Why then should her sole remaining close kin spare her feelings with regards to his fate? "What shall I do when I am alone in the world?" She recalled with some shame past thoughts of rebellious autonomy. All of those mentioned had once been arms to lean on, shoulders to cry on and hearts to take comfort in. Without her pride and bereft of strength, she understood with belated clarity than to smite and stand victorious over one's foe was empty triumph. She took no comfort in the memory of the kneeling Witch-King.
The stroke of Éomer's thumb upon her cheek let her know her tears were flowing. "The gods alone know the twists and turns of fate," he answered kindly, keeping his voice deliberately low. "I do not promise you to return safely. I cannot." She sucked in a shaky breath in an attempt to quell the oncoming sobs. "But you stand be strong, for yourself and for our people. I leave them in your hands." His hands grasped at her shoulders. "Should our endeavour be met with failure, you must still contrive some way to survive. Do you hear me, sister?"
She nodded her head weakly, the very thought of his perishing stealing he breath away. It was not fair that she should have survived against a foe such as the Witch-King only to find another, greater, enemy faced her. And one whom she could not lift her blade against, Éowyn shuddered. But Éomer would not leave her be. Dissatisfied with her answer, he probed after her promise. "Very well, I promise you." What good that would do she could not guess. If they fell, her brother and Aragorn and all the men who went with them, the Dark Lord would not spare Rohan. He would not spare even an inch of land, she did not doubt. Their only hope of freedom was perhaps a life in the mountains, but who was to say such an existence would see them thrive. The bars of her old hutch had appeared once more, but they no longer imprisoned her against wishes of greatness or valour. They parted her instead from hope and solace. Her gaoler would be the Dark Lord and his hordes and death, once sweet escape, would rob their people of any hope, foolish as it might be of them to hold even a drop of it.
"Good," Éomer murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched."I knew I could count on you, sweet sister. My heart is easier." Her own pounded in her chest, its gallop heavy and ponderous, bringing her only pain. Éomer pulled away, looking down into her face. "Whatever comes, keep some hope in your heart, for when all seems bleakest, we see the strongest shine."
But the night of her soul was bereft of moon or star; she trusted not a light to appear. Still, her lips would not unclench enough to speak such fears into her brother's ear. She must see him off in the proper fashion. That, at least, she could do. The only of her womenfolk present, it fell to her to carry out the customs as best she could. "I shall do as you say," she managed in the end, hoping such words would be enough to cover the truth.
Éomer gave her the gentlest smile and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "See us off on the morrow, Éowyn, and pray the gods we are victorious." Both she would do; though little aid might come by it. Still, prayer at least would keep her busy. There was little else to do in her condition and no profit for others in her lying about. Thus decided, her nod came with vigour and her brother stood, biding her to remain at rest for the time being. "I shall come for you afore we se to riding." And that ended his time with her, leaving Éowyn with only herself for company. She did not resent him in the least, though she might have wished for a livelier mind for entertainment's sake.
The dismal day ran ever so slowly into the oncoming night, nestling in that dark embrace drawing its veil over all. It was in those hours , where restful sleep avoided her, that she found another companion, one who managed, for a time, to lift her heart in hope. Some elven craft, she thought it; no doubt meant to soothe and lull into a sense of safety. As long as her guest lingered, it worked very well indeed. Éowyn was reminded on long gone days, lying before a roaring fire at her father's feet, listening to the idle chatter of a drowsy household deep into the evening. Unbidden a smile touched her lips. How difficult it had been then to understand such moments were past. How overjoyed she had been that first night, to realise some of the feeling had returned to her.
The only trouble was the departure. Once she slept, cocooned in the knowledge of her own safety, he slipped away, leaving her to wake to golden sunrises alone. Somehow she had not thought an Elf would care of human notions of propriety. That he did brought a vague sense of amusement to bear down upon the moment. Remaining alert, she still did not manage to catch wind of his footfalls and knew not of his coming until the door of her chamber opened slowly.
