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The woman is tall – taller than the tallest men of the Mark – and brutish, but there is a soft, fragile interior hiding behind her blue eyes. Her coloring is typical to the Eorlingas, but she undoubtedly hails from elsewhere. Her accent, reading ability, and lack of knowledge about the land are among some of the reasons.
She said her name was Brienne when they found her wandering the plains, and they had little reason to assume she was lying; the woman is honest to a fault. Steadfast, loyal, and deadly with a blade, she would be the perfect soldier if it weren’t for her sex.
Shieldmaidens are a legend, a story little girls love to hear; they have not been commonplace for centuries. The arrival of Brienne sparked a small uprising of young girls asking for weapons training. Lady Éowyn, of course, adores her.
The admiration seems completely foreign to Brienne. She still wears a puzzled expression when praise is spoken of her, even though it’s been two years since she settled in Edoras.
Although she has proved her skill as a fighter, women are simply not allowed to take up the profession of a soldier. They may, however, train as they see fit and fight of their own volition, so she is doing no harm. That’s not to say she doesn’t ruffle feathers (she excels at it), but the people leave her be for the most part.
With attacks increasing to the east, near Isengard, Brienne’s assistance may be required. Lord Éomer himself has taken interest in her – he is becoming impatient with the king’s inaction, and the king’s snake-tongued counsellor.
“Brienne daughter of Selwyn,” he addresses her.
The ungainly woman scrambles to her feet at once. “Lord Éomer.” She crosses her arms behind her back and bows deeply before standing at attention.
He cannot help but smile. Her formality intrigues him. “You are well?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I have heard much about your endeavor to train our young men…and women.”
She swallows, still holding his gaze. “Forgive me if I have misstepped, my lord. They are eager to learn.”
Éomer sighs. “Yes, they are. Another generation scared into battle. I suppose it is a good thing, in the end, that someone is teaching them. We may have need of them yet.”
Brienne inclines her head. “I pray not, my lord.”
For all his years in court, he is having difficulty asking her a simple question.
Her brow wrinkles. “Is that all, my lord?”
Éomer puts a steadying hand on the sword at his side. “Ah…no, actually.” He inclines his head. “There is something I’d like to ask of you.”
“Anything, my lord.”
He winces. Her fealty can be staggering at times. In the Mark, the boundaries between classes are blurred – people are free to speak their minds, as long as they are respectful, and it is most certainly not a lord’s place to expect everyone to do his bidding. They are family. They are friends. They are one.
“I am sure you have heard of recent activity on the eastern border?” he inquires.
Brienne pushes out her chin slightly. “Yes,” she confirms.
He nods. “We could use your help,” he tells her. “Or rather, we sorely need it.”
Her full lips part in surprise. “I – I would be honored, my lord. Anything I can do.”
Éomer smiles. “Good. I am most grateful.”
For the first time since their meeting, the woman’s posture relaxes, and it warms his heart. Perhaps they will become true brothers in arms.