Chapter Text
The sun had not yet risen but the sky was already the deep sapphire that came just before dawn. She was late. The Rohirrim were already gathering in the yard, loud and excited. The voices of men made a low, rumbling background over which Éowyn could hear the clang of steel being tested and the heavy hoof stamps of restless horses. She looked around as she passed through, but it seemed her cousin was not among them. He must yet be preparing Windfola. Éowyn wrapped her cloak more securely about her shoulders and hurried toward the stables, the frost-crusted grass crunching beneath her boots.
She was dressed to ride: breeches and a wool tunic, her hair tied back with a plain leather band. Her armor was stashed in the tack cabinet in Hoarfrost's stall, close at hand for when Théodred gave in and let her go to war with him. She knew she would have to prepare quickly, giving him no reason to regret his choice.
The stable doors were open, the place alive with activity. Horses whinnied and stamped, as eager as their riders to be heading out to battle. The air smelled of horses and the smoky oil of the lanterns that hung on the walls. Éowyn's own horse stretched his neck as she passed, nickering softly. Éowyn paused briefly before his stall, unable to ignore him. She rubbed her hand over the horse's velvety nose. “Be patient, Hoarfrost. If all goes well, we shall go, too.”
Windfola's stall was in the back, next to where Snowmane grew fat and impatient for his master to return to him. She slipped in to visit her uncle's horse first, fishing a wrinkled apple from her pocket. She always brought him treats these days. He was cared for and exercised while the king was ill – no horse was neglected or mistreated in Rohan – but she knew it wasn't the same as seeing his beloved Théoden again.
The beautiful white horse took the apple from her palm. He crunched softly as she stroked his neck. “I miss him, too,” she murmured close to the animal's ear.
Her uncle, as dear as a father to her, had not been himself in what seemed to her a very long time, though she could not pinpoint just when the decline had begun. Three years ago at least, probably earlier. He was not a young man – threescore and ten his last name day – but still so alive and vibrant in her memories that she could not reconcile them with the paper-skinned shadow he had become.
“You are a mighty warrior,” she whispered in Snowmane's ear. “You will see battle again, one day.” It was something that the Riders said to soothe their mounts during the dull, wistful days of peace. The horses of Rohan were fighters in their own right; it was something the whole country took pride in. Nowhere else in Arda were there horses such as these, horses who ran eagerly into battle, horses who knew when to swerve and jump and trample, protecting their riders to the ends of their lives, if need be. “You are the mightiest of all our horses.” She might have said more, but her cousin's voice in the next stall distracted her. She peeked through the slats and was surprised to see her brother's back only inches away.
“No, Éomer,” Théodred was saying, his expression troubled as he layered a mask of bronze scale mail over Windfola's sweet grey face. “We discussed this last night.”
“If we are indeed at war with Saruman, then my place is by your side, cousin!” Éowyn couldn't see her brother's face, but his voice was passionate, his movements agitated. He wore his mail, the bright horse-tail of his helm bobbing furiously from its place beneath his arm.
“I asked you to come back to Edoras because I need you here,” Théodred told her brother firmly.
“You need my sword!” the young man countered furiously.
Théodred glanced around, trying to be certain they were not overheard. He gripped Éomer's arm, pulling him close. “In truth, I do,” he said in a low voice. It seemed to Éowyn that it pained him to admit it. “Saruman is wiley and sharp. I suspect a trap.”
Éowyn's gasp of surprise was masked by Éomer's own intake of breath. “Then allow me to come,” he pleaded earnestly.
Théodred dropped his arm and stepped back, shaking his head wearily. “I am not your king,” he conceded. “You have taken no oath to obey me. But, Éomer,” his voice became urgent, “as your cousin, I ask you. As your friend. For all that lies between us, do this for me. Keep watch over matters here.”
It was true that Théodred was not their king, and no oaths had been sworn to him, but Éowyn knew that Éomer was bound to him just the same. With King Théoden ill and unable to command, the Riders of the Mark followed his son in his his place. A king in all but name. For a long moment, silence stretched between the two men, so alike in both face and bearing, and even the noise of the army preparing seemed to fall into the background. Éowyn found herself holding her breath, waiting for her brother's answer.
