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Chapter Text

The message arrives in the form of Éomer, who knows not that it breaks Éowyn’s slowly healing heart. But there is not much her brother knows about her, she thinks, not after years of sickness and shadows underneath the golden roof of Meduseld. Years he spent fighting alongside his men; years she spent alongside their uncle and the poisonous whispers of Gríma Wormtongue.

“The war is over,” he says like she doesn’t know, face flush from his likely hurry up the hill. “And soon, Aragorn will be crowned. Gondor and Rohan have been separated for too long, Éowyn. You are to marry.”

“Whom?” she asks and her heart aches. A flash of reddish hair and kind, blue eyes comes to her, even though Aragorn’s name still leaves a sting. There is hope here, she thinks, but she doesn’t trust it. It still hurts, the cold, when she is right not to trust.

“Boromir, who is to become the new steward after Denethor’s fall. You will meet him soon.”

What about Faramir, she doesn’t say. What about me. Will you give me away like a token gift, the good wife for your plans when you’ve only been king for a fortnight? She stays still, and what little goodness her days in the Houses of Healing has brought her slips away from her cold grasp like a banner taken by the wind. She thinks of days spent side by side with a man who has a shy smile and speaks gently. She thinks of how he listens when she talks and the absence of pity in his eyes.

“Boromir,” she says instead, her voice as far away as her heart. Then she turns around and doesn’t say anything anymore until Éomer is gone again.

~~~

“Éowyn.” There is a warmth in Faramir’s blue eyes and for a moment Éowyn wonders if she would see the same when she meets his brother. Some siblings share those features. Éomer and Éowyn do not. She doesn’t know what will be worse: if Boromir’s eyes are as blue, or if they aren’t.

“Faramir,” she greets him after moments stretch into seconds without her notice. She feels afloat like she felt during those first weeks after striking down the witch king, the coldness in her heart almost suffocating. Éomer is gone and the evening approaches, but now she is caged in on this hill, so far away from home; whatever peace this place has once offered her taken away by her own brother. Her eyes slide off of Faramir’s face and into the distance - to the south, where she knows lies the sea. “Have you heard?”

“Are you happy?” He likes to ask her questions, to hear her opinions. Hope flares again in her chest, painful with its false warmth. Hope is nothing but the memory of it, she knows. Too rarely is it real for her, but even after all this, she cannot help but seek him out again.

For weeks, they have talked, alone in the Houses of Healing, sharing their stories full of similar pains and hardships. There is a closeness between them she never had with Aragorn, and for a bit, she has hoped it might mean something more. Hopes it still, even when she knows what kind of man Faramir is.

But she thinks she might love him, for his kindness and understanding. Empathy without pity, wisdom without haughtiness, his gentle nature and careful approach enough for Éowyn to open up once more. And she thinks he might love her, too, and will take her away from this new cage she finds herself in.

“I am not, Faramir. How could I, when I am to be given away to someone I don’t know?” She doesn’t intend for the bitterness to swing so prominently in her words, but they are out now and between them, like so many other words spoken.

The fact that he takes his time to answer is one of the many things she appreciates about him. That he thinks before he speaks, always careful to say what he means and can stand behind. “Boromir is an honourable man,” he says after a while, as they stay together outside the House and watch the birds fly by. Sometimes, Éowyn fancies she can hear the cries of the seagulls from the far-away shores. “He will be a good husband, once you come to know him.”

“And I a good wife?” Hope warms her, burns her, hot embers she cannot touch but cannot let go either. “Faramir, I-” She looks up, then, and meets his sombre eyes. Him, she knows. Him, she trusts. She loves him, even though the memories of another man keep their sting and she doesn’t know what that means. “If I were to marry a man from Gondor, I’d rather marry the man I love.”

She knows that he knows, then, as she says it. Sees the way his eyes widen. The surprise he feels frightens her because she thought he’d know, thought he’d love her as well. How often they walked these paths, how often they whispered about dreams and the past and, after a while, even about the future as well? But he only just notices. He only just sees.

Panic, then, has her acting like a young girl again; clumsy, hurriedly, without thinking. Another person close to her slipping away, and she can’t help but try and prevent it. His hand, when she takes it into her own, feels warm and worn, the callouses of battle deeply ingrained into his strong fingers. “I love you, Faramir,” she tells him, the words rushed now, because if this fails, if he, too, turns away from her-

“Éowyn,” he says and she shudders. “I cannot. My heart is not free to give.” Whatever warmth and hope and trust she’d felt before crumbles between her fingers. Her heart closes off and her hands grow cold and again she turns away.

Perhaps, she thinks, he truly never led her on. They have never talked about any of this, no matter how often they shared their thoughts with each other. But then, he’d neither talked about a wife or even a lover, never even mentioned another woman’s name. Neither did Aragorn, she remembers bitterly, eyes trailing the southern sky, shivering as the cold claims her. Not until I spoke of my feelings.

“I’m sorry,” he says and she doesn’t know if, for the first time, he looks at her with pity. She cannot turn around, cannot find any strength left in her to see for herself. Instead, she does as Éomer has done to her before, as Aragorn and Théoden and Théodred have done, and before them her parents, Théodwyn and Éomund.

This time, it is her that leaves him behind.

Chapter Text

Boromir has not thought of marriage for a long time. It has always been war for Gondor, always another fight he had to lead his men. And then Faramir started to dream and he, too, dreamt once of what was to come, and Boromir had to go in Faramir’s stead, because how could he, the elder, send his younger brother up to the north?

Maybe, he thinks as he makes his way to the Houses of Healing, it would have been better had Faramir gone to seek out the meaning of their shared dream. Sensible, calm, kind Faramir, who had resisted the temptation of the ring where Boromir had failed. But he didn’t let him, he went for himself and lost to his fear and his pride as he’d lost the young hobbits to the Uruk-hai.

They are with him, now, Merry and Pippin, when they aren’t with Frodo and Sam. They laugh and joke and talk to him, like they did before the Rauros Falls and after, when they’d found them again in Isengard. Despite his many failures, they still look at him with friendship and fondness and even admiration in their eyes and it warms his heart as much as it burdens him with the weight of their expectations: to them, he is still strong Boromir, who’d tried and teach them how to fight; Boromir, who carried them out of the depths of Moria, leaving the wizard behind; Boromir, his chest pierced with arrows, desperate to make amends, to protect the little ones after driving away the ring bearer.

It is over now, he tells himself. At least the biggest threat is gone and with him most of the forces of evil. There are still orcs to kill and traitors to hunt. Old alliances left broken after years in which Gondor needed to stay strong and fighting. Rohan isn’t the only nation that grew vary of them after one too many plead ignored; now that peace has been won, he knows it is time to make many amends more, to strengthen the bonds tentatively made during those last few fights. But they can do this, now.

Aragorn, after all, rode back with them into the city, side-by-side with the newly crowned Éomer, after the war was over and the ring destroyed.

He is young, Éomer. Younger than Boromir, matching Faramir in age. Aragorn, he knows, is far older than both put together, but he doesn’t look like it. With his head held high, the sun on his dark hair and a light in his eyes, his king looks youthful in a way he hasn’t for most of the quest. Young and tall and full of strength, but also kindness and wisdom and a thousand other things Boromir could name in a heartbeat. Sometimes, it amuses Boromir how blind he’s been, back in Rivendell. It had taken a long time to see the qualities Aragorn carries within himself, mostly because Boromir hadn’t bothered to take a closer look.

There truly are a great many things Boromir regrets, but he is glad that at least in this, he’d learned better. Maybe it is the twinge of old wounds, reminders of those arrows piercing his flesh, that reminds him of all that: when he’d laid dying, meeting Aragorn’s frantic eyes as his king went to heal him, he’d thought that whatever happened, he’d never again shy away from looking. Because he hadn’t, once, and dismissed this man, this king, until it was nearly too late.

And maybe it is this promise he’d made to himself that lets him see the distress on Faramir’s face so clearly when he goes to meet his brother.

“What happened?” he asks immediately because there aren’t many people he holds as dear as Faramir. Ever since they’d just been boys, they’d loved each other fiercely. Not even father’s death had changed that, never mind that kind, sensible Faramir blamed himself for something out of his control. So it is worry that has him close the distance, his hands on Faramir’s shoulders. Is there a tremble of weakness, the heat of a recurring fever? Or that dreaded coldness returned?

He thinks that losing him, now that the war is over, might be enough to finally kill him where orcs and trolls and his own traitorous heart had failed.

But he finds no dangerous heat nor deadly cold and his brother’s shoulders are firm and strong underneath his fingers. “I am well, brother,” Faramir says and Boromir closes his eyes for a moment as the tension of fear leaves him.

Faramir is well. He is not dying again. “You are agitated,” he says before he opens his eyes, one hand moving to Faramir’s neck in close greeting. “Have you worried about me?”

Blue eyes soften and Boromir is treated to a small, kind smile. “Of course. You are my brother, I always worry.” Faramir returned the gesture then, leaning his forehead against Boromir’s for a lingering moment. It reminds Boromir of their younger days before the darkness started to rise - back when they had freely teased each other, when jokes had yet to taste bitter on their tongues.

And then Faramir sighs and steps away just enough to meet Boromir’s eyes, face solemn and eyes sad. “Yesterday, Éowyn was told about the marriage. She-” Here he hesitates and Boromir can see the guilt in the way he purses his lips and averts his gaze. “Boromir, I think we did her no kindness. In the evening, she came to me, not to ask about you, but to ask for me instead.”

“For you..?” It takes a moment for Boromir to understand, and when he does, he swallows and grips Faramir’s shoulders just a bit firmer, as if to hold him steady. It makes Faramir look up, at least. Boromir wonders what Faramir would see - a matching expression of unease, maybe, of the guilt he now feels, too? “She loves you, then?”

