#shield arm of rohan
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Okay here to talk Eowyn and how the slights and disrespect she gets are more annoying than listening to Gollum talk to himself all day...
People who act like Aragorn dislikes/disdains her just because he doesn't return her romantic feelings are living in that incel mindset that women can only be admired as matrons or sexual objects. Aragorn the king of wholesome masculinity admires the heck out of Eowyn. Refers to her as the fairest thing in Rohan. He values her friendship and her place as a fundamental bullwark of her people.
People who act like she's somehow pathetic because she falls for someone who doesn't return her affection are not living in reality. They're lost in some Hollywood/porn centric view of romance where women are always sexually desired and if they aren't well then something is wrong with them. Faramir very clearly lays out what happened. She who had been treated rather like a utility in her household meets the last and greatest of the men of Numenor. Truly a man above all others. And of course she's bedazzled. Then there's the fact that he seems to truly see her (albeit on his side just platonic admiration and desire for friendship) and she matters and of course for someone who has been sidelined to tending to her aging uncle this draws her in. There's no fault on Aragorn but as any girl whose femininity and/or personhood has gone largely ignored will tell you it can be quite heady when someone actually notices you as a whole person, femininity included.
And finally her moment with the Witch-King being stolen from her like she did nothing. Ignores all these facts
1. Merry wouldn't have been there to stab him if not for her
2. It's very clearly a dual credit thing both in the passage and in the appendix footnotes
3. Nothing explicitly says that without Merry and his barrow-blade that she couldn't kill the witch-king. She's not a man while Merry is not a Man. The whole thing was based off of an elven prophecy which prophecies seldom are straightforward in their wording and don't even always come true (ask Treebeard) so there's nothing conclusive to say that her jamming a sword in his face wouldn't have done the trick with or without Merry. His role is certainly important because if nothing else prophecy or no he did distract the Witch-King with his blow allowing Eowyn to press an advantage but absolutely nothing there discredits her accomplishment in slaying the Witch-King of Angmar and people trying to act like Merry "made it easy for her" need to shove a barrow-blade where the sun don't shine
Small note here too. People who want to criticize her cooking are wrong in multiple aspects.
A. That's only in the films and a deleted scene at that.
B. It's sexist as hell to base a woman's merit off of her cooking skills. You go hamstring an oliphant and make a souffle then anonymous dudebro hating on Eowyn
C. If you think Eowyn's only accomplishments are "masculine" she does have a great talent with "feminine arts" as in she's a healer and gardener in Ithilien and by virtue of her spouse she's a freaking princess given Faramir is the Prince of Ithilien
So in conclusion if you want to diss Eowyn for any of the above mentioned off base arguments you can kiss Gollum's scrawny arse
#lord of the rings#eowyn#shield arm of rohan#white lady of rohan#Rohan#ithilien#tolkien#jrr tolkien#prince of Ithilien#faramir#aragorn#aragorn elessar#gondor#houses of healing#eomer#eomer of rohan#eowyn of rohan#witch king#witch king of angmar#angmar#merry#merry brandybuck#meriadoc brandybuck#the shire#barrow downs#tom bombadil#lotr#princess Eowyn#i do not desire the speech of living men
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The Fourth Age: Eomer Eadig
Older brother of Eowyn, Lady of The Shield-Arm
King of The Mark succeeding Theoden, reigning for 65 years
Wed Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth
Succeeded by his son, Elfwine the Fair
#j.r.r. tolkien#jrr tolkien#tolkien#the lord of the rings#the return of the king#the fourth age#middle earth#eomer#eomer eadig#eomer of rohan#king of the mark#eowyn#eowyn of rohan#lady of the shield-arm
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*pining lesbian voice* Éowyn......
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Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and Lady of Ithilien; Warrior and Healer
Chamomile: Chamomile helps to improve sleep, reduce anxiety, hay fever, inflammation, muscle spasms, wounds, ulcers, digestive disorders, and rheumatic pain - Chamomile symbolizes joy, positivity, peace, grace, and good luck.
Calendula: Calendula treats burns, bruises, and cuts - Calendula symbolizes endurance (due to its long bloom time), joy, remembrance, and grief.
Lavender: Lavender helps with sleep, treats skin blemishes, relieves pain, reduces blood pressure, combats fungus growth, and promotes hair growth; Lavender symbolizes purity, devotion, serenity, and grace - the color purple is the color of royalty, elegance, refinement and luxury.
Taraxacum (dandelion): Taraxacum leaves are used to stimulate the appetit, help digestion, and help the immune system - Taraxacum symbolizes hope, strength, and transformation.
Eowyn lived in Ithilien with Faramir, who had been declared ruling Prince of the land, after the war of the ring, and dwelt together in the hills of Emyn Arnen, where she was known as both the Lady of Ithilien and Emyn Arnen, as well as Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and shield arm.
#tolkien#jrr tolkien#lotr#lord of the rings#eowyn#dernhelm#rohan#tolkien art#lotr art#also tolkien said that she kept her friendship with merry even after he became master of buckland#i also think a lot about how its really cute he became a knight of rohan and i like to think she was the one doing it#meriadoc brandybuck you are here by a knight of rohan#i love it okay#i should make a faramir one too#my art#digital art#last note the longinsh hair in her earrings are supposed to be horse hair
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Taken (Eomer x femReader )
Part 1 of 3
Part 2 / Part 3
Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig
Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk
Summary: The lone shield-maiden in Eomer's Éored has been secretly in love with him for years, but has long accepted that that he can never share those feelings. At the feast of King Elessar's coronation, she is surprised to learn that there may yet be hope.
Prompt: "It's like you never really see me. I'm standing right in front of you and you don't see me!"
Requested by and Dedicated to: @writefortherain-blog Thank you for making this request and giving me the opportunity to write for Eomer!
Word count: 2.4k
Content: Romance, angst, mutual pining, oblivious to love, jealousy, forbidden relationship, class division, shield-maiden, King Eomer, post-RotK
Rating: T (Teens and up)
Warnings: Some sensuality
To Read on AO3: Link
Taken
Third Age 3019 May 1
Minas Tirith
PART ONE
Downing that fourth cup of wine had been a mistake. Or was it the fifth? Sixth? The ridiculous dress with its rib-crushing bodice and neckline positioned nowhere near your neck, had also been a mistake, even though the local clother had insisted to you that it was in the "proper" Gondorian fashion. The entire evening and its inconveniences had all been for a failed end.
You finally jostled your way out of the packed feasting hall and stumbled outside to the courtyard, your compressed lungs and flushed skin rejoicing at their contact with the cool night air. One hand rose to massage your throbbing temple, and the other clawed irritatedly at the boning that caged in your unacceptably unfeminine frame.
"Never again," you seethed under your breath, as you crossed the white-stone pavement to move even farther away from the chaos you escaped.
It had been a painful decision to ride out to Minas Tirith with the rest of your Éored and attend the coronation of the returned King of Gondor. You despised grand affairs, knowing well enough the requirements rules of court would impose on you, unwieldy formal attire being just one of them. These were at least tolerable within Rohan, where you could find some comfort amongst familiar faces and settings. But as the lone female who rode in the company of the Third Marshal, you refused to be excluded from any undertaking by your Éored, however dangerous or unpleasant. Whether it broke your arm or shattered your heart.
"I can just go," you thought, casting a quick glance back at the great hall, alive and alight with the merry cacophony of a thousand revelers that would surely last until dawn. The two hours you already spent mingling to the best of your limited ability had to suffice, and it was doubtful your presence would even be missed.
But the call of a deep voice stalled your retreat, loud and commanding and instantly recognizable even across a distance as it shouted your name. The soldier in you succumbed to the instinct to obey your Marshal, to honor the oath you had sworn on your knees years ago.
The flickering flames of nearby torchlights reflected against the carved silver panels of the breastplate he donned over his lavishly embroidered tunic. Famously handsome even when caked in blood and grime, Eomer was breathtakingly resplendent bearing the regalia that befitted his station. King Eomer now, you reminded yourself, as you dipped your head in a bow.
“My lord.”
“Is something amiss? Why did you leave?” His narrowed eyes upon you were penetrating, his tone demanding rather than concerned. Lying to someone you had spent practically every single day of your adult life with was difficult, and even more so with an addled brain, so you knew you had to mince words carefully.
Fortunately, you had years of practice doing exactly that.
“I underestimated the potency of their vintage, and downed one cup too many.” You scrunched up your features in a grimace that just slightly exaggerated your pain. “I thought it best to excuse myself and retire for the night.”
“Perhaps if you rested a while and ate some food…” He rested a hand lightly on your shoulder. “It is much too early and the quarters would still be empty. I know you detest fraternizing, but just sit at the table with the rest of our men.”
You released a graceless guffaw and a puff of wine-tinged breath. “Half of them are already deeper in their cups than I, and getting sloppier by the second. I finally had to remind Héothain of his manners the second time he tried to sneak a hand down the front of my dress.”
“He did what?” Eomer’s sudden growl awakened you to your own carelessness and slip of the tongue. Smooth-cheeked Héothain was the youngest and newest addition to the Éored, and remained sorely lacking in experience with women. He should not be held accountable for his awkwardness amplified by insobriety.
“It was a silly mistake that caused no harm,” you insisted, pulling back as Eomer attempted to lead you off by the elbow. “Two sprained fingers taught him a lesson he shall not soon forget.”
Eomer glowered at you but remained silent for a pause, as he did whenever running through courses of action in his mind. “Then you can come sit by me at the King’s table.”
Your laugh in response to that suggestion was shrill and nervous, as he looked so serious making it. “I most certainly cannot… my lord.” You stated your defiance firmly, baring a toothless pertinacity against your leader, and underneath it a silent plea that the friend in him would understand. “There is no place for me amongst such esteemed company and truly, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy less at this moment.”
