Disclaimer: I do not own Éowyn, or the Lord of the Rings. I do own Lôgan, who I will work very hard to keep from becoming a Mary Sue.
A Shieldmaiden's Lot
by Andy Longwood
1
A Flower of Steel
The first time I saw her, I didn't know who she was. Someone's daughter, perhaps, a young wife, maybe, just another woman bidding fare-well to the men as they left for Helm's Deep. But even before I knew who she was, I knew she was different. She stood out from the rest of the fear-stricken people, hunched like blades of grass in a gale as they milled about Meduseld. Her stance alone, tall and proud, was enough to mark her as someone different from my beaten kinsfolk. Her impassive face as she watched the distant army striding across the horizon betrayed no fear, and she carried an air of strength and authority. Although she could not have been too much older than me, she had power in her gaze, and where she walked the crowds parted to let her pass. I could think of no reason they should not, for surely she must be important.
And she was beautiful. That alone was enough to separate her from the rest of the bent, weather-beaten, work-roughened Rohirrim left in Edoras. She walked with grace that belied her prowess as a warrior, sure-footed on the uneven streets and full of strength. She was like the flower one finds at the very end of winter, when the memory of warm days and blue skies has all but faded, a flower that by the very resilience of its straight stem and the beauty of its blossom seems to say "Though I have been buried for an age, here I am. I am surviving through adversity, and I will not stop until all that resists me has given way to spring, and the world has changed to suit my desire."
She was noble and fearless, and yet she walked among the people as if she were no better or worse than any of them.
I think I began to worship her then, even before I knew she was my princess.
I wanted to talk to her. Lonely as I was, I wanted to bask in the glow of her strength. If I was lucky, perhaps some of it would pass on to me, and I would not be so afraid of what lay ahead. But I was only Lôgan - Lôgan the peasant, Lôgan the homeless, Lôgan the dirty little girl who slept in barns and in the streets without even a horse to her name, because all that she had was dead or stolen, looted by orcs with helmets branded by a hand that was white as new milk.
Eventually, the woman in white turned and made her way through the parting Rohirrim to Théoden's hall, and I went in search of answers as to the identity of the lady without fear. I looked for a woman who had been kind to me, allowing me shelter in her barn when it rained and tossing me a crust of dry bread when she saw me on the streets. When I first stumbled into Meduseld, horseless and starving after fleeing my burning village with the dead faces of my family and the sight of my burning stable still fresh in my mind, I had looked to the noble for help. I searched for the clean and well-dressed in the hopes that my tearstained face and dirty visage would inspire some charity that they could almost certainly afford, but more often than naught all I received from them were uncomfortable glances and a speedy retreat from my filth and stench. The rich care not for beggars. Any charity I received came from the poor - the widowers and mothers with more children than lice, who could not possibly afford to give up the crusts of bread which I received from them, and yet each time said with all honesty that they wished they could offer me more. They were the ones I looked to for help. They knew what it felt like to starve.
I was prideful, at first. I hated begging, but I hated starving more. Still I accepted charity with shame every time, certain that I was disgracing my family. We had not been rich, but no matter what, we never, as a rule, begged. Before the Uruks, we didn't have much. After the Uruks, there wasn't even a "we."
I had gone to Meduseld because it was the only place I knew to go to. I had never been anywhere but my village, and the only path I knew would take me anywhere was the one that lead to the city of the king. I wandered down the path for nearly four days, my mind a blank slate of misery. In less than an hour, I had been left without a home, without a family, and without a horse. No Rohirrim could envision a more hopeless state.
I think that is why I immediately idolized the Lady Éowyn, even before I knew she was a daughter of kings and a shieldmaiden, even before her deeds on the Pelannor Fields gave her renown beyond her title as Théoden's niece. I lived in a constant state of terror and grief on the streets of an unfamiliar city, with word of a war that could destroy us all eating away at what was left of my courage, and there before my eyes was a woman who was perhaps as deep in hardship as any of her people but nevertheless would not bend in the face of adversity. More than anything, I wanted that strength. I wanted not to cry myself to sleep in someone else's barn each night. I wanted not to shame the memory of my parents by accepting food from people who needed it for their own children. I wanted to never feel helpless when someone stood against me. In an instant, Éowyn became everything I wanted for myself. In the months to come, she rose above my expectations of her strength and became everything I aspired to be.
I took the lack of fear I saw in her face for bravery.