“I don’t know. I think she didn’t lie, but I have not seen it before. I didn’t know.” A quick shake of his head, the slightest tremble when he breathes out - Faramir looks nervous, like he doesn’t know what to do about this. “I told her I couldn’t. I like her, Boromir, but not like that. But ever since I told her, she hasn’t spoken again, neither to me nor to Merry when he came for her. Or to any of the healers. Do you think that perhaps I should-”

“No.” This, at least, is the surest thing Boromir can say right now. It’s not a favourable situation, to have Éomer’s sister be in love with Faramir, but he won’t have both live a miserable life if he can’t help it. “This is my duty now, Faramir. I will not do this to you when I know better what makes you happy than father ever did. That’s why I was chosen, remember? So that you could go back to Ithilien and not have you chained in this city for years.”

“It shouldn’t matter what I want. We became friends, Éowyn and I - maybe we could find a way for both of us to enjoy marriage.”

“So you will lie to her and play pretend when we both know it won’t work?”

At that, Faramir looks up, startled and with an expression on his face Boromir hadn’t seen in a long time. To see it again, vulnerable and unsure and guilty, is more painful than every wound he received between Rivendell and the Black Gates. “Boromir,” his brother starts - and Boromir sighs and shakes his head, his grip not once wavering on Faramir’s shoulders.

“We both know your heart, brother. You should not judge yourself so harshly for the way it works. Those who value you for who you are do not care - so please, don’t do this to yourself. Extend your hand in friendship to her, but don’t offer something you cannot give, regardless of who comes asking.”

“So instead of me, you chain yourself and her to Gondor,” Faramir says, his voice a curious blend of bitterness and fondness.

“I would chain the whole world when that is needed to set you free, my brother,” Boromir says.

Chapter Text

Days go by, and with each one passing, Éowyn feels like another gilded bar is added to her newest cage. It might be as big as a city, with a soon-to-be-king and a queen that isn’t her, with white towers and buildings and walls that can be seen from far away, but it feels like a cage all the same, ever since Éomer told her, ever since Faramir denied her.

My heart is not free to give, he’d said and she feels like she is back in Rohan, back inside a suffocating golden hall, next to a deaf, old man withering away, in the presence of a cowardly liar, who was still the only one who’d seen her, not the little sister, not the sister’s daughter, but her, Éowyn.

Why, out of all men she’d met, must it be Gríma who understands her best?

Merry comes and visits, sometimes. All of Gondor is abuzz and she avoids it all, when she can. Avoids Faramir, who gives her space but follows her with his eyes. Avoids Éomer, who comes and asks how she feels, if everything is alright, if she wants for something. Avoids, more than anything, to meet with Boromir, whom she’d never met before and who is to be her husband shortly after Aragorn marries his future queen.

Thorns and cuts, all of that. Like brambles around her heart. It feels cold, from her once-struck arm all the way up to her chest and throat. It makes her choke, sometimes, when she sits at the window and looks out. She knows at least Éomer wants her to meet Boromir. Maybe he even regrets it, to arrange for this marriage without asking her first. But she isn’t naive; she knows of her station and the duty that comes with it. She is no longer the king’s sister’s daughter, but the king’s sister and her blood is of value. If both Aragorn and Faramir are no longer an option, who is left to marry her off to?

At least Éomer knows Boromir. That is what he’d probably thought, without once thinking that Éowyn would rather go back to battle and be struck dead for good than to live her life as just another good wife.

How sweet the freedom of a disguise is, she thinks. Remembers how it was to be Dernhelm, one of many Rohirim fighting for their lives. Even now she remembers the heft of her sword and the weight of her shield. Remembers every ache and pain and panicked moment while facing the Witch-king of Angmar. Her arm feels numb whenever she does.

She thinks of it when Faramir comes to see her, more than a fortnight after their last talk. She still doesn’t want to even look at him. Maybe she is ought to feel more humiliation at his sight, but whatever emotion squeezes her throat, it feels oddly distant to her. Her eyes are set to the south, where the battle was fought, where even further away the shores lie, and she is keen to keep to herself, to ignore whatever he may say. Her life is no longer bound to his, after all - friendship has turned into tentative love has turned into something cold and far away and she has no strength left.

But then he opens his mouth and the first thing he says is: “I will leave after your wedding.”

It cuts her deep, when she’d thought nothing could touch her anymore. Without her consent her hands ball tightly into fists where she put them on her lap and it costs her all of her will to keep her eyes averted, to not react more than that.

“I know this won’t help you any further. I don’t even know if you want to hear this. But, Éowyn… you’ve become dear to me, my friend. Had I known you harboured feelings for me that go beyond this friendship, I would’ve told you before that I cannot give you this, but that doesn’t change that you are my friend, and that I value you. But out of all the things I can give you freely, what you desire is beyond my means, and for that I am sorry.”

She doesn’t want the tears to show, doesn’t want to show this weakness. They gather just behind her eyes anyway and she forces them down, down, away from her face when she turns her head. Faramir looks miserable, and she cannot fathom why. He is free, free to go and choose and do things to his liking, is he not? “You’ve never told me about her,” she says and hates how accusatory she sounds. Aragorn hadn’t either, not until she offered, anyway.

Maybe no man does, whilst playing with a woman’s heart in such ways. Maybe it is just her that is lacking. But she is a woman, no matter how she urges to be more than that, to be seen for herself and not for her pretty face and noble birth. She hates that she can only be seen when being Dernhelm - not even her defeat of the Witch-king has changed that.

Yet, Faramir has the gall to look stricken, to hesitate, his blue eyes so sad and hurt that it sickens her. “Why is that, then? Why only tell me when I come to you? You could’ve told me anytime, yet you didn’t. I wonder why.”

“Because there isn’t anyone,” he says and she wishes he is lying. She can see that he is honest, knows him too well to be fooled otherwise, and she hates that, too. “There is no hidden lover, no hidden wife. My heart is not free to be given away.”

“How can you say that? It has to be bound somewhere! I don’t understand… is it me? Why can’t you just tell me?”

“It is not you, Éowyn!” His words come out stronger, but there is still a trembling note underneath them. His eyes are wider, too, almost pleading. When he steps forward, she turns fully, ready for whatever fight comes. “It is me.”

“Surely,” she says and scoffs and tries not to notice how he flinches away. “Yet I’m the one to suffer for it. No, Faramir, it is not you. Maybe you think it is, but I’m no such fool. It is me, it must be.” Her voice grows colder and her chin lifts - she will not be humiliated this way, not again. “I wish you good luck on your journey, Faramir, Son of Denethor.”

He stares at her and she doesn’t look away, even if she wants to. She wants to go back and hide, to go out and seek her own future, to scream and rage and tell her brother what exactly she wants, what he has done to her. But she doesn’t - she only stares at him until he goes away and she hates the way he looks, the way his shoulders slump and his eyes are drawn to the floor.

Maybe, she thinks when she settles back down, the energy draining away from her, she never wanted to hurt them. She just wants them to hurt her, which isn’t the same at all.

Chapter Text

The first proper time Boromir meets Éowyn is the day before Aragorn’s wedding. Weeks have passed since coming back to Gondor, after that last, desperate bid for victory against Mordor and its rotten forces. People are still healing; those that came back, anyway. The years of war show clearly when the many guests arrive in the city - there are so many houses and spaces left free, nobody has a need of staying outside. Boromir remembers the times of his youth when Minas Tirith was brimming with life. Now, it is rare to hear a pure child’s laughter.

He stands next to Aragorn when the elves arrive. Faramir stands on his other side. The rest of the fellowship, even Frodo and Sam, are arranged around Aragorn as well. Gandal smiles when he sees the delegation. Aragorn only has eyes for the she-elf.

Boromir has only seen Arwen once, from farther away. In the light of the day, under the gentle sun and clad in the colours of late spring, she is a beauty to behold, rivalling any woman he has ever seen before. But when she smiles, it is not with the distance he has seen on her brethren’s faces - she smiles with the warmth of the sun and love in her eyes and he can see the depth of connection she has with his king. She, he knows, will make a wonderful queen.

And then he looks up, towards Éomer. Rohan will be an important ally in the generations to come, their bond hopefully as strong as it had been - stronger still, if Boromir has his way. But Rohan seems to approve, if the wondrous look on Éomer’s face is anything to go by.

Éowyn, his sister, Boromir’s future wife, stands next to him, half-hidden by his powerful frame. It is only then that Boromir really gets to see her. Even in Rohan, she had only kept with Aragorn and later Merry. Her eyes, locked onto Arwen, have a peculiar expression to them.

She looks like a ghost, Boromir thinks. With her pale skin and her bright blonde hair, she almost fades away. Not sickly yet, but close to it, despite her long stay in the Houses of Healing. She looks like she wants to vanish and there is pain in the way she holds herself up, the way she almost forces herself to watch when Aragorn takes Arwen in his arms.

Boromir remembers then, the way Éowyn had taken to Aragorn when they’d been in Rohan. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his conclusions and he looks away, worried and confused, the guilt still lingering.

Éowyn had fallen for Aragorn once. But Aragorn only loves Arwen, so he likely rejected her, if she ever approached him at all. And then, after the battle against Mordor’s forces, Éowyn needed to heal, as did Faramir. It makes sense, in a way - she is young still. Young and brave and strong in her own way, but weak like many others. Love, Boromir thinks, is a fickle thing if not cared for. The deep bond between Aragorn and Arwen is a work of decades, like a garden grown strong under careful hands.

Éowyn’s heart, it seems, has not fully healed before Boromir went and broke it again. And he hates it, hates to see her hurt this way, hates that he put her in that position. But he knows that there are things worse than this. Knows that, had he given her his brother, he would feel even stronger.

There are not many things Boromir wouldn’t do for Faramir. Which is why, when Éomer asked about a marriage between their houses, Boromir had stepped forward. For his king and Gondor, for Éomer and Rohan, for their future it needs to be done. It is their duty - both his and Éowyn’s. But looking at her now, to see for himself how much she suffers under that decision, makes it difficult to bear.

But bear it he will. He only needs to find a way to help his future wife be happy as well.

