Chapter Two: Sown In Sorrow
Disclaimer: JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema own everything.
A/N: I'm sticking to book canon with respect to character ages. Théodred was thirteen years older than Éomer, though he looked a lot younger than his cousin in the movie.
Westu hál translates to "be you whole" from Old English.
3009 – Ten years before the Three Hunters come to Edoras with Gandalf
Resplendent in burnished mail, Éomer sheathed Gúthwinë, and took the helm beneath his arm. Days-old stubble clung to his ruddy mug and sand-papered Éowyn's smooth, girlish palm. 'You look handsome. You will make a good Rider, Éomer.'
I will, agreed his pride. The young man's lips were more cautious, conceding nothing. Today he would ride as one of the éored for the first time, to Eastfold with Théodred. Their cousin shirked favouritism and was a tough task-master. In the yard beyond Meduseld a cock crowed, seducing the sun to its rising. Sluggard night shadows picketed in the wolds of the green hills, jeering the coming light. 'We ride at dawn.'
'Let me come with you.' Éowyn stirred a hornet's nest to waking fury and was not surprised when Éomer grew impatient, rolling his eyes and stomping his foot. 'I can ride and wield blade. And you said you would never leave me.'
'I never said that. I thought you were happy for me!'
'I am!' Éowyn protested enthusiastically. 'Only … I wish I was going with you.'
For glory? For death? Éomer bowed his head from her eyes lit with a maiden's giddy excitement. A woman's strength is in the very display of her weakness. They weep or beg, and in one you love so utterly you believe her requite will shield you from spear and poisoned dart – for what does she have if not you? – and how can you protect her from armies if you cannot shield yourself from her? The Men of the Mark know this and they are able to turn defiantly from their wives and daughters and sisters when they ride. I know this. Éowyn knows it, too.
Sulking, the maiden shrugged beneath the warm pelts littered across her brother's bed. 'I wish I were a man, or at the very least that I had balls.'
'Éowyn!'
She ignored him. 'They seem to matter more than a man's head.'
Laughing suddenly, Éomer pointed out that she would make an ugly man. 'Anyway,' he confessed, trying to coax even a smirk from her, 'I do not know what I should do without you.' Yet neither of them smiled. The notion was sobering. I sound like Father, he thought, to Mother. Each time he rode away.
Éowyn sneered at the affectionately-meant words. Did he ever ask Mother what she would do without him?
From the chest at the foot of the bed, Éomer took an item wrapped in dyed sack-cloth. It tweaked the maiden's interest and she came and sat on her knees beside him. 'I know this,' she exclaimed in awe, drawing the rag from the surprise.
'Carefully,' he counselled and clasped her right hand, though his tone and touch were gentle.
In his lap, laid to rest on the remains of Éowyn's doll, was the dagger he had worn so proudly as an orphaned boy. The silver and gold hilt had lost its lustre over long years of disuse, but the knife-edge grinned toothily in the candle-light. 'I shall not leave you, defenceless. Keep it with you, in your boot, and when that snake comes let him feel the bite of Éomund of Eastfold.'
The cock crowed again even as Éowyn began, 'But Master Gríma –' Cracked lips stamped a parting kiss on her cheek and she was obliged to be silent. Her eyes stung. 'Westu hál, Éomer.' Her whisper chased too late from her mouth and beat its frustrated fists upon the door as it closed behind him. The moisture felt hot and uncomfortable on her cheeks. The stickiness plastered to her skin so that no matter how hard she rubbed, she thought she would never be free of her tears. For a moment she considered seeking Gríma out; he listened almost as much as his rattling tongue warbled on about heroic deeds out of Rohan's valiant past. Stories Éomer was living. Éomer. The maiden clutched the blade to her breast and it became her comfort when Éomer was not.
TO BE CONTINUED