Descent

Éowyn’s hands dragged slightly over the leather cover of her book.  The top right hand corner was stained – no longer the rich brown it had been, blood had deadened it.  Sighing she opened the covers, winching at the creak of stiff leather.  She turned to her favourite map – that of Ithilien, the Moon-land.  The hand that drawn the map was graceful, the inking flowing smoothly over the rich vellum, without blot or stain.  Often she found her fingers following the contours of hills and rivers – starting at Cair Andros and following the river to Osgiliath before wandering off over forests and the hills of Ephel Duath.  Sooner or later her finger would reach Emyn Arnen, the fortress of the Stewards when there was a King in Gondor, and then she would follow the river to South Ithilien, finally reaching the sea at Lebinnin.

A country named for the Moon must be fair indeed and often when she laid herself down to sleep, Éowyn would find herself dreaming of that fair country.  There would be flowers there, and a garden, and she would never feel the need to bare a blade.  There would be shelter from the rough winds, and the sun would shine. 

Spring had come but late to Rohan, and for some reason the simbelmyne had bloomed late and little on the Barrows.  Éowyn had heard whisperings that it was an ill fate, and in all there was a spirit of fear abroad in Edoras that she could not battle, for she could see no reason behind it.  Something had changed, she knew it had, but she knew not what – and whatever it was neither Théodred nor Éomer would tell her.  They both seemed strained on the rare occasions that she saw them, but Éowyn could not discern why.  There had been no battles lost, and yet some shadow seemed to stalk them all of late.

Théoden had fallen ill a few days after her nemnan-dogor, and Éowyn cursed herself still for not having seen it sooner.  That day was burned still in her memory when she had gone to him pleading desperately, and his face, his eyes had been cold, not those of her King

*          *            *

“Uncle I must speak with you, please it is very important.”

“What can it be, my neice?”

“Uncle, Wita Grima he…”

“Sit Éowyn, you will be stiff with standing.  Now what is so important?”

“Uncle Wita Grima, he, he…”

“What can he have done to disturb you so neice?  Was he harsh in his teachings?”

“No, it’s not that Uncle, he tried, he tried to…”

“Surely it cannot be so very dreadful.”

“Uncle, he attacked me.”

“Éowyn!  You should not make such baseless accusations.  After all, we should all remember, Lord Grima is an honourable man.”

“But Uncle…”

“Peace, I will hear no more of this.”

*          *            *

He had looked upon her once, with such empty eyes, that she had run to her room, attempting to hide the tears that streaked her face.  Two days later Théoden had been taken ill, no one could what tell it was, but a fever raged in him for nigh on two weeks before breaking.  He had recovered, and yet he had not.  Théoden was not the same man he had been.  Éowyn looked on him now and saw an old man – one who looked older even than his sixty-five years.  He complained of a chill, and wore a cloak always now.  Still for all that, his mind was as vigourous as ever, and though his voice was dry and tired, he had spent many hours debating tactics with Théodred only three days past.  He had been uncommonly tender with Éowyn of late, and often she had had to pass from the room for a moment, to wipe at the tears that sprang involuntarily to her eyes.

She closed the book and stood, surveying herself in the golden shield.  She did not look like one ashamed, and for that she was glad.  She would not attend Poldon’s wedding like one scorned.  The same pride that would get her through his wedding was what kept her lips sealed and her person still in Edoras.  If her Uncle did not believe her no one else would so she had not said a word.  She could escape Grima through marriage if she really wished – Éowyn knew that there were many who would strive for her hand – but it seemed base to her to marry without love, and only to escape another. 

As she left the room she remembered something Éomer had said, “It’s a wyrd’s courage that keeps him going” when speaking of a man who had lost all his family.  She wondered if something similar might be said of her.  She had been beaten and humiliated but she would not leave Edoras.  It was her home, and she would not be driven from it by such a one as Grima.  She was of Eorl’s house, Meduseld was her place, and she would never give him the satisfaction of leaving for fear of him.  She would not.  As she reaffirmed this thought Éowyn lifted her head still higher and squared her shoulders.  She would bear herself proudly; none could doubt her. 

Théodred and Éomer awaited her in the Hall; Théodred must attend Helm’s wedding, and Poldon had been in Éomer’s éored from the beginning.  As she approached them she passed Aegyth and time seemed to slow as the older woman started to sink and faint.  Éowyn caught her round the waist and managed to hold her until the two men reached her.  Carefully they levered her on to a bench, and Éowyn sat beside her to hold her up.  Aegyth swayed and her eyelids fluttered and Éowyn wondered rather desperately what was the matter.

