Luthein did not look in the best of health, so Eowyn spent a few minutes stroking the mare softly, feeding her the carrot she had brought. With a final pat on the muzzle, Eowyn explored the stable for a capable horse.

She expected many, but none met her approval. She was being peculiarly choosy today, for no particular reason. She wasn't in the best of dispositions, and she felt guilty and ashamed. There were no horses that could comfort her in the way she wanted, and she passed by mare and stallion without any interest, dismissive and slightly frustrated by her fruitless attempts. Acknowledging the empty stalls, she counted how many were on the hunt and missing. Five and twenty men, five and twenty stalls empty. She heard a restless neigh from the end of the long hall, and approached it in curiosity.

The last stalls were reserved for the king and his companions; obviously one had not accompanied him. She sucked in a breath as she viewed the stall, recognizing the horse instantly. It was the King Aragorn's; Brego, the horse of her deceased cousin who had taken an uncanny liking to the ranger from the north. She remembered their encounter, many years before. She had been enthralled with his voice as he wooed the horse from madness to calm, the elvish words spilling from his tongue as if magic. She had known no man with such a skill with horses, no man in Rohan seemed to have the influence that Aragorn had had on that day. Aragorn had ridden Brego faithfully since, and Brego would have none other.

For a moment she felt beckoned to defiance, to mount the stallion and ride him. She stepped forward and the horse did so as well, laying his fine nose in the hand. She reached up and patted the stallion on the back, grasping the loose hairs. Resignation took over; she stepped back and turned away, unwilling to acknowledge her sudden lack of courage. Perhaps it was sacrilegious to ride the horse. Once she thought better of it, it appeared a poor choice and a lack of judgment on her part.

In the end, she chose a strong-looking, eager stallion, but only out of pity. Though he looked like a fine horse, he was so set on being ridden it appeared he would tear the stall down. She put a blanket over him and put on his reins, and they were off.

Down the hill she galloped, her hair swirling out behind her. She realized she had forgot to pin it, and sighed. When she reached the main gates, she reared the stallion to a halt. He breathed heavily, impatiently, willing and eager to go.

"Who goes there?" Cried a watchman.

"It is Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, sister of the King. Open the gates!" She called hoarsely, watching her breath dissipate into the air.

"What is your purpose, Lady Eowyn?"

"A morning ride!" Was there need of such frivolity? She pulled the horse's reins back as he sought to move forward again. Her patience was tiring.

A man stepped down from the tower and made his way toward her. He had a tawny beard and his hair was wild, with a ruddy face and deep-set gray eyes. He was wearing the traditional uniform of a Rohan horseman. Far from intimidating, the man had a friendly look about him.

"Word in Edoras is that the White Lady is deathly ill," he said, grinning. "By the looks of you, it seems castle gossip."

"I assure you, it is," she replied. "Am I not to be let out of my own city?"

"Far from your own anymore, isn't it, Lady? Word has it you married the steward of Gondor, the Lord Faramir, is it?...and that you reside in Minas Tirith, and you have no need for the primitive lifestyle of the Rohirrim."

"Well, I had not heard it put that way," Eowyn said, smiling. "I indeed have married the Lord Faramir, and reside in Minas Tirith, but the ways of my people are still vital to my very existence."

"Aptly put, my Lady," the man said amiably. "But if that is true, is it also correct that the Queen of Gondor is dead, and the King is in the Golden Hall presently, with his son? I have heard many tales, ever since you came with the boy in that state."

Eowyn sighed. She did not want to begin any rumors, but she felt obligated to tell the man that what he had heard was true. "The Queen of Gondor is missing, and the King is trying to sort through the mess. Yes, indeed, he is in the Golden Hall, with the young prince."

"Word also has it that he did not come for his son, but to see you. There is the rumor of a romance between the both of you, ten years ago, and that you have hated the Queen Evenstar ever since."

Eowyn felt a chill descend over her body. "Is this the cause of the interference with my morning ride? To parley of silly rumors begotten from silly maids of the House of Eorl?"

"No offense meant, Lady," the man stepped back, slightly perturbed. "I did not believe it, I was just teasing you..."

"Then I advise you not to tease some one of higher rank," she replied coldly. "Cease this hindrance. Open the gates."

"Of course, my Lady," the ruddy man winked with a smile, and ran back.

The wink infuriated her even more. The stallion, feeling her disturbance, neighed impatiently. The gates swung open in due time, and Eowyn burst forth. The air whipped her face with its icy hand as she emerged into the valley.

Of course rumors had sprung, their small flames no doubt kindled by her own ambitions. Yes, she was forced to admit it, she had loved Aragorn, and wanted him passionately. As a young girl at the time, she had no idea what love was, and when it had hit her it seemed too powerful and too overwhelming to be passed by. He had been eighty seven; she had been a teenager. She had known nothing of Arwen Undomiel, his betrothed, who had wandered Middle Earth for several millennia. Arwen could give him what Eowyn could not: the sacrifice of her own immortality, but Eowyn had no idea of this. Her frustrated attempts for him to acknowledge her had driven her near mad, but there had been something there...or maybe it was an illusion of some sort, a strange mirage in her being. He was the oasis after the long, empty stretch of desert that Grima had presented to her in witchcraft.