He walked it with nary a sound but for his greeting, asking after her recovery. "I am doing much better, to hear the healer speak of it," she offered absently, much too taken with admiring the unspeakable beauty his presence summoned. "Have you come to say farewell?" She did not imagine he'd remain behind.
"So I have. I presume your kin already spoke of our riding." She nodded her head. "Then, my lady, this is the last night I may comfort you." As was their custom, he helped her out of the bed, walking her slowly to the high, narrow lancet. He lifted her upon the cushions and let her look without. His voice waved her tales the likes of which had faded from the memory of Man. Éowyn listened, her eyes upon the elegant gems wrought upon a dark field of cloud and blackness. If only there were some way to preserve the feeling he woke within her. Human impossibilities aside, she wondered whether she was not keeping him from duties more important in that moment.
It was so that she came to stop his speech. "Tell me truly, master Elf, have you naught more to prepare for your going? You are kind to keep me company, but I would not see you neglect more important matters." It was one thing to keep him from sleep, and quite another to keep him from proper preparations.
"Indeed not," he answered. "All that could be done has already been done." He paused then and seemed to hesitate. Éowyn frowned gently and hesitantly reached out until she recalled herself and drew back. But Legolas, quicker than she could ever hope to be even hale, intercepted her hand and held it in his own a moment. He spoke then in his own tongue; she understood not a thing, but felt the words roll against her, like the lazy waves of a sunlit sea lapping at her shore. Her chest felt light once more and she breathed deep.
"You say you are not skilled in the art of healing, yet here you are, lifting my spirits once more." It cost her little to say as much. "Master Elf, if you do not think it abominable brazen of me, then, pray, know that I have found your company most rewarding. I wish you well." Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around him.
He had held her that first night he came to her, soothing away her fears. But she offered a different kind of contact. Éowyn would never speak the words blooming in her chest then, though with a woman's instinct she recognised them for what they were. The moon's gentle glow would preserve her unspoken confession and the stars would kindly keep her secret, she had no doubt. Drawing back, she noted the unreadable expression her companion bore. Elves did not read minds, she reminded herself before the panic might set in. Likely as not, she'd startled him.
"My apologies; it occurs to me there is much I do not know of your customs." Lowering her gaze, Éowyn doggedly went on. "For the embrace I offer no such words; I am to be parted from a dearest friend, after all, and such a token is surely acceptable." There, that ought to assuage any fear the Elf might hold that she had supplanted one infatuation for another.
His chuckle was unexpected. Éowyn lifted her head and their eyes met. The shine in his gaze was as bright as the sun. "The gods willing we shall see one another again, my lady." He did not hesitate when he put his arms around her. Éowyn felt her cheeks heat, to be held so close to him then and allowed herself a mirthful chuckle of her own. The gods only knew if it was to be her last. Legolas did not linger overlong thereafter. He made her no promise she would have liked to hear; and why should he when she herself made him not a one. She let him go with dry eyes, thinking that on the morrow, she would ot have the courage to speak to him in the daylight.
Éowyn slept deep, unaware of the passage of time. Her dreams were murky and brought back some of the erstwhile anxiety. But who was to say what the shadows had shown her and who could tell, in the morning light, whether that had been soothsaying or mere fancy. She woke to gentle rapping upon her chamber door and was glad to see Merthwyn come to greet her.
"I shall help you dress, my lady." As good as her word, she'd brought shift and kyrtle with her, along with a Gondorian veil, after the fashion of the city. Éowyn worked herself into a standing position for the morning ablutions, happy with the steadiness of her legs. Once clean, she was aided into the shift and thereafter followed the kyrtle of goodly, soft cloth, embroidered with care. It fit her well enough for borrowed garb, though she was not quite as deep in the chest as its former owner.
"Who must I thank for this kindness?" she asked after taking a seat for her hair to be brushed. Merthwyn, forthcoming creature that she was, named it but a small thing, assuring Éowyn we own mother would not wear the clothes any longer.
