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Éowyn Queen closed the door to her eldest daughter’s bedchamber as quietly as possible, attempting not to disturb the still tranquility of Meduseld. Ernhild was finally put to sleep via a draught, having begged her mother to stay with her that evening. The young woman was devastated; her dearest friend Leofara had gotten married to one of the dashing Riders of the Hall, borne away to a matrimonial life and leaving childish things behind. Ernhild and she had always been close; the lonely princess had discovered the peasant girl when they were both but four years old.
Éowyn remembered it well; back then, she had been once more with child — with Hildwyn, in fact — and Ernhild had transformed dramatically at the news. The dark-haired little girl had been utterly devoted to her mother until then, much to Gríma’s chagrin and Éowyn’s annoyed amusement, and once Ernhild had learned that she was no longer to be the center of her parents’ attention, she became withdrawn and solitary.
Her first meeting with Leofara was Éowyn’s doing quite by accident. in order to cheer her daughter, the Queen had brought her along on one of her travels throughout the country, thinking that the new adventure and change of scenery would do the little girl some good. And in one small village, Ernhild had indeed met her mate near the banks of a river, playing in the weeds.
Éowyn smiled to herself, remembering that once she had finished her meeting with the village representative for the day and had bought a rare quill for Gríma, she had discovered two mud-covered children chasing each other gleefully, pretending to sword-fight with reeds by the water banks. She had laughed heartily that afternoon, realizing that one of them was Rohan’s heiress — acting like a perfect heathen, much as Éowyn did herself when she was a child. When it had been time to return home to Meduseld, Ernhild and Leofara’s parting was rather touching — the pair of them seemed inseparable, and Ernhild had been sullen the entire way back to Edoras.
Once they had arrived at the Hall, Ernhild all but ignored Éowyn, rushing instead to her father for once and embraced his robes, hiding her face in them. Gríma had been entirely surprised, and that night, Éowyn had discussed with him the events that occurred whilst away from the court, including Ernhild’s new friend; how their daughter appeared to be the happy girl of old whilst in the village girl’s presence.
And so, they made arrangements for the family to move to Edoras, so that Leofara could be Ernhild’s playmate and companion. They would receive sturdier lodgings, exposure to education and an overall better life than the one they had back in their tiny village. As expected, Leofara's family had immediately agreed, and within the next month, the two girls were together again, remaining that way for years to come. Ernhild had flourished alongside her companion, who would often accompany her to festivals and dances in Meduseld’s Great Hall. The two would practice every new dance with each other, would read the same books and discuss them at length during court mealtimes, and would take trips together to patron the arts and perform other charities within the city and its surrounding villages…
And then, this very afternoon…
The Queen of Rohan let out a long sigh. Today had been truly awful. Normally so serious and moderately tranquil, Ernhild had unleashed something ugly that had been festering within her for years. Both the young woman and her father shared the same temperament, that was for certain. The pair of them tended to bottle things inside until the pressure became too great, and the resultant explosion was an onslaught of feeling so intense that it took a firm, careful hand to steady them once more.
And this time, once her daughter had explained everything to her — including a few unknown, shocking secrets — Éowyn surmised that perhaps Ernhild was not entirely in the wrong for her actions today. If she were to be truthful with herself, she might have done the exact same thing when put into her daughter’s perspective of the world. Ernhild was still seventeen, after all…and friendship between two vastly different classes was a precarious thing to navigate, what with the power imbalance having a tangible presence at all times…
Biting her lip, Éowyn stepped lightly toward hers and Gríma’s chambers, eager to sleep. It was nearly midnight, but he would most likely still be awake, wondering how everything was. On the way, however, she stopped again to check on her youngest, who was still suffering from yet another cough. Easing open Sunnette’s door, Éowyn poked her head in to gauge how the girl was faring. It was hot, humid in the room, and smelled of medicine, but as far as she could make out, Sunnette’s blonde head lay on her pillow, her frail body resting peacefully, most likely aided by the deep pot of water simmering in the grate. The steam seemed to aid her lungs, and the herbs boiling within released their oils into the steam, soothing her breaths.