You sighed and braced one hand below your rib area, massaging a spot where the corset dug into a still-tender battle injury.
“Please. Let me go back to my room where I can be rid of these dreadful garments.”
“No.” The immediacy and sharpness of his refusal made you blink in surprise. “Not until you explain yourself to my satisfaction.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“Hah, there! That is what I am speaking of.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand--”
“When did you cease to call me by my name in private conversation? Or last bother to converse with me at all?!” You took too long to answer, and he barreled on, hazel eyes flashing with the sudden rise of agitation. “Let me enlighten you, since I recall it well. It began after Theodred’s death, accompanied by a host of other changes in your behavior towards me that you think I have not noticed!”
You scrambled to concoct a rebuttal, another feint to keep him from uncovering your secrets. Alas, your dulled mind had frozen completely in the face of the horse-lord’s fury, which had never been directed at you in such a manner.
“You are misreading things, my lord, or else imagining them. I cannot say that I--”
“You cannot even look me in the eye these days of late!” Eomer snapped. “Nor can you stand to be in any room I am in for long.” He threw out his arm in the direction of the great hall. “Even now you rebuff any attempt I make to spend time with you.”
“I…I…” You stammered, rendered helpless before his unexpected wrath, cursing yourself for the poor timing of your inebriation. How could you put up your shields when your mind was struggling to pick out your own lies from the truth?
“If you are angry with me, I would have you admit to it now. I will no longer be played for a fool.”
Indignation pooled in your gut, crawling upward until it deepened the coloring of your already flushed face. “I confess to nothing! For what cause do I have to be angry?”
“Because you loved him!” Eomer erupted. As you gaped at his outburst, he gripped a fistful of his hair, and took in one sharp breath, steeling himself. “You loved Theodred,” he finally said, in a voice gone cold and quiet. “And you place blame on me for his death.”
The fire in your belly flared at the terrible accusation. “Theodred was murdered by Saruman, and only a traitor would fault you for that vile cur’s deed.” You shook a finger at him emphatically. “I am no traitor.”
“Did you love my cousin?”
“Of course I did,” you said stoutly. The prince’s demise plagued you still, for you had been the one to spot Theodred’s body amongst the corpses that littered the fords. And after he’d been borne away to Meduseld, you never saw him alive again, and all you could do was weep in the privacy of your quarters, which you did for weeks, mourning the loss of so much more than a dear friend and mentor.
“No one has ever shown me greater kindness than Theodred.” You held a hand over your heart as a different ache rose in you. “He believed in me at a time when no one else would, not even you."
Eomer had fallen silent, but you saw his cloaked shoulders rise and fall, broad chest heaving in the manner so familiar to you. It was the way he looked on the battlefield, where his blood ran hottest, and he was fighting to balance out the genteel lord and savage killer that both resided within him. He was so thoroughly upset with you.
“If I have made you feel like your cousin’s fate was in any way your fault, I am truly sorry,” you said. "But what sort of questions are these, and why are you asking them now?"
His gaze flicked back in your direction, leaden with anguish. "You should know why."
“I am telling you I do not, my lord, and I must beg you to explain why you are speaking so cryptically."
“You wish for me to explain in words something I have been trying to show you for years now?!” He gave a strangled laugh and raised his eyes and hands to the night sky. "Bema…"
“It is as though you never really see me,” he muttered, almost as though speaking to himself. “Here I am, standing right in front of you, and you do not see me!"
But you did hear his mumbled complaints, and suddenly it was all too much. Your sickening weariness, your aches both physical and emotional, your befuddlement caused by the six drinks and this man's unhinged raging as he launched yet another ludicrous accusation at you.
"Not see you?" you repeated, and something about just saying it rammed open the gate behind which you had caged up every real thing you ever wanted to say to Eomer, Son of Eomund.
"If such a thing were possible, I would wish it upon myself immediately!" you exclaimed. "But you are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to! Even when I flee from your presence, I can never escape a face that refuses to leave my thoughts!"
Oh Valar, no. STOP. Panicked, you bit down on your lip to imprison the words fleeing your mouth, so hard you tasted blood. But Eomer suddenly moved forward, encroaching on the space you desperately fought to maintain for your own protection, and his hazel eyes locked into yours to wrench away the last of your defenses.
"It hurts too much, can you not understand?!" you cried, managing one step back. "To remain in the presence of the one thing you most desire but will never have, to be taunted by a dream that will never be fulfilled, to watch as it falls into the possession of another while you can do absolutely nothing!"
He spoke your name, his voice oddly hoarse, and shame finally came crashing down inside you. Your hands flew up to hide your face and suddenly he grabbed your wrists, tugging your arms away only to replace your hands with his own, warming your cheeks with his calloused palms.
“Then see me now,” he ordered. “And know I have always understood how that feels. What great fools we have both been all along to deny ourselves our true desires.”
“Eomer, what--” The stroke of his thumb over the corner of your mouth drove the rest of the words away, and the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes gave him the approval he sought.
His kiss tasted more glorious than they did in a thousand daydreams combined. It did not surprise you that he was completely unlike the other men you had kissed before. Whereas lesser men were greedy and sloppy in their hunger, the caress of Eomer’s mouth was deep and languid, almost worshipful in its exploration of your lips, as though he aimed to savor every small sensation and intended to carry on doing this with you forever.
His one arm looped around your waist to hold you covetously against him; his broad left hand traveled from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers burying themselves into your hair, tips grazing your scalp. It fired up a new heat in you that you had never felt before, not with such raw intensity, and a tremulous whimper escaped your throat.
But the sound of your own pleasure was your undoing, for it triggered an alarm in your head, one that caused you to break away from Eomer’s passion. You mumbled against his lips the words you had conditioned yourself for years to think around him.
“My lord, I cannot…”
He paused, his eyes still dazed and unfocused, caught in a state of bliss--one that you caused, you realized with a shiver. “You cannot… what?” he said thickly. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped back in eagerly to trail his mouth up your jawline, his tongue skimming the tender pulse underneath your ear.
You gave a small cry and pushed against his chest with more force, immediately waking his attention. His arm around your waist remained stubbornly secure however, and it took you physically prying the powerful limb off for you to slip free. Either due to shock or lingering delirium, Eomer did not resist.
“I cannot…” Your voice broke even as you clung to your resolve. “I cannot have you.”
His heavy brows furrowed. “What?” Within seconds the confusion lifted to uncover his dismay, layered with anger. “You would speak lies and nonsense again, after everything I told you?”
“It is the truth, Eomer!” You started backing away already, stepping faster and faster as he began to move and reach out for you. “You can never be anything more than a dream to someone like me. I cannot have what is already taken.”
“Taken? What--wait! No!” He started to run, but you had already turned heel and were sprinting full-speed towards the Citadel Gate. You had always been faster on your feet; there was no hope of him catching up if you refused to heed his orders. “Stop!”
His shouts of your name faded quickly, drowned out by the noise of the milling crowd you plunged into and the thunder of your own frantic heartbeat. You slowed to a walk but kept a quick pace, weaving haphazardly through the throng and on and on until you’d descended at least two levels. Only then did you duck into a side street and survey your surroundings.
Your escape succeeded. Neither Eomer nor any Rohirrim were anywhere to be found, at least for the moment.
You collapsed upon the nearest doorstep, exhaustion and aches finally overcoming you. As the chaotic whirlwind within you settled, so too did the reality of what just occurred sink in.
Eomer desired you, perhaps even loved you as you did him. But the King of Rohan’s love was not for you, a common soldier, to take. You had known that all along, and he did too. It was unkind of him to give you such false hope.
Raising your fingers to your swollen lips, you felt the ghost of his perfect kisses on them, and finally burst into tears over yet another memory that will grieve you until your trampled heart could bear no more.
To be continued...
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#sotwk fanfiction#eomer#eomer x reader#eomer fanfiction#rohan#lotr#eomer x you#valentine event 2023#follower request
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OK, people were very nice to me yesterday about my latest absurdly niche blorbo: Guthláf of Rohan. I wrote a little story about him (it's below and it's only 500ish words). But I feel like I can't post it in isolation without explaining myself a little better first.
The fact that he's Théoden’s banner bearer is the only detail about Guthláf’s life in the canon. But just that by itself was enough to grab my interest because I took a class on ancient warfare in college, and one of my major takeaways was that the flag bearers were often the bravest and most selfless guys in a battle. They were highly visible, highly vulnerable, and highly prized as a target for the enemy. That's not an encouraging combo, and they had an appallingly high casualty rate. And yet, the ones who pursued it did so willingly and considered it an honor!
Although Guthláf's name literally means "battle survivor", he did not avoid the flag bearer’s usual fate. He’s listed among the fatalities at the Pelennor Fields (along with Halbarad, the only (?) other named flag bearer in the books). So I wrote the drabble-ish story below about Guthláf’s experience of his own terrifying job. (I also, of course, have a full head canon about his personal life—how he spoke Rohirric with a rural accent that stood out in Edoras, how the early loss of his family drove him toward recklessness, how he was maybe in love with fellow obscure blorbo Wídfara, etc.—if anyone is interested! And I decided that he's the tall, blonde drink of water on the left below, who I believe is otherwise unnamed and is too young to be Elfhelm or Erkenbrand.)
Anyway. Story (ish) here:
Alone among his éored, Guthláf carries no weapon. In his left hand, he holds his shield, his one and only means of protecting himself; in his right, he carries his banner, a charging white horse on a field of deep green that whips furiously in the cold wind above his head.
