I'm too lazy to write an amusing intro, so here's the next installment straight off. I don't own this stuff, but you knew that already. The lyrics belong to Children of Bodom. Hooray for angry bands from Finland!

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III. Kissing the Shadows

We now come upon the most important matter of all: Éowyn. For years I have known her and yet she still fancies herself a mystery to me. We first met when she was five years old, she a curious child and I an introverted teenager. An unlikely pair we were, and yet it was not uncommon to see us poring over a map together. My fondest memories of youth are indeed those of me telling her stories of the world as she listened raptly.

High above your shadow smiles at me
Way down below I hear your serene breath

But young we are no longer; I am wretched and she is sad. No more is she a sweet child, but a woman touched by grief, like the simbelmynë which struggle to survive after a frost-laden night when silver clings to their soft petals. She haunts me as I haunt her.

A pale shadow she is, a specter of happiness lost. She reminds me of so many things know gone – purity, honor, pride. Always the unattainable, as is she.

And yet there was a time, though it is strange to consider, in which she was not so grave. These simple memories are the ones which keep me sane, I believe. Otherwise I would forsake all.

I'm running after you throughout
The valleys of tormented souls

When she was young she was eager to learn all she could from me. But at times, she would grow tired of stories and from our seat of exile spring with boundless energy.

"Come on, Gríma! Let's play something!"

I was, despite my vast knowledge, completely ignorant regarding children's games. Luckily, she solved the problem for me.

"Come on! Bet you can't catch me!" she cried, and danced out of my reach. I moved towards her and she shrieked gleefully, running off. I was therefore obliged to run after her.

She was right—I couldn't catch her. After chasing her for a few minutes I tired, being a sedentary person by nature.

"Slowpoke! Can't catch me!" she teased with a devilish smile.

"You win," I gasped out, willing to admit defeat if only she'd stop making me chase her around.

Her brow furrowed as she came up to me and stuck her arm out. "Don't be silly. Come on, I'm right here."

I lightly tapped her outstretched arm. "Got you."

I could only catch her when she let me, and so it is even now. Cold she is to me, and I cannot break through her shield of solemnity save when she herself takes it down.

She should have continued to smile every day for the years to come, but Fate is cruel and deemed it time for sorrow. Her father Éomund was slain in an Orc-raid nearly two years later, as my own father had been. She came tearfully to me, explaining that her brother wouldn't say a word and her mother was too upset to speak yet.

"No one will talk to me, Gríma. I don't know what to do," she sobbed, her grey eyes drowning in tears. I awkwardly hugged and comforted her as best I could – not very well, I fear – but eventually her cries abated to mere sniffles. "What did you do when your father died?" she asked me, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

I hardly could tell a seven-year-old that I had been glad of his death, so I chose my words carefully. "Well," I began, "my father didn't love me very much like yours did. So instead of crying, I helped my mother feel better." That was the watered-down and abridged version of the grisly tale.

She seemed to contemplate this idea for a while. "So can I help my mother?"

"If anyone can, it's you." She smiled and wiped her eyes a final time. "Gríma?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't your father love you?" The question was asked with such innocence that I was momentarily stunned. Now doubt now she could come up with a thousand different answers, but I suppose the idea of an unloving parent is unfathomable to a happy child.

This was another question which required a well-thought out answer. "Because I could never do the things he expected of me," I told her, trying to prevent my tone from being laced with bitterness. "He was angry because I could barely ride or wield a sword. He wanted a normal son and... he got me instead." I trailed off and young Éowyn looked pensive.

"That's too bad," she said finally. "I don't think he sounds very nice anyway."

I nearly grinned at the comment but checked myself. "It doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is the fact that you have a family to cheer up."

"You're right," she declared, and with a quick goodbye she scampered off.

You're so far away; I can feel your scent
When it carries your shadow
And if you truly want I'll cross the line
I'll follow

But alas, Théodwyn was inconsolable, and she died a few short months later. It was then that Éowyn, my beautiful flower, began to grow cold. She went to live in Meduseld with her uncle, and for a while after the death she and her brother were inseparable. I saw her not for several months, and then one day she returned with a sad expression on her small white face.

"I couldn't make her happy again," she lamented regretfully. "So she died."

I hated to see her so, with her innocence destroyed and unmerited guilt gnawing at her mind. Her smiles became wan and jaded, her laughter mirthless. In time joy was hers again, but she held a ghostlike sadness about her which I sought to ease away. I would tell her stories of Haleth daughter of Haldad, the heroine of old who saved her people from invading Orcs and brought them to them prosperity in the Forest of Brethil. While this would cheer her temporarily, she would slip back into sorrow and my attempts were in vain.

I'm dreaming my way out from down below
To get wherever you're haunting from, I'll go

When I too went to live at Meduseld, Éowyn was ecstatic. "I'll see you all the time!" she had said excitedly. "You can tell me stories every day!" She had fairly dragged me by the hand around the Golden Hall for a tour. I knew most of what she was telling me, but humored her nonetheless.

"Everyone feasts here in the main hall after a victory in battle," she told me with bright eyes. "And this," she said, pulling me over to the large throne, "is where Uncle Théoden sits and rules." She took me through various wings and corridors, barely pausing for breath between explanations of everything anyone would ever want to know about Meduseld.

"That's Éomer's room." She pointed at a closed door. "But you can't go in there. He doesn't let anyone in there most of the time." She pulled me down the hall to another door. "And this is my room," she said, proudly flinging the door open.

Now the thought of Éowyn ever dragging me into her bedchamber fills me with a grim amusement. But life was simpler then, and the cruelty of the world had touched us but had not yet taken hold of us.

It was a nice room, I told her, although dominated by the omnipresent and somewhat tiresome horse motif, which I didn't tell her. I allowed her to show me how the window looked out at the southern plains and the White Mountains. She thrust various toys at me and I admired them to her satisfaction. She would hear nothing of playing with dolls; the toys she loved best were little carven horses and soldiers, and wooden swords and shields. Hung on the wall was a real sword, short to fit her small frame, a birthday present from her uncle, she said.

The one doll she possessed was a crudely sewn stuffed horse that she had made herself, she told me with a pleased grin. She called it Folca, and though the poor creature could boast only button eyes and a mane and tail of yarn, she adored it. I know for a fact that to this day the little rag-stuffed horse remains in a chest in her bower, a memory of happier days.

I'm kissing the shadows you surround me with
To feel my pain vanishing away from me

So many memories are now shadows in my mind, dimly providing solace in these difficult days. I cherish every one of them as if they were the Great Jewels of lore; they sustain me and serve as a reminder that Éowyn is not as aloof and untouchable as she would have me believe. A child dwells yet in my memory, and this child's happiness remains somewhere within my lady. Like a butterfly it may be coaxed out from its hiding-place to take flight. But for now, these thoughts are enough.

For we are both dealers of the shadows: I creep among them and she rejects mine, while surrounding herself with her own. I cling to the past, and she tries to forget it. We are night and day, different and yet necessary for the other to be what it is. The Day needs the Night for release and freedom, just as the Night needs the Day for the hope of light.

You're touching the shadows I'm surrounding you with
So together in peace we shall be

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This lack of paragraph indentation is weird... I suppose I'll get used to it. Would anyone like to review?