Made Glorious Summer

As they approached Edoras Éomer called his sister to him; she would ride through the gates at his right hand.  She joined him with alacrity, grinning at him as Winfola fell into step with Firefoot.  The two horses bore themselves proudly and Éowyn laughed joyfully at their prancing.  Éomer looked at her in awe; he had never seen Éowyn laugh with such open delight nor smile so readily.  Though he did not know Faramir of Gondor well, for the change he had wrought in his sister, Éomer was ready to thank the Steward.

He remembered vividly the day when Merry, Holdwine of the mark, had arrived at the Field of Cormallen without Éowyn.  Éomer had taken the hobbit aside, wanting to hear how his sister fared, but loath to broach the subject in Aragorn’s presence.  He asked Merry why she had not come and the hobbit had replied, “She said that the Healers bid her remain.”

“Is that true?”

“I do not know Lord Éomer.  I think there is another reason but she would slay me where I stand if I told you.”

“Well Éowyn is not here – and if she were I would protect you from her wrath.”

Merry had bent his head with a conspiratorial grin “Well my lord Éomer, I have heard it said that she has formed an attachment with the Steward of Gondor.”

“Is this the hobbit pertness Gandalf spoke of?”

“No my lord!  Truly he has a great love for her, and she has some regard for him as well.  And Lord Faramir is a very good and honourable man.”

Éomer still smiled at the recollection – especially his close questioning of Aragorn about his Steward.  The King had been most bewildered – wondering if Éomer suspected the man of some treason.

Éomer heard a sound of disaproval from behind him, and turned to see Diancecht gazing pointedly at his sister.  Éowyn sighed but pulled her blue and silver cloak closer.  She caught Éomer’s eye, and he had to stifle his laughter; Diancecht’s fussiness had nearly driven Éowyn to distraction during the journey.  She had commented that even Aragorn was preferable as a healer, after one particularly vexing discussion with Diancecht.

They had entered Edoras now, and Éomer could see the people bowing to him, the King returned.  He looked at his sister, but she only smiled at him, and he squared his shoulders; he was King, the Riddermark was now his charge and his care. 

Édoras’ healer, Cynefrid approached and bowed.  “My lord, my lady, it is good to have you returned to Meduseld.  I took up the rule of Rohan in your absence – I hope to your liking my King.”  Éowyn seemed uncomfortable at his words, but Cynefrid only continued, in a slightly gentler tone, “We have heard of your valour Éomer King, Lady Éowyn.  It was a most mighty deed to slay a wyrd.  None can remember any such since Scatha the Worm was destroyed.”

Éowyn smiled, and Cynefrid turned them both around.  The folk of Meduseld bowed on bended knee before them.  Éomer stepped forward “People of Rohan, we have many tales and tidings to share, and tonight we shall celebrate our victories.  But tomorrow we must begin our work of setting this land to rights; it may be long and hard, but before this year is out, I swear, Rohan’s glory shall be restored.”

They cheered him and he sighed in relief – it had not been so difficult after all.  He rejoined Éowyn and Cynefrid and they made their way to Meduseld, with Diancecht and the elven twins in tow.  Cynefrid spoke again, “May I ask my lord why our lord Théoden has not been brought home?”

“I judged it best that we should not lay him in the ground until we had restored order, and all of Rohan might honour him as one.”

Cynefrid was silent, and when Éomer looked at him he was heartened to see that the healer’s countenance expressed only approval.

Éowyn spoke with a maidservant as the healers, Diancecht and Cynefrid, reacquainted themselves.  Éomer sat beside them, worn as from an ordeal, as Diancecht said, “Aye I learned much in Gondor during the war, and so I hope to be of aid to Lady Éowyn.  She fell to the Black Breath after the battle.”

“The Black Breath – what manner of malady is that?”

“None I met, save Elessar the newly returned King, understood it, except that it is brought by the wyrd which lady Éowyn slew.”

“Truly?  And are its effects long-lasting?  Is it easily cured?”

“Well with the judicious application of athelas, or kingsfoil, danger can be averted; but few knew this during the dark days in Minas Tirith.”

“Kingsfoil?  I thought it was only used to freshen a sick room or cure a passing heaviness…”

The two men wandered off together and Éowyn sat, passing water to Éomer, Elladan and Elrohir, and rolling her eyes.  Éomer smirked at her “What is the matter sister?”

“Éomer!  Now I shall have two healers, both of them fussy, hounding me instead of one.”