Alone among his éored, Guthláf does not strike blows. His war is fought not with strength of arms but with strength of spirit. He has only to keep himself going long enough to let his banner do its work. To signal the direction of the charge and mark the vanguard of the attack. To be the rallying point around which scattered troops coalesce. To lead the way, like a torch in the dark, so that those behind know where to follow. He has only to keep that banner flying, set high and stark against the cool blankness of the winter sky, so that every Rohirrim heart can see that they are yet unconquered, that victory still lies ahead.
Alone among his éored, Guthláf can never hide or blend in. His banner draws the eyes of foes just as easily as friends. His every move is visible. Noted. Tracked. Hunted. The hope he kindles in his fellow riders is equaled by the hatred he inspires in their enemies, and there is no greater blow such an enemy can strike than to bring him down, to achieve with the death of one man the turning of a tide that can change the fate of thousands.
Alone among his éored, Guthláf has no hope that he will survive unscathed to see old age. Banner bearers don’t last long in times of war, and Guthláf is his éored’s fourth bearer in five years. He has only to walk the streets of Edoras to be confronted with the reality of how the lucky banner bearers end their days–empty sleeves tied up where an arm used to be, angry red scars across unprotected faces and necks, canes and crutches that will never fully compensate for crushed legs, twisted spines, shattered hips. The unlucky ones end instead in hastily raised barrows, resting eternally in the sometimes distant and friendless lands where they finally slid from the saddle, bloodied and broken and desperately looking for a loyal hand into which they could pass the banner before everything went dark at last.
And yet, Guthláf wanted this job. He fought for this job. It means everything to him. Because even as he rides to his death, charging into battle on his gray warhorse with his banner streaming brilliantly in his wake, he has never felt more alive. He has never felt so much bigger than himself. When he carries his banner, he is no longer just Guthláf, son of Hulac. He is instead the spirit of Helm, and Eorl, and Frumgar and all the great warriors of old. He is the sound of thousands of hoofs thundering together across an open plain. He is the sight of the jagged white peaks towering over the lush green and gold grasses of the Mark. He is Rohan itself, not just a man but an idea. And an idea can never be slain. When he carries his banner, Guthláf becomes immortal.
#lotr#lord of the rings#tolkien#rohan#guthlaf#guthláf#barely canon favorites#obscure lil’ blorbos#forth eorlingas
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@lotrladiessource lotr ladies week day 4: women of the south | courage | parallels
éowyn, lady of the shield-arm and princess of rohan with my OC morwen, daughter of húrin (warden of the keys) and healer in the houses of healing! both are noblewomen of countries in peril, threatened by the enemy and forced to confront the horrors of war. éowyn disguises herself as dernhelm and rides to seek death, while morwen dons armour to administer to the wounded during the battle of the pelennor. they would grew close in friendship after, recovering from their injuries together in the houses of healing.
#lotrladiesweek#tolkien#lord of the rings#lotr#legendarium ladies#gondor#rohan#eowyn#oc#tolkien oc#lotr oc#oc: morwen#art#fanart#oc art#my art#merilles
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“Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old...But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death.'
'So be it,' said Faramir.”
-JRR Tolkien, The Return of the King, “The Siege of Gondor”
[ID: An edit comprised of six posters in shades of light brown.
1: A close-up one side of model Jeenu Mahadevan's face. He has brown skin, dark hair and eyes, and is looking to the right with a neutral expression. White text in the center reads "faramir" in all caps, and underneath in cursive, "captain of gondor" / 2: Light shining through an unseen doorway, making an arch shape on one tan wall of a room with a brown and white-tiled floor. A palm frond leans in one corner. Small white text inset into a thin frame reads "one of the kings of men born into a later time." There is a white line drawing of a stem of flowers in the center / 3: A vase of leafy branches sitting beside and a metal bowl on a shelf, framed by tan-tiled walls. Large text in all-caps reads "prince of ithilien," set into a frame surrounding more text, reading "son of the steward denethor & finduilas of dol-amroth," "younger brother of boromir, high warden of the white tower," "pupil of the wizard mithrandir," "husband to the lady éowyn, shield-maiden & princess of rohan," and "beloved of aragorn elessar & arwen undómiel his queen." All the names are in cursive / 4: Jeenu Mahdevan, half-reclining on one elbow. He is wearing a striped button-down shirt and is looking to the left. Same text as Image 1 / 5: Jeenu Mahadevan, holding one arm across his body and wearing a white shirt and black jacket. Only the lower half of his face is visible. Same text as Image 1 / 6: A citadel with tan walls, constructed in a traditional middle eastern style. A person is visible standing on a staircase. Text in the same layout as Image 2 reads "but touched with the wisdom & sadness of the eldar." The flower drawing is upside-down /End ID]
#brought to you by me#edits with the wild hunt#faramir#lotr#the professor’s world#gondor#tolkienedit#lotredit#posters#oneringnet#fandomaesnet#tolkiensource#described#mepoc#fc: jeenu mahadevan#lord of the rings
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HELL YEAH MATCHUPS, so grateful you’re doing them because my lotr obsession is coming back. So! I’m hardworking, resilient, smart, caring. I’m very empathetic, I’m the mom friend, I’ve quite cautious and anxious. I’m not afraid to speak my mind or stand up for people. I’m great at communicating and I’m very emotional. I like to read, go for walks outside, spend time with my loved ones, listening to music and dancing around, I want to learn how to embroider or crochet. I’m witty and very determined. I’m incredibly loving and can be quite poetic. I have a big heart but can get quite sharp if it’s needed. I call people out on their shit and I want them to do the same. Thank you so so much, I really appreciate it :) have a wonderful day!
You’re a badass, friend! So you get a badass match in…
Eowyn!
You share a look with the shieldmaiden one day in the houses of healing, both of you having been tasked with caring for others with varying degrees of satisfaction. In her beautiful blue eyes you can see that this place is like a blade to her wings. You enjoy caring for others, have no problem forcing them back down or even wrestling with them if they fight against your tasks. Exchanging a quirk of brows after one such patient, you look away with a smile- something about this woman sticks in your heart.
She asks for your name after your joint shift, introduces herself as Eowyn. You give her yours, ask her why she hides herself away so. She was bidden to, you learn. In her heart she desires to fight alongside the brave men of her country, to put to use her years of training with a sword and shield. “We all have cause to go to war,” she tells you, eyes blazing, and you nod your agreement. Happy as a healer though you are, you know the role is a bit expected of you- women are carers, waiting to clean up after the follies and glories of men. They know their blades only as a final resort. “I hope you take your chance,” you tell her at the conversation’s end, and again the smile you exchange catches on your heart in a way unlike you have ever felt.
Wailing urgency, a captain bursts in with a stretcher. The greatest war yet has been waged, armies of mercenaries and undead alike joining the fray and piling up more and more unfortunate fallen. This case seems to have the captain feeling particularly distressed, however, enough that you rise from the broken arm you’ve just set to see what he’s brought. Eowyn. You smile in spite of her feeble state, pride swelling in your chest that she did, in fact, seize her opportunity. Her wounds are like nothing you have ever seen before, though- she will need close care. Nodding at the captain, who you quickly realize is her brother, you got to work, kneeling by her side to clean her and get her more comfortable.
Days pass. Eowyn’s condition improves, hints of color returning to her cheeks and burns upon her arm fading. You smile down at her peaceful expression as you work, nearly starting when her eyelids flutter open.
“You have been proven again and again, honored beyond honor,” you tell her, “you are a true warrior of Rohan, Eowyn- never again shall they doubt you.”
“And you never left my side,” she breathes.
“No,” you shook your head, “never.”
Perhaps you should be surprised by the kiss, but all you feel beneath the roar of your heart is a surge of pride. Admiration. That stick in your heart once more. Eowyn is unafraid to claim what she wants, and what a beautiful rush it is.
Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @kilibaggins @joonies-word @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin | Reply/Ask/Message to join 🥰
#lord of the rings#lotr#lotr imagines#lotr x reader#lord of the rings matchups#eowyn#eowyn x reader#eowyn x female reader#female reader#ask#wifeofmikasa#requested#matchup monday
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Female Boromir fic
The captain of the White Tower flung herself beside him on the grass, shielding her eyes with the hood of her mud stained cloak of thick and costly material that betrayed her station. They’d greeted each other in a manner befitting and practiced when their regiments had first crossed paths but they had ridden a long while’s unaccompanied and were now free to seek counsel between themselves as they had on many occasions before.
Theodred tied her horse to a tree with a little murmur and ruffle of the coat, a fine bred steed of course, strong and loyal to his mistress, but no creature of Rohan. He could feel Boromir rolling her eyes at him without having to turn, she was gentle and firm with the beast but had little patience for excessive sentimentality in such matters.
He sat beside her, giving her a bit of space to be sure, there was no need to be indecent about things even if everyone trusted them, and with good reason, to be alone together without concerns of anything untoward.
‘My father has been- thinking,’ he broached uncertain as to if this conversation was truly a good idea.
‘It’s so dreadful when they do that isn’t it?’ He could just see her smirk under the hood, a lazy, playful thing that encouraged him to go on. After all hadn’t they been friends for a decade now, he trusted enough to speak freely.
‘The thing is he’s not getting any younger and he wishes that when he passes he should know that he will be succeeded by a secure lineage……..’
She pulled herself up and the hood fell back off her face as she grasped his arm in commiseration ‘Oh he’s on to you about marriage. I almost thought it was something serious, about troops or the like. They all go through phases Theodred, I’m surprised you’re not familiar with them by now, of desperately wanting to see their child married and with a babe in the cradle and then when it comes to it desperately wanting the child to stay with them forever and never mature enough to have a child of their own. He’ll go off the idea as soon as he starts seeing the candidates and deems none of them near good enough for you, don’t you worry.’
