I stand high at the top of Minas Tirith, along with all those who have
survived. I shiver at the thought - those who survived. Those few, out of
so many dead . . . my throat closes with well-shed tears as I remember the
light fading from my uncle's eyes. Those who survived . . . we are left to
pick up the pieces, to move on with our shattered lives. Our leaders - we,
the leaders, for I am assuredly a leader of my people, crowned or not -
must guide the shattered remains of what were once two great nations.
Rohan and Gondor, the realms of Men . . . now blackened and scorched by
hate, terror, and war. The people look to me as a leader, Théoden said . .
. and I cannot help but recall the caves of Helm's Deep. Women old enough
to be mother to me twice over buried their faces against my neck and
shoulders, weeping, depending on me to be their strength. In that moment,
I felt terror, for these were women to whom I would have looked, months,
weeks, maybe even days ago, for guidance, for the wisdom they had
collected. But when the sounds of the Uruk-Hai shook the very earth around
us, and when we hid in the darkness, knowing not if our sons, husbands,
brothers, fathers, kinsmen still lived, and when we knew with sick
certainty that there were far too many, that children torn from their
mothers' sides and old men pulled from the fireside could never stand
against such an army as had been raised against us, these women, once the
pillars of strength and collected wisdom, turned to the very child that had
absorbed stories and lessons sitting at their feet. I am a leader to them.
In the aftermath of the great battle of Minas Tirith, when I walked among the Gondormen and -women, I saw in their eyes that I was something different. I was not Éowyn the child, not the breathless young girl dreaming of adventure and begging sword lessons, and not the pillar whose shoulders were made to support the women who sent their menfolk to die. To the people of Gondor, I was Éowyn of Rohan, the warrior-woman, who rode into battle. Éowyn of Rohan, who with her very hand slew the feared King of the Nazgul. I am a living legend. One day, children will hear stories of me, of the girl who would not be left behind at the camp, who would not be content to merely shoulder the burden of womanhood. I will be praised, then, and am praised now, and yet . . . I am praised when people face me, but when I stand sideways, when my eyes appear to look elsewhere, there is unease. It is not womanly to wear armor. It is not the act of a good girl- child to take a sword in her slender white hand. It is not maidenly to fight amid the death and torment. In their eyes, I am something else, not quite a woman, for all my long hair and slender curves.
Then I see her, white as a flower, decked with ornaments and looking like a maiden of legend. She is standing with the elven delegation, and in her graceful form and delicately tipped ears I see elven heritage, marred - or accented - by long raven hair, a color never found on a true Elf. That's it, then. She is the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven; she is a lovely maid whose slender white hands never saw a day's hard work. She is hiding herself - not from me, nor from the crowd - with a long banner, smirking a little as she watches the coronation through the translucent white cloth. Her eyes are glued to Aragorn's form, as are the eyes of all others, but . . .
There is not the adoration there. The others watching see Aragorn son of Arathorn, a godling, the King of Gondor where no king has reigned for centuries. Those who are his friends, those I came to know, Gimli, otherworldly Legolas, and the dear hobbits, they look at him with a look in their eyes like proud parents. Those who know him only as Elendil's heir are openmouthed in adoration. And yet Arwen, alone of the crowd, smirks. The look in her eyes, and in the corners of her mouth that curl up just slightly, so slightly only another woman could see it, is that of a particularly troublesome horse, one that has stolen an extra treat behind your back.
That's when I realize. She is the one who gave Aragorn that pendant. His lady-love, the girl to whom his heart is pledged, stands there to my right and smirks at him while he is crowned King. She smirks in triumph, because he is bound to her, heart and soul, and she will be Queen of Gondor beside him. She is decked as a bride; we will have not only a coronation but a wedding this day. There is a serene grace about Arwen, a grace like a swan, marred only by the barely-visible smirk that says she knows her grace all too well. Suddenly I feel plain - a stick-thin shieldmaiden, hands callused by sword and reins, face roughened with weather. Pain gleams in my eyes-the pain of those long, dark days when Théoden sat rotting on his throne and Wormtongue stalked Edoras. I see myself a plain, milk-pale child beside this raven beauty, and a curl of resentment lifts my tongue. Aragorn King of Gondor is a strong man, and needs a strong woman beside him, not some decorative Elf. A queen is more than a woman, she is a leader. I am a leader.
In the aftermath of the great battle of Minas Tirith, when I walked among the Gondormen and -women, I saw in their eyes that I was something different. I was not Éowyn the child, not the breathless young girl dreaming of adventure and begging sword lessons, and not the pillar whose shoulders were made to support the women who sent their menfolk to die. To the people of Gondor, I was Éowyn of Rohan, the warrior-woman, who rode into battle. Éowyn of Rohan, who with her very hand slew the feared King of the Nazgul. I am a living legend. One day, children will hear stories of me, of the girl who would not be left behind at the camp, who would not be content to merely shoulder the burden of womanhood. I will be praised, then, and am praised now, and yet . . . I am praised when people face me, but when I stand sideways, when my eyes appear to look elsewhere, there is unease. It is not womanly to wear armor. It is not the act of a good girl- child to take a sword in her slender white hand. It is not maidenly to fight amid the death and torment. In their eyes, I am something else, not quite a woman, for all my long hair and slender curves.
Then I see her, white as a flower, decked with ornaments and looking like a maiden of legend. She is standing with the elven delegation, and in her graceful form and delicately tipped ears I see elven heritage, marred - or accented - by long raven hair, a color never found on a true Elf. That's it, then. She is the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven; she is a lovely maid whose slender white hands never saw a day's hard work. She is hiding herself - not from me, nor from the crowd - with a long banner, smirking a little as she watches the coronation through the translucent white cloth. Her eyes are glued to Aragorn's form, as are the eyes of all others, but . . .
There is not the adoration there. The others watching see Aragorn son of Arathorn, a godling, the King of Gondor where no king has reigned for centuries. Those who are his friends, those I came to know, Gimli, otherworldly Legolas, and the dear hobbits, they look at him with a look in their eyes like proud parents. Those who know him only as Elendil's heir are openmouthed in adoration. And yet Arwen, alone of the crowd, smirks. The look in her eyes, and in the corners of her mouth that curl up just slightly, so slightly only another woman could see it, is that of a particularly troublesome horse, one that has stolen an extra treat behind your back.
That's when I realize. She is the one who gave Aragorn that pendant. His lady-love, the girl to whom his heart is pledged, stands there to my right and smirks at him while he is crowned King. She smirks in triumph, because he is bound to her, heart and soul, and she will be Queen of Gondor beside him. She is decked as a bride; we will have not only a coronation but a wedding this day. There is a serene grace about Arwen, a grace like a swan, marred only by the barely-visible smirk that says she knows her grace all too well. Suddenly I feel plain - a stick-thin shieldmaiden, hands callused by sword and reins, face roughened with weather. Pain gleams in my eyes-the pain of those long, dark days when Théoden sat rotting on his throne and Wormtongue stalked Edoras. I see myself a plain, milk-pale child beside this raven beauty, and a curl of resentment lifts my tongue. Aragorn King of Gondor is a strong man, and needs a strong woman beside him, not some decorative Elf. A queen is more than a woman, she is a leader. I am a leader.