Then Éomer's head bowed. For a moment he looked formal and respectful, but Éowyn knew him too well. In the the slump of his shoulders, she read defeat; in the long shudder of a sigh, she heard petulance. “You are my prince,” her brother said at last, his words gracious even as his tone sounded hollow. “I will, of course, do as you bid me.”
Windfola snorted and stamped her foot, as though trying to remind the men that there were more pressing matters at hand. Théodred ran a hand over her silky neck, making soothing noises beneath his breath. “Keep two eyes on Gríma,” he told Éomer urgently. “Without me, there is none but you who will stand between him and Éowyn.”
Éowyn's eyes widened and she had to stifle a noise of surprise.
When Éomer spoke, his voice was hard. “I too, have seen how he watches her,” he said. “And I like it no more than you. But I am comforted: she is twice the warrior he is.”
Their cousin nodded. “Éowyn is as fine a fighter as many men here,” he agreed in a low voice, “but surely you've seen how the worm's tongue does its work. He talks a slippery path, leading men – even strong and powerful men – into his darkness. What damage he could do to an innocent girl like your sister, I have no wish to find out.”
Éowyn did not know how to feel, hearing them speak of her. It was true that Gríma had seemed always nearby lately, skulking in shadows and watching from doorways. She was glad that Théodred had taken note, that he was not entirely blind to her. On the other hand, she did not appreciate being watched over like a babe in the nursery.
“He has your father's ear,” Éomer said.
“Which is why you must never leave them alone,” Théodred told him. “I fear that warning Éowyn would only make her careless, and threatening Gríma will send him, whispering, to my father's side.”
Careless? Gríma was no fighter; Éowyn saw no reason to be afraid of him. Let him look. Let him linger. He dared not come close. She would cut down any man who tried to touch her without consent, and the men of the Mark knew it.
“Surely you see that the only real protection for her is marriage,” Éomer said casually, reaching down to secure a guard around Windfola's front leg.
Théodred froze, and Éowyn rocked forward onto her toes, eager to see his reaction. There had never been any formal discussions linking him to her, but for all Éowyn's life, it had seemed only a matter of time. She had believed for as long as she could remember that they were simply waiting until her coming of age to be formally betrothed. But then, when she had finally reached her twentieth name day, her uncle had been ill for months and Saruman was already nipping at their borders – so weeks went by with no mention of a betrothal, no hint of a union. And then months. And now years.
It was true that Théodred had done nothing specifically to encourage such ideas, but he had never opposed them, either. Chiefly, he had never sought a connection elsewhere, though as heir to the kingdom he had responsibility of raising a family. And he was always good to Éowyn, as kind and affectionate as any woman would want in a husband. Warmth spread through her as she watched him, wondering exactly what thoughts were in his head.
“There is no time for that,” Théodred said shortly.
“Perhaps not,” Éomer conceded. “But a strong husband will do more to deflect Gríma's ambitions than aught else.” The men shared a long look, and Éowyn could not decipher what was said in that unspoken communication.
Then Théodred turned. “I fear it is not ambition that moves him,” he said, his voice quiet and muffled. “Éowyn has become a beautiful woman.”
Her brother barked a derisive laugh. “You think he would risk his place for desire?” he scoffed.
Turning back to study him for a long moment, Théodred smiled grimly. “You are still a child, my cousin,” he said. “The madness of desire has driven men to that and worse. Clearly, you have not yet met the right woman.”
Éowyn watched her brother shake his head, imagined the eye roll that accompanied it. “You must be right, for I care more for females on four legs than for those on two,” he said, running his hand affectionately down Windfola's flank. She nickered softly at the touch. “But I will do as you bid me. I will keep that Wormtongue far from my sister.”
Éowyn's heart pounded as the two men embraced and said their farewells. Éomer took leave of his cousin, striding back toward Meduseld, probably to find her. But she was affixed to the spot. Éowyn has become a beautiful woman, Théodred had said. And he spoke of desire, of madness. Certainly this must mean something. A giddy sort of joy came over her and she suddenly didn't care that she wasn't going away to war. There was no way she could ask him to take her now, not without looking just as petulant as Éomer.