He turned away briefly to smother his chuckle at her admittedly apt description of his father’s attempts at subtly hinting he should court because his father’s whims were not the true thing that was on his mind. It was the knowledge that his father was right, one day he would be king of Rohan and it wouldn’t do for him to pick just anyone for a queen, the duties of one were far too demanding for that.
‘Well, I uhh- I was thinking that I will need to have a queen when I assume the throne. And she’d need to be exceedingly capable; the role has a lot of responsibility involved, in truth about as much as my own if she is competent about it, I’d need to trust and be able to confide in her and well, my father already admires you a great deal……’
She blinked at him slowly ‘You can’t be fucking serious.’
‘I was actually.’
He let the silence hang for a long heavy moment in which neither of them were quite sure that those words had actually just been said. The silence was broken with a jolting burst of cackling from the lady beside him as she fell back onto the grass with racks of laughter barely managing to get out ‘You did not just propose to me, oh Elbereth help me,’ while she struggled to catch her breath.
‘I mean I wasn’t necessarily expecting to get an enthusiastic agreement but this is a little hurtful I have to say.’
She jostled his shoulder good naturedly, ‘Oh no, don’t you dare go be offended now, you’re the one who suggested it! How in Arda do you think that would work you great oaf?’
He groaned and shoved her back while putting on aggrieved air, ‘You truly do love to rub salt in a wound don’t you Boromir? Honestly first rejection and now you go and mock me for daring to attempt the hand of one so obviously far above my station as heir to the throne of Rohan-’
‘Well you’re the one who said it, not me,’ the Lady of Gondor tossed her chestnut braid over her shoulder with a haughty tilt of the chin. She halted her teasing for a moment to turn and look at him.
‘But in all seriousness Theodred, what could you hope to accomplish with such an endeavour? It may sound to you like a good idea for diplomacy now, but I can assure it will do little for your alliances if you attempt to make a Rohirrim out of Gondor’s future steward. Our friendship will serve us well I’ve no doubt but they are nonetheless distinct offices and should be treated as such.’
This new bit of information threw him a moment, causing him to momentarily forget his ‘You truly mean that your father intends for you to inherit? I mean you having a more senior captaincy to your brother is one thing, you have an aptitude for it that would make appointing another simply foolish, but there are rules about the stewardship. Established tradition. Of which one is very much that preference is to be given to sons.’
‘He set it into law the day I came of age.’
‘And how does Faramir feel about the circumventing of old laws to usurp him of the position that should be his?’
‘Oh please, Faramir is as relieved as anything not to be saddled with a role such as that. We would both I think prefer if our father’s blatant favouritism wasn’t a factor in it but in this world we take our blessings when we come to them. And that such a valuable position goes to one who actually wants it is certainly a blessing.’
‘Speaking of your brother, if our union would truly be so ruinous, you don’t suppose-’
‘Don’t. You. Dare.’
‘You don’t even know what I was going to say.’
‘I know you have a lovely young cousin about his age and if you do something to cause my little brother stress over her I will ensure that you do not have to worry about siring heirs again. That is a promise.’
‘I am truly heartbroken that I will not have the opportunity to enjoy your lovely threats daily.’
‘I think your ego may thank you yet if your wife cannot consistently wipe the floor with you in the training grounds however.’
He reached for the sword at his belt, ‘Oh is that a challenge, captain?’
‘Perhaps later, Theodred. Give us a moment,’ she sighed and shifted past the few crucial inches until her face was close enough that he could feel her breath; she pressed a brief but warm kiss to his cheek in placation and he chuckled as she leaned back into the grass.
‘No hard feelings, right?’
‘Honestly, Boromir it’s not as if I’m in love with you are anything of the sort, don’t worry yourself.’
‘Just checking.’
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30! for Est annnd... a ranger of your choice :3
@isi7140 also sent est + 30! i may or may not end up doing another one that fits this, tho i make no promises either way lol. recommended: completion of troubled dreams :)
The grey mist clears only slowly from his eyes, and his thoughts return slower still. He hardly feels the rough bark of the log-bench he rests on beside a cold campfire, or the soundless wind that stirs the slender tree branches. Even his hands feel distant, numb as if from cold or from laying on them too long. He doesn’t recognize the encampment around him, larger by far than the Company would ever need and well-fortified. The banners and blazoned shields might declare it for Rohan, if not for the scattered signs of the White Hand, or for the dead, men and horses all.
He rises, and trembles when his knees nearly give out beneath him. His back aches, like something terribly cold has been pressed against it for far too long. “Hello?” he calls, but no one answers.
There is one long tent in the west of the camp, little different from any other to look upon, but it draws him in.
Inside, cots are laid out like an infirmary, supplies stacked on tables and in corners when they aren’t strewn across the cots. They are empty- all but one.
“Esterín!” The other bodies in the camp had been faceless, or as good as. Strangers, if they were the faces of real people at all. Esterín is neither dead nor faceless, though her face is twisted even in sleep and lined with heavy sadness. Her arm is bound tightly to her chest, and what he can see of her skin is marked with bruises and smaller scrapes.
“Esterín?” he tries again, but she does not stir. Candaith finds a stool and sits beside her, taking her good hand in his. Distantly, he knows this must not be real, not the way he sees it. He has read enough accounts of such dreams and visions of the dying to guess what this is if he cared to, is touched with just enough of the Sight of the Dúnedain to more than suspect. He had felt doom settle heavy on him when they had entered the deep chamber where the pale banners of the Mountain flew, and had resolved then that even if he was not meant to escape it, then at least his friend might. Surely she had not escaped the Oathbreakers only to be laid low here among strangers.
“You will be well,” he murmurs to her. “You will be.” You must. Please. Let anything of the Forsaken Road end well. Let them lose one fewer friend than it seems they must, before the end. Esterín does not reply, still and silent like her spirit has not joined him yet, here between home and what comes next. Perhaps he should be glad of that; if she is nearer the lands of the living, then that is all the better. He is glad of that. Mostly. Glad for her sake, but lonely, too, with only the dead he does not know for company, and no knowing what is to become of him. “I will wait with you as long as I may,” he says, though she cannot hear him. “Perhaps one day we will meet again, on the right side of things.” He can hope. There is little else to be done here but wait, and hope, and so he does.
#ask games#est#my stories#candaith doesn't really remember most of this#and est isn't really. awake in any sense of the word#but! still a thing <3#candaith
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White Ladies
Okay so I find it fascinating how Faramir first uses the title "white lady" to refer to Galadriel of Lorien and then later gives it to Eowyn. To me it seems to signify that he holds her in an equal esteem to the Lady of the Golden Wood. Which just wow.
And in a way Eowyn is to Galadriel what Faramir is to Aragorn. Not in a sense of lineage but as Faramir is described as less lofty but no less noble so too one could compare Eowyn to Galadriel. Less ancient and remote but no less fair or brave or worthy of admiration. Faramir sees Eowyn as both a warrior heroine worthy of being the blissful queen of a realm but also as a flesh and blood woman with hurts and sorrows and desires.
#eowyn of rohan#eowyn#faramir#faramir x eowyn#captain of gondor#captains of gondor#gondor#rohan#shield arm of rohan#white lady#white lady of Rohan#white lady of Lorien#lorien#lothlorien#galadriel#lady of the golden wood#elves#tolkien#tolkien elves#lord of the rings#lotr#jrrt#jrr tolkien#Faramir fangirl#i do not desire the speech of living men
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Éomer Headcanons
I wanted to compile a list of lines that I find important in terms of describing Éomer (and/or the Rohirrim) fighting in battle:
On the Charge of the Rohirrim
“And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.”
On Éomer Discovering Éowyn and Believing Her Dead
“He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.”
“Then without taking counsel or waiting for the approach of the men of the City, [Éomer] spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: ‘Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world’s ending!’ And with that the host began to move. But the Rohirrim sang no more. Death they cried with one voice loud and terrible, and gathering speed like a great tide their battle swept about their fallen king and passed, roaring away southwards.”
On Éomer’s Battle Face When Fighting Jointly with the Knights of Dol Amroth
East rode the knights of Dol Amroth driving the enemy before them: troll-men and Variags and orcs that hated the sunlight. South strode Éomer and men fled before his face, and they were caught between the hammer and the anvil.”
On Éomer's Battle Face and People Not Daring to Look Upon It
“Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil rode back towards the Gate of the City, and they were now weary beyond joy or sorrow. These three were unscathed, for such was their fortune and the skill and might of their arms, and few indeed had dared to abide them or look on their faces in the hour of their wrath.”
On Éomer's Rally to the Rohirrim
“Stern now was Éomer’s mood, and his mind clear again. He let blow the horns to rally all men to his banner that could come thither; for he thought to make a great shield-wall at the last, and stand, and fight there on foot till all fell, and do deeds of song on the fields of Pelennor, though no man should be left in the West to remember the last King of the Mark. So he rode to a green hillock and there set his banner, and the White Horse ran rippling in the wind.
‘Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!’
These staves he spoke, yet he laughed as he said them. For once more lust of battle was on him; and he was still unscathed, and he was young, and he was king: the lord of a fell people. And lo! even as he laughed at despair he looked out again on the black ships, and he lifted up his sword to defy them.
On Éomer Seeing Aid Come
And then wonder took him [Éomer], and a great joy; and he cast his sword in the sunlight and sang as he caught it.”
“Thus came Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur’s heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor; and the mirth of the Rohirrim was a torrent of laughter and a flashing of swords.”