~~~

The wedding happens shortly after Arwen’s arrival. Boromir has never seen Aragorn as content as with his lady elf besides him, and it doesn’t take long for the people of the city to fall in love with her as well. Boromir has hoped, of course, that Gondor will welcome their king - has hoped for a long time now, ever since swearing his own loyalty to the man. To see the citizens brimming with hope and joy helps him deal with his own insecurities and he does his best to help the preparations, even though there is not much he can do. Most times, he goes back to his old duties and oversees the soldiers and their needs.

It is not easy work, not after so many have fallen in the battles past. There are families returning to Minas Tirith, women and children without their husbands and fathers who need help to settle back inside the city. Some soldiers have lost friends and brothers and suffer from nightmares as well as lingering injuries. So Boromir works, finding occupations for those who need to keep busy, organizes the trade for medicine and herbs, talks to widows and orphans and tries to mend whatever is possible to give them a new life in this hard-fought peace. It is hard, sometimes, but also rewarding, and he wonders if maybe this could be something Éowyn would take a liking to.

But then he thinks of what he knows of her. It isn’t much; he has barely met her yet, even though she no longer lives in the Houses of Healing. He knows that Merry, when not with the other hobbits or with him, visits her often. Most times, when he returns from such a visit, his face is full of worry. But some things he knows: That she is brave and strong even in the face of darkness; that she has succeeded where others have not, killing the Witch-king in defense of her uncle; that she loved Aragorn and might still love him, and that she loves Faramir.

That both times she loved, she was denied, and now she walks through the castle like a ghost, pale and beautiful and immeasurably sad.

But he doesn’t know what to do. His own wedding will be held after Aragorn’s and he cannot ask Éomer to cancel it - there are not many men left in Gondor with the standing needed to wed the king’s sister and if he doesn’t, it will be Faramir to bear that burden. And yet, whenever his path crosses hers, it is as if she flees from him. He doesn’t dare approach her of his own, either, and feels like a coward.

He isn’t the only one who notices her behaviour. People around them are not blind, and with each day Éomer, too, looks more and more miserable. They try to keep the issue away from Aragorn at least, but no solution comes to mind when Éomer seeks Boromir out.

“She was like this when she was freshly wounded,” he says, face etched in worry. “I spoke to Merry, since he was with her during that time, and he agrees. It’s as if all the time in the Houses of Healing never happened. She barely eats and speaks. Do you think it’d be better to rearrange-”

“With Faramir?” Boromir asks and he cannot do this. Out of all the things he is willing to do, this is the one he will not even consider. “She knows he doesn’t want to. It will only be a further insult to her.”

“But we cannot simply annul the betrothal. Rohan has no daughters left that can take her place and Gondor fares no better. The war has taken a steep toll. If only…”

Boromir watches Éomer, the way he fists his hands and stares into the distance. Miserable, just like his sister, and how could he not be? They both know what it means, that needs must. The people of both countries are in dire need of reassurance, of both their nations to be close allies again. At least Boromir can offer himself instead of giving away his younger brother; Éomer, as the new king, does not have this comfort. He, too, will need a wife, but Gondor’s highborn daughters are scarce.

Out of all of them, Aragorn is the one who freely chose his future wife, and all the more happy with it. Boromir doesn’t begrudge him this; he sees them every day and he cannot imagine Aragorn any more happy than at Arwen’s side. “What’s done is done, my friend,” he tells Éomer with a sigh. “Now it is on me to help her along. She is withering away, but there might yet be a solution she can live with. She is strong, after all. You said so yourself.”

“Even the strongest mind and body bow before a broken heart, Boromir,” Éomer says, eyes shadowed with the same guilt Boromir feels. “I can only hope that she will not hate me for a lifetime. I was too quick to arrange this, thinking she would love the chance to break out of Rohan - too long was she hidden away.”

And that is the crux of it, isn’t it? “And now she thinks of this as her new prison,” Boromir says slowly. It makes sense, in a way, and it isn’t a nice thought, but… but he could work with this. He could show her that she isn’t meant to be put away like a token, some pretty thing to just look at.

He can do that, he thinks. It is the least he can do for her.

Chapter Text

Boromir is nothing like Faramir, Éowyn thinks. She doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Perhaps it is neither - without a choice of her own, it doesn’t feel like it matters. It is easy to keep her distance from him and from anyone else besides Éomer, who is anxious around her.

Him she ignores too, when he tries to talk to her. Ignores everyone, save Merry, who still comes to visit her whenever there is time. Around him, she feels less cold and distant. Around him, she manages to talk, if only about harmless things, things that have nothing to do with her upcoming marriage.

He doesn’t even mention Aragorn around her, or Arwen. Not even when the maids work on her hair and he sits close-by, chatting about the Shire and his family and his childhood in that distant, sunny country. It sounds nice, the Shire, and she thinks that she still has some want in her. She thinks she would like to visit there, someday, and see for herself that little nook of the world where things weren’t as complicated and suffocating as here.

In the Shire, she learns, there is no royalty, no nobility. Some families have more influence, some have less, but the hobbits are a folk that love an easy life and simple pleasures. They have no needs for kings and stewards. The only thing that comes close is the Thain, who manages what amounts to the guards of the Shire, and even then it is an elective title, a concept she still doesn’t quite understand.

The maid braids flowers into her hair and Merry tells her about the summer fests and birthday parties and the foods he likes to eat again, once he gets home. About cousins and uncles and sisters, about how Pippin and him used to steal mushrooms from the farms, running away from the dogs chasing them.

“If I am allowed,” Éowyn says quietly, slowly, her eyes still affixed to the mirror in front of her and the beautiful white flowers in her hair, “I will visit you there and you can show me, Merry.”

He goes still after that and she turns her head just so to see him. His face is sombre and his eyes are sad, but she can’t see any pity in them. “It’ll be the best time,” he says and smiles. It doesn’t chase away the sadness. This, she understands. “My family will love you, I’m sure. We can also go and visit Pippin, up in Tookland. And Bagend, where Frodo and Sam live.”

She’s met Pippin, if only shortly - Merry had brought him along once or twice. They are similar, in a way, only that Pippin is more cheerful and childlike, despite all that has happened. Frodo and Sam, she knows, are hobbits too, but them she has never met. She doesn’t know if she wants to. These days, Merry is the only one she can welcome, she feels. The only one that doesn’t make her want to never speak again.

“It’s settled then,” she tells him. “Even if they tell me not to.”

Merry swallows, but a glint comes to his clever eyes and his smile is more genuine, more mischievous now. “Just send a message and we’ll come and get you out, Dernhelm,” he says and Éowyn feels it - a fierce fondness warming her insides and the pin-prick feeling of tears right behind her eyes. She forces the latter away and takes his little hand instead. They both have calluses, worn into their skin by the heft of a sword and the weight of a shield.