It would be a long time before I realized that the fearlessness in Lady Éowyn's face had not been from courage, but from despair.
A Shieldmaiden's Lot
by Andy Longwood
1
A Flower of Steel
The first time I saw her, I didn't know who she was. Someone's daughter, perhaps, a young wife, maybe, just another woman bidding fare-well to the men as they left for Helm's Deep. But even before I knew who she was, I knew she was different. She stood out from the rest of the fear-stricken people, hunched like blades of grass in a gale as they milled about Meduseld. Her stance alone, tall and proud, was enough to mark her as someone different from my beaten kinsfolk. Her impassive face as she watched the distant army striding across the horizon betrayed no fear, and she carried an air of strength and authority. Although she could not have been too much older than me, she had power in her gaze, and where she walked the crowds parted to let her pass. I could think of no reason they should not, for surely she must be important.
And she was beautiful. That alone was enough to separate her from the rest of the bent, weather-beaten, work-roughened Rohirrim left in Edoras. She walked with grace that belied her prowess as a warrior, sure-footed on the uneven streets and full of strength. She was like the flower one finds at the very end of winter, when the memory of warm days and blue skies has all but faded, a flower that by the very resilience of its straight stem and the beauty of its blossom seems to say "Though I have been buried for an age, here I am. I am surviving through adversity, and I will not stop until all that resists me has given way to spring, and the world has changed to suit my desire."
She was noble and fearless, and yet she walked among the people as if she were no better or worse than any of them.
I think I began to worship her then, even before I knew she was my princess.
I wanted to talk to her. Lonely as I was, I wanted to bask in the glow of her strength. If I was lucky, perhaps some of it would pass on to me, and I would not be so afraid of what lay ahead. But I was only Lôgan - Lôgan the peasant, Lôgan the homeless, Lôgan the dirty little girl who slept in barns and in the streets without even a horse to her name, because all that she had was dead or stolen, looted by orcs with helmets branded by a hand that was white as new milk.
Eventually, the woman in white turned and made her way through the parting Rohirrim to Théoden's hall, and I went in search of answers as to the identity of the lady without fear. I looked for a woman who had been kind to me, allowing me shelter in her barn when it rained and tossing me a crust of dry bread when she saw me on the streets. When I first stumbled into Meduseld, horseless and starving after fleeing my burning village with the dead faces of my family and the sight of my burning stable still fresh in my mind, I had looked to the noble for help. I searched for the clean and well-dressed in the hopes that my tearstained face and dirty visage would inspire some charity that they could almost certainly afford, but more often than naught all I received from them were uncomfortable glances and a speedy retreat from my filth and stench. The rich care not for beggars. Any charity I received came from the poor - the widowers and mothers with more children than lice, who could not possibly afford to give up the crusts of bread which I received from them, and yet each time said with all honesty that they wished they could offer me more. They were the ones I looked to for help. They knew what it felt like to starve.
I was prideful, at first. I hated begging, but I hated starving more. Still I accepted charity with shame every time, certain that I was disgracing my family. We had not been rich, but no matter what, we never, as a rule, begged. Before the Uruks, we didn't have much. After the Uruks, there wasn't even a "we."
I had gone to Meduseld because it was the only place I knew to go to. I had never been anywhere but my village, and the only path I knew would take me anywhere was the one that lead to the city of the king. I wandered down the path for nearly four days, my mind a blank slate of misery. In less than an hour, I had been left without a home, without a family, and without a horse. No Rohirrim could envision a more hopeless state.
I think that is why I immediately idolized the Lady Éowyn, even before I knew she was a daughter of kings and a shieldmaiden, even before her deeds on the Pelannor Fields gave her renown beyond her title as Théoden's niece. I lived in a constant state of terror and grief on the streets of an unfamiliar city, with word of a war that could destroy us all eating away at what was left of my courage, and there before my eyes was a woman who was perhaps as deep in hardship as any of her people but nevertheless would not bend in the face of adversity. More than anything, I wanted that strength. I wanted not to cry myself to sleep in someone else's barn each night. I wanted not to shame the memory of my parents by accepting food from people who needed it for their own children. I wanted to never feel helpless when someone stood against me. In an instant, Éowyn became everything I wanted for myself. In the months to come, she rose above my expectations of her strength and became everything I aspired to be.
I took the lack of fear I saw in her face for bravery.
It would be a long time before I realized that the fearlessness in Lady Éowyn's face had not been from courage, but from despair.