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The Knight of Swords - Eowyn: Rescue my heart
ʚ Pairing: Eowyn x Any. Reader
ʚ Word count: 1141 words
ʚ Themes: Soft | Fluff | Comfort
ʚ Warnings : Mentions of coping with trauma and PTSD
ʚ Author’s notes: Eowyn as the knight of swords. The knight of wands is someone who, when at their best is determined, ambitious, tough. They can also be emotionally detached.
The title and story was inspired by the track of the same name, by Liz Longley
Disclaimer : I don’t own the original image in this edit. Full credit to original ownet.
Every day it was the same.
Wake up, armour up, saddle up, and ride off to fight the last of Sauron’s forces. All but small pockets remained, but Éomer wanted to rid the land of its enemies. It was a promise he had made to his people when he took his place on the throne, and he wasn’t going back on his word.
Eowyn, his sister, gladly helped her brother on his campaigns. She was his most trusted captain and advisor. She was also exhausted. She tired of all the fighting and numbed herself to all that went on on the battlefield. It was the only way she could stay sane. It worked, but it made her cold and aloof to all, even her brother. In time, this icy exterior only hardened, and Éomer despaired, wondering if his sister would ever return to her old self again. His sister despaired too. She tried to return to her old self but didn't know how to do it. She feared she would stay trapped in the frozen fortress she had put up around her.
⚔
Another year had passed, and Eowyn was having a bath and looking out a window. Despite the steam, she could still see the fields and valleys spreading out, all gold and green. The wheat fields had finally prospered, and Rohan no longer had to depend on Gondor for aid. It was a huge relief, really.
Her gaze drifted to the nearby meadows, now overrun with flowers. There were so many blooms she probably would not be able to name them all. She was, however, suddenly overcome with the urge to collect a few. Her rooms suddenly felt drab and cold and needed some livening up. She finished her bath, dressed, and left for the fields that had tempted her.
⚔
The weather had been mild, with a cool breeze blowing through leaves. Eowyn took a deep breath and felt her muscles go lax.
If only all days could be like this.
“Morning, my lady!” You call out after seeing her near a fence. “I haven’t seen you come this way.”
That’s because fighting kept me away, she thought as she studied you. “Morning! And you are?”
You find yourself grimacing at your lack of manners. “Forgive me. My name is y/n of--"
"House Brightshield," Eowyn finished for you after seeing the crest on your shirt. "Is this your family's land?"
"Indeed." You take the reins so she can dismount. "And what brings the Lady of the Shield-arm to my doors?"
"This." Eowyn waved a hand at swathes of poppies and sunflowers, all ready to bloom. "Do you sell them?"
"I do," You let her walk ahead into a row of bright yellow flowers. "Mostly for the Summer solstice."
The summer solstice. An important festival in Rohan's calendar. "I see." Eowyn eyed the sunflowers, calculating how much she would need for her rooms. Their cheerful color would be just what she needed. "And how much would it cost me for this entire row?"
"The entire row?"
"Aye." Eowyn sighed and looked at the stalks that stood over her. "The entire row."
You would have sputtered had you not remembered she was a princess and could clearly afford it. "Very well. I'll cut them down for you. Just give me five minutes to get a sickle and a bag."
⚔
Eowyn had been seated on a fence post, waiting for you. "I hope you didn't mind the delay." You hold up a large bag for her to see. "I needed to get one big enough."
"I don't mind. I was just... thinking is all."
"About what?" You join her on the fence post after leaving the bag and sickle on a side. "Nothing," said Eowyn. "Everything. I mean, look at these flowers," she gestured to some poppies. "They simply go into the soil as seeds and grow into beautiful blooms. So easy, really."
"It's far from easy, I assure you." You said, wondering if she was really talking about flowers or something else altogether. "Take those sunflowers. They were an absolute pain to grow the first time around. The stalks kept wilting, and they got white mold. I thought of growing something else, but I didn't give up. By the time the third season came around, they would shoot out as if searching for the light."
"Do you think it's the same for people, y/n?" Eowyn asked suddenly. "To find their way back to the light?"
The real reason for her earlier comment becomes clear now. "I think so. With the right help, they can find their way back to the light, but only if they make the first step to seek it."
Eowyn sighed. "That's the problem. I know this person who is trying to find their way back, but after spending so much time in the darkness, they don't know how."
Was she talking about herself? "The fact that this person is even willing to admit to it is a good sign. Perhaps they should talk to the elves. I hear they have healers who help with this sort of struggle."
Éomer had suggested as such, even going so far as to ask if an elf should be invited to Rohan, so she wouldn't have to travel. Eowyn considered it. Perhaps she should take her brother up on his offer.
"I'll tell them that." Eowyn looked to the gathering field, where large tents had been erected. Fair weather and the promise of a bountiful harvest had put everyone into a celebratory mood for tomorrow night's solstice feast. She had planned on attending but didn't want to do it alone. She didn't want to go with her brother either. Éomer was bringing his fiancée, and she didn't want to get in the way. She wasn't close to many, but she did feel an odd kinship with you. "Y/n, are you busy tomorrow night?"
"I'm planning on going to the feast tomorrow. Why?"
She looked pensive and hesitant. "Will you be going with anyone?"
You weren't and you had no clue on who to ask. "No. I will be going on my own." You couldn't ask her. As a princess, Eowyn outranked you, and she had to be the one to ask you. You would be presuming to act above your station otherwise.
"Y/n," Eowyn licked her lips nervously and took the plunge. "Will you consider squiring me around tomorrow night?"
Escorting the princess would be a great honor indeed, and you think you rather like her. "I would be honored to. And I will start my solstice duties by cutting those sunflowers for you. They're not going to harvest themselves."
Eowyn heard herself laugh, and felt a little crack where a wall of ice used to be. "Yes." She got off her perch and picked up the bag. "And I'll help you."
#eowyn#eowyn of rohan#eowyn x reader#lotr#lotr imagine#eowyn imagine#reader insert#fanfiction#creative writing#writing#amwriting#writeblr#a world of whimsy writes
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ok ok ok ok, dragon age au, turning around & around in my mind:
born in 9:10 dragon, éowyn is the daugher of bann éomund and lady théodwyn, who owned a modest estate in the arling of rohan within the hinterlands until their deaths in 9:17.
her father was slain fighting a roving band of darkspawn that had ventured up from the korcari wilds; her mother fell terribly ill and died soon after. éowyn was only seven years old when she lost her parents, éomer only eleven.
her unce, théoden, is the arl of rohan, which is bordered by the arling of redcliffe to the west and the imperial highway to the east. (éowyn's father's lands were at the southernmost point of rohan, nearest to the korcari wilds.)
after their parents' deaths, théoden took both éomer and éowyn into his house and raised them as if they were his own alongside his son, théodred.
for the next fifteen years, éowyn spent her days studying with her tutors as well as training with a blade. arl théoden was willing to indulge her interest in combat, though not so much her desire to pursue a life at arms.
in 9:30 dragon, word reaches théoden that arl eamon has fallen ill and his arling is in trouble. he decides to send éomer with a small retinue of the rohirrim to aid their neighbors.
rather than traveling north for safety from the blight as théoden bids her, éowyn instead disguises herself as a soldier of rohan and rides with her brother to redcliffe. for almost a week, she fights valiantly to defend the civilians of redcliffe against the creatures attacking each night from the castle, until the warden arrives.
éowyn becomes a recruitable companion for the warden following the battle with the undead in redcliffe village. she will approach the warden after that battle and attempt to join their group. if rejected, she will follow after them when they leave redcliffe and insist on joining them again after assisting in a short skirmish with darkspawn (a cousland warden may choose to recognize her at this point, as her helmet is removed during the fight and they both come from well-known noble families).
recruiting éowyn into the party gains the warden some access to resources through the rohirrim, along with éowyn's own skill as a sword & shield warrior and the use of her horse, windfola.
#yes i think this is enough for now#more to follow i'm sure#hc. ( then her heart changed; or else at last she understood it )#hc; dragon age.#v; here lies the abyss. ( dragon age )#arc; in her heart shall burn. ( origins )#arc; from the ashes. ( awakening )#arc; in hushed whispers. ( da2 )#arc; what pride had wrought. ( inquisition )
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Taken (Eomer x Reader) - Part 3 of 3
Part 1 / Part 2
Summary: After having his proposals and professions rejected by the woman he loves, Éomer still refuses to be dissuaded. He vows to continue fighting for a future with her--even if that means having to let go for the time being.
Word count: 6.7k
Dedicated to anyone who has ever known the pain of loving someone you could not have. <3
Content: Boromir lives (!), angsty romance, declarations of love, jealousy, mutual pining, class division, shield-maiden, Éomer King, Rohirrim OCs, post-RotK, non-canon pairing
Rating: T (Teens and up)
Warnings: Sensuality gets steamy, but nothing explicit. Mentions of old battle injuries.
To Read on AO3: Link
Taken
PART THREE
Third Age 3019 May 6
Minas Tirith, Gondor
“If you would allow me to propose something your Grace, I--”
“Éomer.” The King of Rohan growled the ungentle correction with an irritated shake of his head. “If I have leave from your king to continue calling him Elessar, then I will not abide frivolous formalities from you…Captain. And speak freely! It is your candor that I came here for, as much as your counsel."
Boromir chuckled faintly. “Very well.” He downed the last of the wine in his goblet before picking up the jug to refill it, then reaching across the table to serve his guest as well.
While Éomer took a hearty swig, Boromir used the extra seconds of silence to weigh his next words. The noble horse-lord had done most of the talking since his arrival at the house not an hour ago, rambling on with barely contained agitation that would have frightened or offended anyone unfamiliar with his character. But Boromir had known Théodred’s cousin since he was a child, and while he was not nearly as close to Éomer as he had been with the late Prince of Rohan, their friendship had deepened enough--especially over the past few months--to familiarize Boromir with the trigger points of his temper.