“I take it Aragorn is still preferable then?”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose “Infinitely.  He rises in my estimation with every day I spend in Diancecht’s company.”

“Well soon you will be far away from Diancecht and can see Aragorn all you wish.”

“Éomer!  Is that your idea of secrecy?  This was your idea.”

“What secret is there?” Elladan enquired, raising an eyebrow.

Éowyn blushed and Éomer nearly fell from his seat at the sight.  “I am to be married.”

“To whom?”  Elrohir asked, his tone mild.

“Faramir of Gondor.  Aye, my only sister intends to abandon me for a Gondorian, so strong are our bonds of affection.”

Elladan smiled sadly “We too know what it is to be abandoned for a Gondorian Lord Éomer.”

“Forgive me, but I do not understand.”

“Our sister, Arwen Umdomiel, is to marry the King of Gondor.”

Éomer grinned at the two elves “Well this night let us drown our sorrows at having two such faithless sisters.”

“Éomer!  My lords, how long shall you honour our halls – if you will forgive the question.”

“Of course Lady Éowyn.  We must wait till our sister’s escort reachs Edoras, and then we shall join her in her journey to Minas Tirith.”

“I hope not by the same Paths you took before.”

“As do I Lady Éowyn.  Forgive me, but is there some room where I might…cleanse myself?”

Éomer could see that Elrohir thought his comment indelicate to the point of rudenesss, but Éowyn only said, “Of course.  If you will follow me?” before sending Éomer a borderline murderous glance when Elrohir said, “What is it exactly to drown one’s sorrows?  I have never heard that revel explained.”

Éowyn sighed and touched Windfola’s velvet muzzle gently.  She had had a most trying afternoon, including arguments with Éomer’s newly appointed seneschal and the Master of the Horse.  She brushed a few strands of hair from her face; there was no need to be downhearted.  Rohan’s fields had mercifully in the main survived the war, and there would be food enough for winter if the people could be organised.  That was her task – while Éomer roamed the fields of Rohan, hearing the stories of every man and woman and giving them hope, Éowyn organised the gathering and transport of essential supplies, sending them where he told her in his messages. 

She placed a gentle kiss between Windfola’s eyes and made her way out of the stables.  She missed Faramir more than she could say – she did not understand how, after such a short time, he could understand her better than people she had known her entire life.

Elladan approached and Éowyn smiled at him.  She liked the elven brothers – it had become a great pleasure of hers, since Éomer was abroad, to spend an hour or two in their company each evening.  Though not always light-hearted – indeed some sorrow seemed to rest on them at times – they knew many songs and much lore that Éowyn was enthralled by.

She hailed Elladan as he approached her, “My friend, I thought you had ridden abroad with your brother?” 

“And you are right Lady Éowyn.  We found what we sought sooner than we had expected.  May I introduce my sister, Arwen Umdomiel?”

A tall figure behind Elladan came forward and removed its cloak.  Éowyn met the woman’s eyes for an instant and bowed her head immediately.  She was not fit, oh she was not fit to look upon such a creature – shame poured through her very soul that she had ever dared to think of supplanting this woman.  Arwen was like nothing Éowyn had ever seen before – her eyes held wisdom beyond anything she had ever imagined.  Éowyn could not meet that gaze for long.

She felt cool fingers slip under her chin and her head was lifted.  She met Arwen’s eyes; afraid of she knew not what.  Arwen spoke softly, “You must not bow so to me Lady Éowyn.  You must not bow.”  Éowyn did not understand it, and yet she felt close to weeping as Arwen stepped back and said, “All have heard of the valour of Éowyn of Rohan, and I see now that you are as fair even as my brothers have said.”

The words ought to have sounded like some dreadful mockery coming from a creature that resembled the light of the moon made flesh, yet somehow Éowyn found herself believing them.  Arwen’s eyes, like Faramir’s, held not only wisdom, but also kindness.

Elladan spoke and Éowyn smiled at him – it was easier to look upon his face than that of Arwen.  “Lady Éowyn my father and others await you in the Golden Hall.”  Éowyn lifted her hands to hair in an automatic smoothing motion, but she stopped halfway through, realising that there was no need to pretend to be the fairest woman in the Hall.  She looked at Elladan and said, “Your father and others?”

“Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and many others.”