"They were a gift from her kin and they no longer become her." Her careful handling of the comb saw all snares untangled even as she spoke. "I trust we will find something more fitting soon enough, my lady; but for the time being, you must have something to walk about in. And this will do as well as anything else."
"It is a lovely piece." She knew little of such embroidery as the Gondorians practiced. But it looked to her as though much work had gone the stitching of the small flowers lining the hems and collar of the kyrtle. The veil troubled her little as well, for Merthwyn pinned it to her locks but loosely.
"The white looks well on you, my lady. With such beautiful golden hair, it could not fail to." Appreciative of the compliment, Éowyn could but praise her companion in turn, for Merthwyn had brought her to such a state that she might even dine in a king's halls if need be. They fastened a wide girdle to her middle last and she was given her riding boots, for naught else had been found. But with the long folds of her skirts, her secret remained well hidden. "Now then, let me walk you down the hall. Your brother waits for you still." Hearing mention of Éomer, Éowyn quickened her pace in spite of her helper's remonstrations. None the worse for wear at the end of the hall, she grew fair certain that her strength, if naught else, was returning and that she was truly on the mend.
As promised, Éomer stood beneath the wide doorway, eyes upon the yard ahead. He turned only when she touched a hand to his sleeve and seemed to blink away surprise. "Sister." Both greeting and compliment, the word tugged upon her heartstrings. She smiled at him, a conscious effort to make the parting more palatable. A storm of tears would help no one.
"Brother." She took a step back so as to better observe him. His armour was impeccable, gleaming bronze in the light as soon as he took a step forth. "There is only me to see you off but I am sure many prayers will lift towards the heavens for your safe return, mine among them." Her supplications had grown to include an even greater number than ever before, for she would do what she could not only for Éomer's men, but for the brave soldiers of Gondor who rode with them. She curtsied to him then as one would in the king's hall and in their own tongue adjured him, "Be brave, Éomer-King, and be bold." Then, straightening herself, she reached out for his hand. "Return to me, brother, when your task is ended."
"Gods willing." He said little else to her, but led Éowyn out to where the captains awaited. She gave words of blessing to each and every one of them, wondering how many would return. A great many had perished during the last battle; but most were men she knew, worthy warriors and courageous.
They rode away, leaving her to stand in the courtyard until she could no longer see them. But Éowyn was not yet ready for the parting and asked Merthwyn after a spot from which she could see the whole army departing. Obligingly, the woman brought her to just such a place. From that vantage point, she could see the gleaming armour of the Gondorian soldiery as well as the warm, gold-red shine of Rohirric chainmail. The trumpets rang in farewell and many a cry lifted from the city-walls. The cheer went up to be met with the song of spears crossing shields.
But she could see the number was not great. Even so, Éowyn found herself calling out her own words of parting, in that moment joined very much to the spirit of Gondor. It was not so different from home, after all, and such tasks were well known to her. Fastening her eyes upon the sight, she looked on as the men and horses moved away, the trumpets and drums keeping time.
A gust of wind blew pat her, icy-cold in spite of the sun's glow above. Éowyn touched a hand to her veil, to keep it from flying away. Her eyes watered slightly as the fluttering white horse upon a field of green disappeared from sight. "May the gods keep you, brother. May their gentle light keep the King and his companions." And let their fury grind the enemy into dust. Those words she did not speak. Forsooth, it would have been kinder to wish redemption upon the fiend that blighted the realms of Man and Elf, Dwarf and Halfling, but she could not find it in her heart to accept such a notion. The playful breeze yet tugged at her sleeves when she turned around, moving to a strategically placed bench. Éowyn sat down heavily. It seemed that all the walking about had taken her breath away.
It could be that she was not as recovered as she'd thought. With such a thought, she gazed into the distance at the gathering darkness far ahead. The end would come far too soon for the taste of some, she did not doubt.
For her part, Éowyn found herself in poor spirits the following day, her burgeoning recovery suffering under the collective weight of both her dark thoughts and deathly doubt which seemed to have settled over the city. Hardly could one dismiss the grumblings of those which courted defeat with their careless tongues, nor was there any escaping grief over recent wounds with the business of the departing army finished at last. Éowyn lied abed, fervently praying for the safe return of those whom she loved best. But to find out their fate would take time and should she waste all of it in such endeavours as troubled sleeping would not aid her in the least.