Éowyn stepped inside, just for a minute. With all of the turmoil this night involving Ernhild, she had not given much thought to her other two daughters. She had ushered them to Gríma once she had heard Ernhild’s vicious struggle beyond closed doors. Now, after everything was over with for the day, a familiar, fierce protectiveness was bubbling within her. Her daughters were precious to her, even more precious than Gríma himself — although she never had and never would say as much to him, for she knew he did not share the same philosophy — and she would not let anything harm her girls while she still lived to do something to ease their pain.
She and Gríma worried constantly about Sunnette. The child had been born too early and was nearly dead; in fact the midwife had thought the babe a stillborn until they had heard the belated cries. Being a feeble baby, delicate and sickly, many Healers had warned them that she would most likely die in infancy or early childhood; that Éowyn and Gríma had to prepare themselves for the worst at any time. Yet, the girl lived on, seemingly determined to survive anything, even the most dreadful illnesses — with which she was afflicted one after the next — and still lived to her eleventh year. This year.
Éowyn crept over to her young one’s bedside, grinning faintly at the thin white hand clutching her toy horse as if her life depended on it. Sunnette feared horses as much as anyone else feared orcs, yet she was enthralled by them, always preferring to watch them from a distance, to sketch them galloping on vellum paper…to fearlessly adore a less terrifying, stuffed, button-eyed version every night.
Éowyn reached out a hand to remove a dangling blonde tendril from the tiny, flushed face. It was a marvel how similar Sunnette and Gríma looked; the girl miraculously inherited her own bright, blonde hair and cleft chin; but her face, her bone structure and ice-blue eyes were all Gríma’s. It was almost unnatural, yet continuously fascinating. The girl even possessed a daintier version of his nose.
But she was sleeping soundly without repeatedly coughing up phlegm for the first night in weeks, and Éowyn was loathed to disturb her anymore. Silent, she stepped out, shut the door and resumed her pace down the halls.
Leaning against the inside of the thick oaken doors to the Royal Bedchamber, Éowyn let her head fall back against the cool, solid wood, exhaling noisily.
“How fares Ernhild?” came the concerned query from the bed. “Is she finally resting?”
Éowyn yawned suddenly, nodding through the inelegant process. “Yes,” she replied wearily, blinking away her eyes’ moisture that formed with tiredness. “She took the draught, too exhausted to stay awake anymore. I am quite of like mind with her now…Oh, and while passing, I looked in on Sunnette, for her room was silent within; she is breathing normally again. And I spared Hildy a mother’s ‘unbearable nosiness,’ as she would put it.”
Gríma put aside the papers he had been looking over in bed, removing his reading lenses and patted her side insistently, eager and solicitous. Éowyn smiled blearily and went to him, all but shuffling under the furs and sheets, wrapping an arm about his middle and burying her face in his neck. The skin there was looser than it had been nearly two decades earlier, but he still smelled the same, still breathed and sounded the same…
“We had taken refuge in the kitchens,” he informed her, answering her unuttered query, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close. “The servants, including Ernhild’s insufferable nurse, had been loitering about, doubtlessly wishing for some piece of gossip to share, so I had dismissed them for the night. There were also apples and a honeyed goat’s-cheese in the palace larders there that the girls desired, and the remainder of their evening was spent in the pursuit of mastering chess.”
“It was good of you to distract them.” She murmured appreciatively. “I could see that Sunnette seemed particularly shaken.”
“As was Hildwyn.”
“Really? She seemed…admirably unruffled.”
“She restrains her fear whenever you are present. She enjoys having you think her strong. In the kitchens, an odd solemnity hung about her which was most telling to her state of mind.”
“…Oh.”
Silent for a minute or two, Gríma caressed her hair, undoing the knots. “I suppose a long discussion was had between you and our eldest.” He eventually prompted, gentle. “Ernhild made quite a scene today.”
Éowyn nodded slightly, digging her nose into his throat, relishing the warmth of his skin on her brow, easing the tension there. “Mm. She was beside herself. It was a wonder she even let me in the room tonight. She would see no one else.”
“I know it.”
She sighed and moved her hand soothingly across his abdomen. “You needn’t sound so bitter. You know you are Hildwyn’s and Sunnette’s. They adore you, even if Hildy shuns us in times of anger. Hers is the common age for such conduct, and she is like me, as you said; you know that she is just brash, hotheaded and enjoys rebellion. We mustn’t think too much of it now. But Ernhild…well, we always knew this was her way, ever since she was born. In her infancy she would whimper and cry in response to everyone but I. Even you could not hold her for too long. It was…tiring. I had to carry her, a babbling baby, everywhere for her to be even remotely happy. You remember.”