And Boromir had never before seen him more sensitive about a topic than the matter they had at hand.
Love certainly wields such terrible power over a man, the Captain-General of Gondor mused, before clearing his throat.
“I will gladly fulfill your request of watching over her in your absence, making sure she is well-treated and wants for nothing,” he began. “But a soldier can quickly grow restless without sufficient martial exercise.”
“I agree.” Éomer leaned forward to fold his arms across the table. “Has she not been here long enough for your men to grow accustomed to seeing her at the training grounds? None of them need spar against her or even alongside her if they do not wish to. She would be content to practice drills on her own. In fact, she may even prefer it.”
“My men will tolerate her presence just fine. The valor she showed on Pelennor was well-witnessed, and stories of it have circulated around our garrison,” Boromir said. “I admit she may inevitably overhear crass remarks from some passing boor among the citizenry. A woman warrior still remains an oddity in these parts. But I am sure she did not come to her status without learning how to weather such criticisms.”
“Yes.” Éomer stared at the empty goblet he rotated slowly between his hands. “She has had to bear with a lot of ignorant talk over the years.”
“Which is why I propose taking her as a member of my company while you are away. Just temporarily,” Boromir added quickly, noting the immediate change in the horse-lord's demeanor. “It will help her feel more at ease while here, separated from you and her countrymen, if she had a group to belong to.”
“She has already taken a strong liking to your Aerdis. Which, I must confess, took me by surprise.”
Boromir smiled at this, his fool heart ready to burst with joy at every casual mention of his betrothed. “My lady is an easy one to love,” he said simply. “And indeed, the two seem to enjoy each other's company. I am certain Aerdis would be happy to continue acquainting her with all of her treasured haunts within the city and even beyond its walls. But…”
He rubbed his jaw slowly, ever the unconscious tell of his discomfort with the situation at hand. But it was no use dancing around the real counsel he wished to present to Éomer King. “When it comes to daily labors, a shield-maiden will likely be happier with work better suited to her talents.”
Éomer cocked an eyebrow, clearly undeceived by Boromir’s attempts at off-handedness. “What sort of work? I sense you have something specific in mind.”
“I do,” Boromir admitted. “And I shall explain it to you plainly, although I will first say that it is both a suggestion and a request for a favor.” At this point he considered offering Éomer another refill of his drink, but the deepening scowl on the man’s face made him think better of it. “As you may have heard, I have been charged by King Elessar to lead the delegation that will treat with the Southrons. Sadhar has already come forward with an offer to parley, as soon as next month.”
Éomer’s eyes widened; he caught on even faster than Boromir had expected him to. “And you wish to include her in your delegation?”
“With your approval, yes.”
“You do not have it!” Éomer exclaimed. “And how could you propose such a thing?! Have you forgotten how she was so nearly dragged off by those animals to be taken who knows where for purposes I dare not even think of?”
“Are you really asking that of the man who came to her aid?”
It was a risky move to prod at that wound, but Éomer looked properly chastised by it. “You rescued her,” he conceded. “And for that I shall eternally be in your debt. But I cannot pretend to understand why you wish to involve her in any dealings with Harad.”
“You must see why I thought of her,” Boromir insisted. “You, who can personally attest to what she is capable of.” But Éomer continued to look too distraught to think, so he laid the rest out. “I can count on the fingers of one hand every person I know who can speak a Haradric dialect with reliable accuracy. Half of them died in the war.”
Éomer rose abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in his state. Muttering indistinctly, he turned his back to Boromir to glare out the nearest window and brood at the rain lashing against the glass panes.
“When Théodred used to boast to me about her, I dismissed it as a mentor's pride in his fanciful protégé,” Boromir continued. “I suppose I too allowed myself to be distracted by her sex. But she really is a hidden gem in your Éored, is she not? Your cousin invested in her training with great thoughtfulness, and it has borne fruit marvelously. He really believed--”
Éomer slammed the heel of his hand on the window frame. “Théodred was not the one hopelessly in love with her for so many years! There lies the difference!” he snapped. “So when you ask for my consent to take her to meet with our enemies, consider that you are asking me to risk the life of the woman I absolutely refuse to live my own life without!”
And while Boromir reacted with silence, he stood there, breathing hard, one fist on his hip and the other hand pressed over his forehead. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The wine, I…and I have scarcely slept since--”
Boromir waved off the apology. “I understand your agony well. It was not long ago that I lived through the same, and just mercifully survived to a happy end. I am on your side, Éomer. I know politics and duty might make the lines difficult to discern, but I hope you can believe that.”
“I believe it.” Éomer made another weary swipe of his hand across his face. “At least I think I do. Too many things are changing too quickly, and I fear a failure to keep in step shall result in my simply being dragged along behind everyone else like an unhorsed sot.”
“Then maybe there is wisdom in her request to stay behind and out of your way. The time apart may provide you the focus you need to regain your footing.”
The tired lines on Éomer’s face tightened again. “And why must time apart involve setting her on a perilous road?”
“The mission carries little chance of peril. Peace talks, even with Harad, are nothing compared to everything she has survived to get this far. You know this.” Éomer brushed past Boromir to return to the table, but the captain’s frank reproach pursued him. “Separation from her is what you dread, not the Southrons.”
So furiously did Éomer scowl at the table surface that for a moment Boromir thought he might turn the heavy shelf over in a fit of rage. Instead he seized the wine jug, poured himself a gobletful, and drank it in two forceful gulps.
“I had hoped you could give me counsel on how I might change her mind, and convince her to simply come home,” he finally said. “Perhaps even quell her doubts in the future she can have with me.”
Underneath the anger and frustration, Éomer’s raw misery lay bare to Boromir, and suddenly he felt a swell of compassion for the young king. Would that he could offer a swift resolution to his predicament, instead of mere commiseration for the challenges that still lay ahead.
“However hard it is to hear, separation is the soundest advice I can give you today,” Boromir said. “Time and distance are most effective at calming the storm in one's mind, so that the heart may have its chance to be properly heard. Many have learned this from experience, myself included. I believe it shall be the same for your lady.”
Éomer's shoulders heaved in a ponderous sigh. “If only it did not feel like such a gamble.”
Boromir could not help a chuckle. “Then I regret I must tell his majesty, that you cast your first of many dice the moment you let her take your heart. But in the end, you shall be the one to decide how much you are willing to risk, and you alone decide when you are done.”
The anguish that resurged on Éomer's face was almost a relief to Boromir. The King of Rohan was wise enough to already know the graver half of the truth: that his new throne was in many ways a cage, and there was very little a good ruler could afford to risk in pursuit of his own desires.
* * *
“Take the names of any fools who might give you trouble,” Léodor said, unhooking the reins of his horse to start leading it across the muddy yard. “I can sort them all out on our return.”
You laughed as you followed him to the edge of the farmland property, marked by the scorched ruins of what had once been a granary. “Do you really think I could wait that long without sorting such fools out myself?”
“Anyone with the gall to harass a rider of the king’s Éored deserves a second dose of thrashing, or a third or fourth.” Your friend turned to grasp your forearm and give it a firm squeeze. “Although I sincerely hope these men of Gondor would know better, for their own sakes.”
“They are our allies, now more than ever before,” you reminded him. “And I have every confidence in their courtesy and hospitality.”
“Perhaps if you were less of a recluse and better at making friends, I would not worry so.”
Your knuckles barely grazed his sleeve as he darted away and promptly swung up to the safety of his saddle, chortling and calling, “You are only proving my point, sister!”
“Waste not a thought or care on me, and focus them all on your family!” you retorted, and stepped back as he spurred his horse forward. “Westu Léodor hál!”
You watched him gallop off across the plains of Pelennor, back to the distant towers of the White City. Tomorrow, he and the rest of the Éored would finalize preparations for the greatly anticipated journey home. But as soon as he heard that you had been tasked with staying behind, to remain with the body of Théoden King, Léodor alone took the time to come looking for you.
Whatever his suspicions regarding Éomer's selection of you as the one to leave in Gondor, Léodor spoke nothing of them. He was content to spend his entire visit sharing the cask of ale he brought, and talking your ears off about all the things he planned to do with his wife and son and infant daughter upon their reunion.
How far your relationship had come, you mused, as you watched the shrinking speck finally melt into the shadows of the deepening twilight. With him and with the rest of the men in your company, when you had once sworn, in tears hidden, that they would never accept you. Now their departure would sting as though you had been orphaned for the third time.
It is only for several weeks, you told yourself, to ease the weight of doubt that sat upon your chest. As you turned to walk back toward the cottage, a fierce wind rose and ripped off the cloak that was loosely draped over your shoulders. With a startled cry you grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to save it from landing in a large puddle.
You retrieved the soaked fabric from the mud with a sigh. A fat raindrop landed squarely on the top of your uncovered head, and was immediately followed by another and another. Spontaneous rain had been pouring on and off over Gondor since the King’s coronation, and you heard the locals welcome and praise this tumultuous weather as a blessing, a sign of war’s filth being washed away to cleanse the lands for rebirth.
Shielding your eyes from the sudden deluge, you looked up at the roiling clouds overhead, further entranced by the sight of jagged lightning flashing over the White Mountains. But when your gaze dropped back down to the horizon, you were alarmed to notice a horsed figure crossing the fields through the storm, approaching fast, in your direction.
It was him. Without proof of his face or voice, or even the support of logic, you just knew. It was him.
