Chapter Two:

How strange life was, how fickle fate. Naught but an hour earlier, Éowyn believed her Doom upon her and her hand—her very life, body and soul, given—nay cast away irrevocably to Gríma son of Gálmód. Yet now, by the grace of a wizard and three strangers to the Mark all had changed; Théoden King restored, Éomer released, Wormtongue exposed for the traitor he was and exiled leaving Éowyn free—free!

Numb she felt and strangely detached as one awoken too abruptly from deep slumber. She waited on the king and his guests but could only stare mutely at those about her. She prayed her wits would soon return before anyone's attention fell on her.

Her eyes traveled to the Dwarf as he belched loudly, wiping his lips with his beard. Now here was one she felt comfortable with, despite the fact she had never met a Dwarf before. Yet his ways and speech were familiar and comforting in their coarse, earthy manner. The others she simply could not fathom.

That she was grateful to Gandalf and the change he had wrought in her uncle went without saying; but the wizard came on the winds of change. At last, the Rohirrim stirred to action against Saruman, and if she did not think fast, she would find herself left in the dust of their passing.

Now that she was free of Wormtongue, she would suffer none to cage or restrain her again. She would choose her own course now. At last, she deemed, came the hour of the shieldmaiden. When she might join her kinsman and win renown in brave deeds and battle.

Again, her eyes lingered on the Elf and Dúnedan. Two more different in looks and demeanor, one would be hard pressed to find; and yet, they were strangely similar.

The Elf, silent and grave, studied all about him, his eyes deep and unfathomable. Every gesture bespoke grace and control. He was sleek as a newly forged blade and just as deadly—of that she had no doubt. She wondered what such a being of light and perfection made of her people and their rough ways.

The Dúnedan—could one believe he was truly Isildur's heir—was also the epitome of control and strength. However, an air of wildness clung to him that spoke of power barely restrained. He charged the air with the very vitality of his presence and fair took her breath away. How she would love to see this one unfettered in battle. How noble and fierce, how valiant and strong, how—Éowyn's heart hammered in her breast. Yes, here was such a one she would be proud to call her Lord. One to whom she would be proud to bind herself.

The king now rose, startling Éowyn from her reverie. Swiftly she poured wine and came forward. "Ferthu Théoden hál," she said. "Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour; health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

Théoden drank and she dutifully proffered the cup to the guests. The Dwarf winked at her as she took back the cup, nearly startling a smile from her. When she came to the Elf, he inclined his head and she found herself glancing away from his unnerving eyes, as if from too bright a light. Her reaction seemed to amuse him and a soft smile graced his lips. Oddly enough, Éowyn took no offence; after all, it was not every day one looked a living legend in the eye.

As she stood before Aragorn, she paused suddenly and looked upon him with shining eyes. He looked down upon her and smiled and her knees went weak. As he took the cup, his hands met hers and she trembled at the touch. "Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn!" she said breathlessly. "Hail Lady of Rohan!" he replied but his face was now troubled, the smile fading from his lips.

"Behold! I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding," said Théoden, "to someone I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?"

Silence fell.

"Is there none whom you would name; in whom do my people trust?"

"In the House of Eorl." answered Háma proudly.

"But Éomer I cannot spare, and he is last of that House."

"I said not Éomer," answered Háma. "Nor is he the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted, and all love her."

Éowyn's heart lurched, as yet again the gleam of gilded bars flashed before her mind's eye. She felt as if a heavy yoke settled about her shoulders as she bowed her head and knelt dutifully before her king. Though the shadow of despair filled her heart once more, she received from Théoden's hand a sword and corselet.

"Farewell sister-daughter!" said Théoden. "Mayhap we shall return to the Golden Hall but if we fail, lead our people to Dunharrow there may they long defend themselves."

"Speak not so!" she answered. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until you return." Though she spoke to her uncle, her eyes strayed to Aragorn who stood nearby.

"The King shall come again," he said. "Fear not."

Alone Éowyn stood before the doors of Meduseld. She stood straight and proud in her mail coat, her sword upright before her, the pommel chill against her skin. Silently she watched the company pass away towards the gate.

"Ferthu Théoden hál." she whispered. Éowyn's breath caught as one man turned as if hearing her words. The keen grey eyes of Aragorn son of Arathorn met hers across the court. Long they held each other's eyes, weighing the other's heart and mind. However, Aragorn it was who at last broke the glance. The wind whipped in that high place, knifing through the Lady of Rohan's soul, ripping it to shreds.

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