“I do.” He sighed and began massaging her neck the way she liked it, and she knew he smiled at her hum of pleasure. “She was always very taken with you, as is natural. It is a good thing now that she is.”
“Yes…” Éowyn kept her eyes closed, enjoying his touch. “She has…relieved a secret of hers tonight that she has carried internally for years…”
His fingers halted, and she moued in annoyance, nuzzling him in signal to resume his handiwork. Gríma resisted for the moment. “What secret is this? Has she taken a lover? She never seemed interested in such things before.”
Éowyn wanted to laugh at his overly nonchalant manner and his redirection of the topic. “No, Grím. Nothing in the way that you are thinking. And we, of all couples, would not have any right to scold her for it if she had.”
“What, then?” he questioned a tad irritably, annoyed that her levity was at his expense. “What grave, monumental secret must she so carefully conceal from her own parents?”
The Queen of Rohan settled herself liquidly against him, and spoke calmly, “Merely that she is desperately in love with her friend.”
Gríma had stilled, quite possibly startled. “You mean…?”
Éowyn peered up at him meaningfully as best she could from her niche in his neck. “The way a man loves a woman, or a woman a man, yes.”
He blinked widely, and let out a breath. “Well…that explains much. Especially what occurred earlier today.”
“It does.”
“You seem hardly vexed.”
“I have been discussing it with her for five hours, and had lain with her, resting and whispering, for four more before she finally accepted the draught. She had wept and screamed and thrown things beforehand as well; you all heard her. Half her dresses are ripped and burned, her writings torn and scattered…her bedchamber is a mess…”
Both were rather somber for a moment, until Gríma delicately cleared his throat. “If there was any doubt that she is our daughter —”
Éowyn snorted inelegantly, giving his chest a good swat. “You are insufferable, Grím. To think that your fatherly pride would be stoked from such a horrific, painful display…Truly, I believe slicing off the Nazgul’s head required less courage of me than entering that room…”
“I was insinuating nothing of the sort. Your imagination was always more fruitful than the rest.”
A loud scoff escaped her. “And yet still you spew your pretty lies with a silver tongue, my beloved serpent. After all of these years! Would you still recite such fallacies with which to annoy me until we are old and decrepit?”
“I shall always obey my Lady’s wishes.”
“Oh, you are bold tonight, aren’t you? Take care not to anger your Queen, Councillor, for she has slain foes far fiercer than yourself!”
A peal of high-pitched laughter escaped him, and he pulled her over his prone form, angling her head for a long, gentle kiss. “Truly you are a magnificent creature, Éowyn,” he whispered tenderly, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know not what we would all do without you.”
She grinned sleepily, too tired to match his magnitude of feeling. Already she had dealt with more despair and self-loathing and consuming love than she cared for in a single day. “Most likely die from lack of attention, although I suppose poor Sunnette would provide as much sympathy as she could,” she provoked lightly, running her fingers through his hair, noting the prominent streaks of grey settling in already. “I would wash tomorrow, if I were you.”
“I had been planning on it.” A slow grin crept to his lips as he locked her gaze to his own.
Éowyn smirked, “Ah, I see your intent, husband. I would like that very much, provided that you supply the necessary accoutrements. I prefer your teas to the pessary. And we shall need another goat’s bladder soon.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling, closing them in blissful agreement. “Most assuredly. No need for yet another howling screamer.”
She laughed; a relieved, squawking laugh that brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, indeed,” she concurred whilst sitting up and wiping the trails on her cheeks, a few residual bitter chuckles escaping her. “Oh, my poor, poor Ern…”
Gríma hushed her as he slipped out of bed and headed over to her dressing table, collecting her comb before returning, sitting behind her. “Shh. None of that, my sweet.” He began to gather all her hair, combing it faithfully. “A long time will pass until she is free from her sorrow. It is even heavier a loss than I imagined, but she will survive it with you as her mother.”
Éowyn hummed, sniffling and running her hand along her nose to impede the running moisture. “I hope so. Sometimes I feel that I should never have become a mother at all…I had not wished for it in the first place…”
“You are wonderful at it, if that pleases you.” He replied neutrally from behind her. “Not many would tolerate much of what our daughters do without severe punishment. You meet with understanding what others would with beatings and humiliation.”
