First Frost

The young shieldmaiden ran after the stricken dwarf, her laughter bubbling as she helped him up.  With rosy cheeks and shining eyes, she looked like the young girl she should have been. The sight of Eowyn and Gimli, as she stood him up and dusted him off, made Aragorn smile.

Legolas followed his gaze.  “She is fairer than any mortal I have yet seen my friend.  Yet I do not understand how that should be when she has seen such darkness in her time.” 

Aragorn looked at his friend. “You noticed it too – and yet you said nothing to her that night?”

“What could I say to such as the Lady Éowyn?  I know nothing of the grief of men; and yet I would not wish to wound further through ignorance.”

“You should not think so much on what you might do, as what you can do Legolas.  Éowyn has a warm heart, and she would welcome your friendship, I am sure of it.”

“Perhaps and yet…” 

Aragorn laughed. “She is not as delicate as you think.  Can you not see the steel in her?”

“How do you know her, Estel?  You have known her longer than these few days, I can see.”

“You have the right of it, my friend. We met long ago.”

Snow fell around Edoras, coating the great hall and the barrows in white, rippling blankets.  Aragorn was grooming his horse in the stables, daydreaming of Imladris, when he heard mens’ raucous laughter.  Théoden was dragging a young hellion in from the snow, closely followed by a small girl.  He tossed the struggling boy on to a stack of hay, before straightening up and noticing Aragorn.  “Thorongil!  They did not tell me you had arrived.  Welcome!” The two men slapped each other’s backs in greeting.

 “My duties call me home to the North.  I must depart on the morrow.”

The boy tried to escape past Théoden but the King snatched him by the shoulder, saying, “Allow me to introduce my nephew, Éomer, Éomund’s son, and his sister, Éowyn”.  

The girl was dressed in a green dress with her heavy blonde hair in a thick plait down her back.  She had been hiding behind Theoden, but now came forward to peer intently at Aragorn.  She pulled her finger from her mouth and pointed to his head.  A moment of silence filled the space, before Théoden spoke, “She wants to see your hair”.

Aragorn looked at the child – who, despite the vivid colours of her dress and hair, seemed ghostlike – and slowly bent down. She came close to him, wary as a small animal, and took a lock of his black hair in her little hands, studying it carefully. Then she reached up and stroked his cheeks gently. She was, he realized, examining his beard.  

She stepped a little away from him, and then spoke in a little piping voice, “It’s black.  I’ve never seen black hair before.”   Her uncle and brother gasped as she spoke.  She turned to look at them and smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, Uncle. I think it’s pretty”.  Éomer tackled her, hugging her around the shoulders.  She extricated herself primly and turned to her uncle, “May we go out now and play in the snow?”

As her brother chased her from the stables, Theoden wiped tears from his eyes. “She hasn’t spoken in nearly a year.  Her father was killed by orcs, and she saw his body before they could clean it.  Since then not a word has passed her lips.  I feared she might die from despair, like her mother.  I do not know how you broke that spell, but you have my thanks, Thorongil”.

They left the stable and watched as the siblings fought a vicious and uneven battle –until Éowyn accosted her older cousin, Théodred and begged him to protect her from the ravages of her brother.  The three spent the day shrieking in gaiety and soaking wet, before retiring to sit by the fire in Meduseld.  Éowyn climbed into Théodred’s lap as the singing started and later he carried her to her room, her head sleepilycushioned against his shoulder.  That was the last Aragorn saw of her.

“I had forgotten…I did not realise she would still be at Edoras.”  That was not exactly true – the small child had remained in his memory, but not her connection to Théoden, until he saw her weeping in the darkness of Meduseld.  He wondered if she was ever to be a symbol of survival of suffering to him. Could her happiness ever become real, or was it as elusive and improbable as his so often seemed?

She was walking, leading her horse, lost in thought. When she was not talking or working, he could see her bone-deep exhaustion. She was unconscious of the feelings she inspired in those around her. Eowyn had no desire to have windows made into her soul, and fled those who would try.  After her many battles with the Wormtongue, she had learned to fear those who could see into the hearts of others.  She feared their sight almost as much as she feared their protection.  Yet somehow Aragorn knew that, will or nil, she would endure both before her course was run.