Part Two: Charm
Long blonde hair. Hair as soft as light, golden like the sun. Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Fingers gently lowered themselves to caress the edge of her throat, the gentle beating of her heart rising like the steady beats of a drum. Eyes blue, blue like the sky outside, as bright and as wild, telling tales of a place beyond infinity.
A woman. Fingers lower to the soft curves of her breast. Round and soft, seeming made of the flowers that bloomed each and every summer. A heart that needed to be loved. Fingers rose to untie the strings of her bodice. The pedant given from her mother gleamed in the light of sun and candle. A woman gave her a silver and sapphire pendant shaped like a woman dancing in pleasure. Or in pain. She was in pain now.
A woman. Fingers dropped to her side and reached for the comb. A fine comb, wrought with gold, shaped like a horse, mane flying in the invisible wind. She wanted to fly away now, ride away with hooves pounding the earth in assurance and in pride as fingers tugged the comb through the waves of her golden hair. Her heart was pounding. Her bodice pulsed with the heaving of her heart. A woman she was. A woman who dreamt of swords.
On the dresser laid a sword that belonged to her father, given to her by her brother. She wanted to kiss away her sorrow with blood spit by her own valor. She would never receive a kiss quite like that. She stood, as fingers let the comb fall with a loud clamor to the floor, and grasp a fistful of hair in vanity. Do not cut herself, cut off her hair. Cut it off and lose the beauty that made her feel so weak. She was a woman who dreamt of swords.
Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Mind in despair, wild with passion. She stared hard at the pendant gleaming between her breasts, reflecting the light that streamed from the window hung with silk. The woman was dancing in pain. She was in pain too. That pain made the woman look strong, invincible. She was too. But inside, she dreamt of swords and the man that would free her from her bonds.
Fingers let the hair go, and eyes, as blue as the sky, watched as the hair clung to the sides of her white throat. Her heart was pounding so steadily, she felt as if she would swoon in joy, joy as strong and solid as the white linen that hugged and restrained her lithe body. She could fight. She had fought to stop her love. But she lost and here she was now. Fingers worked themselves to loosen the folds her dress. Of the finest linen, with the deft of all hands, the dress crumpled to the floor as she stood in front of the mirror.
She was like a mountain, encased in snow. Her fear and her strength hide the inside of her, the woman who wanted so much to learn the ways of real joy. What made her smile now were just illusions conjured to ease her grieving heart. Fingers gently pushed aside the strands of her long hair. Just like this, her dreams would come true.
The sword laid on the counter, besides roses as red as her open mouth. She crossed the floor and entered into the awaiting bath, that smelled like sage and herbs. Fingers worked to grasp her shoulders and she cried. She cried as the steam rose out from the windows and the sun hid itself in the clouds.
Eowyn, Shield-maiden of Rohan, alone without servant and without friend, took her last bath flavored with the leaves of her home. She will ride alone, and to seek her own joy. She would leave tonight.
And to that she cried, all alone, in a room of stone and silk.
But her cries were heard by Meriadoc Brandybuck o f the Shire, who, when passing by the baths with arms piled high with clean shirts, was drawn in by the weight of his own love and her sorrow. Kneeling there by the door, his face flushed with the imagined beauty of such a grieving maiden, Merry closed his eyes and swore wherever she would ride, he would follow, even on foot.
Eowyn, sister-daughter of the King of the Golden Hall, hugged herself, rocking with joy, sadness and doubt as Merry knelt to an imaginary sword that declared him her knight.
The roses on the counter let out a scent of fantasy and passion and outside, the world passed them by.
===
"If you do not let me go, I'll follow you."
"No, Merry."
"You cannot go by yourself!"
"I lived this whole life by myself."
"Not anymore, my lady. Not while I'm here."
"You cannot go!"
"I will. I can. And I am."