She pulled the leather wrap from her hair and let it flow, unbound, across her shoulders. She combed it hastily with her fingers. With a farewell pat for Snowmane, she slipped from his stall.
Théodred was leading Windfola out when he noticed her. “Éowyn,” he said, surprised. “I thought you would be sleeping yet.”
She shook her head. “I would not let you ride to battle without a proper farewell,” she told him.
He smiled softly and cupped her head in his hand. “And it does my heart glad,” he told her. He let his fingers trail down her silken hair before lifting it away. “You should always wear your hair loose,” he said fondly. He had told her before, but she never tired of it. “It softens you.”
“And I have need of softening,” she finished. This, too, had been said before.
For a long moment he studied her. “No,” he said at last. “Perhaps it was true in years past, but at this moment, I think you are perfect.”
Her breath caught in her throat. He was so much older than she; she had waited so long for him to notice she was no longer the skinny tomboy who followed doggedly at his heels. She wished for a witty rejoinder. She wished for any words at all, but none came.
Instead she pulled a beaten copper cuff from her arm – it had been her father's, and it was dear to her. She slid it over his shield hand and onto his wrist. It was sentimental and old fashioned to give a token before battle, but the light in her cousin's eyes showed her that he did not mind.
He stepped close to her, dropping Windfola's lead to put his hands on her shoulders. “Have a care, Éowyn,” Théodred told her in a low, husky voice. “It would pain me to learn that anything should happen to you while I am away.”
“What could happen?” she asked, mesmerized by his blue eyes and his lips behind his close-cropped beard. “I will be safe at home. It is you who are riding into danger.”
He sighed and leaned close, pressing those lips against her forehead. His kiss was warm and firm, comforting. Éowyn found herself softening further, as though some deep, rigid part of her were coming undone.
“Be well, my little cousin,” he told her as he pulled away. “And watch over our king in my place. I will fight fiercely to return home to you all.” Éowyn leaned against Windfola's stall and watched as Théodred and his lovely grey mare walked away.
#####
She was seven years old the day she'd first met Théodred. She was small and scared, clutching her brother's hand and keeping a step behind him as they climbed the dozens of stairs up to Meduseld, where their uncle, the king, lived. Their mother had been buried only days before, their father a week before that. Éomer's hand was slick and clammy, but she clung to it, terrified that he would have to leave her, too.
Beyond the imposing guards, the king's hall was long and wide and dark. As Éowyn's eyes adjusted, she saw the lofty roof and the sweeping beams that held it in place. Horses were carved on pillars and were embroidered into banners that hung, two by two, along the long, paved hall that led the king's pavilion.
A man sat there, on a seat that looked more like a fancy chair than the grand throne she had imagined. He was old and starting to grey, but his eyes shone brightly, so much like her mother's that Éowyn felt a tightness in her throat.
“Don't cry,” Éomer hissed at her, his fingers curling like a steel trap around her hand.
The old man rose from his seat, came down the three steps from his dais, and for a moment stood before them. He looked at them for a long moment, and Éowyn found she had no idea what he was thinking as he studied them. Would he send them away? They had already come so far.
Then the king knelt and reached for her hands. Shaking, she disentangled her fingers from her brother's and let her uncle grasp them. His hands were warm and softer than they looked. “You must be Éowyn,” he said softly, smiling into her eyes. “You look just as your mother did, when she was a little girl.”
Éowyn had never thought of her mother as a little girl, but of course she must have been, once. And her uncle said that she looked like her. She felt the ice inside her melt just a bit.
Éomer introduced himself then, and the king smiled some more. There was sadness in his face, but the smile looked genuine to Éowyn's eyes.
“I am glad you have come to live with me,” he told them. “I have long wished to know you both, and Meduseld needs the laughter of children once more. My own son is grown up and hardly any fun at all.” He motioned to a man Éowyn had not noticed, a young man with long, shining hair who stood next to the dais, watching with kind blue eyes.