“Oh…and Éomer is twenty leagues from here!  We have little fit provender for such guests…”

Elladan smiled at her gabbling, and as he and Arwen followed her to Meduseld Éowyn considered her appearance.  She had no pretensions to beauty among elves, but desired nonetheless to appear neat at least.  She wore a perfectly servicable court gown and, as far as she could tell, it was not stained in any way.

She entered the hall and stood, half-stunned, for a moment.  A veritable hoarde of elves stood in the Hall of her fathers.  She took a breath, wondering if any other mistress of Meduseld had ever received such guests, and said, “Forgive me my lords and ladies for the ungracious welcome you have received.  My brother the King rides yet abroad, but as mistress of this hall I bid you welcome.  It is our honour to host such guests.”

She could hardly stand the scrutiny of so many bright eyes and was a little startled when a man, like to Elladan and Elrohir, came forward.  He bowed to her and said, “Lady Éowyn, I bid you accept this token of our gratitude.”  He placed in her hand a great emerald set upon a chain.  Éowyn smiled, though she felt as though in a very mist of astonishment, and said, “I thank you.”

Elrohir came forward and said, “Lady Éowyn, this is my father the Lord of Rivendell, Elrond Peredhil.”  Éowyn sank into as low a curtsy as she could manage, feeling awkward beyond all imagining.  Yet she could look upon Lord Elrond’s face and so she preferred him of all the elves.

They spent that night at talk and song.  Éowyn thought she had never spent a stranger evening in Meduseld.  She sat at the high table with the ladies Arwen and Galadriel, wishing that she might hide herself away.  She felt like a blot upon their beauty – they were too high for her.  Yet the thought did not bring her great pain, for there was no room left in her heart for anything but awe.  The Lord Elrond spoke some friendly words to her, and some songs were sung, and so she passed the night.

Little more than a day later she would bid them farewell, giving Elladan letters to give to Faramir and the King, who must be kept informed of Rohan’s condition.  She looked upon the Elven horses, and though they were fair and she did not doubt swift, she did not see the same heart in them as she had always seen in the horses of Rohan.  When she returned to Meduseld she saw that without the elves it was not nearly so bright as it had been, and yet, it was hers once more.

“No the wool is to be sent to the Folde.  Though the crops were untouched all their animals were slaughtered.  Cattle and draught animals have been sent from Harrowdale and Westemnet, but there will be no sheep until next years lambing.  They need that wool for warm clothing for the winter.”

“Very well my Lady.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I have nothing further my lady.  The child Modwyn waits outside.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The seneschal left and Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief.  Modwyn, wearing a clean but worn dress, edged through the door.  Éowyn smiled and said, “Sit down child.”  She poured her a glass of milk flavoured with cinnamon.  Modwyn sat, her hands in her lap, before saying, “My lady, why am I here?”

Éowyn smiled “Well Modwyn I thought it was time we had a talk, you and I.  Where are you living now?”

“Well one woman lets me sleep on her floor, and another gives me dinner each day.”

Éowyn set bread in front of her, thinking she might be hungry.  “Is that what you would prefer Modwyn?”

“Of course not!  I mean, no, not really, though I am grateful.”

“Well then Modwyn you have some choices ahead of you.  Let me see; Blostma said once that you have kin in Folde; it may be that they could take you in.  Or, if you do not wish that, Éomer could find a place for you in Meduseld.”

“Well Lady Éowyn I have never met my kin, I know almost nothing of them.”

“There is another option.  I have need of a handmaiden – a quick girl to do some small tasks, care for my gowns and such, and run errands.  But you must consider this carefully Modwyn.”

“Why, my lady?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course Lady Éowyn.”

“I am to be married – so if you take a place with me it would mean leaving for Gondor.  I would teach you Westron, and you would always have a place in my home, but this may not be what you would prefer.  Do not give me your answer immediately but think on it.  I would be very glad if you came.”

Modwyn stood and said, “May I come back and tell you when I decide?”

“Of course.”

“Forgive me Lady Éowyn, but who are you to marry?  Not the King.”

“No.  The Steward, Lord Faramir.”

“Is he a kind man?”

”Aye Modwyn – he is the very bravest and best of men.  All love him – as do I.”

Éowyn found herself smiling as she spoke – even though she felt a painful tug in her heart at the thought of Faramir.  She followed Modwyn out of the room and made her way to the parapet of Meduseld.  She stood facing south, and whispered a few words of love into the wind, hoping it might bear them to his ears. 

Author’s Note

The title is a reference to the opening lines of Richard III by Shakespeare

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;