Merry never sees anything else in her than Éowyn, but in his eyes, Dernhelm is just as much a part of her as the flowers in her hair.

~~~

When Éowyn had first seen Arwen, it had felt like a slap to the face. She hadn’t known that the woman Aragorn loved was an elf, but then she arrived with a full elven delegation, each and every one of them uncannily beautiful. And of them, Arwen is the most beautiful of all. Seeing her with Aragorn hurts in a way she doesn’t want to dwell on. It is a dull kind of ache, of a time that seems worlds away, before she’d put on the mask of Dernhelm, before she lost her uncle, before she killed the Witch-king at a terrible cost. A time before she met Faramir, who’d slowly healed her wounds only to break her heart all over again.

What it says about her, to still have these lingering feelings for the future king, she doesn’t want to contemplate. It makes her think that she never truly loved either of them, or maybe she did, and she is simply not worthy of it. With Arwen in Minas Tirith, so very different from Éowyn, only furthers that conviction.

But by the Valar, she is beautiful and full of grace, soft where Éowyn thinks herself hard, dark where Éowyn wears the bright hair of her forefathers, slender and feminine and loving where Éowyn feels heavy and brisk and cold. Éowyn is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, her arms able and her grip strong, with calluses on her hands and scars on her body. The most she’s ever felt like herself has been during her time as Dernhelm - not because her disguise was that of a man, but because nobody even looked at her twice wielding a sword in defence for her king.

The wedding takes place soon after, and like everyone else, Éowyn too attends it. She is clad in a blue dress with white flowers in her hair, standing beside the hobbits, besides Merry, instead of her own brother and Boromir. Her talk with her friend gives her the strength to make this decision her own and she ignores the questioning looks of her brother and the lingering ones of her betrothed. Soon enough, her choices will be taken completely from her. She is to marry him within a fortnight from today and it hurts enough to see the blatant love and tenderness between Aragorn and his future queen, the way they both seem to glow with happiness.

She cannot see herself in Arwen’s place. Maybe that is some kind of healing, at least. But then, she can barely look at Faramir, who is stood next to his brother, splendid in his regalia, his copper hair bright in the sun and clashing with his sombre look.

No pity for me today, she tells herself. She feels like it would surely break her completely, if anyone decides to show her pity. Merry shuffles closer, perhaps sensing her troubling thoughts, and doesn’t so much as hesitate before taking her hand in his own.

“Will there be a dance?” he asks, a mix of worry and earnest curiosity in his voice. She looks down, the first time she can look away from the newlyweds this day, and meets his eyes. The other hobbits share his curiosity, the youngest, Pippin, nearly hopping up and down with excitement. “I would like to dance.”

“There will be,” she says and gives his hand a squeeze, thankful for the distraction. Maybe she can make it through the day. She just has to keep watching her small friend and his fellow hobbits, neither of whom remind her of her encroaching future.

Chapter Text

As a boy, Boromir never thought much about marriage. He’d seen to a girl, before the war worsened and both he and Faramir went out as well, young and naive. How they survived long enough to become men, experienced and tactile, he doesn’t know. Only that it happened, and then it was all they ever did, fight and lead and hope. But in that short time, between childhood and adulthood, before the forces of Mordor started to creep along their borders, Boromir had entertained the idea of a relationship. Of a day when he’d wed the girl, after years of romance and laughter. Now he knows better - as the oldest son of the steward, there’s a duty of blood as well as of standing. He doesn’t know what happened to the girl, now likely a woman grown. Did she flee? Did she die? Is she married, now, with children of her own?

He looks at Aragorn and Arwen and wonders about their relationship, and the ease they fall for each other every time they lock eyes. It’s different from most marriages Boromir knows; those matched by parents, a bride and a groom who know each other only for a short time. But even there, most manage to fall in love after.

What does it say about him, that he doesn’t know his bride at all, only from the tales of others? Nothing good, he thinks, but it’s a done thing now. Maybe it says something about him, too, that he frets less than Faramir, less than Éomer. Servants help him dress and his brother’s eyes tell of grief and shame and the want to disappear. Éomer is pacing, restless with his wringing hands.

Boromir stands in front of the mirror and thinks he looks fine enough for today. Thinks that he doesn’t love Éowyn, barely even knows her, but that he can respect her, and for now it has to be enough. “Merry,” he calls over and both Merry and Pippin startle a bit. “Are these flowers to her liking?”

The hobbit had helped him choose the bouquet. He’s helped him a lot, with Pippin tagging along. For a moment, Merry holds his gaze and Boromir feels pride well in his chest. They’re both fine young men and he knows if he ever so much as hurts Éowyn, he’ll have to look out for those two. “They are. Sweet pea’s her favourite.”

Éomer stops and stares at them, lips pursed and frowning. Faramir turns away his head. The servants catch up to the tension and Boromir allows them to go. “Thank you, Merry,” he tells the hobbit and smoothens his vest. “I’m sorry you can’t be there, now.”

“It’s not allowed,” Éomer says, but he, too, sounds sorry. With a sigh, he continues his pacing. At least he doesn’t try and talk Faramir around again. Boromir has only seen it once, but he’s put a stop to that immediately. Changing the groom won’t matter now; the only thing that’d not hurt Éowyn is to cancel the wedding altogether, which is not an acceptable option no matter how much Boromir wishes it is.

“Big folk’s customs are weird,” Pippin mutters and Éomer scowls now. Boromir watches, shifting his weight, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“It’d be nice to have them simpler,” he agrees and holds Éomer’s displeased look. “But right now, stability is something needed. The war’s over, but that doesn’t diminish the decades people suffered from it.” It’s the only excuse he’ll give. Merry already knows what Boromir thinks, what his reasons are. Most of them, at least - he never told him about Faramir.

A knock sounds before anyone can speak up again. “It is time, your Majesty, mylords.” The hobbits flush when they’re addressed as such, but Pippin looks delighted and Merry simply sighs.

“Well then,” Merry says as he straightens. “Here we go.”

~~~

She stands in the sun, all dressed in white and gold and utterly beautiful. Her eyes, however, look far away and he knows she isn’t really here. Whoever he marries today, it is not Éowyn, but a shell she puts forward in order to protect her heart.

But that is alright. It is not her choice, after all. He smiles for her, too, when he lets the citizens see them. They are not close enough to see the farce of it all - all they see is the bond this will create with Rohan, like the times of old, and they rejoice. He feels like a puppet and when he looks around, it looks like a stage to him.

Even Aragorn and Arwen, their king and their queen, look at them with thoughtful eyes. But needs must. Weddings are symbols of new beginnings, of friendship and power and stability. What is a steward’s son, a future steward of Gondor, if not a tool to be used to provide for those under their protection? Éowyn, too, is a tool in this. A token given to the white city, a mere symbol. In the eyes of the citizens, she is the perfect wife for their brave warrior.

But none of them know of Boromir’s shame, of his struggles and the poisonous thoughts he’d fought with. They don’t know how deeply flawed he is, nor do they know Éowyn at all. Even those who heard of the brave princess don’t really accept her as the one who killed the Witch-king. For them, it is nothing more but a pretty tale to tell, another miracle that came with the return of their king.

When Boromir takes Éowyn’s hands in front of Aragorn, when he accepts the vows and the responsibility of them, he knows he weds not a woman, but her shadow. His kiss is chaste, with nothing of the love and passion Aragorn and Arwen showed when they finally united, because he has neither love nor passion for a shadow. And when he slips the ring on her finger, her hands cold and unresponsive in his, he makes another vow: to chase the shadow away and let everyone see the woman hiding behind, until every man and woman and child in all kingdoms know her.

Not as his wife. Not as a token of Rohan. Not as Èomer’s sister. But as the brave warrior that slayed the Witch-king in the hour of need.

Chapter Text

He does not touch her. He does not kiss her. He does not consume their marriage. When he calls her, he does not say wife but Éowyn.

She thinks, at first, that he might be uncertain or dissatisfied. But he is calm and polite and laughs when Merry tells a joke and talks with Aragorn as if they were old friends. He walks with the guards and trains the soldiers and when he comes 'home', he greets her as well and asks about her day and sleeps in a separate chamber.

A part of her wants to be angry about this. She wants to scream and rage and demand answers, but that part is small and weak and feels so detached she wonders if it’s part of her anymore or just another memory of better days when nobody batted an eye on the child she’d been, doted on by her parents, swinging a small, wooden sword around like her brother. Another part wants to pretend as well: put on the mask of an obedient niece, staying in the shadows underneath a golden roof, alone but for a poisoned king and a traitor; put on the mask of the brave soldier; the mask of a grieving daughter; the mask of a sister who says yes. Maybe one of these masks would make him at least try. Has he not chosen this? Has he not volunteered, making Éomer choose him instead of Faramir?

Does he not see her as anything but a token as well? Has he not married her? Yet Boromir continues, even after Faramir goes back to Ithilien one quiet morning, even after they plant the white tree, even after Éomer returns to Rohan.

But that part, too, feels small. She wants to resent; maybe she even does. But it is yet another man who pushes her away. His questions sound cruel to her ears. Maybe they are.

She doesn’t know.

~~~

Arwen comes to her first, weeks after Faramir’s departure. Boromir is out again, to train the soldiers still left in Gondor. It is his duty, or so he says, but those words sting as well. Duty, she thinks, is every man’s excuse.

Èowyn doesn’t expect Arwen to come to her. She doesn’t talk to the new queen, nor does she talk to Aragorn, her king. Sometimes she sees them, when she bothers to leave Boromir’s house - mostly, it is Merry who can still ask her this. It feels different, to deny Merry anything, not when he is the only one she trusts with her choice. Arwen she doesn’t trust, doesn’t want to trust.

It is petty, she knows, but her heart feels brittle enough without the reminder that Aragorn only ever loves this woman, and how lovable this woman is.

“Éowyn,” Arwen greets her and Éowyn doesn’t know what to do. She feels like crying, face to face with the queen: she is beautiful and there is no hint of malice in her gentle eyes. No pity, either; only empathy and a soft smile and warm hands on hers. “Walk with me.”

She knows, Éowyn thinks and blinks encroaching tears away. She hasn’t cried since Faramir’s decision and it confuses her that a simple smile of this woman could unravel her this much. But her hands don’t shake and her face doesn’t crumble, too used to hide away any feelings she might harbour. “What do you want?” she asks and knows that it goes against everything she’d been raised to say. This is her queen.

And the queen still smiles and doesn’t come in and doesn’t pull her out. “If you would,” Arwen says instead and by the Valar, Éowyn just can’t hate her, not with the understanding in her eyes and the lack of pity. “I’d love to finally meet you. Aragorn speaks highly of you and I fear you might be lonely.”

Éowyn doesn’t say: Go away. She doesn’t say: I’m not lonely. She doesn’t say: I hate you, because you took him away from me before I ever had a chance. She wants to; for one, desperate moment, she wants to scream all that and more into Arwen’s too-perfect face. But she can’t, not without lying, and she is so tired of lying and pretending for anyone’s sake, even for her’s.

So she says: “I’ll walk with you,” because she is lonely, and she doesn’t want Arwen to go, and she can’t hate this woman, and maybe, just maybe, Aragorn had never been her chance in the beginning, never something to take away from her. She says it because Merry is going back to the north in a week’s time, together with his hobbit friends, back to the far-away Shire where life is simpler, where nobody’s choices get taken away and war is far away.

Arwen smiles and when she holds out her hand, Éowyn takes it and lets herself be pulled outside, the door closing behind them.

~~~

Talking with Arwen is- it’s unsettling as much as it's comforting. Arwen talks about little things, about small details of the town below, about the people she’s come across as queen, about her home and her parents. Éowyn doesn’t talk much in comparison - doesn’t talk about her parents at all at first, until Arwen tells her what is to come.

Elves are leaving Middle Earth, she says. Her father, her brothers, her grandparents, they’d all soon sail away. “Won’t you sail as well?” Éowyn asks then, because she cannot fathom how Arwen might stay here, when one day Aragorn will die.

“I’ve chosen a mortal life,” Arwen says, as calm as ever. Content with her choice. It chokes Éowyn, who doesn’t know what to say to that. Because Arwen is an elf and she should be immortal, shouldn’t she? Éowyn doesn’t know much about the fair race, doesn’t know that they could do that, to become almost human.

“Why?” she asks, soft and quiet, almost not daring to, but Arwen, as ever, just smiles, her small hand warm on Éowyn’s as they walk, warm and secure.