This man was her cousin then. Éowyn had known that she had one – some older cousin who had already done noteworthy things with sword and lance – but she had not known that he was pleasant to look at, or that he smiled like his father.
Or that he, too, had lost his mother. He told her this later, while they were eating dinner. Éomer was sitting next to their uncle, relating the tale of their long journey to Edoras and trying – Éowyn could always tell – to sound older than just eleven. Théodred sat next to her, letting her quietly pick at her food and not troubling her with questions she wasn't eager to answer.
She was surprised, then, when he leaned close. Close enough to whisper. “My mother died when I was a baby,” he told her softly. “I didn't know her, but I miss her just the same.”
Éowyn hadn't realized that a grown man would ever miss his mother. Did that mean that she would never recover from this pain in her heart? Would her belly always clench and hurt when she thought of her parents? She looked up at him, at first ashamed of the tears that stood in her eyes, but, seeing his gentle expression, not ashamed at all.
He squeezed her shoulder. “Anything you need, little cousin,” he told her. “Anything at all, I promise, I will do it for you.”
She nodded, unable to speak without crying. Instead she took a mouthful of bread and chewed. She would not forget his kindness. Or his promise.
#####
The days that followed the riding of the Rohirrim were strange and long. Éomer prowled the hall, unable for long to fix his attention on any one task or duty. He was snappish and cross, miserable in being left behind and yet too loyal to Théodred to return to his home in Aldburg. Éowyn, too, was restless, though she had much to keep herself occupied – the household of Meduseld was her responsibility, and feeding the cavalry on such short notice had left the kitchens in turmoil. She spent her time finding ways to stretch their winter supplies to last through a war. The previous growing season had been good and the harvests plentiful, but a standing army ate more food than Éowyn could easily comprehend. An army on the move consumed even more – marching and fighting was hungry work, after all. And it was not yet even March; the Riddermark was still hard, cold, and unplanted.
Though she would rather have been on the battlefield herself, Éowyn did not truly mind this work. Numbers had always come easily to her, and it took her only a short time to work out how much food would be needed before the spring's vegetable plots could supplement their stores. She recorded it all in the leather-bound household accounting book that had been entrusted to her on her twentieth name day. She recorded her sums carefully, as had the bookkeepers who came before her. It would not do to have mistakes marring the parchment pages.
“And have you accounted for our losses?” came a voice from the doorway.
Éowyn turned. Gríma stood a few feet into the kitchen, craning his neck to read the numbers she'd just written in the book. She stepped back, allowing him access to her work. He was her uncle's chief adviser; she had no right to deny him the records. He crossed the large kitchen in just a few strides, and she was struck by his height and demeanor. He was of an age with Théodred, but thinner and greyer, looking more like a bard than a warrior. He glanced down at the pages of numbers before her and shook his head.
“Our losses?” she asked. She had taken rot into account, if that was what he meant. And bugs and mice and anything else that could turn good food rancid. It was simple kitchen wisdom to realize that not everything stored away would pass the winter unscathed.
“Our army's losses,” he explained. His voice was smooth and soft. Almost gentle, she thought, though she had never used that word in relation to Gríma before. “After each battle, we will have fewer Riders to feed.”
She had not considered that. She did not want to. Those men were her kin and her friends – the people of the Mark that she had grown up with. Éowyn instinctively took a step back from the table, for a moment physically unwilling to coldly account for the loss of life in a rations chart. “It matters not,” she protested. “So long as there is enough food, I should not have to – ”
He tsked softly, the sound making her small and foolish. “A successful household strives to accuracy,” he reminded her. “A successful kingdom demands it.”
“I will not plan for our men to die,” she told him coldly.
“But they will,” Gríma insisted. He seemed not able to be still, fidgeting and stepping as his long finger traced her entries in the book. “Your cousin is a fine general,” he told her, “but we do not know what he might face. He may lose many men this day. He may lose his own life.”
A chill ran through her. It was possible – of course it was possible – but speaking it aloud was an ill omen. Just thinking it was bad enough. “Get out of here,” she told him quietly. “Leave me at once.”
