Morning Star

Éowyn leaned over a basin of water, splashing her face gently.  It would not do to appear before the assembled masses with a tear streaked face.  This was a happy day.

She stood up, patting her face dry with a rough cloth.  Her mourning gown hung across the room, and she stared at it for a moment.  She had worn it too often in years past, when attending the funerals of fallen Riders or servants of Meduseld or … Théodred.  She shook her head – these were heavy reflections indeed. 

She had stood upright at Théoden’s funeral; she had not even wept.  Perhaps all her tears had fallen already, for her face and eyes had been dry and arid until she had longed for some soothing tear.  Yet she had lifted her voice and sung the lament at the barrow, all the while conscious of only the wind whistling about her, and Merry’s head bent in sorrow.

Éowyn had felt eyes upon her throughout the burial, though this was hardly surprising.  She and Éomer were the last, precious scions of the House of Eorl, the great hope of Rohan, and it was to be expected that their people would look to them for guidance.  Yet when she looked around it had not been their eyes that impressed her.  Rather distantly, she had noted the open curiosity on the faces of some of the elves, the worn yet oddly beautiful face of the Ringbearer and the veiled kindness in the eyes of Gandalf Greyhame. 

There had been other eyes upon her, that she knew well, but she could not meet them, for as the ceremony went on, she had felt her façade dissolve.  Had she seen the love and understanding on Faramir’s face, allowed him to touch her hand in comfort, it would have broken her.  As for the Queen however, she was almost the only person Éowyn could bear to look at, for the anger that surged through every time she met those steady, clear grey eyes was enough to steady her.

She had walked back to her room in a mist, hardly noticing Faramir’s hand on her arm, or the concerned glances of those around her.  Théoden had taught her to ride; he had given her a home, he had allowed her training as a Shieldmaiden and appointed her byrele of Meduseld, and as she thought of all these kindnesses, of all the love and trust he had shown her, Éowyn had swallowed gulp after gulp of sorrow, until it felt that she was breathing it.

Without meeting anyone’s eyes, not even her brothers, she had made her way to room, yanked her mourning gown over her head and flung it as hard as she could into a far corner.  Sinking to the ground, Éowyn had sat, hugging her knees, tears slowly dropping to the ground for many minutes. 

Finally she stood up, stretching her arms over her head, and walking to look out the one window in her small bedroom.  The wind bent the grass on the plains, and she could just see a herd of horses grazing in the distance.  The land was peaceful, and slowly Éowyn felt the pain ebb out of her.  Théoden had been devoted to his land, and it was some comfort to know he had died in its service, as he would have wished, not an old man, sick in his chair.

And then she heard Éomer calling her, remembered that she had scant minutes to prepare for the feast and rushed to wash her face.  Fortunately, her young handmaiden, Modwyn, joined her joined her quickly, and Éowyn was able to prepare herself with a minimum of haste.

Finally she joined Éomer at her door, smoothing her hair and skirts desperately.  She couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, when she saw the Lady Galadriel walking ahead of them, an image of absolute perfection.  Thinking of the man she was to meet, the man to whom she was to be betrothed, Éowyn swallowed a sigh. 

But then she remembered his face.  The past three days had been such a haze of planning and balancing acts and diplomacy that they had hardly had time for a true conversation.  Éowyn had only watched him across the hall, shared smiles with him, and once touched his hand, but this night he would sit beside her, and they could talk as much as they could wish.

Though, as to that, there were times when Éowyn could not seem to speak around him, for the look in his eyes would overpower her and her mind would be a blank, and she could only gaze, helpless. 

Éomer seemed tired, strain tugging at his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and Éowyn saw him touch his crown tentatively.  Following a sudden impulse she turned and embraced him.  They clung to each other for many moments, and when they separated Éowyn smoothed his jerkin.

Swallowing a sigh she said, “Well my brother, perhaps tonight we may find you a wife.”

Éomer flushed and she had to swallow a laugh, although she was in earnest.  If nothing else, she did not wish to leave her brother alone.  Already he was unhappy at the thought of her marriage.  He did not know Faramir; for all that he respected him. 

She shook the though away, and took Éomer’s arm before entering the Hall.  As they walked through Éowyn checked to see that all her orders had been carried out one last time, and sank gratefully into her chair.  She smiled at Faramir and Merry, and looked forward to a pleasant evening.

That was until she saw that on her brother’s other side sat King Elessar and his wife.  She had hoped there would be a greater distance separating her from Gondor’s Queen, for she had no desire to suffer through yet another painfully polite conversation with Arwen Undomiel.  The Queen had made her feelings quite clear on her first night in Meduseld, and Éowyn had no desire to afford the Evenstar a fresh opportunity to insult her.

She had done nothing wrong.  She had spoken briefly with the King, who was a friend, she had thought, and made a gesture of that friendship, yet for this she was to be castigated?  It had been all but impossible for her to conceal her anger at the Queen’s barely concealed insult, and even thinking of it now could bring a wave of anger to her breast.  How dare Arwen pronounce judgement on her with her mocking smile and air of triumph, when she knew nothing, nothing of what Éowyn’s life had been? 