“Because I love him. I love him for a long time, Éowyn, and I’d rather live my life alongside him and die than face immortality alone. My father didn’t understand - he thought I might survive it, but the truth is that I already knew that I would fade should Aragorn’s life end. So I made my decision.”

It is a harsh truth to swallow - that they love each other so deeply, so dependably. But Éowyn knows it is true. It takes but a moment to watch both king and queen interact to see that it’s true. Her feelings, burning bright for a moment but smothered so easily, feel weak in comparison.

Would she do the same, in Arwen’s position? Maybe she never loved Aragorn the man, but just the idea. But if that’s true, what about Faramir, who’s gone already, back in Ithilien? Faramir, who seeked out friendship, not love; who told her he could never love her back the way she thinks she loves him?

She doesn’t dwell on it, shying away from the hurt and the implications. Instead, she starts to talk about her own home, her family, and Rohan and how much she misses it. How much she felt like running away, back when she was still there. “And now I wish I am back because it is familiar. Gondor- it’s not home,” she ends. Arwen, she learns, is an excellent listener. It is almost too easy to simply talk.

There’s no pity in Arwen’s eyes, only understanding. “A bird will miss the cage it is born in,” she says without any preamble. “But some birds are not meant to be caged at all, Éowyn. Not by others and not by themselves.”

When Arwen asks her if she wants to walk tomorrow, too, Éowyn thinks about these words and agrees.

Chapter Text

Falling back into his old routine is easy. Talking to his soldiers, training new recruits, helping with the fallout of a years-long war, planning schedules and guard duties and the organisation of builders and guilds, thinking of which city to rebuild first, thinking of how to help the many widows and orphans of Gondor, negotiating with other nobles for favoured trades - it is a lot that needs to be done, and these are things he knows how to handle.

Still, he tries not to be gone for too long; tries to come home every day, tries to talk to Éowyn, tries to show interest, tries to be courteous. He doesn’t touch her without her invitation, doesn’t try to be affectionate as a husband should be: in his eyes, their marriage is but a farce, something necessary for others to look at, but never enough to allow him to truly feel as a husband. She is his wife in name only and he doesn’t want to force her to more than that. At least in this, he is content and is sure he is doing the right thing. Let her feel safe in this.

But Éowyn doesn’t talk much. She doesn’t do much besides waiting in their home. When she sees something, it is someone who comes to visit her; mostly Merry, but he, too, would soon be gone, back to the Shire. The fellowship disperses - Legolas and Gimli will be gone as well when Éomer leaves, to visit Rohan’s caves and forests. Faramir is gone, too. Soon, it’ll only be Aragorn and him left in Minas Tirith.

He wonders if Éowyn feels alone in her exile. Wonders if he can do something, anything to make it less harsh on her. But he hesitates and in the end, he just continues to try to coax her into sharing about her day. Most times, he is the only one that talks before he flees into his bedroom, ashamed but not able to bear the silence any longer for the day.

And then, one evening, he comes home and asks: “How was your day?” and Éowyn hesitates - and talks. She is still distanced, still a stranger to him, but her eyes shine a bit and twice she smiles as she describes her time spent with Arwen. He sits and listens and marvels at the change; so small, but still so significant. Silently, he thanks his queen to extend a hand to this sad woman. With just one, fleeting smile, she looks a lot more like the warrior he’s heard about.

It is then, as Éowyn falls silent again, that he remembers: he’s never seen Éowyn wield a weapon, not even a knife. From Merry’s stories, however, she came to Gondor in the armor of a Rohirim, with a shield and a sword and a helmet. He wonders what happened to these things. He doesn’t ask; maybe he fears that this, too, is a hurtful topic for her. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to her, now that she answers. But he bids her goodbye with a smile of his own, his heart a bit lighter that night.

The next day, he goes to Éomer for his questions, ignoring the way the king bristles for a moment before he relaxes. Ever since Éowyn stopped talking to him (to everyone but a select few), Éomer hurts as well as they all, maybe feeling the most guilt from their situation. Boromir knows the feeling, but he thinks he can help with more than just looking sadly in Éowyn’s direction as her brother does.

“I have her helmet and her shield; the shield’s broken but can be repaired. The sword, however…” The sword is nothing more than a handle when Éomer shows him, but he can see how often it has been used just by the strap of leather on what’s left. He takes all of them: the helm and the broken shield and the handle, and brings them to Merry, an idea fostering in his head.

“Do you remember how her sword looked like?” he asks the hobbit and as usual, the clever creature immediately knows what Boromir wants to do. It helps that Merry agrees with him, eyes so kind and smile sharp as a knife.

~~~

It takes a little more than a fortnight for his orders to finish. Éomer has left the night before, together with Legolas and Gimli - that day, Éowyn has spent all of her time with Arwen.

Merry is with him when he collects the repaired shield and the newly-made sword. It fits well in Éowyn’s scabbard, the leather worn but beautifully crafted.

“I’m glad you do this,” Merry says. “I think she needs this more than anyone can imagine.”

“Dernhelm is a part of her, from what you’ve told me. I wish for Éowyn to be able to express herself in whichever way she wants to be happy. It might be hard for a time; Gondor doesn’t have any women who take on the sword, not like Rohan’s shieldmaidens, not like the elves who see no difference.” Boromir fastens the sword on his own belt, the shield on his back. “But she’s strong, underneath the wounds she carries. She’ll preserve.”

“She will,” Merry agrees solemnly. “Perhaps it helps when the new steward openly approves of it?”

“Perhaps. I’ll see to it should things get out of hand, but I don’t want her to think it’s only because I approve - it is her choice, and it should be whether I want this for her or not.”

He feels good about this; for Boromir, it seems like something she’d like and appreciate. Maybe, with something like this, Éowyn will regain some measure of independence. And with Merry soon on his way, Boromir thinks she’ll need every bit of reassurance she can get and hold onto. She has Arwen now, and the queen does her best to become a good friend to Boromir’s wife, but Éowyn has known and trusted Merry for a long time now. He’s ridden to war with her, both ridiculed and hindered in their wish to participate, both fighting for their place amongst the riders of Rohan.

Merry will be missed, plain and simple. Boromir has grown close to the youngest two hobbits during their long journey and his heart aches knowing that they’ll be gone soon; he cannot fathom how much Éowyn will miss her friend when she has so few left in Minas Tirith as is.

This might yet mend that ache of separation, he thinks.

Chapter Text

Éomer’s goodbye feels a bit like a blessing, as much as Éowyn misses her brother already. But he’s gone, and with him his pity and his guilt are gone, and for that Éowyn can only be thankful. Maybe she still resents him for agreeing to this marriage; maybe she places most of the blame onto her brother’s shoulders, who had been unthinking, so quick to decide when she still rested in the Houses of Healing.

Maybe she’s been spoiled too long by her uncle and king, kept in the Golden Halls when other noble girls are married away the moment they are old enough. Maybe just a few years back, she’d have been glad about it, to flee those suffocating halls when Saruman’s betrayal made a puppet out of her uncle.

The mixture of emotions she feels when she’s free from Éomer’s brooding is hard to sort through. But these days, she feels like she can at least talk about them, on her long walks with Arwen as they go about Minas Tirith and watch the craftsmen heal the city.

“He’s still my brother,” she says and maybe she clings a bit as they walk arm in arm. For some reason, Arwen feels so much stronger than her, despite being a bit smaller, with more delicate features, dainty hands and a slender figure. Éowyn is slender these days as well; months doing nothing have chipped away on every muscle she’s put on with a sword in her hand and a shield in another.

She doesn’t know what to think about it.

“He might be your brother, but that fact doesn’t invalidate your feelings, Éowyn. He didn’t ask you, didn’t wait before he could talk to you. Feeling angry is only natural.”

“It must seem silly- it’s nothing new, after all, that daughters and even sons are promised away. But I thought-” Éowyn swallows and shakes her head before putting on a faint smile when a gaggle of children run along, crying out joyously when they see their queen and the wife of their steward. It slips away soon after. “I thought I was different. The arrogance… I thought I earned it, to be able to choose.”

Arwen hums and leads her to a less frequented nook of the city; a small balcony tucked away between two houses, with greenery growing along the rails and over the walls. “I cannot speak about your customs; I do not know them well enough, though I’m glad that for us, it’s quite different. But Éowyn, it’s not arrogance to want to choose for yourself. And it shouldn’t even be conditional to you killing the Witch-king, if that is what you mean by that. It should be conditional on what you want, on whom you love.”

She sounds so earnest, so affronted on her behalf. Éowyn can only smile, although the words stir something in her that she’s almost forgotten - some stubborn part that’s more angry than tired of her predicament. It isn’t like it can help her, now; Boromir is her husband until death, and there’s very little anyone can do to break the vows they’d made. Even she knows that. “I once thought I loved Aragorn,” she then says, softly like a secret.

But Arwen simply smiles and squeezes her hands in hers. “I know,” she says and there’s no hate, nor pity, nor anything else than a slight, mischievous tone. It makes Éowyn like her that much more, the relief fierce in her chest. She can say it now, that maybe she never loved Aragorn the man, but Aragorn the idea, the ideal, the promise to take her far away.

She thinks that Arwen understands that well.

~~~

Arwen is still with her when she returns to the house she shares with her not-husband. As such, she is also present when Éowyn opens the door and sees Boromir standing at the dining table, hands clasped behind his back.

On the table, three items lay in a way that speaks of careful presentation: a helmet, a shield and a sword.

Éowyn knows these items and she stops, not able to avert her eyes from the moment she looks at them.

“Éowyn,” Boromir greets before his eyes widen. He’s seen Arwen, then, and follows up with a deep bow. “My queen.”