===
The first time she ever picked up sword was when war broke out in the eastern lands. She was naught but past her sixteenth year and have begun the rites of womanhood. A communal bath with the other ladies of her family on the night of the twelfth moon, an ancient pagan tradition descended from the First Age, the wearing a corset, softest leather and etched in the duel horses of her family's crest, underneath her dresses of silk and linen and worse still, serving wine to those who dined at the Golden Hall.
Her cousin, Wynderil from the western farthing, was the same age as she, and wore the bonds of womanhood with a head held high. Raven black tresses laced with silver and sapphires, and the blue eyes of the family, Wynderil was admired by the same men who spoke to Eowyn about battles lost, and great military plans. The men dare not touch either Wynderil and Eowyn within the presence of Theoden, but their eyes spoke loud enough words. So loud that Eowyn retreated to hr dark corner, quite abashed and hand fastened tightly to the wine urn. Her fingers turned white, gathering blood at their tips and Eowyn thought vainly back to the days before she was deemed a woman and forced to grow her curls past her shoulders. She watched Wynderil accept gifts of grapes and fine bread, cooked with sugar and dusted with honey, and averted her eyes when Wynderil learned to hold out her hand and accept kisses.
From the same dark corner, she watched Wynderil wed one of the men with wolf eyes and saw her grow full bellied, like a secret world that Wynderil became the goddess of, a world Eowyn watched with too awkward elbows and too long arms, an outcast even before she entered.
She picked up a sword when Wynderil learned to sew, two sharp edges cutting their own desires into solid reality. Eowyn removed her corset of leather and lace and don tunics of deerskin when hunting, running and breathing as Wynderil embroidered the crest of her husband's family upon robes and robes of velvet, never ending. When darkness fell, they would gather in front of the fire and speak, each telling the other stories, both never really listening.
Eowyn was present, by tradition, on the night of Wynderil's birthing and trembled at the sight of so much blood. She was a hunter, yes, but the blood and pain bore by her cousin was a pain she did not desire to experience ever. The following night, Eowyn went hunting, alone, with an empty quiver and a dull spear. She could not remove the memory of white sheets stained in blood from her mind.
===
"Can you shoot?"
"Shoot what?"
"I kid you, My Lady. I have quite good an eye and precision as well."
"What kind of bow? There's only a longbow, I fear, and that is a tricky thing to master. Can you see the Elvish script? A gift from Rivendell, to my father."
"It says, Made in Hobbiton, I fear, My Lady."
"Master Merry!"
"Rocks."
"What?"
"I can shoot rocks."
===
He thought oft of his father when nights were long. His father used to have the biggest ponies of all Hobbiton, half wild some say, as they pranced and neighed across the fields well past dusk. Pippin used to gather apples and honeycomb on the way back from his grandmother's, Lady Took, who by particularity, lived at the edge of the forest. After Merry finished helping his father comb and feed the ponies, Pippin and he would sit on a hill overlooking the rivers that kissed the edges of the Shire, and dream big. Silly little dreams, Merry knew even back then, that would never happen.
He oft thought back to the first time Pippin talked about Elves, those that lived wild and beautiful all at once in the deep and dank of Mirkwood. Merry remembered Bilbo's stories too, he remembered the fireside stories, the deep mull wine and sugared pears. But unlike Pippin, he knew Elves would never come riding out of the woods, just to say Hello, how do you do? to hobbits such as themselves. But Pippin never stopped believing.
"One day, you'll see. We hobbits are a very respectable people. Why shouldn't those Elves want to meet us?"
"Pip, don't you remember what my Old Pop said? We hobbits are a very respectable people, but it's best we leave everything that's right in the world alone."
"Why, Merry, don't you want an adventure? Even if it means stirrin' up something?"
"No, Pip, it'll be best for us hobbits to just stay grounded. Like where we live. Near the earth, and everything's that good and green."
"I'm going to breathe some different air. Get my head filled with other songs."
"And you'll come back, Pip, and wish everyplace was like this place."