She spent the evening laughing at Merry, who told her of her brother’s apparent infatuation with Lothliriel of Dol Amroth, which had begun in Minas Tirith.  Upon seeing her astonishment he had told her the whole tale.  Apparently, the princess was famous for her wisdom and love of learning as well as her beauty, and Éomer had attempted to learn an elvish poem to win her over.  Merry’s tone was mischievous as he said, “And of course she laughed out loud at his accent, not out of nastiness my lady for I heard the Queen laugh as well, and then he spilled his wine in her lap for all to see.  And it was a white dress.”

Thinking that perhaps her brother’s honour had been traduced enough Éowyn stated gravely, “I hope Master Merry that when you fall in love you are subjected to such strictures on the propriety of your courtship methods.  It would be entertaining.” 

Éomer choked on his drink when she said the words ‘in love’, causing both the King and Queen of Gondor to laugh out loud.  Meanwhile Merry’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he said, “I am sure you know much about the correct methods of ‘courtship’ lady Éowyn, perhaps you and my lord Steward could instruct me.” 

Éowyn had no reply to that except to flush, and she was rather glad to be called away to raise the toast to her brother at that opportune moment.

And then she stood in front of the multitude, and plighted their troth before the assembled company, and Éowyn could not restrain her smiles, even had she tried.  He smiled at her to, and suddenly she was laughing, her joy bubbling out of her. 

She nearly dropped from shock when she heard Aragorn say “No niggard are you, Éomer to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm”. 

She stared at him, surprised that he would dare compliment her with his fearsome wife by his side, but she straightened her spine, drew her head up and looked at him with all the pride she had inherited from Morwen Steelsheen, all the pride she had earned in this life, and said, “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”  Éowyn was not ashamed.

Perhaps she was insolent, or unfair, but certainly she had expected him to look away.  Instead Aragorn looked at her with an indefinable look in his eyes and answered softly, “I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee.  It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss”. 

Something in his tone, or perhaps in his eyes, touched Éowyn to her core, and the small part of her heart that had longed to speak with him and tell him … something, welled up within her, and she looked away.

She spent that night dancing with Faramir, enjoying the sensation of being in his arms, of seeing such true happiness in his face.  She remembered all too well the settled sadness that had seemed so much a part of him in the Houses of Healing.  They now laughed so much that at times every eye was upon them.   Éowyn felt at peace, and happier than she had ever thought possible, for she had never known such joy, such rejoicing, and all unmixed, in the Golden Hall.

By the end of the evening Éowyn’s legs ached and her eyes were heavy, though whether from the exertions of the day or the heavy southern wine she did not know.  She bid Faramir goodnight, and kissed his cheek, where he sat with the Hobbylta. 

Putting a hand to her head and yawning Éowyn walked slowly through the halls.  The crowds of earlier in the evening had dispersed, though at least one servant was sober enough to have lit the torches. 

She stopped outside Théoden’s room for a moment, and suddenly she felt a surge of tears.  She leaned one hand against the wall and put another to her eyes.  There was no shame in this.  Her Uncle had died a proud death, and though Éowyn could wish it different, wish that she could have told him of newfound happiness, of the man who had brought such hope to her, she could not begrudge him a place in the halls of their fathers – with his son.

She heard a step behind her, loud in the silence that pooled in the night, and her head snapped up, a moment of panic seizing her chest, before she could fully think.  And then she laughed, for of all things it was the most absurd.  Even after all this time, after all she had seen, a footstep could cause her to start.

Éowyn wiped a hand across her face, and turned to see whoever it might be.  She was unsurprised to see the royal couple of Gondor approaching, though she could have wished otherwise.  She managed a smile, though to her embarrassment, a yawn broke through. 

There was a pause, and Éowyn bit her lip looking at them.  It was all so silly.  Finally the Queen said, “I wished to congratulate you, lady Éowyn, on your betrothal.  It gave me great joy to hear of it.”

Éowyn bowed her head, surprised at the warmth of her tone.  “I thank you,” she said.  Something possessed her to add, in a tone that held more sorrow then she would have liked, “I hope you can forgive me … I did not mean to linger.  These were my Uncle’s chambers, but I should not have …”

Aragorn looked at her piercingly, “There is no offence.”

Éowyn could not keep a trace of scepticism from her tone, as she said, “Of course not.”

Still, she curtsied to them, as she ought, her shoulders perfectly level and her face absolutely still.  The King’s face was troubled as he said, “Éowyn…” but she cut him off.  She would not have him think she pined, or regretted anything that was past – she could not, would not abide it.

Stretching a hand out quickly, she said, “No, my lord.  I am well.  Truly.  I wish you sweet repose.”

And then she walked away, stifling yet another yawn.  She did not wish to seem ungracious, but in truth, her only longing now was for a bed and soft pillows. 

She would sleep.