Aragorn had saved her from the evil man, and she had loved him for it. When she stole glances at him, she had imprinted his every feature in her mind. She thought she had caught him glancing at her as well, and it was probably pity, but then she had taken it for a mutual feeling of love. What a fool she had been, but it did not seem to be only her. Theoden had encouraged it...he had seemed to notice the tension, the attraction, and he had enjoyed seeing her happy. With his approval, everything could have been perfect. Aragorn had let her be herself, appreciated her feelings of being caught, appreciated her willingness for glory. When he refused her, she had known no greater sorrow. It was as if part of her had died...as it was when Theodred died, and later, when she saw Theoden's crushed body and wept. It had been one of her motivations to ride out with the Rohirrim on the Pelennor Fields. She had proved herself, however—proved who she was, and what she was capable of. Merry had helped her—she did owe it to him, but it was her thrust of the sword that had saved them all from the Witchking. He would have wrought greater evils if she had not been there that day.

Yet still she had been denied. Her arm was permanently damaged, yet she had worked tirelessly to bring it back to an acceptable shape. She was forced to stay behind by Aragorn, to stand and watch as the heroes left for the final battle against Sauron. She had not been there to watch Barad-Dur fall, or Sauron's demise, or know that Frodo and Sam had survived the peril of Mordor. She had only sat in calm orchards, inexorable fear swelling in her heart, as she waited for a tide of Orcs to reclaim Minas Tirith in ultimate doom or the return of the victorious king. It was in those weeks she had given up everything she had wanted for, her willingness for glory subsiding as she took on the role of virtuous housewife. She had condemned herself to the very fate she had hoped to avoid. Good god, she had hoped to avoid it. Now her life was intertwined with restless and lost woman. She could not turn back now. She had a child to raise and a role to live up to as Faramir's wife.

Dear, dear Faramir. He had loved her so much. She had no bad feelings towards him, but she was not infatuated with him either. She was happy in his presence, as long as Aragorn was not there to remind her of all her other feelings. Faramir was a good man, and she did love him, in a different way—as a friend and companion, and sometimes in desire. But with Aragorn the feeling was overwhelming, almost impossibly so. Whenever in his presence she felt beckoned by some strange force of lust, and at the same time pulled back by guilt. She could not be around Aragorn anymore, or she would be driven mad. The path she had chosen did not give her any room to stray away from being a dutiful wife and mother, and though the knowledge infuriated her, she was forced to admit it was true.

The only thing Theoden had asked of her was to smile again. And she had, in her marriage to Faramir—it was a sense of utter tranquillity that calmed her soul and smoothed over her wild impulses. For a few years it was almost as if she could be around Aragorn and feel nothing. She had smiled again, but now the smile was disappearing from her face. Haunted by inner demons and cursed by memories, a darkness was swelling around her, and she felt threatened by an imminent loss of sanity.

She had been riding nowhere, neither encouraging the horse nor directing it, and now a sense of purpose came over her—there was something she needed to do. She reared the stallion, and galloped into the other direction, toward the funeral mounds. She needed to pay someone a special visit. For once, the voice of the dead might be of some comfort to her.

The funeral mounds looked exactly the same as they always had from afar; too strategically placed to be naturally occurring, too covered in Symblemyne to be regular mounds. She had always loved Symblemyne, even as a little girl. When Theoden had seen her weaving the delicate white flower in her braids, he had told her, "Yes, daughter, they suit you. You truly are our White Lady of Rohan—pale, cold, distant, Symblemyne in your golden hair." The title had followed her ever since. Later, when Eowyn had learned the white flower's connotation with death and funeral mounds, she had abandoned it. She had also stopped coming to the funeral mounds, because it reminded her of her father, and her mother, who she had barely known. The mounds symbolized her ancestry, the dead and deceased, and these haunted her incessantly. Eowyn noted the few occasions she had come back, out of duty and reverence: her last three trips had included visiting the mounds...she had sung here, at Theodred's funeral, the harsh wind burning her eyes and its unspilt tears, and Theoden had been buried here. Theoden was the King, and this was his Place—she had insisted upon his burial here, not on some foreign soil.

Lost in thoughts, she dismounted, and stared at the cold grey stone. Symblemyne climbed up its sides, perching on top, moving gently in the wind. Whispers and songs hung in the air about her, left unspoken and unsung, haunting memories. She bent and picked one of the white flowers, and stared at it. How could it be so simple and beautiful, so cool to the touch? How could something as mild and tangible as this signify so much? She dropped it, and knelt, and stared, disoriented. Time seemed to stall.

"Uncle..." She breathed in hesitantly. It was hopeless, speaking to the dead. "Can you not see my face?" She looked up to the sky, biting back tears. "I am not smiling."

There was no response; she had expected none.

"I have failed you," a tear forced itself from her eye, ebbing its fall down her face. "And it pains me. Will you not forgive me?"

Did the dead even hear their voices?

"I am lost. I do not know what to do. Is there nowhere left for me to go? Is there nothing more for me to do? Will I ever find peace?"

The unearthly silence was agonizing.

"Will you not forgive me?" She cried, and sobs, unbidden, escaped from her lips. She fell upon the ground, and let herself cry, offering herself no restraint.

When she was done, the wind still blew cold against her face, and in the air, all around her, hung the unsung songs and unspoken whispers. She wiped the tears from her face, and felt no shame. No voice had spoken to her in her misery, but for her own. The dead did not consult with the living: it was not in their class. Her own voice had consoled her, her own sanity had shown forth. No sudden epiphany, however—no great beckoning from the gods. It was still cold. Yet for the time, she was peaceful, and knew her immediate purpose. She mounted the horse, and galloped away, and silenced her argumentative daemons.