He didn't know back then, but he knew now, how right Pippin was. If he could, he would take back those words and fill Pippin's head some more with thoughts as light as the shimmering sun upon mountain lakes and as free as birds flying over the hills, to the west.
When everything was accounted for, and taken care of, he'll bring back to Hobbiton a real horse and let his father ride wild. He will lite some fire in his father, and himself, and breathe in the air. He'll take Legolas and make him eat dinner at all the family's, all of Hobbiton, and show everyone the worth of Pippin's nonsense, that when released, danced in the twilight and shone like a star until it became sweet reality.
===
"Merry, you're riding to your death when you ride with me."
"Yes, my lady."
"I do not think anyone will sing songs about us, or weave tales of about our battles. We will be just faceless soldiers."
"I never liked war stories anyway."
"There will be no glory, no legends of our deeds. The memories of our fights will be buried on the battleground."
"There is some glory, my lady."
"There is?"
"Yes."
"A woman and a hobbit ride to their silly dreams, to die under the inescapable bow of destiny."
"Two good people ride to protect their world, to breathe in the scent of victory and joy."
"What if there is no victory, no joy? Just loss, shadow and pain."
"We're victorious already, my lady."
"Merry."
"My lady."
===
She wanted to ask him why he would risk the scent and sweat of life to ride into battle with her. Two crows, in leather armor that were too loose around the waist, too large around the arms, disguising themselves as eagles. Whenever her fingers encircled the tip of her sword, they trembled, and her breaths grew wild, something fanatic and crazy rising from the depths of her heart to beat itself against the base of her throat.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, his eyes would be on hers and his mouth open. If she left him, the stones would cave in, the emptiness tearing himself apart.
She held his hand as they walked to her horse, laden with packages, and the necessaries of war. His hand was small in stature, like a child's, but she could feel the vitality of life that flowed, pulsed from his tiny palm. It was warm, comforting to be holding onto a warm hand on so cold a night.
===
"Whatever happens, stay close to me."
"I will, my lady."
Long blonde hair. Hair as soft as light, golden like the sun. Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Fingers gently lowered themselves to caress the edge of her throat, the gentle beating of her heart rising like the steady beats of a drum. Eyes blue, blue like the sky outside, as bright and as wild, telling tales of a place beyond infinity.
A woman. Fingers lower to the soft curves of her breast. Round and soft, seeming made of the flowers that bloomed each and every summer. A heart that needed to be loved. Fingers rose to untie the strings of her bodice. The pedant given from her mother gleamed in the light of sun and candle. A woman gave her a silver and sapphire pendant shaped like a woman dancing in pleasure. Or in pain. She was in pain now.
A woman. Fingers dropped to her side and reached for the comb. A fine comb, wrought with gold, shaped like a horse, mane flying in the invisible wind. She wanted to fly away now, ride away with hooves pounding the earth in assurance and in pride as fingers tugged the comb through the waves of her golden hair. Her heart was pounding. Her bodice pulsed with the heaving of her heart. A woman she was. A woman who dreamt of swords.
On the dresser laid a sword that belonged to her father, given to her by her brother. She wanted to kiss away her sorrow with blood spit by her own valor. She would never receive a kiss quite like that. She stood, as fingers let the comb fall with a loud clamor to the floor, and grasp a fistful of hair in vanity. Do not cut herself, cut off her hair. Cut it off and lose the beauty that made her feel so weak. She was a woman who dreamt of swords.
Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Mind in despair, wild with passion. She stared hard at the pendant gleaming between her breasts, reflecting the light that streamed from the window hung with silk. The woman was dancing in pain. She was in pain too. That pain made the woman look strong, invincible. She was too. But inside, she dreamt of swords and the man that would free her from her bonds.
