Only she could make the sound of a crashing sword-blade seem like
birdsong. The affectionate murmurings he overheard as she bestowed
them to Léoma, her steed, were rain spatters on the dry earth of
his ears, parched with the King's affairs and ever-widening
responsibilities sent from his true master in his tower of Orthanc. Many
nights he lay awake, the moon battering her light through his window, as
he tried to trace the path of his heart. There had been another, in the
more isolated folds of his youth, but her wounding and memory had dimmed
as he threw himself into the workings of the court in the Golden
Hall.
During his years in Meduseld, he had proven himself insightful and
vigilant in matters of state. As time passed and he grew in favor with
Théoden, so had the King's precocious niece matured. Éowyn,
now fifteen years of age, resembled nothing so much as a silver birch;
slender, pale, and grounded in the soil of Rohan. She was shrewd and
deliberate, possessing a beauty so untarnished it bruised his spirit.
Always aware of the lingering suspicion in the eyes of the King's son,
he was careful as he managed occasions to watch Éowyn ride. To his
mind, her body shimmered with joy astride her horse, thundering across
the plain or simply riding in the royal paddock, her goldspun hair in a
heavy plait. He admired her strong, lithe form as she practiced for
battles she would never see. She determinedly engaged in the thrusts and
parries taught to her brother, wielding a foreign sword, surreptitiously
discovered to have belonged to her Gondorian grandmother. The darkness
forgave him his thoughts, as he imagined himself a tear of her sweat,
sliding from pulsing temple to jaw, down her creamy column of
neck.
Too late he had realized that his patron, the wise, gracious wizard,
used his skills of speech to encourage him to reveal more than he had
wished about his affections. Saruman had not chided him for his longing,
but he now restrained his tongue to speak only of the tidings of Rohan
and her rulers. His visions of Éowyn he treasured like aged wine,
and he savored them as such, unhurried and alone: a crooked lower tooth,
glimpsed as she laughed unabashed at a tale of questionable propriety
told by her cousin; an expression of utmost resignation as she sat
through the tedium of an embroidery lesson; a faint flush in her throat
when one of the royal stableboys grasped at her wrist, vying for her
attention. The last brought with it the icy burn of jealousy, molten ire
which he assuaged with calm self-assurances. Time would reveal to
Théoden that he, Gríma of the Westemnet and devoted, loyal
councillor, had from his first days cherished her. She, too, would see
how he had willed for her protection, that through these many years he
had served as watchful, loving guardian, patiently awaiting the day when
she would turn at the sound of his footfalls
and hold out her hand.
Only she, Éowyn of the House of Eorl, could proffer herself,
necessary air to his soul. For without her, the grasses of Rohan were a
sea, and he, a drowning man.
Gift for
Cim_Halfling
Merry Yule, 2005
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