“Hello, Boromir,” Arwen says and enters the room, one hand touching Éowyn’s briefly for reassurance. “How fares the guard?”

“As well as could be, my queen,” he answers but his eyes are on Éowyn. She can feel them, even if she doesn’t see. Her own attention is fully on the sword - her sword; the new blade, because she has seen the old one vanish into tainted dust, and the old handle.

It is her shield, too, mended where it’s been broken in half by the unforgiving collision with the Witch-king’s mace. And her helmet, every dent carefully removed. Her hands shake. Why are they here?

“Gifts for your wife?” Arwen asks because of course she’d know what Éowyn is thinking.

“Simply a return of her possessions.” Now she looks up and sees how nervous Boromir looks. They don’t interact much, but weeks and months living together make it easy to read his honest face. “I wondered about it, because Merry likes to tell me about the ride of the Rohirim- Éomer held onto them. I took the liberty of having them repaired for you, Éowyn.”

“Why?”

It’s her voice, but she feels like she’s not in possession of her body anymore. As if her soul has stepped to the side, watching as her body moves towards the table, her lips forming the simple question. By the Valar, her hands are still shaking. Even Arwen looks worried and Boromir - he watches her closely, trying to hide some kind of anxiety.

Neither of them show any pity and it hits her, that it’s Boromir of all people that shares this with Arwen and Merry. Not her brother, not Faramir - but a man who should be a stranger.

No pity for duty, she thinks and touches the sword, the shield and lastly, her helmet.

“They are yours,” Boromir says and he sounds so earnest it makes Éowyn choke. He, who married her but never calls her wife, the brother of the man she might have loved once - what kind of man is he, truly? “Gondor might not have a tradition of shieldmaidens like Rohan, but you do. You went to war for your home and your king, Éowyn. These are yours.”

I did, she thinks. As Dernhelm, she went to war for her uncle and king. She nearly died for the man who had been, for all intents and purposes, her father. I went to war and killed the Witch-king. That was me.

The hilt of her sword feels familiar in her hand. The weight is the same, as is the balance. Some of the design doesn’t quite match up her own memories, but the weight- she breathes in and out and puts the sword back down. “And what am I to do with it?” she asks. Behind them, Arwen shifts.

“Whatever you want,” Boromir says as if it is that easy. “The sparring grounds are open for you, although I’d recommend to start easy. You’ve been injured for a long time. Indeed… my queen, Aragorn tells me that you’re taught with the sword as well?”

“I am,” Arwen says and then she’s next to Éowyn, who feels shaken and unsure. “Would you like to spar with me these days, Éowyn?”

Éowyn swallows and looks to Arwen, to Boromir. Does she want to? Dernhelm is a part of her, but that might not be what Boromir wants. Only, how important is it what Boromir wants? (Does he even want something from her, or is this simply an honest offer? Does he care, much more than she thought he would?)

Nothing of that matters. This is a choice, and it is her’s, isn’t it?

“That would be lovely, my queen.”

Chapter Text

“Mylord,” one of his captains says. Boromir doesn’t move his gaze away from the two women circling each other. Arwen, he notices, only uses a sword of elegant elf-made. Aragorn misses out, he thinks, but as king, he has many more duties than even Boromir has.

Steel clashes against steel, then against sturdy, reinforced wood. Éowyn throws Arwen off, but the she-elf is swift on her feet as her kind ever is, dancing around the shieldmaiden, eyes sharp and perceptive.

“Mylord,” his captain says again and Boromir hums, waving at him to continue. “With all due respect, Sire, but is this wise?”

“Is what?” Boromir asks, feigning ignorance. He knows what this will be about; ever since returning Éowyn’s repaired sword, people have been chasing him with worries and complaints. Minas Tirith, he muses, really isn’t used to armed women.

“Allowing them to take up arms, Mylord. If the queen or the lady gets hurt-”

Another clash. Éowyn is fast, but not as fast as Arwen. She is stronger, though, and Boromir wonders if she’s taken up some training. What a good use of her shieldarm; good leverage to push back on the queen’s attack. “They’re skilled warriors, Ohtar. Tell me, do you hover as such when our men are sparring?”

The captain sputters, then hesitates. Good. “I don’t think it’s the same, Mylord. The queen’s health is paramount. Our king indulges her, but you ought to tell your wife not to do the same.”

Boromir knows it’s the worry - Gondor’s men aren’t, at a large, used to see their beloved fight with them. Even in Rohan, the tradition of the shieldmaiden has changed to the point where it’s seen as nothing more than a fancy for noble women. To see the queen wield steel so effortlessly must stress out the guards watching.

Still, it rankles. Boromir, who’s seen parts of the world foreign to his people, wishes he could send them all to a similar journey. After meeting Lady Galadriel, a woman of power so immense he doesn’t dare think of it too long, he can’t look at Arwen and see just another wife of a warrior. The same is true for Éowyn. Boromir trusts people who earned it. He trusts Merry, who told him about the Witch-king. There is simply no doubt in his heart about the truth of what’s been told.

“My wife,” he says and still doesn’t look away from the sparring. “Is not my property, nor is she my pet, Captain. She’s a trained shieldmaiden. It simply doesn’t matter what I want or allow; as long as she does, she’s free to do so. Besides-” and here he does look up, meets the captain’s startled gaze. “She’s a king’s sister as well, Ohtar. She outranks you and me. Why do you think I could ever order her around?”

The man pales a bit at the reminder and Boromir can’t help but smirk. “Not that I want to,” he continues. “She’s a war-hero, as well as you know.”

And then the man scoffs softly, at those last words. It’s still enough for Boromir to hear it. “As you say, Mylord,” Ohtar says.

“Ohtar.” Boromir leans forward, watching closely now. There are things that can get out of hand quickly. The dismissive tone of his captain is one of them. “Are you thinking me a liar?”

“Of course not, Mylord!” the man all but shouts, posture shifting into parade. But Boromir’s not blind; he sees the flicker of the captain’s eyes.

“You think her a liar, then,” Boromir says, softly. “Out of all the tales told, it is Éowyn’s you don’t believe.” Not that she’s the one to talk about her victory. It came with a steep price - the loss of her king and uncle. But it’s been told by others and rightly so. Why doubt it? Why scoff at it?

Watching Éowyn bloom under Arwin’s patient attention, sword in her hand and shield in her other, is a thing of beauty. She smiles nowadays and when Boromir comes home after a day of duty, more often than not she talks. There are still stretches of silence and wariness. Still moments she looks away until he’s gone. Merry’s gone, which is a likely cause, but it’s nothing he cannot accept. The thing is-

The thing is, sometimes she looks happy. Genuinely happy. Boromir hasn’t seen it before on her face, that soft expression, and he doesn’t want baseless rumours and biases to chase it off again.

“Come with me,” he says and doesn’t give his captain a choice. Grabbing his wrist, he brings him along as he walks down to the sparring ground Arwen and Éowyn are using. They both stop in their fight, heads turned. Arwen looks curious. Éowyn looks apprehensive.

“My queen. Mylady,” Boromir greets and lets go of the captain. “This good man here, Ohtar, wishes to measure his worth against your skill, Éowyn.”

“Does he now?” she says and narrows her eyes. He meets her gaze forwardly and after a moment, her face softens somewhat, a sight that has him glad. When she regards Ohtar, however, her expression hardens. “If the queen allows it, I would gladly match him in a spar.”

Arwen smiles beatifically. Ohtar swallows. “Of course I allow it.”

Éowyn beats Ohtar in less than three moves. Then she beats him again, and a third time before the captain finally stops pulling his punches and fights back as he would against any other man.

She still wins, a fierce and wild light in her eyes as she puts him in place. When they’re done, she extends her hand to help him up. Boromir is not surprised when Ohtar takes it, eyes wide with something akin to awe. One less person in Minas Tirith who’ll doubt.

“Do send us more, my good Boromir,” Arwen murmurs next to him. “It’ll be good for us to vary our opponents from time to time.”

“I fear there are enough for a lifetime, my queen,” Boromir says with a sigh. “But I’ll do so. It’ll do my men good to get humbled from time to time.”

Arwen laughs, a sound as lovely as all she ever lets him hear, and ambles across the ground. “Marvellous,” Boromir can hear her say. “I’ll be next, good captain.”

No, Boromir thinks, amused when he sees Ohtar’s face. He probably won’t be dismissive anymore.

Chapter Text

Ӄowyn,

I hope this letter reaches you in good health. Things in Ithilien have settled down by now…”

~~~

“Éowyn,

Have you ever heard of the blood-sun flower? It blooms far in the south of Harad and I’ve only ever seen it drawn. But today, we’ve found such a flower growing at the southern border of Ithilien, the seed likely carried by the Haradrim themselves when they marched north…”