Fingers let the hair go, and eyes, as blue as the sky, watched as the hair clung to the sides of her white throat. Her heart was pounding so steadily, she felt as if she would swoon in joy, joy as strong and solid as the white linen that hugged and restrained her lithe body. She could fight. She had fought to stop her love. But she lost and here she was now. Fingers worked themselves to loosen the folds her dress. Of the finest linen, with the deft of all hands, the dress crumpled to the floor as she stood in front of the mirror.
She was like a mountain, encased in snow. Her fear and her strength hide the inside of her, the woman who wanted so much to learn the ways of real joy. What made her smile now were just illusions conjured to ease her grieving heart. Fingers gently pushed aside the strands of her long hair. Just like this, her dreams would come true.
The sword laid on the counter, besides roses as red as her open mouth. She crossed the floor and entered into the awaiting bath, that smelled like sage and herbs. Fingers worked to grasp her shoulders and she cried. She cried as the steam rose out from the windows and the sun hid itself in the clouds.
Eowyn, Shield-maiden of Rohan, alone without servant and without friend, took her last bath flavored with the leaves of her home. She will ride alone, and to seek her own joy. She would leave tonight.
And to that she cried, all alone, in a room of stone and silk.
But her cries were heard by Meriadoc Brandybuck o f the Shire, who, when passing by the baths with arms piled high with clean shirts, was drawn in by the weight of his own love and her sorrow. Kneeling there by the door, his face flushed with the imagined beauty of such a grieving maiden, Merry closed his eyes and swore wherever she would ride, he would follow, even on foot.
Eowyn, sister-daughter of the King of the Golden Hall, hugged herself, rocking with joy, sadness and doubt as Merry knelt to an imaginary sword that declared him her knight.
The roses on the counter let out a scent of fantasy and passion and outside, the world passed them by.
===
"If you do not let me go, I'll follow you."
"No, Merry."
"You cannot go by yourself!"
"I lived this whole life by myself."
"Not anymore, my lady. Not while I'm here."
"You cannot go!"
"I will. I can. And I am."
===
The first time she ever picked up sword was when war broke out in the eastern lands. She was naught but past her sixteenth year and have begun the rites of womanhood. A communal bath with the other ladies of her family on the night of the twelfth moon, an ancient pagan tradition descended from the First Age, the wearing a corset, softest leather and etched in the duel horses of her family's crest, underneath her dresses of silk and linen and worse still, serving wine to those who dined at the Golden Hall.
Her cousin, Wynderil from the western farthing, was the same age as she, and wore the bonds of womanhood with a head held high. Raven black tresses laced with silver and sapphires, and the blue eyes of the family, Wynderil was admired by the same men who spoke to Eowyn about battles lost, and great military plans. The men dare not touch either Wynderil and Eowyn within the presence of Theoden, but their eyes spoke loud enough words. So loud that Eowyn retreated to hr dark corner, quite abashed and hand fastened tightly to the wine urn. Her fingers turned white, gathering blood at their tips and Eowyn thought vainly back to the days before she was deemed a woman and forced to grow her curls past her shoulders. She watched Wynderil accept gifts of grapes and fine bread, cooked with sugar and dusted with honey, and averted her eyes when Wynderil learned to hold out her hand and accept kisses.
From the same dark corner, she watched Wynderil wed one of the men with wolf eyes and saw her grow full bellied, like a secret world that Wynderil became the goddess of, a world Eowyn watched with too awkward elbows and too long arms, an outcast even before she entered.
She picked up a sword when Wynderil learned to sew, two sharp edges cutting their own desires into solid reality. Eowyn removed her corset of leather and lace and don tunics of deerskin when hunting, running and breathing as Wynderil embroidered the crest of her husband's family upon robes and robes of velvet, never ending. When darkness fell, they would gather in front of the fire and speak, each telling the other stories, both never really listening.
Eowyn was present, by tradition, on the night of Wynderil's birthing and trembled at the sight of so much blood. She was a hunter, yes, but the blood and pain bore by her cousin was a pain she did not desire to experience ever. The following night, Eowyn went hunting, alone, with an empty quiver and a dull spear. She could not remove the memory of white sheets stained in blood from her mind.