The very thought of that froze you, mind and body, in place. Pale and immobile and increasingly drenched, you stood like a deeply rooted tree while the rider drew closer and closer, on a horse powerful enough to sustain its determined gait over the sodden ground and lashing winds. Dumbfounded and dazed, you remained, until at last he came to a stop just several yards away. He dismounted Firefoot, his heavy boots squelching in the muck, and that sound snapped you to your senses.
“My lord,” you rushed forward with the soiled cloak twisted uselessly between your hands. “The stables are around the back. Let me take Firefoot there while you get out of this rain.”
“I shall stable him,” Éomer said sternly, but not unkindly, to warn you against arguing. “Go and wait for me inside the house.”
Without speaking another word or sparing a backward glance, you obeyed your king. You shut the cottage door behind you to keep out the ill weather, hung your wet cloak on a peg, and crouched by the warmth of the fireplace to dry off as best as you could. You kept your jittery hands busy feeding the flames with more wood, but your mind refused to be calmed as easily.
What is he doing here?! The agreement had been for you to report to him the following day, to receive in full detail your last set of orders before the entire Rohan contingent departed. Éomer had granted your request to stay behind quickly enough, and with so little argument that you had hoped perhaps the issue between you was settled, at least for the time being.
If he was not prepared to completely abandon his fatuous notion of asking you to marry him, then time apart would surely set his mind back to good sense. The Éomer you knew could always be trusted to do the right thing. You clung firmly to this thought while you waited the agonizing minutes for him to return from the stables.
As soon as he entered, you offered him the last clean towel you could find to dry himself with. He raised his eyebrows at your attempt to give him royal treatment, but graciously swiped the cloth several times over his face, neck, and hair, before tossing it over the back of a chair.
“So this is the place.” He peeled off his riding cloak to reveal clothing underneath that was just as soaked as yours; he may as well not have bothered with the outer garment at all. “You said it belonged to Lady Aerdis’s late…uncle?”
“A relative of sorts,” you said. When you confided in your new friend your wistful desire to be housed outside the city, where you could have more quiet and solitude, she had been quick to offer the empty cottage in near Pelennor that was recently willed to her by deceased relations. “There are things I can work on to help restore it while I am here. Even my meager skills will serve a farm better than sitting on my hands in the city barracks watching everyone else in their labors. I wish to remain useful, and do my part in the rebuilding.”
“I understand. You have explained all that, and well,” Éomer said slowly. “But regretfully, I must rescind the permission I granted for you to live outside Minas Tirith. You can stay here for the remainder of this week, to rest and do as you please. But afterward, I would like for you to go back to the city and remain there until my return.”
You bit back a protest, determined, now more than ever, to reaffirm your position as his servant. “May I ask what I am to do there, then?”
“Lord Boromir petitioned me to loan you to his company, and I granted it. He shall assign your duties, and you will take your orders from him while I am gone.”
Although it surprised you to hear this, it was a welcome prospect. Of all the men in Gondor you liked and trusted Lord Boromir the most, having known him since you were just a girl, albeit not intimately. This would provide an opportunity to improve on the connection. “Lord Boromir honors me with his request. And as always, it shall please me to do as my king commands.”
Éomer responded to your formal pledge with a weary sigh. He braced his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, and the way his knuckles whitened in the tightness of his grip, while he searched for his next words, did not escape your notice.
“Make no mistake, this command does not align with what I desire,” he said thickly. “Leaving without you violates every instinct in my body, but if that is what must be done to make you see reason, then I shall bear it.”
“Reason?” you repeated stiffly. “What conclusion are you hoping I might come to?”
Éomer raised his eyes from the floor to meet yours across the room. “I know you believe that putting distance between us may somehow alter how I feel about you. But I in turn believe the time apart will help you accept how deeply in love you are with me.”
The heat that flooded your face burned through your mask of composure. “I am not--”
“Enough.” The sadness that bled into that single word made it a plea instead of an order. “I did not come to reopen discussions on the matter. Especially not if denials are all you have left to say to me.”
“Then pray tell, what has my lord come for?” you challenged him behind your icy courtesy. “How else may I serve you, Éomer King?”
The hurt that crossed his face came on so suddenly, looked so profound and real, it was as though you had physically struck him. He stared at you in a dead silence, and you forced yourself to hold his gaze while you held your breath, guilt sinking into your gut from the knowledge that you were the wretch who had gone too far.
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Clearly there is nothing more to say, other than farewell.”
He picked up his cloak, turned, and left, leaving you utterly dumbfounded, staring at the door that slammed shut behind him.
The longest seconds of your life passed before your shock and indecision were overcome by a wild hysteria that made your entire body grow cold.
You leapt for the door and wrenched it open, and stepped into the downpour in time to see him vanish around the corner of the house, heading back to the stables.
The loss of him from your sight smashed through your bravado, and you cried out into the storm.
“Éomer!!”
Before you could grasp your reasoning for why you did it, or what you planned to do next, he reappeared, every footstep leaving puddles as his approach backed you up into the cottage. His eyes bore down at you, his expression now guarded and inscrutable and expectant. Gusting wind drove in sprinkles of rain through the door left open and ignored.
I am sorry. The whisper sitting on the tip of your tongue was smothered by a hostile inner voice.
Let him go. It is your duty. It is what’s right.
But your stolid face collapsed under the weight of your anguish. A grimace squeezed out the tears that blinded your eyes, finally betraying your shameful truth. I do love you, Éomer.
Gentle fingers settled lightly over your lips, stilling their feeble quivering. A voice even warmer and more tender than this touch eased your struggle.
“I do not need words. This is enough.”
As the hardened pads of those fingers brushed across the plane of your cheek, you closed your eyes and at once forgot all else that existed. Such was the power of his touch that for years you so vigilantly avoided, until that fateful moment of weakness after the coronation exposed your secret. That moment could never be undone, no matter how hard you tried to bury the truth now.
Éomer murmured your name, his breath warm on your temple, and then his hands stilled where they lightly cupped your face. In that pause lay a question, and the last time you answered it, you had hurt him. Foolish liar that you were.
“Yes.” The whisper passed from your lips to his as his mouth wasted no time seeking yours. You clasped your hands around the back of his neck, urging him closer as your own hunger surged. You felt the tremor that ran through his shoulders when you slipped your tongue against his. How could you have ever chosen to cause him pain, when you could have given him this instead?
He broke the kiss to let you catch your breath, but nuzzled your chin upward to gain access to your neck, so his lips could continue their quest to the hollow of your throat. You gasped at the scrape of his teeth on your collarbone, then moaned when he remedied his offense with reverent strokes of his tongue. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you greedily against him, fingers threading and tugging at your hair as he moved his worship to your shoulders.
But it was your touch, the scrabble of your hands over his hips and stomach as you held on to him for balance, that elicited a low growl. In just a few hurried steps, he backed you to the furthest corner of the cottage, until the side of the bed hit the back of your legs.
Your name was still the only thing he could utter, muffled in between the kisses he could not stop lavishing on every bit of your skin he could reach. Your hands found their way to his hips again, this time sneaking underneath the wet fabric that clung to his torso, then brazenly gliding upward, past his belly to the taut muscles of his chest, high enough for your thumb to circle his nipple.
An ungentlemanly word suddenly rumbled from Éomer King's throat, so startled was he by the sensual touch. Within moments his shirt lay discarded on the floor, your back made contact with the mattress, and there he was, leaning over you, bare from the waist up to your hungry eyes. You gave yourself an extra second to appreciate the sight before hooking a hand over his nape to yank him back into a kiss. The fervor in his response left you writhing and whimpering and completely vulnerable in your weakness.
A deep haze settled over you as you began to lose yourself to the pleasure of his ministrations. With every inch of you, you wanted this, and the way your body reacted to his every action, shaking in desperation for more, would surely tell him that. And yet… yet as you felt his fingers grope for the fastenings of your dress, felt his palm brush the back of your knee to your thigh, felt his hardness press against your hip… something inside of you jerked in reawakened panic.
“Éomer. W-wait.”
So soft was the protest, you were not even sure you had said the words aloud. But almost immediately, Éomer stopped and pulled back. He took one look at you, your disheveled state, and whatever expression lay on your face, and he sat up fully, turning away, dragging your heart out of your chest with him.
“Éomer, please. I am… I just…”
“No, I understand and I agree. To carry on would be unwise.”
He rubbed both hands roughly over his face, shaking away the stupor induced by his desire.
“All these years I have ordered the men to give you the respect you are due. I cannot risk your virtue or reputation now, however long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”
You moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “You are my King, and it is my duty to protect you and your reputation. We must behave prudently.”
He nodded, but still looked so pained you could not help but lift your hand to try to soothe the scowl from his face. He angled his head to kiss the inside of your wrist.
“I will have you,” he muttered, his diverted gaze making it seem more a promise to himself than to you. But when he turned his eyes back on you, the wanton lust pooling in them stirred the heat in your belly. “I will wait for the right circumstances, however long it may take, but I will have you.”
He rose and walked a few steps across the room, perhaps in need of distance from you. As he stood closer to the fireplace, the light illuminated a view so rarely seen by anyone, many people in Rohan had come to believe that Éomer was simply hale and hard of body beyond the limits of mortal men.
The numerous scars that decorated his body testified to both his fragility and his strength. Many of his wounds had been tended to by you on the battlefield, carrying terrible memories that were now also moments of pride and achievement that you shared with him.
Éomer seemed to feel your intent gaze upon him, and he stretched out a hand to you, beckoning you to rejoin him. As soon as you were within reach, he wrapped his arms around you again, drawing you against him, sighing contently as your touch drifted over the bare skin of his chest and shoulders.
