A Lord of the Rings story by Halrloprillalar
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See, it's not that you're alone, and a long way off: it's that I'm surrounded in a house on a hill, and I've lost the sound of the only word that fits. Days the sun hangs, an obnoxious gong, but nights the pasture air fills with fireflies, the sky singing that you're the name of the world. - from Sonnet For Elizabeth by Jorge Sanchez
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Eowyn swings the hammer over and over, holding hard to the tongs so they
do not twist from her grasp. The sound clangs in her ears and her face
shines in the heat, her arms ache with the strain. Each blow shudders
through her, rings down through her chest and thighs. When the smith
signals it is enough, she stops and the stillness of her body feels strange
to her.
She is impatient for the dagger to be finished, but it will take many
days.
~
By day, she works. She has duties in the king's household, though they do
not fill her hours. When her cares are done, she goes to the smith, or
seeks for one to cross blades with her. Her skill has surpassed that of all
the maids and of most of the men who stay behind. With whomever she can
find, she drills in the heat of the day, with sword and shield, until her
eyes fill with salt and her opponent begs for rest.
She watches, too, eyes ever turning to the horizon, as the sun slowly drags
down the day. If a horse strays, if a hawk stoops, she sees, though she
does not care. That is not why she watches.
~
Eowyn works the treadle, grinds the blade against the wheel. She
squints, wishing there were more light. She concentrates so hard it sets
her head to aching, her arms buzz from the shaking of the wheel. She is
careful, very careful, and the smith watches over her shoulder, giving her
a word or two as she slowly shapes the blade.
~
By night, she waits. She throws open the shutters, lets the night air into
her bower. She takes the room's measure again and again, in paces, in
hours, in the murmurs of the wind. She sleeps but little and her dreams are
red, fractured things that leave her weary when she rises.
Her maids have a hundred ways to bring their men back to them. A charm of
rosemary and hawthorne flowers, held in the bosom, scraps of cloth he has
worn burned and the ashes blown to the east with a muttered word, a disc of
wood with old signs scratched on it and hung up in the doorway.
Eowyn does none of this. There is no power in it for her. Her power is her
own will, her own resolve that he must return, he will return to her. She
has one charm: when she has finished smithing the dagger, then he will come.
If her maids have a hundred spells for safety, they have three times that
number to divine a woman's true love, to foretell her destined husband. But
Eowyn's love has long been fixed and she does not wish to marry.
~
Eowyn files with long, slow strokes, watching the gentle curves as they
fall, then rise to crest in the centre of the blade. She chooses finer and
finer files until at last the metal shines. At the top of the blade, she
etches the head of a horse, mane flying.
~
He comes before the dagger is ready.
She is training, mounted combat with a young guard, when she sees them far
off, a dark mass crawling over the horizon. She rides out to meet them,
hair unbound to the wind, sword still unsheathed.
She laughs to see him riding before his men, unscathed and shouting out to
her. His face seems brighter than the sun. He takes off his helmet and they
ride back together, the children of Eomund, last of their house.
Eowyn is busy that day, making ready, and that night they feast. Eomer sits
at the king's right hand, and Eowyn beside him, leaning against him as he
takes the cup again and again. All know the Lady of Rohan has a great love
for her brother and they smile to see them so.
They do not know that she goes to him at night, walking the halls without a
candle, carrying a posset for him, lest she need an excuse.
Eomer is eager tonight, but slow with wine. Eowyn is not displeased. There
is time to relearn each other in the darkness, to touch, to hold, to stifle
laughter against hair and skin. When he is roused at last, she gives
herself gladly, one hand tangled in his hair as he rocks against her.
His head is so thick, he would have her sleep the night in his bed and she
would stay, her heart is so full. But she creeps back to her own bed and
sleeps, dreamless, until the sun rises.
~
The next day, she draws him into swordplay and soon they are surrounded by
a laughing crowd. He's forgotten, as he always does, the strength of her
arm and the quickness of her step. She presses him and she can hear the men
making wagers. He disarms her in the end -- she is not his equal with the
blade, not yet. But sweat is on his brow and wonder in his eyes.
"Well done, my sister," he says and smiles down at her.
"All I lack is experience," she replies and watches his face cloud over.
"Must we speak of this again?"
"I would ride with you," she says. "I would do something of more worth than
arranging meals and seeing beds are made. You cannot deny I have the skill
and the strength."
"I cannot have you go." He takes her shoulders. "Eowyn, I cannot have you go."
"If not with you," she says, "then with another company. Speak to the king.
I would not stay here!"
"No," he says and turns away. She expected nothing else, but still she must
hope.
~
At night, within the circle of his arms, she says his name over and over,
softly so no one else may hear, her lips against his. His love is silent
and swift. After it is done, he clings to her, face buried in her hair, and
it is a long hour before he will let her go.
Eowyn's maids know six ways to keep a babe from quickening in the womb and
she has used them all.
~
"The king says that I should marry," Eomer says, as they stand together,
looking down from the hill to the lands below.
Eowyn cannot speak. She has thought many times of how to refuse her own
marriage; she has never thought to prepare for this.
"He says that you will tell me who would suit me best." Eomer looks down at
her and she cannot read his face.
"No," she says. "You cannot."
"Eowyn," he says, "you know the day must come."
"But not yet," she says and puts her hand upon his arm. "Not yet."
He smiles at her. "I do not have the strength to refuse you in all things.
It shall not be yet."
She breathes deeply and the air is sweet.
~
Eowyn fits on the guards, and then the handle, carved from dark, heavy
wood, polished smooth and shining. It is done.
She cannot gift Eomer with this. The dagger gleams in the light, but the
lines do not flow, the balance is wrong. She wants to throw it from her,
but she dares not -- so ill-made, it might fly astray and wound the
smith.
"A good first try," the smith says and she thinks that he is flattering
her. She has tried to step beyond herself in this, to do a master's work
without even a journeyman's skill.
She sheaths the dagger and ties it to her waist. She will carry it, to
remind her.
~
She had thought the company would rest a week, but Eomer will be away at
dawn. He is busy making ready and she does not see him until night has
fallen and she is in his bed.
He is slow and tender. Eowyn does not trust herself to speak. Every word is
one he will not want to hear. She stops her mouth with his, and presses
close to him. She stays until he falls asleep, then goes to watch the rest
of the night in her bower.
When they leave, she embraces him as any sister might her brother. She
watches them ride off, watches until the sun is high and the horizon empty.
Then she goes down to the forge and begins another blade.
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