===
"Can you shoot?"
"Shoot what?"
"I kid you, My Lady. I have quite good an eye and precision as well."
"What kind of bow? There's only a longbow, I fear, and that is a tricky thing to master. Can you see the Elvish script? A gift from Rivendell, to my father."
"It says, Made in Hobbiton, I fear, My Lady."
"Master Merry!"
"Rocks."
"What?"
"I can shoot rocks."
===
He thought oft of his father when nights were long. His father used to have the biggest ponies of all Hobbiton, half wild some say, as they pranced and neighed across the fields well past dusk. Pippin used to gather apples and honeycomb on the way back from his grandmother's, Lady Took, who by particularity, lived at the edge of the forest. After Merry finished helping his father comb and feed the ponies, Pippin and he would sit on a hill overlooking the rivers that kissed the edges of the Shire, and dream big. Silly little dreams, Merry knew even back then, that would never happen.
He oft thought back to the first time Pippin talked about Elves, those that lived wild and beautiful all at once in the deep and dank of Mirkwood. Merry remembered Bilbo's stories too, he remembered the fireside stories, the deep mull wine and sugared pears. But unlike Pippin, he knew Elves would never come riding out of the woods, just to say Hello, how do you do? to hobbits such as themselves. But Pippin never stopped believing.
"One day, you'll see. We hobbits are a very respectable people. Why shouldn't those Elves want to meet us?"
"Pip, don't you remember what my Old Pop said? We hobbits are a very respectable people, but it's best we leave everything that's right in the world alone."
"Why, Merry, don't you want an adventure? Even if it means stirrin' up something?"
"No, Pip, it'll be best for us hobbits to just stay grounded. Like where we live. Near the earth, and everything's that good and green."
"I'm going to breathe some different air. Get my head filled with other songs."
"And you'll come back, Pip, and wish everyplace was like this place."
He didn't know back then, but he knew now, how right Pippin was. If he could, he would take back those words and fill Pippin's head some more with thoughts as light as the shimmering sun upon mountain lakes and as free as birds flying over the hills, to the west.
When everything was accounted for, and taken care of, he'll bring back to Hobbiton a real horse and let his father ride wild. He will lite some fire in his father, and himself, and breathe in the air. He'll take Legolas and make him eat dinner at all the family's, all of Hobbiton, and show everyone the worth of Pippin's nonsense, that when released, danced in the twilight and shone like a star until it became sweet reality.
===
"Merry, you're riding to your death when you ride with me."
"Yes, my lady."
"I do not think anyone will sing songs about us, or weave tales of about our battles. We will be just faceless soldiers."
"I never liked war stories anyway."
"There will be no glory, no legends of our deeds. The memories of our fights will be buried on the battleground."
"There is some glory, my lady."
"There is?"
"Yes."
"A woman and a hobbit ride to their silly dreams, to die under the inescapable bow of destiny."
"Two good people ride to protect their world, to breathe in the scent of victory and joy."
"What if there is no victory, no joy? Just loss, shadow and pain."
"We're victorious already, my lady."
"Merry."
"My lady."
===
She wanted to ask him why he would risk the scent and sweat of life to ride into battle with her. Two crows, in leather armor that were too loose around the waist, too large around the arms, disguising themselves as eagles. Whenever her fingers encircled the tip of her sword, they trembled, and her breaths grew wild, something fanatic and crazy rising from the depths of her heart to beat itself against the base of her throat.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, his eyes would be on hers and his mouth open. If she left him, the stones would cave in, the emptiness tearing himself apart.
She held his hand as they walked to her horse, laden with packages, and the necessaries of war. His hand was small in stature, like a child's, but she could feel the vitality of life that flowed, pulsed from his tiny palm. It was warm, comforting to be holding onto a warm hand on so cold a night.
===
"Whatever happens, stay close to me."
"I will, my lady."