Your hand moved with intention, skimming down to his lower abdomen, probing carefully for the large scar you knew sat just below his ribcage. That injury was less than two years old. It still amazed you how it had managed to heal with little issue, under the constant strain of the many violent battles Éomer fought in since.
So close. A chill ran through you as the memory rose unbidden: you pressing down hard to staunch the bleeding, screaming for someone to help carry the barely conscious Marshal to the nearest shelter, where you could safely attempt to clean and suture the wound. If the orc blade had sunk in only a fraction of an inch deeper, it would have been beyond anyone's power to save him. You came too close to losing him that day.
Eomer's lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he interrupted your reminiscence with a whisper. “How can you still doubt that we belong together, when already you are part of me?”
Your fingers passed over several other scars from injuries you had tended to over the years, and came to rest over the tattoo on his upper right arm. The black dragon curled around the edge of his shoulder was identical in design and location to the mark borne by every rider in your Éored. Your possession of that dragon mark bound you to Éomer intimately, but also defined your role in his life. Sharing his bed, or even being with him just once, was not your place.
“None of these give me any right to claim you,” you said softly. “You must still marry. And it is your duty to marry well.”
He caught your elbow as you started to move your hand away, and guided it back to slide over his waist, to rest over the scar once more, willing you to hold fast to the memory it carried, and hold fast to him.
“What does it mean to marry? Is it not just the giving of one's entire self--mind and body, heart and soul--to another?”
He hooked a finger underneath your chin, urging your downcast gaze to rise and meet his.
“How am I to dispose of things that are no longer in my possession? I have long been taken, solely and utterly, by you.”
And with that gaze he set upon you, you wondered: how many glances must have he given you in secret all these years, with eyes that burned with something more than the devotion of one comrade-in-arms to another? What willful blindness had you clung to for years, for you not to have noticed it?
“I must fulfill my duties to Rohan, this is true. But not even a king can be asked to do the impossible.”
“But to wed a great king to a lowly servant--” You shook your head. “Many would argue that is the real impossibility.”
A new expression akin to anger flashed across Éomer’s face. Before you could wonder what you might have done wrong, he dropped to his knees before you, both knees, his hands wrapped tightly around yours.
“My lord!” you cried, aghast that he would debase himself, even in private. You tried to force him back up, but he would not budge.
“Never speak of yourself as lowly again,” he admonished. “King or peasant, there is nothing more lowly or humbled than a man so wretchedly in love, as I am with you.”
“Éomer…” You sank to the floor with him. “If only things were so simple. I wish it could all happen as you say, but I just do not see how. I do not know what can be done.”
“Let me hold your love for a while longer, and wait for me,” he said gently. “That is all I ask. The rest is mine to accomplish. As long as your heart is mine, and I know you have given it to me freely, I will fight for my right to keep it.”
You felt his grip around your fingers grow tense in the long seconds of silence that followed. At last, you brought his knuckles to your lips, kissing the hands you adored with such devotion.
“When you leave, you shall take my heart with you,” you whispered into his palm. “But I fear it will be a greater challenge than you believe, to keep others from wresting such an unsuitable offering from your hands.”
“They may certainly try, if they wish to test me.” The ice in his tone unsettled you, even though that veiled threat was certainly not for you, while the warm caress on your cheek was. “Not for a moment will I appear unclear or undecided when it comes to my intentions towards you. I will never make that mistake again.”
“B-but the Council of Eorl. The lords…”
“They answer to the King,” Éomer interrupted. “Do not privileges, as well as duties, come with this crown? Trust me. Please.” He bowed to rest his forehead against yours. “While we are parted, I will prove to you that it can be done, that I will do whatever I must to marry you, and to honor and protect you thereafter.”
“Marry?” you murmured. The idea still seemed no more than a ludicrous fantasy. But then Éomer kissed you again, deeply, as though determined to memorize the taste of your lips, urging you to focus on the present moment.
Because he was yours, even if just for that night. Even if by dawn, it could all crumble under the pressures of the world outside these walls. Éomer loved you, and held you in such high regard to want you as his wife and queen. You would swear to anyone that this knowledge alone was already a dream fulfilled.
And yet. If you were brave enough to hope, maybe…just maybe, this would not be the last impossibility to come true for you.
* * *
They do not know. Hundreds of Gondor’s citizens bearing streamers and flowers lined the streets of Minas Tirith that morning to join King Elessar in sending off the departing Eorlingas. But it occurred to Éomer how strange it felt that none of them had any awareness of a matter that was not only monumental for him personally, but carried significant consequences for all of Rohan.
Soon that will change, the young king vowed to himself. Soon his Council will hear the truth, and afterward all of Rohan, and then the rest of their allies. But for the moment, discretion--no matter how bitter the pretense tasted.
No one except for Lord Boromir and his betrothed, the lovely Lady Aerdis, who both stood next to her, understood what truly lay underneath the courteous gestures exchanged between the King of Rohan and his shield-maiden. A simple bow, an exchange of a few words, and a locking of gazes that was all too brief. Had they not spent that one evening together, Éomer would have remained trapped in the false belief of her indifference towards him. The memory of her kisses would have to suffice for a while, and he could only hope he had given her enough to remember him by, as well.
He brushed the edge of his hand over his lips just as he turned away, and forced his feet to carry him down the line of assembled well-wishers.
A noticeable hush descended on the crowd of onlookers as Éomer came to the end of the road where, closest to the ruins of the Great Gate, the King of Gondor himself met him, flanked by none other than Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and his only daughter.
“Lady Lothíriel.” As Éomer took the hand she courteously offered him and brushed a kiss on her fingers, he became aware of the wan smiles that surrounded them, and the unsubtle tittering of a few ladies watching. “Your presence this morning is an unexpected and most delightful gift.”
Lothíriel was astonishingly beautiful indeed, with such radiant grace and sweet smiles, that it would not have surprised Éomer if many citizens of the White City came out just to catch a glimpse of her. “I wish you, Lady Éowyn, and all your men a safe journey, your Grace,” she said. “And may you have great success in your labors, so that we can soon celebrate your speedy return.”
“You are kind, my lady. I certainly hope for the same,” replied Éomer. “We leave behind treasure beyond price here and shall be eager to return for our own.”
Two Rohan lords had already swooped in to engage Imrahil in quiet conversation, and only stepped aside when Éomer himself approached to exchange farewells. Éomer’s admiration for the Prince only grew the more he learned about him and spent time with him, but the unabashed thirst of his counselors for Dol Amroth’s friendship irritated him. Yet another issue he intended to settle in the ordering of his House’s affairs.
Finally, Éomer came before Elessar, who embraced him tightly and honored him with a bow, from one king to another. “Worry not, my brother,” the man once called Aragorn said quietly to him. “I shall see to it that they are cared for, these ones whom you so dearly love.”
He smiled at the look of mixed wonder and apprehension on Éomer’s face, and dipped his head in another show of reassurance and of farewell.
With that, the Rohirrim set off on the North-way in a procession over a mile long, accompanied by the fanfare from the people that continued to line the road stretching across Pelennor. Countless flags in a multitude of colors and sigils from the different regions of Gondor fluttered in the air, and from every direction, enthusiastic cheering and waving followed the Riders across the fields.
At the head of the procession, behind his standard bearer and with Éowyn at his side, Éomer quickly fell into a brooding silence that did not escape his sister’s notice.
“I truly did not think I would ever see the day when the two of you would be willingly separated,” she said lightly. When Éomer looked at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “I am sure you have good reasons for choosing her to stay behind with our uncle.”
“Many reasons,” Éomer grunted.
Éowyn regarded him thoughtfully. “Has the time finally come when you would allow yourself to be open with me about these reasons? And the other concerns weighing on your mind and heart? It is just you and I now, Éomer,” she said softly, stretching out her hand to him. “I may not have uncle’s experience or Théodred’s cunning, but I love you beyond words, and would do anything to see you happy. Let me help you.”
Éomer smiled at this, and reached over to take her hand and squeeze it. “Perhaps I can aspire to the happiness you have found with Lord Faramir.”
“Having my affections stolen by a High Man was not what I aspired to,” said Éowyn, trying to look annoyed but unable to hide the blush on her cheeks. “But love, it seems, is the wildest beast of all. It will not be tamed, or bridled, or even reasoned with. It goes where it wills. Éomer…” Éowyn’s sweet face turned stern. “You have suffered enough, and have been forced to carry so many burdens, not least of all our uncle’s crown, which I know you never wanted.”
“It is my honor to take the throne in Uncle and Théodred’s stead,” Éomer said firmly. “And why do you make assumptions about the things I want?”
“I know who it is you have wanted, for a long time now,” Éowyn said with a stout confidence that took Éomer aback. “You are discreet, brother. But I have watched you and looked out for you, more closely than you realize.”
Éomer shook his head. “I am still learning the many ways I have been underestimating you, Éowyn. Soon I shall believe myself unworthy of your care or help.”
“Someone has to care for you, during the frequent times you would not.” Éowyn glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still out of hearing range of the rest of his Éored. “Especially now that you have left her behind.”
Éomer pressed his lips in a tight line and returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I will be back,” he said. “There is much to do in Rohan before then, but with Uncle waiting in the Hallows, I can hardly afford to dawdle or delay.”
And she is waiting. Éomer caught a glimpse of his sister’s suppressed smile that told him she had already thought the same thing. Another person with strong opinions to contend with.
Éomer spurred Firefoot forward to signal the standard bearer, who promptly blew one quick blast on his horn. As the King took off in a steady gallop, the thunder of hooves rose behind him as nearly a thousand other Rohirrim picked up their pace to match his, drowning out the excited shouts of the Gondorians that started them off at last to their journey home.
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