Gríma looked hard into her face, his dark eyes unblinking like glass beads. “The might of Rohan is not what it once was,” he said softly. “A true queen would not fear facing this fact.” He moved his hand up, as though to touch her.
Éowyn jerked away. “There is no queen of the Riddermark,” she told him, her voice hard.
The man's eyes narrowed. “Ah, but you would will it,” he said. “I know your heart, Lady Éowyn. I've seen you hunger for power.”
She thought of her sick and desolate uncle. Of her handsome cousin. It was true that she wanted to be queen. She wanted to be Théodred's wife, to help him bring Rohan back to its ancient glory. She dreamed of standing beside him as the horse lords swore fealty, the banners of Edoras waving above them, stitched of gold thread as they were in days of old.
“I seek no power for myself,” she insisted, tripping over her words. “Only for Rohan.”
Gríma smiled. It was sickly and insincere. “Of course,” he said, his voice gentled once more. “For Rohan.” He turned abruptly, his robe swirling, and left her alone.
Éowyn put her hand to her throat, feeling her pulse hammering there. She glanced at the columns of numbers in the log book. They looked wrong to her now, inaccurate and naïve. But she would not change them.
The clatter of horse's hooves and the cries of men's voices pulled her from her dark thoughts. But it was too soon for the army to have returned. A messenger, then. From Théodred? Her heart skipped.
She hurried from the kitchen. Already there were voices from the hall. Éowyn squeezed her hands together, willing the news to be good.
“I am Third Marshal of the Riddermark! It is my duty!” Éomer's voice. He no longer sounded petulant or childish. If anything, her brother at last sounded like a man grown. A warrior. “If I do not clear our eastern lands of this scourge, then who will?”
She slipped into the hall through a door behind the king's dais. No one seemed to notice her. Gríma was there already, in his usual place at Théoden's elbow. He was murmuring low into her uncle's ear.
The king leaned toward his nephew, his weight on the cane that ever he bore. “And who, then, will protect Meduseld? Edoras? My son has gone to battle; Elfhelm has taken four companies to follow him. Would you steal the remaining men from the heart of the kingdom so that you can hew down a few orcs? Has the pride of the House of Eorl come to this?”
Éomer's face went stormy with frustration. “It is not pride which moves me, Uncle!” he cried. “Nor is it only a few orcs. There are many farms and villages on the east marches, many families in peril if we do not stop this army.”
Théoden moved to speak, but seemed to think better of it as Gríma shifted in his spot. “He seeks glory,” he told his king, pretending that his voice was not pitched to carry. “He is jealous of the prince, angry that he was not chosen to ride west with him.”
Her uncle looked sharply at nephew as though trying to discern his motive. His eyes were cloudy with sickness, but it seemed to Éowyn that lately he saw whatever Gríma wished him to.
Éomer protested. “I seek only the safety of our people!” he insisted. “If the Eastemnet falls, then what hope have we against Saruman?”
“'Our people,' he says,” Gríma hissed, this time so that her brother did not hear. “He seeks to usurp your son, my liege.”
Théoden blinked, but said nothing.
A sharp stab of outrage coursed through Éowyn. Her brother had never been anything but loyal and true to his family. To his king. Why did her uncle not see that? She wanted to say so, to show him reason, to make him see. But how? It had been long months since she was last able to persuade him to see anything.
Before she could think of anything to say, Éomer shook his head. “I must go, Uncle,” he said softly, his tone resolute. He dropped to one knee before the dais. “In your name, my éored will rid the Riddermark of these orcs.” He stood and looked sadly at the king. “I only hope you are enough yourself to forgive me when I return.”
Only then did he notice Éowyn hovering behind the throne. In three long strides he was before her, his head bowed close to hers. “Keep clear of Wormtongue,” he urged in a quiet voice. “I will be back in just a few days, but you must not let him near you.”
She raised her chin proudly. She would show him that she was no child to be fretted over. “Do not waste your concern on me, brother,” she told him. “Ride hard. May the wind be always at your back.”