Modor His Dohtor

Éowyn looked about her in wonder.  She sat in the private audience chamber of the King of Gondor, and she sat beside her husband of two days.  She felt as though she were brimming over with something light, something golden and glorious.  For the first time she did not feel as though she were bound to earth – she felt light, and dizzy, as though she had danced for too long and had to cling to her partner for balance.

Gondor was strange to her – in Rohan people tilled a living from rough fields.  It was a struggle – every year there were shortages in some part of the land.  And yet in Gondor it was not so – her lands were rich and they did not fight to return to some wild state.  It seemed that life was easier in Gondor, and yet Éowyn knew it had not made them soft – it had tempered their mettle and made them all the stronger.

She fingered the embroidery at the end of her sleeve.  It felt strange to wear such light dresses, but the velvets and heavy wools she had always worn in Rohan would have been too hot.  She saw Aragorn raising an eyebrow at her, but she met his gaze without flushing – she saw no shame in admiring a thing of beauty.

The ladies of Gondor all wore such gowns.  Éowyn had seen some of them, and thought they grouped together like a flock of elegant, twittering birds.  They smelt of rosewater and soft soap, and had a kind of vicious elegance that was like nothing Éowyn had ever encountered before.  She did not doubt that she could learn their ways and find a place among them, for she was second only to the Queen – but she was glad that Arwen Umdomiel was not of their ilk.  Somehow she had become fast friends with the Queen – an occurrence that was as unexpected as it was delightful.

Éomer entered the room, a grin lighting up his face.  Éowyn was still unused to the sight of her brother without his armour, and it seemed odd to see him in the elegant clothes of a King.  He sat on one of the low, soft chairs with a sheathed sword set across his knees.  He smiled at her and said, “I have news from the Mark sister.”

“Really?  What has happened?”

“A despatch rider arrived today.  Marshal Elfhelm has married.”

Éowyn tightened her hand on Faramir’s, and tried to restrain at least some part of her joy, for fear it would be improper.  Still, questions poured from her lips, “When?  Who?  Did you know about this?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Éowyn.  Hush.  I didn’t know until I received today’s despatch.”

“And?  Who is it?  Do I know her?”

“Her name is Claennis.  You may know of her.”

Éomer looked uncharacteristically nervous and Éowyn stared at him in confusion.  It was several moments before the memory came to her and she burst out, “But I thought she was disgraced… How did they even meet?”  Éowyn knew what the fate of women such as Claennis, who had been disowned by their families, and it was not generally a happy one.

Éomer bowed his head, seeming shamefaced.  “I took her in,” he said, “As keeper of my hall at Aldburg.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Éowyn – half the women of Aldburg would not even speak with her.  I thought you would not approve.”

Éowyn stood and embraced her brother.  “I am so glad Éomer – you are so good.”

He blushed and shook his head, looking like and overgrown boy, saying, “It was nothing sister.”  Éowyn took a careful look at him and subsided. 

“Now sister,” he said, “If you can keep silent for a moment, I have something to give you.”

Éowyn sat down and shut her lips as Éomer unwrapped the sword he carried.  He laid it in her lap, and she looked up at him in shock.  “Éomer you cannot give me this.”

She stared at the sword in awe, barely daring to trace the hilt with a fingertip.  She heard Arwen say, “What is it?” but ignored the Queen as she drew the blade and saw it glimmer in the lamplight.

Éomer spoke first, “It is the sword of our grandmother.”

“Dædfruma,” she interrupted him, “It is Dædfruma.  The sword of Morwen Steelsheen, the greatest of all the Shieldmaidens.  She beat the orcs back from the doors of Meduseld with this very sword.”  She could not keep the awed tone from her voice and suddenly she stood and passed the sword through the air in a well-practised movement.  “I have heard tales of her all my life – I wanted to be just like her.”

“You are.”  It was Aragorn who spoke and he looked at her kindly.  “I rememer her,” he said, “It was I who bound her wounds at the end of that long day.  You hold your head in the same way she did – it struck me the first time I saw you.”

Éowyn stared at him, speechless for a moment.  Was it possible?  Yet she could not but believe him, and so she bent her head and accepted his words as truth.  She turned to Éomer once again and said, “Éomer, why are you giving it to me?”

“Our Uncle always intended you to have it.  He told me once that he would give it to you when you wed.”

“But Éomer… you will have daughters.  They will need this in dark times, to give them hope.”

She made to give it back to him but he closed her fingers around the hilt once more, saying, “It belonged to Gondor once Éowyn – it shall again.  Besides, I still have your sword.”

Éowyn felt tears prick at her eyes but she grinned at her brother and said, “You know the blade is missing don’t you?”

“And is it impossible to reforge a sword sister?  Your King may tell differently.  Are you not going to use it?”

Éowyn was still doubtful, and her brother must have seen it in her face, for he said, “Let Gondor have Morwen Steelsheen Éowyn – the daughters of Rohan will still have the Lady of the Shieldarm.”

“But Éomer, I am a Shieldmaiden no longer…”

“And so you will cease all practise with the blade?  I do not believe it Éowyn.  Fear of sloth wil drive you to pick up the sword – you used to dance for two hours each day.”

“Dance?” Faramir enquired, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Éowyn smiled at him and said, “It was how I learned the sword.  Pattern dances.  Théodred tried to teach me, but he was too strong, and I kept dropping the sword.”

She started to move through the motions of a dance, and only stopped when she saw the look on her husband’s face.  She smiled at him and sheathed the blade, moving to sit beside him.  She whispered in his ear, “I shall keep it – for our daughters.”

He smiled into her face, and she felt dizzy once again.  Faramir brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.  He slid an arm around her, and automatically she laid her hand on his where he grasped her waist.  She liked the hard warmth of his body beside hers.

Author’s Note 

Dædfruma – Doer of deeds

Modor His Dohtor – Mother of Daughters

I have now come to the end of this tale, and I just want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed and hopefully enjoyed Freedom From Fear.  Especially French Pony – thank you so much for all your reviews, they were appreciated more than I can say.

Keep an eye out for a (much) revised version of “In The Forests of the Night” to be posted soon.

Thank you.