Chapter 3. A Change in the Wind
Éowyn did not return to her translation for several weeks. In part, she was reluctant to read further—to pry into a private sorrow that had not been meant for sharing. But more than that, ill tidings had begun to darken the court, and the great hall of Meduseld grew quieter, its air thick with unease.
It was a stillness subtle and growing, like the hush before a shift in the wind. The court was more somber than it had been in springs past. Messengers came and went with greater haste, their faces drawn from long rides and the burden of darker tidings. Orcs had been sighted in the Wold and Eastfold—some even moving beneath the sun—harassing travelers, herdsmen, and scattered homesteads. Meanwhile, raids grew more frequent in Westfold, and the Dunlendings had begun to test the Fords of Isen, more boldly and more often. They were driven back, as in times before—but it was an ill sign.
"Crows gather where death lies," they say. But where was the corpse now? And what had stirred their hunger?
Éowyn felt it in the rhythm of her days. The stablemaster warned her that she was no longer to leave the city without escort. It had become harder to find partners in the training yard, for many had been sent out on errand—patrolling, for the most part. Éomer, as one of the King's Guard, had been appointed to oversee these duties, and it was now his charge to ensure the safety of the lands about Edoras.
Elfhild was still about, but she grew irregular in their daily sessions. When Éowyn asked, she only said it was duty that kept her—chores and burdens at home, now that her brother rode often with his éored.
Even the King's hall had changed. Where once she had sat in lively company at meals, now the table bore empty chairs. Théodred's place had not been properly warmed in days, and Éomer was abroad from sunrise until moonset more often than not. Only the King remained steadfast—and though he still sat tall in his great carved chair, his gaze turned often westward, to the Fords, and the borderlands beyond.
And yet, when he looked upon Éowyn, the light returned to his eyes.
"Come, daughter," he would say, beckoning her to his side as the day's business began. "These are matters for your ears as much as mine."
So she sat at his right hand in council, listened in silence as reports were given, and asked quiet, piercing questions only when the moment called for it. She was young by all reckoning; she neither interrupted, nor sought to impress, nor spoke out of turn.
Not all welcomed the change—her brother not least among them.
"You ought not be so exposed to all this," he said after one such meeting. "Talk of raids and border-scouts, of grain shortages and disloyal hill-clans—what good can it do you?"
"I learn," Éowyn replied simply.
"You are but fourteen," he said. "These are matters for those of fuller years."
"I will be older soon."
He hesitated, then his voice softened. "I would that you had more years of peace."
"I know." But she did not blink, nor did she step back—and that was when Théodred intervened, newly returned, weariness upon his brow, yet his voice calm and firm.
"Peace, brother," he said. "Much as we might wish it otherwise, the time has come. It does no good to keep her blind to the dangers of the world."
Éomer grimaced, but said no more.
Later, on the terraces behind the hall, Théodred found her seated alone.
"He means well," he said. "He does not wish to see you burdened. Nor do I."
"It is a burden I must share," Éowyn replied. "And I do not wish to be caged in gold while the world changes around me."
He smiled at that. "No cage would hold you long, little sister." Then he added, "Though I hope you do not also harbour thoughts of becoming a marshal—like our warrior-lady friend."
Indeed, she had begun to suspect that Elfhild was up to something—and her suspicion was soon proven true.
A few days later, a courier arrived with news. There had been an ambush near Snowbourn: two brigands, quick and vicious, who had sought to rob a merchant and his family on their way to Edoras. When the merchant was threatened with death, an unmarked rider appeared.
"He came out of nowhere," the messenger quoted the merchant. "Slim-built and swift. He struck the first down unawares, then turned his spear on the other. Before we could thank him, he was gone—riding hard toward the city. We thought we might find him and show our gratitude."
Éowyn heard the report just as she was about to resume her kitchen duty for the day—a compromise meant to placate her brother—laying out fresh spice leaves by the hearth. Elfhild rushed in then, panting, trailing a gust of cold air—and a faint scent of blood.
After a brief moment of surprise, understanding dawned, and Éowyn asked, incredulous—and more than a little thrilled, "Was that you?"
"Shhh," Elfhild hissed, casting a glance about. Then, lowering her voice: "I have been here, going over these—whatever these leaves are—with you."
Éowyn nodded, and swiftly tied an apron around her to conceal the bloodstain. By the time Théodred and Elfhelm entered, they were already absorbed in the tedious task of sorting herbs into baskets and jars.
