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The shadow of the Misty Mountains sunk into the tall grasses, growing taller and darker and more ominous as the refugees skirted the mountain range towards Helm's Deep. At times the waves of green broke around Eowyn's thighs, though the bay she led by the reins had no issue splitting the grass at her hooves. She was lost in thought, watching over the wavy line of her people trudging forward, need-driven and hungry. With a click of the tongue she shepherded the mare down an incline, with a not unsubstantial grumble from her rider.
The lazy mid-afternoon sun broke across the dwarf's face, occasionally catching the silver cuffs woven into his rust-coloured beard and glinting playfully. Eowyn had seen dwarven-made ornaments before, as a child she was gifted a small toy horse wrought from fine silver and adorned with a golden bridle from the people of a city far below the hills. She also seemed to recall giving it to Eomer as a token of luck on his first exertion as the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. Wondering if it was tucked away somewhere in his pack and whether it's brilliant silver-shine and hue was a product of nostalgia or a testament to the skill of the Masters of Stone she realised that Gimli was speaking to her and seemingly had been for a time.
"And this, in turn has led to has given rise to the belief that there are no Dwarf women. And that dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!" He exclaimed, his voice lowering to emphasise the absurdity of the statement.
Eowyn laughed merrily, a good hearty meal of a laugh. A laugh to last you through the winter and into sunnier times, she thought. He responded with a chortle before continuing.
"Which is of course ridiculous! Dwarven love-making is, as all good things should be, an art! Unlike humans who seem to take the whole idea much too seriously for our tastes. You know-"
"Gimli!," called Aragorn sternly, but with a smile "Take some attempt to not offend the good lady."
Eowyn turned to address him, shading her eyes from the sun that crowned him in honey-gold. "I find no offense in his words my lord!" And her words rang true, she revelled in the unfettered conversation, it had been many years since she had felt so free to converse as she saw fit.
That night, she slipped into sleep easier than ever before. Too easily, like mis-stepping atop a cliff and finding yourself falling into darkness, raw and consuming and strangely but truly hot to the touch…
…And there she lay, once again alone,
with naught but cool grey stone to comfort her,
and naught but her own hands
pink and fresh
to comb her tresses and hold her blushed cheek
curled on the floor of her quarters,
like a hound, though she felt no powerful fangs,
erupting from her maw, no claws splitting the bone
between two bruised knuckles
that trace lines across her jaw, her lips,
the curve of her ears, the flats of her teeth,
the flatness, the stillness, the silence
and tracing the distance between a sister and her brother
and the years between a father with a firm sword-grip
and the blood between a daughter, taken from her mother
and the mere breaths between a man playing the role of shadow
and his prey of choice.
Gasping awake, once her ears had cleared of high pitched screams, she heard a hum traveling over the dew strewn grass. In the early morning blueness an orange glow sat, hovering in the clear, thin air. Blinking away sleep dust, a hazy form materialised, Gimli, the orange glow embers burning in a pipe. Pushing her head back into a sheepskin bedroll, she let the dwarven music crash over her. Its intricate melodies ebbed and flowed, her mind took her horse figurine and held it in profile. She mentally traced it's mane over and over until the fog of dream-fear sank into the deep recesses of her mind. A sliver of safeness came over her as Gimli began to sing.