A/N: Short update. Sorry! Am tied up *shows tied hands* compliments of a fanfic contest I entered. But I couldn't ignore the plot bunnies for this fic anymore!
Thank yous are in order for the Black Lady of Rohan! I searched forever to find information on Elfhild, Eomund, and Theodwyn, but couldn't find when Elfhild died, or how (which was pretty frustrating) so I decided to have her dying when Eowyn arrives. Yes, Theodred, from everything I found, is 13 years older than Eomer, so I put him as a Rider-in-Training. *smacks her head* I swear I used to know what happened to Eomund and Theodwyn! *sigh* Like I said, my Middle-earth self has spent far too much time on vacation.
Burning_Tyger, Yup! Elfhild was Theoden's wife. And you should do your Eowyn fic! And, whatever happened to the joint-fic we were going to do?!
As a thin sheet, the dew on the grass of Rohan was spreading. Under the face of a nearly full moon, the fields glittered as though covered in broken glass; the horses which constantly grazed and patrolled the borders were dark shadows in a long, flat land.
Eowyn wanted nothing more than to be one of them at the moment. Instead, she was wet from taking countless tumbles through the grass, and she was shaking from exertion. Her right arm was held out straight in front of her, level with her shoulder, and she strained to hold her short sword steady for just a minute longer.
Her arm shook violently and dropped to her side; she cried out, partly in relief and partly from outrage with her failure.
Elio turned to her and nodded. "Very good, young one. Nearly twenty minutes. Stretch your arm as I am doing...no, like...Eowyn, look at me. Good. Hold it there and count to sixty."
He turned back to whatever distant speck he had been studying. Eowyn scowled at his back. His clear, baritone voice trailed back to her, "I do not hear you counting."
"Twelve! Thirteen!" She went on until at last she could drop her arm.
"Now hold it like this." He showed her a position meant to stretch her triceps. "And count to sixty." He corrected her once, silently, and this time observed her for the full minute. "Very good. Now show me the rolls I taught you, but tell me what you will always do when you use them."
"Tuck my chin."
He nodded slowly. "And? What else?"
"Keep my eyes on my opponent."
"Good. Anything else?"
"Never do this when rolling." She held her arm and wrist loosely.
"Now practice."
The seven year old did as she was told, corrected almost constantly on her form. Or her speed; or she wasn't watching her 'opponent' carefully enough. She rolled and somersaulted until she was almost sick, and the world refused to stop shifting under her feet.
"I'm tired," she whimpered.
Elio's bright gaze froze her in place. "That doesn't matter. You must not say such things; do not complain, young one. You never know where your enemy may come from, and you must never give them any weakness to use against you. Show me your fist."
The seven year old's lip trembled, and hot tears spilled from her eyes. "I'm tired."
"Show me your fist," the man answered calmly. "Now."
She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself, crying pitifully. Elio allowed her only a moment. "Your fist, young one. Now!" Still sobbing, she held out her fist. Unheeding of the child's tears, Elio took her hand in his. "You must always keep your thumb above your other fingers, like this. Otherwise, you may well break it. Keep your wrist straight. Are you watching? Stop your sniveling and pay attention."
He waited until she had stopped. Slowly, her voice trembling, she repeated, "Always keep my fingers under my thumb...and keep my wrist straight."
Elio smiled then. "Very good. You may go to your bed now." Turning, he whistled and a gray horse trotted to them. "We will continue tomorrow evening." He did not mount the steed; rather, he turned and strode away to the North, and the horse followed at his shoulder.
Eowyn ran back to the comfort of her room.
Eomer came much too early for his sister's liking the following morning. Or perhaps it was a mere handful of hours since her long night of training; she couldn't tell.
"Sister, you've dirtied your gown." Eomer scolded quietly, brushing at the dirt and grass stuck to a very wrinkled garment. He was unaware that the little girl had burrowed far under her blankets and was no longer listening to him.
When he finally turned, he saw the huddled form under heavy green and gold blankets. "Eowyn?" At first he had been annoyed. Now he crossed over and lifted the edge of the covers. "Are you ill?"
"Tired," she answered. "I am fine...I want to sleep."
"You are dirty, Eowyn. What-" he tugged the blankets up and crawled under next to her "-were you doing last night?"
She remembered in time what she had been ordered to tell people about her training sessions. "I went for a walk."
"For what purpose?" Eomer cried. "You could have been hurt! You could get sick!"
"Sick like Elfhild?" Her sad, gray eyes opened and he hurt to look at her. "I went to see her last night. She is going to die."
Exhaustion added lead weights to Eowyn's already heavy grief, and large, hot tears spilled down onto her bed.
"No, no, don't cry, Eowyn!" Eomer's voice trembled, and he pulled her closer to him. "Hush."
"You're crying, E-eomer," she whispered, tears causing her to tremble even as she clung to her brother. He didn't answer.
They forgot the world, or the breakfast they were missing, or the stifling air under the heavy blankets. They thought of the empty house on the fields, the vacant places where their parents had been.
Together they wept.