She shuddered, both at his quiet reminder and the delicious comb-teeth scraping her scalp. “You are right, Grím, of course. I am just…Recently, I have been so unsure if what I do is the right thing anymore…”
“You never were before,” he dropped a kiss to her exposed shoulder, where her favorite nightdress had slipped. “And truly, I do not think you need to be. As Ruler of Rohan, you are just, fair, and generous. The people love you for it. From my observations and counsel, these qualities extend to our family as well. It always was, and continues to be wondrous to witness you in action.”
“Be that as it may, it is quite a separate thing; all three girls are so different from one another. What one wants the other despises, what one believes the other belittles…Sunnette is the only peacemaker, but she is often grave and quiet like a mouse, often saying nothing — a concept that is…difficult for me to understand, even after eleven years —”
“Were you not just reassuring me upon this matter mere minutes ago?” he questioned gently. “I shall recite in turn, then, that you must not think too much of it. You know your fears are shared, Éowyn...I am most likely not the ideal father —”
“You are a wonderful father!” was the indignant interruption.
He smiled and pressed a kiss to her hair at that. “While I thank my Queen for the compliment, I too partake in these misgivings. Our girls will endure trials for which we are not prepared, but they have survived so far. Ernhild seems to have turned a corner tonight and it is likely she will rally if I know anything about her, Hildwyn is growing steadily — very much as you did, and I would remind you of your life’s successes to this day — and Sunnette is careful, serene and still alive. I will simply say that all things considered, we have done fairly well together. Wouldn’t you agree?” Dividing her hair into three long sections, he meticulously began to build a braid.
Éowyn opened her eyes at that, spotting him across in the mirror from her dressing table. Her Councillor was in earnest; his face looking almost like it had so very long ago, when he had promised to better himself for her.
It seemed her trusted advisor was still determined to be her constant.
Biting her lip to hide her wide grin, Éowyn turned back to him and nodded.
The side of his mouth quirked upwards, and he then grasped the crown of her head, firmly directing her back towards the mirror, resuming the braid.
She rolled her eyes, but kept her position until he was finished, sitting with her legs crossed. “We have been married for nineteen years,” she realized suddenly.
“That we have.” Was his amused response.
“We are ancient.”
She heard the high peak of laughter again before he managed, “I believe I have more reason to feel as such than you, my Lady.”
Her lips pressed together, hiding another grin from the mirror. “I rather like you with gray in your hair. It suits you. Especially those streaks just above your ears.”
“Oh, you think so, do you?”
“It makes you look dignified.”
“That is one term for it, I suppose…”
“Do not be that way. Your face has barely changed. I am the one whom should complain on that front; there are lines around my mouth, and creases at my eyes…hardly a fair maiden anymore. I am blonde, so of course in another decade or so my own hair will be as white as Gandalf’s own, whilst I suspect yours will simply be a dark grey at most, if that. Dunlending hair tends not to turn…”
“Perhaps, but you shall still be fairer than any woman of any race that I have ever encountered. Long, gleaming white hair would be lovely on you,” he tied a ribbon at the end of her braid, moving it aside to pepper kisses along her neck. “My very own wintry goddess of Rohan.”
She snorted. “More a wintry crone, I should imagine. You yourself will not be much better by then anyway. At least then I shall have that comfort…” Another yawn overtook her.
His low chuckling in her ear reverberated down her spine, and her skin prickled with gooseflesh. “I look forward to it,” he whispered, bestowing a last kiss beneath her ear. “But since we are already such ancient folk, and that the hour has grown ever later, shall we to bed?”
In lieu of a verbal response, Éowyn sunk to her pillows without ceremony, moaning gratefully against the cool linens and warm furs that her husband covered them with, longing to plunge into the deepest slumber. “Ahhh.”
“Hm.” He agreed, blowing out the few candles that had supplied the light thus far. She felt him shuffle about until he too found a comfortable position, the movement of the bed underneath lulling her closer to sleep.
But still, in the darkness, her hand moved and felt about, until his own enfolded it, squeezing once, fondly.
And finally, lips quirking, Éowyn knew nothing more.