Eventually Aegyth seemed to recover and she ordered them all to leave but Éowyn would have none of it.  She spoke insistently, “No, Aegyth I shall not leave here till I know you are well, now Éomer and Théodred shall continue, but I shall see you settled in your room before I go.”  Aegyth set her mouth, like the stubborn old woman she was, but gave in.  The two men left and Éowyn walked Aegyth to her room, far under the floor of the hall.  Aegyth’s room was dark and spare, and Éowyn swiftly concluded that it was a room for rest and little else.  Soon Aegyth was in bed asleep and Éowyn bent her steps to the wedding.

Many hours later Éowyn had danced every dance of the celebrations and raised a glass to bless the matches.  She had only one last task to do before she could retire to her bed and to sleep.  She smoothed the folds of her skirt, hoping in the innermost part of her mind that the dress was becoming, and approached Poldon and his bride.  They both bowed as she approached the woman looking her over with no friendly eye.  Éowyn spoke first, “I wanted to say how very happy I am for you both.”  Poldon smiled his beautiful broad smile and said, “Truly Lady Éowyn?  Thank you.  Do you know my bride, Wynsum?”

Éowyn bowed her head, “I have not yet had the pleasure.”  The woman curtsied, she was older than Éowyn by a few years, and, Éowyn noticed with a slight twinge of satisfaction, she was thick-waisted with dun coloured hair.  Such thoughts however were unworthy, and after all Wynsum had a beautiful smile and Poldon seemed very happy.

She repressed a yawn that threatened to split her skull, and decided that she needed sleep rather urgently.  Speaking clearly she said, “I hope you will pardon me if I leave, I am rather tired.”  Poldon seemed slightly dissatisfied, but Wynsum was not, and Éowyn did not doubt that she would reason him from his discontent.  “Of course not Lady Éowyn, we are only glad that you came at all.”

“There is one last thing I would say to you both.  I hope that you both know that, should anything ever happen, which I hope it does not, I would be very disapointed if I heard you had not called on me to help.  I shall always try to help you, should you ask.”  Wynsum had a rather awed look on her face, and Éowyn suspected that she had won one small victory.  “Now if you will excuse, I wish you both goodnight.”

She made her way through the crowd, pausing only to speak briefly with Magnus, Elfara’s father.  Blostma had taken him in out of kindness – it seemed she had a fondness for strays – but it was plain to all that his days were wearing down.  He could still walk, but he was nearly blind, and little Modwyn led him sometimes by the hand.  She was only two summers old, but she had an unerring sense of direction, and had become completely devoted to the old man.  She sat on his knee now, cuddled up in sleep.

Eventually Éowyn bid the old man goodbye and made her way to the Hall.  By some chance she heard Théodred and Grima talking.  Théodred sounded angry and confused.  “What are you talking about?  Seven months ago you said she could marry where she liked.”

“That was before I saw her at her nemnan-dogor.”  At this Éowyn slid behind a pillar – she would hear what they had to say.

“And what happened at her nemnan-dogor?”

“Lady Éowyn is cold my Prince.  All there percieved it.  No man would take a cold wife – they must have heirs.”

“Boromir of Gondor thought differently.”

“Well I would not cross the Steward’s Heir my Prince, but it is said that he will take no wife – I doubt that his judgement is sound when it comes to the judgement of women and wives.”

“Must you speak of my cousin in such terms?”

“I know not how to speak delicately of country matters Prince Théodred.  If you know of a way, do enlighten me.”

Éowyn stepped out from behind her pillar and approached them.  Théodred started ever so slightly when he saw her, but Grima’s face betrayed no shock of any kind.  Éowyn curtsied to them, “Théodred.  Hala Grima.  Have you had a good evening?”

“Very good Éowyn.”

“I am glad.”

“Is freocwene Aegyth recovered?”

“I think that she is Hala Grima, but I shall check soon.  Good evening.”

She walked away from them, unable to bear Grima’s gaze.  There was something in it now – it was no longer assessing, but almost possessive.  So she was cold was she?  Or did Grima judge only from her treatment of him?  It was no shame to anyone to be cold to one such as him – cold as the mountaintops that surrounded Edoras.

When she reached Aegyth’s chamber she woke the girl sleeping in the cot by the door.  “How does she?”

“She seems well my Lady.”

“Good.  Now do you want to go to your own chamber or stay here?”

“Well, I have to be up early in the morning my Lady, but you cannot let Aegyth sleep alone…”

“That is no trouble.  I shall stay here.”

“My Lady no!”

“Go.  I would not have you tired tomorrow.”

The girl left, and Éowyn sank down into the bed with a slight moan of relief.  It seemed lately that she could get no rest, and the soft bed felt like heaven to her tired bones.  She lay awake for a long time listening to Aegyth’s light snores.

Glossary

Wynsum – delightful

Freocwene - Freewoman

Hala – Counsellor.  Éowyn has started to use this term instead of Wita (advisor) because it’s double meaning is ‘afterbirth’ which is quite clearly offensive.