Work Text:
TA 3002/S.R. 1402, Yule
“Éowyn! Éowyn!”
The call rang throughout the hall of Meduseld from every quarter. Théoden King had everyone from his son and heir to the lowliest kitchen-maid turning the Golden Hall upside down, looking for his sister-daughter, who ought to have been abed.
They would have no luck – for hours before, the daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn had made it her business to slip out of Edoras altogether…
~~~
Éowyn had taken her pony (a fact that the King seemed to have missed, or elsewise discounted) and slipped past the midnight watch after the Yule Eve feast, when she was meant to have been abed. It was all too easy for her to slip in behind a family leaving the city, and now…
Well, now she was lost. She hated to admit it, but Éowyn was utterly lost. Seven years old and completely alone – she had no idea what she meant to do once she got this far past the city gates. Everything looked different under its blanket of white snow and the endless starlit sky, and Éowyn nudged Biscuit on, pulling her warm cloak tighter about herself. They had been out for hours. It seemed to have been forever, and she felt herself very alone. Uncle would be angry, she thought - he might even smack her! If he found her, that is...
Finally, they reached a copse of trees, and Éowyn dismounted, turning Biscuit loose so the pony could find something to eat, and…
“Hail, Éowyn daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn. You have ridden far.”
The child whirled round. She wasn’t alone. The speaker was a Stanlending, or so she judged by his dark hair and clear grey eyes, yet he spoke Rohirric flawlessly. He also knew her name, she thought wonderingly. She looked at the tall Man, clothed in grey and green, and trembled. There was an air of majesty about him she could not name.
“Hail, Lord,” she said respectfully. “I fear I have lost my way.”
“Gil told me you might have done,” the Man responded, and for the first time she noticed his companion, another Man, this one as fair as she was. He bowed to her, hand over his heart. “Have no fear, fair Éowyn,” Gil said. “My kinsman, Earntungol, and I seek only to protect you. Come and share the last of our Yule fire, ere Anor graces us with her presence.”
Earntungol! Éowyn’s heart thrilled. This was Captain Earntungol, who her uncle had known in his childhood? He must be, she thought, and that would make him a Man of the fallen North-kingdom, not a Stanlending. “Thank you, Lord Earntungol, Gil,” she said, and allowed them to lead her on.
When they reached the firepit Earntungol had dug, they found the fire blazed up, casting a strange shadow on the snow behind them – Éowyn would have thought it a ship, if that were not impossible. She turned to Gil to ask, but his offer of warm spiced milk caught her attention. She turned her mind to the milk and biscuits, grateful for the comforts they provided.
As Éowyn ate, Earntungol and Gil talked, lapsing into a language Éowyn was unfamiliar with. She heard words that sounded familiar – Ciryatan, Elendil, atar – that last was rather like adar which she knew meant father, and as they talked, they whittled, carving chips from branches in the wood-pile. Before long, Gil’s took shape, and he presented it to Éowyn – a ship, not unlike that she was sure she had seen. Earntungol’s took a bit longer, and different pieces of wood to fashion – a Man, deftly carved and jointed together, to stand on the deck of Gil’s ship and sail it. Éowyn’s eyes were round with delight.
“For me,” she gasped. “Really?”
“For you, fair one,” Gil replied, giving her another bow. “But I have strayed long enough from my appointed path. I must go. Earntungol will help you find your way.” He bent and gave Éowyn a kiss on the brow. “Live blessed, Child of Eorl. Happy Yule to you.”
“And to you, my lord,” Éowyn whispered around a yawn. She blushed, embarrassed, but as the two Men gave her kind smiles, she relaxed into slumber. The crackling flames and the warmth lulled her, and soon, with her arms around her gift, she was asleep.
~~~
‘Gil’ pulled a shining stone out of his pocket, binding it to his brow, and with a thought called Vingilot out of the treetops. “It is as well that the child did not climb up,” he remarked to his long-son.
“It is as well, Anatar,” Earntungol replied, giving his long-father a respectful bow. “Thank you for coming. I fear I would have lost her trail otherwise, though Adar said I would come in time.”
“My son knows you better than most,” Gil replied. “Trust in him – as we trust in you. Happy Yule, Estel.”
“I will, Anatar. Happy Yule,” Earntungol said softly, watching as his long-father leapt to the deck and rose into the sky. The Silmaril blazed, and faded until it was only a bright star.
Earntungol put out the fire, scooped Éowyn into his arms, and calling her pony to follow, headed away from camp. The Rohirrim would come to meet him. He had no doubt of that, and so it was – with Théoden riding at their head, the full éored met him on the plain, a full hour out of Meduseld.
“Earntungol?” Théoden stared in disbelief. Théodred’s jaw dropped. This was the famous Earntungol? He moved to take his cousin from the Northerner, and the King embraced Earntungol as a brother.
“A kinsman of mine and I found Éowyn,” Earntungol said softly. “I know how I would feel if she were a daughter of mine, born or adopted. I am sure she will find her place in your household, gwador.”
“I do hope so,” Théoden said quietly. “Thank you, gwador. Thank you for the life of my daughter.”
Earntungol smiled. “No thanks are needed, Théoden. Health to you and yours; a Happy Yule to you.”
“Happy Yule, Earntungol. Will you stay with us, or do you ride on?”
“Alas, I have pressing duties, and I must return to them, brother. Still, I thank you,” came the reply, and as Théodred settled Éowyn on her pony, he called, “Noro lim, Mithfaron!”
Mithfaron came running, and Earntungol swung himself up onto the great grey’s back. Mithfaron tossed his head and Earntungol wheeled him round, nudging him into a gallop again. Soon, the Rohirrim returning to Meduseld were out of sight.
~~~
As the snow crunched under Mithfaron’s hooves, Earntungol – Aragorn – consoled himself with thoughts of Arwen…and of Gil. Raising his eyes skyward, he sought out the fading light of Eärendil’s Star.
Did I do right, Anatar?
Go find out, Estel, was the reply he felt in his heart, and so he pressed onward in his mission.