~~~

“Éowyn,

Today, elves of Mirkwood have arrived in the Emyn Arnen. Many of my men do not know how to interact with them, which seems to amuse our visitors greatly. Damrod especially; that man has never been shy before, but now he can barely answer a question when asked by one of the elves…”

~~~

“Éowyn,

Are things well between you and Boromir? How fares the city, the king and the queen? Sometimes, I miss it all, but more than that I miss you, my friend.

I once said that I am sorry for not loving you. I said it in half a panic, I admit, so I hope, despite your lack of answers, that you do not hate me as much as to not forgive my lie: I am not sorry for not loving you. This means, to me at least, two things. One, that I do love you. Two, that my love to you is akin to the love a brother might have for his sister, or simply how two friends love each other.

If, by now, you have not yet dismissed this letter, know this: It is not your fault. I do not want you to live with any wrong assumption; cannot bear the thought that you might think it’s you that is unlovable, for you are a lovely lady indeed. And in memory of our friendship born at the Houses of Healing, of many days and evenings shared in dialogue, I tell you this: Never once since the day I outgrew my childhood have I felt any romantic affection for anyone. In my youth, I never once noticed the advances of girls my age. Adulthood did not change that, nor did it change the lack of feelings every other man I know experienced. You may ask Boromir, if you want; by now, you should know that he is a man of honour and that he would not lie to you.

Our father knew as well and maybe this affliction of mine, this inability to look at a woman and fall for her, is the reason he hated me as much as he did. And maybe I should’ve told you this sooner and saved you from the pain of rejection. I did not, however. For that, I am sorry. I am sorry it took me so long to tell you, and to tell you in a letter and not face to face. But I am much more a coward than my brother, so I will stay here in Ithilien for a while longer. I hope you forgive me one day and we can be friends again. I hope you can look at me one day without feeling the pain I caused you. Until then, I will respect your silence and not bother you again.

Faramir.”

The parchment crinkles in her hands. For a moment, all she wants to do is to drop it, stand up and leave the house, drinking in fresh air until her head stops spinning. But she doesn’t; instead, Éowyn takes a deep breath and does what Arwen has once told her to do: wait until the urge weakens, then try and understand why she feels that way.

Letters are no rarity in the house of the steward. On Éowyn’s desk alone are a few neat stacks. Merry’s letters are not that many - the distance proves difficult, but his letters are long and thoughtful and often accompanied by drawings and dried flowers. Her brother writes her, too - not much in comparison and often with a note of apology in it. She answers sparingly because even months apart she still feels some resentment towards him.

Faramir’s letters lie unanswered at the far edge of the desk. Ithilien is not closest to Minas Tirith, but the way between the white city and Emyn Arnen, where the rangers live, is well-travelled. And often enough, when Boromir and Aragorn receive their reports, there’s a letter for her, too.

And each time there is, Éowyn doesn’t know what to write back.

She doesn’t hate him. By the Valar, she can’t. But she can’t pretend she never loved him; unlike with Aragorn, whom she hadn’t really known before fooling herself with thoughts of feelings, Faramir is a man she knows intimately well. They’ve both been greatly wounded, physically and emotionally, and for a long time, they’d depended on each other for company and support.

Each carefully penned letter of his is carefully crafted. How do you do’s and funny little stories and interesting tidbits from his life in Ithilien; things he knows she’d like, if only she could bring herself to not think about him while reading them. For months, ever since his rejection, ever since her wedding, the thought of Faramir has been a painful reminder of her own insecurities.

But this… She cannot ignore this. But she also can’t discern what kind of emotion swells in her chest. Is it anger? Sadness? Guilt? Is it relief? It might be all of them and suddenly, it is hard to breathe and hard to see, her chest tight and her eyes burning with tears.

It is not your fault, he wrote. I cannot bear the thought that you might think it’s you that is unlovable, for you are a lovely lady indeed.

Does she really need this? This absolution on paper? Does it matter? She wonders why he even bothers, why he never stopped writing to her; counts the dozen letters with shaking hands and making a mess of her desk in the process. She’s never answered once. He’s run away, but so did she.

But some birds are not meant to be caged at all, Éowyn. Not by others and not by themselves.

Arwen’s words echo in her mind. It is enough to move her, at least. The letters fall from her hands and she pushes them away. Pushes the thoughts out of her mind and herself out of the house.

Chapter Text

Clouds roll ever closer, a dark band along the horizon. Boromir knows from experience that they mean rain at least, maybe a storm; coming from the west and the south where the sea lies, they’ll break along the Ered Nimrais, saturating the lands around the white city with rain.

The guards he trains with today know that too. They look up and feel the wind in their hair and sigh. It makes Boromir smile crookedly in apology; they know he will not stop their training unless it’s a storm, and they resign themselves to it, continuing their drill.

When Éowyn comes, he has them sparring, one on one and two on two, walking the grounds to observe, correct and advise. They’re working up a sweat, chill against the wind. The air smells of moisture already and the sound of distant thunder is heard from where the darkened clouds approach.

“Boromir,” she calls, clad in one of her dresses, the summer fabric fluttering in a sudden gust. Her hair is loosely braided, the look in her eyes wild in a way he hasn’t seen since their wedding day. In her hand, she holds her sword.

She calls him Boromir.

“Éowyn,” he says, as he always does. Never wife, never any pet names those in love would call each other. For all that she nowadays acknowledges him, for all that they share their evening meal discussing their days and any topic they fancy, she always calls him husband, as if mocking their faux marriage. Bitter in those first few weeks, then distant in the following only to grow steadily warmer, he’s never heard her call him by his name. And while he would’ve come regardless, it makes his steps a bit more urgent. “Continue,” he tells the guards and then he stands in front of her.

She barely moves but her hair and her dress. Behind her wild eyes, he can see something else welling up. “Spar with me,” she asks.

There is training to be done. There is a duty he has to uphold. These men look up to him, for his advice and guidance - young men, who’ve only recently joined the guard of the city, who’ve had their first taste in fight and war during the great one. They’ve survived and hope to survive in the future still.

But Éowyn has, within the half-year they share a home and a table, never asked him of anything more than to pass her the butter dish during breakfast. And has he not a duty towards her, too? He looks at her and sees someone hurting, someone in need. What happened he doesn’t know, but if this might help her…

“Come,” he says and doesn’t comment on her lack of armor, her lack of a shield. Instead, he seeks out a place not yet occupied, close enough to his guards to keep an eye on them, far enough away so that their voices might not carry.

She fights well, when they start. Arwen is a fast opponent and Éowyn has long adapted to that. But they also fight others, men stronger than them, with more reach and heavier weaponry. Her’s is a sword made to fight from horseback; light and sharp, the doubled edge made to come from above, to either slice through unguarded flesh or stab precisely where a helmet has an opening. Boromir’s sword is heavy and held with two hands; a longsword that, with the length of his arms, reaches her so much faster than she can reach him.

But despite all this, she fights. There is a desperate strength in each of her swings and not once does she look away from him. Her braid unravels and her skirt hampers her, but she continues and he holds against her, blocking and turning her around. Maybe this is what she needs - someone with whom she can burn all that energy off, someone to take the heat.

No, he thinks as he parries another swing, this one more reckless than the last. She doesn’t like this. Turning his blade, he steps forward, for the first time not just defending, but attacking, and- yes. The way she bares her teeth at him softens, the anger welling up resides.

Boromir stops holding back altogether. The rain finally reaches the city, bands of water pouring out from the darkened skies. They clash, once, twice. Then he bears down on her and forces her sword out of her hand.

It lands on the ground and they stop, his blade resting against the pale curve of Éowyn’s neck. For a moment, they simply stand there, eyes met and breathing heavy. Then Boromir steps back and Éowyn scoffs. He doesn’t comment on how it almost sounds like a sob instead.

“I am still too weak,” she tells him and there is a waiver in her voice. It could be nothing more than the chill; her dress is quickly soaked and the wind hasn’t lessened.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply says and steps closer to collect her sword from the ground. “But I doubt that. Éowyn, what do you really want to talk about?”

He doesn’t miss the slight flinch at his words, the way her hands clench and unclench, the rigid line of her shoulders. Her eyes, when she looks back up, are too bright and the wildness has only lessened; it’s not fully gone. “Your brother wrote to me.”

The stack of letters is no secret to Boromir. He knows of them because mostly, they go through his hands when he receives whatever message is sent from the south. He brings missives to Aragorn, too. Those for Éowyn he leaves on the table for her to pick up. What Faramir writes her, he doesn’t know however, and usually Éowyn doesn’t make a comment on it, too.

This time, obviously things have been different. “Usually, he takes great care of what he says and writes.” It’s not a dismissal - some things happen without intention. Others happen because of it. Boromir can only guess which path Faramir has taken, and for what outcome. “May I ask what he said?”

She glances around, to the guards that have stopped fighting to watch and only just return to their drills, to the buildings surrounding the training grounds, to the towers of the castle above. She takes her time, her hastened breath calming down. “He told me about-” A moment of hesitation. Eyes flickering back towards him. “He told me why he rejected me. When the arrangement was made. I asked him to switch with you and he told me no.”

And now he told her why. Boromir feels as if a heavy weight is laid on his chest; they rarely speak of it, because for Boromir, there is nothing much to speak of. The way his brother feels, the way he doesn’t - it’s always been like this. But he is aware that most don’t know; those that did know, besides himself and a few chosen friends, never reacted well to it. For Faramir to have told Éowyn, who may or may not still love him… Is she angry? Does she not understand or accept? Does she not believe Faramir’s words?

Éowyn meets his eyes, her own bright with what might have been the beginnings of tears. It’s hard to tell, with the rain growing stronger still. Even Boromir feels the cold creep into his bones. He shakes his head, water flying everywhere, and offers her back her sword. “It is true,” he says because he can’t bear the thought of Éowyn calling his brother a liar. “He will likely never take a wife. Those he loves, he loves as family. I think, when you asked him that… I talked to him after, and I think he felt as if I asked him. Perhaps, if you imagine Éomer asking for your hand, you would understand.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps, if you imagine Éomer asking for your hand, you would understand.

A shiver runs through Éowyn’s body. Part from the cold, but mostly because she reacts in instinctive disgust at the thought alone. At first, she wants to deny it - Faramir’s not her brother, it doesn’t make sense - but it’s Boromir who says it so calmly, like it has to make sense. And if she’s learned one thing about this man in the half-year she knows him, it’s that he simply doesn’t lie. He’s far too earnest, too honorable for that kind of deceit. So he, at least, believes it to be true.

Taking in a shuddering breath, she closes her eyes to keep the world out if just for a moment. She feels cold all over, the rain weighing down her dress, her hair. But Éowyn can still feel Boromir’s eyes on her. Can hear the thunder rolling above, the way the wind breaks against the corners of the walls and the buildings in Minas Tirith.

None of that matters right now. As much as she wishes to be distracted, to not look at herself and the mess of emotions pressing on her heart, her lungs, her mind, it’s not enough. Because this is important, she feels. This is something she cannot ignore.

She once thought she loved Aragorn, but that is only a distant thing today. Her friendship with Arwen was too stark a contrast to her lingering feelings of regret; she’s never loved the king, she knows, only the possibility of escape he once represented. The memory doesn’t hurt her anymore. But she knows she’s loved Faramir, as truly as she could back then; still healing, still wounded, they’ve bonded over their commonalities. Discarded members of their houses, misunderstood and pressured into things neither wanted. Mothers dead, father figures overcome by madness.

There are a lot of similarities between them. And oh, how Faramir would listen to her, how he’d look her - not at her title or her pretty face, but at her alone, as if her words have weight.

He’s easy to love, she thinks. And so, his rejection had hurt the most, opening never-healed wounds all over again. All her insecurities came back all at once. Maybe that’s why it felt so much like betrayal. Another man who thought she was lacking, who thought she wasn’t enough-

To now hear that it’s never been her but him? And why, why- “Why didn’t he told me?” she asks, grasping for something, anything other than the painful relief she feels and the sudden fear and guilt that come with it. There’s so much to sort out, so much to reevaluate, so much to overthink- opening her eyes, she seeks out Boromir. Patient, steadfast Boromir who offers her a hand almost unthinkably.

She takes it, lets it steady her. In the storm, both of nature and of mind, he feels like the rock bracing against the violent sea.

“I cannot say,” he tells her. Something shifts in his eyes, a particular look she can’t identify. “But he carries a lot of pain because of it. Most people- they don’t understand. Our father…” He shakes his head, the silence heavy with dark meaning. “You’ll have to ask him yourself, Éowyn. But first, you need to get inside. You’ll catch your death out here.”

He makes to step back, but for a moment longer, she holds him here, fingers grasping a bit tighter. “Why did you fight me?” she asks him, the words rushing out before she even knows. She’s shivering, she should go back home, should warm up as he said, but…

“Because you asked me to,” he says, as if it’s that simple.

Maybe for him, it really is.

She stares at him, searches for any kind of lie, of omission, of manipulation and sees none. Because Boromir is honorable. He is honest. He values duty and gave so much for his people. Because in another world without Aragorn, this man would be reigning steward of Gondor and he’d do it well.

Because he cares about her, too. There’s a lump in her throat when she thinks of those weeks of dismissal before she even started to talk to him. When she’d thought of him as the ‘lesser’ brother. “Thank you,” she says. Just quiet enough in the rain and the wind that Boromir leans forward to hear it better.

Éowyn does, too. He’s a large man, as large as Aragorn, with wider shoulders and a more muscular frame. She only now realizes that despite that, she’s never felt afraid of him. She thinks of that when she kisses his cheek, cold skin against cold lips. After she turns around and leaves, she looks back just once and sees: Boromir, looking a bit wide-eyed in surprise, stock-still as the rain continues to pour down on him.