So it came to pass that she forced herself out of the comfortable spot she'd made for herself and went in search of Merthwyn and the healer, looking for some cause or task to pick up and see to. Unfortunately, it seemed there was little for her to do, for word had been left she was not to be indulged in any labour.
"I truly am sorry, my lady," Merthwyn spoke. "But to such command one can show no opposition." Taking her by the arm, she led Éowyn to a section of the garden overlooking a great deal of empty and ahead. "They say Lady Finduilas, the Steward's mother, would spend a great many hours in this spot when her health declined so fiercely she could not longer travel far. I was a girl then, but I recall her working on a long tapestry. It is perhaps not the manner of work you had wished for, but if you are willing, my lady, I am certain we can find it somewhere."
"I couldn't; what would the poor Steward think to see me take his mother's work." To the best of her knowledge, the man yet slept away his wounds and could not rightly complain. But even so, there was a good chance that he would resent her brazen involvement. She had no wish for conflict.
"Nonsense, my lady. It was the old Steward, may the gods grant him rest, that locked away all of the good lady's possessions, hoping perhaps to ease the grief of her passing. My lord Faramir was always glad when some item that had escaped his father's notice found use within the city." Merthwyn brought forth her best argument at that juncture. "Is it not a pity that such work should go to waste?"
"Very well," Éowyn gave in, unable to withstand such tactics. "Bright it forth and I shall have a look." If she deemed it too difficult a task, she would simply have it carried back. Pleased with that much, the other woman was off, a certain spring in her step belaying the genuine joy. It was the oddest thing that her own state seemed to better itself for it.
Many a tapestry had she worked on, weaving with her mother in the days of yore. She knew well enough to wield a needle to such purpose, though her best works had seen many a hand lending some aid. The woman of the keep back home oft came together in deep winter to sit in the great hall and work as their men saw to their own troubles. Some crafted clothes and other, like Éowyn, worked upon length of sturdy cloth a record of the year which had passed. The chronicler might write down the great deeds of the King's men, but the women brought it to life in colourful thread. Gondor was certain to have some similar custom, though she could not know what manner of tapestry the Lady Finduilas had been labouring over.
It was a group of women that returned, most of them well past their prime. They carried the pastry rolled up and unfolded it upon her lap at a nod. "We shall aid you as best we can," one of them offered. "Our lady would have been glad to see someone pick up her work." Emboldened by such words, Éowyn traced a few of the figures with the tip of her finger. "She had a talent for it, I am certain you can tell, Lady of the Shield-arm." And therein the warning. Had the lady birthed a daughter of her own to continue the legacy such words might not have mattered.
"So I see," she allowed, continuing to trace one of the vines which sprang forth upon the bottom of the cloth's length. "The work seems to me less daunting, knowing I have such knowledgeable help by my side. I pray you then, guide me in finishing the good lady's work." That ought to do for obedient reverence. It could even be that they would hang it up proudly once it was done.
Whatever the case, plying her needle proved to be the precise manner of activity she needed. It kept her well-occupied in the hours which passed and gave her little time to ponder the vicissitudes of their perilous position, for she was otherwise engaged, her mind with patterns, her hands with sewing and her mouth with speech. She came to see that from one hand to another passed the depiction of a common history. The women of Gondor were determined that the last battle which had bathed the white walls in red be immortalised. "Many songs will be sung," they said, "but let our hands give aught as well."
It was not as glorious as even the most meagre battle. Nor did Éowyn find her blood stirring with fire and fury. It was not even the cry of righteous defence rallying a warrior's heart and valour. But it seemed to her no lesser in import. There would be songs and there would be tapestries, for both were needed and none greater than the other. Settled with her sewing, she could but hope that against such a foe as their armies faced, they would still snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
The cold winds blew even harder as the days passed on.