"How fare things, little sister?" Théodred greeted her first, then cast a casual glance toward Elfhild. "It has been some while, Hild. What an extraordinary place to find you—you seem as deft with herblore as with warcraft."
Elfhild answered with a wide smile, dropping a bundle of Kingsfoil into a pile of sage. "You are most welcome to sample the new spice, my lord."
Théodred laughed. "I would consider it—if your brother were willing to taste it first."
Elfhelm coughed. "The King is waiting, lord." It was a tale well known in Edoras now—how Elfhelm had once forced his sister to cook, and how it had ended.
After they left, Éowyn could wait no longer. She pulled Elfhild aside, and when they were alone, she asked in a rush:
"It was you! How—how did you manage it? Was it dangerous? Was it…"
"Aye, it was," the elder maiden acknowledged, as a flicker of reluctance—and something colder, almost like revulsion—ghosted across her fair face. Only then did Éowyn notice that she was trembling a little beneath the apron—not with excitement, as she had first thought.
Silent for a time, she reached out and embraced her. And Elfhild held her in return.
When their heartbeats had settled, Elfhild returned to her usual self. Her eyes sparkled once more. "It was not so hard, truly. I was well prepared—armour, spear, horse—and it was over quickly."
"Did… did they bleed?" Éowyn asked, nodding toward the stain on her breeches.
Elfhild was silent for a moment. "Aye, they did. And they screamed." Another pause. "They were not Orcs. They were men."
"It is hard to take a life," Éowyn said quietly. "Éomer once told me so."
"Aye, and he was right in that." Elfhild nodded. "Your brother is too serious for my liking—but he is a good man, and he spoke true."
"And what sort of men do you favour?" Éowyn asked, hoping to change the subject and lift the mood. "I have heard the court girls whispering about Éomer—and Théodred, of course. What of the Prince?"
"The Prince is fine," Elfhild laughed. "I like him. But no—not him either."
"Why?" Éowyn pressed. "He is certainly not as serious."
"True," Elfhild agreed. "As I said, he is fine. But he is far too old—what, fourteen years older?" She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Though I wouldn't have minded it, if not for the rumour—" She stopped short.
And Éowyn, quick to catch it, narrowed her eyes. "What rumour?"
Elfhild hesitated, and it took no small amount of coaxing before she finally muttered, "They say the Prince has no liking for girls." Then, as Éowyn gasped, stunned, she added quickly, "He is kind, and he will offer compliments, jest, and tease and all that—but he has never shown any true interest in the maids of the Mark, not since he came of age. Some say it is an Elvish thing. The King's mother was said to be of Elven-blood, or near to it, after all."
Éowyn simply stared at her, mouth slightly parted.
Remembering then how Éowyn was kin to the King, Elfhild coughed, flushed with embarrassment—a rare sight indeed—and fled. Éowyn had never seen her so awkward.
But the mention of the King's lineage stirred something in her, calling to mind the task she had set aside. And part of Elfhild's words lingered still—her remark about age, and how it need not stand in the way.
So—it was possible to care for someone much older; Elfhild had said as much. And Théodred was seventeen years her elder—just as King Thengel had been to Morwen of Lossarnach. Yet she had always found him admirable, and dear to her heart—at times, even more than her own brother. Of course, it would not be the same with a spouse… but if fourteen years were no hindrance, could seventeen truly make such a difference?
She would find out. Whether the tale was as it had been told, or hid some darker thread, she resolved she would not let it be forgotten or buried. She would uncover it—and remember.
That night, she sat once more at her desk and resumed her endeavour. She had come far with the language since last she worked upon it. With little trouble, she parsed the next two paragraphs:
"They looked at me as one might look upon a mirror that reflects too clearly. Not with hatred—but with distance, and awe. I was too tall, too proud, too still. They called me cold, though they did not mean unkindness. For they valued warmth, quick laughter, and a manner unshadowed by doubt. They are loyal, fierce, full of songs and honour.
"Though they feared change—and I was change."
Notes:
I have no idea why Tolkien thought it natural for the heir to the throne of the Mark to remain unwed until 41—at least in Boromir's case, there was an explanation! I'll just blame the Elves, as we mortals so often do. (The explanation I came up with lives in my other fics, written in Chinese, but it's not important for this story.)