~~~

A hot bath awaits her in the steward’s house. The servant washes her hair and lays out her clothes, then she goes off to prepare tea and soup. Boromir comes in later, wet to the bones. He greets her with an air of bafflement, then flees to take a bath as well. Éowyn is glad; she needs some time to think, so she takes her tea to the study.

There, she regards her correspondence: Merry’s small pile of letters, the pressed flowers and greens transferred onto silk paper hung next to the window. The awkward missives from Éomer at the far end. And there, Faramir’s stack, pages of little tales from Ithilien, never answered. And his last one, still open on the desk.

She can hear Boromir clattering around. The storm lashes out against the walls, the rain loud on the roof and on the streets. The smell of beef stock starts to well up from abouts the kitchen and the tea lies warm in her stomach. For a moment, she hesitates. Than she rereads the letter, her eyes caught by a certain passage.

If, by now, you have not yet dismissed this letter, know this: It is not your fault. I do not want you to live with any wrong assumption; cannot bear the thought that you might think it’s you that is unlovable, for you are a lovely lady indeed.

This time, her fingers do not crumble the parchment. She simply stares at it and thinks about those words and every possible implication in them.

Later, she’ll sit down and eat dinner with her suddenly awkward husband. Tomorrow, she’d visit Arwen and tell her about today. She’d cry at least once, she thinks, but she feels no longer any shame in that. Tomorrow evening, she vows, she will write a reply.

It’s the least she can do, for any of them.

Chapter Text

Five Years Later.

Like many pivotal things in Éowyn’s life, this one, too, starts with an announcement.

“How’s Merry?” Boromir asks, a few minutes after Éowyn has opened the letter. He’s still at his breakfast; these days, he’s loath to leave their home in a hurry when he doesn’t have to.

“His child- it’s a daughter,” she says and Boromir looks up, eyes wide and a wide smile on his lips. They’ve been waiting for this message for a while now. Éowyn meets his eyes and puts the letter down. “He’s naming her after me. We’ll travel north within the month.”

Boromir frowns, but he doesn’t look displeased. His frown is a thoughtful one, as if he’s already planning the arrangements. “It shouldn’t be a hardship, to start earlier than planned,” he says and eyes her. “We’ll likely have to become guests for a while, though. Aragorn wants us there at the end of the year, there won’t be anything prepared for our arrival.”

“We’ll stay in the Shire, then.” Her smile grows bigger, now. His does, too. They’ve both wanted to visit the hobbits’ home for a while, but only now do they have a chance for an extended visit. With Aragorn’s plans to revive the northern kingdom, they have all the excuses they need.

~~~

It’ll take years and decades more for the North-South road to be finished. Work on the restoration of the ancient and nearly overgrown structure has only started recently. Mile per mile, vegetation gets cleared out and stones are laid in place. When it’s finished, Aragorn says, it’ll be the most important trade-route with the northern kingdom.

Éowyn is only glad to leave it behind. Five times one of the carriage’s wheels has broken and she’s not gotten used to the uneven motion when travelling over nothing more but hard-packed dirt and the occasional cobblestone. The trees and bushes and rocks might’ve been cleared out already, but the paving still has a long way to go. She feels nauseous just thinking about the last few weeks.

The road forks off into two directions - north-east starts the Greenway, which leads to a city called Bree, according to the maps. Those had been sent her way by Merry, once it was decided for the steward and his little family to oversee the rebuilding of Arnor. But Bree is not Éowyn’s destination; it is the left road the carriage turns to, the one leading to the north-west and across the southern borders of the Shire.

Thankfully, once crossed, the road becomes much more cared-for. Éowyn sighs and wishes, yet again, to sit on a horse instead inside this wooden torture chamber. She can see Boromir riding with their guards when looking out the too-small window and cannot help but feel fierce jealousy.

“Husband,” she calls, her voice sharp with the turn of her mood. Immediately he turns his head and halts his horse, falling into a slower pace to let the carriage catch up to him.

“Wife,” he replies, an easy smile on his lips despite the worried wrinkles forming on his face. “Is everything alright?”

“Besides the never-ending sickness? I want to ride, Boromir.”

“You know what the healer said.” Why, oh why does he have to be so stubborn? “Not until the dizziness fades. You might’ve been born on horseback yourself, Éowyn, but right now that won’t help you when you faint away.”

“I won’t faint, you strong-headed... mule!” she snaps, annoyance surging up. But Boromir simply smiles, eyes shining with amusement. He does a lot of that lately. That, and worry, because it’s just Éowyn’s luck that she gets sick right in the middle of their trip.

Or that it isn’t an illness but a pregnancy that prohibits her from riding or doing much of anything. She isn’t even showing! Not much. Not more than she can hide.

“Éowyn, we’re not far away now,” Boromir says with his annoyingly gentle, affectionate voice. She sighs and leans against the padded backrest, one hand on her stomach. She can feel the slight swell there.

“With any luck, they’ll be born while we’re in the Shire,” she murmures, unwilling to admit defeat and thus changing the topic. Thankfully, it’s Boromir’s favourite one. The man immediately perks up. “Not too far off my namesake.”

“Hobbits grow slower. I know that Pippin wasn’t quite a full adult yet when I met him in Rivendell and he was- thirty, perhaps?” He grows silent for a bit. The lands surrounding them are beautiful, all lush greens full of spring leaves and fresh flowers. “It’d be nice for them, growing up here.”

“Not forever, but for a bit? Things will change, anyways. And we’re now bound to the north for the foreseeable future.”

Boromir hums, neither a yes nor a no. He’ll think about it, Éowyn knows, and tell her his answer later. They have a duty here that can’t be fully done from the Shire - the fallen kingdom stretches from here to the wildlands and there is much to cover. Small settlements still not knowing what happened in the south; larger villages unlikely to join their efforts; fell creatures and wild men haunting vast stretches of ruins.

It is no place for a child. But the Shire… Éowyn looks out, past a contemplating Boromir. There, past a few trees and tilled fields, she can spot a little hill, one side adorned with a fence and wooden panels and a round door. It looks peaceful and colourful and simple in a way neither Rohan or Gondor can ever be.

“What about names?” She asks, her eyes lingering on the green-painted door for as long as she manages.

“Per tradition, it ought to be Borowyn for a daughter.” They both think about that for a while.

“Maybe something less traditional, then,” Éowyn prompts and Boromir laughs. Now her eyes linger on his face and on the lines on it she knows so well. “Try for a son.”

“I’ve thought about that!” he says easily. He looks far too satisfied with himself. “And it’s not per tradition, even.”

“Oh?”

“I’m thinking about naming my son after his mother.”

“Éomir?” And it’s not bad, not bad at all. A bit too close to Éomer, but-

“Dernhelm,” he says and Éowyn remembers: this is why I learned to love him, and love him I do well.

Tʜᴇ Eɴᴅ