Main Characters: Éowyn, Aragorn (as Thorongil), OC
Rating: G
Pairings: Aragorn/Éowyn implied
Genre: General
Length: Short story series
Summary: A series of stories featuring Aragorn in Rohan as Thorongil, a young Éowyn, and her nurse Iris
-----
Why a Child Laughs
Iris rushes through the corridors, trying to catch her breath without slowing her pace. Her charge has escaped her watchful eye, again. This is the fourth time this week. And the child is barely five! The nurse shakes her head in dismay. She only hopes news of her misfortune will not come to her mistress’s ears.
She is growing desperate. She has checked all the usual places the child usually wanders off to, but they are all empty. Every servant she passes she asks if her charge has been seen; but no one seems to know where she is. She is certain she has searched the entire Golden Hall.
Now overwhelmed with panic, Iris slows down to a walk and goes out into the garden. Sitting herself down on a bench, she takes a handkerchief from an apron pocket and bursts into weeping. She shall be in such dreadful trouble. To lose her charge! What a disgrace. What will her mistress say? After blowing her nose and attempting to wipe away her tears, she glances up at the sky, and a new wave of distress comes over her as she realizes the sun has set.
She is on the verge of breaking into sobs once again when a distant sound of childish laughter reaches the nurse’s ears. Iris stiffens, her eyes wide. Was that…. The merry laughter comes again. Iris jumps to her feet. She rushes almost blindly through the garden, only pausing to gaze down the other paths that break away from the one she follows. Another burst of giggles fills the air, this time joined by a deep rumble of laughter. Iris peeks down another path to discover an occupied bench.
“Lady Éowyn!” Iris cries joyfully and runs forward.
Éowyn, seated on the bench, is carefully examining the hair of a man crouched before her when she is dragged into Iris’s arms. The older woman starts crying all over again, this time in relief and joy. She ignores the child’s attempts to wiggle free from her grasp. Finally, she lets the girl down but places her hands firmly on the little one’s shoulders.
“My Lady, never run from me like that again!” Iris manages, despite her tearstained face, to appear and sound stern.
Éowyn looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “I only wanted to go outside, Iris,” she explains simply to her nurse.
A weary smile crosses the woman’s face, and she shakes her head. Éowyn’s face lights up, and she steps out of Iris’s grasp. The child turns back to her silent, watchful companion who, understanding, hands her a bunch of flowers.
“Look, Iris!” she exclaims excitedly. “We picked flowers for you.” She holds the bouquet out to her nurse with a loving look.
“Oh.” Iris carefully accepts the flowers. “Thank you, Éowyn,” she says, nodding.
Éowyn claps her hands, delighted that Iris likes her gift.
Iris glances at the man who obviously has been Éowyn’s chosen playmate and, gasping, drops into a deep curtsy. “Lord Thorongil! I apologize if she has caused you trouble…” Worry bubbles up inside the poor woman. The Lord Thorongil had arrived just yesterday and had not met Lady Éowyn.
Thorongil shakes his head. “She has been a perfect lady,” he reassures her.
He kneels when Éowyn skips back to his side and reaches a hand up. She takes a handful of his hair in her little hands. “I have never seen black hair before,” she says, something like awe in her voice. “Have you ever seen black hair before?” she asks her nurse.
Iris humbly shakes her head.
Éowyn looks into Thorongil’s eyes. “I like your hair,” she says.
“I am glad, my Lady,” he answers respectfully, his eyes twinkling.
“Come now, Éowyn,” Iris begins, only to be interrupted by the child.
“And I like you!” she claims, nodding her head firmly and giving the man a bright smile.
At this Thorongil’s weary, grim face breaks into a large smile, and a deep chuckle escapes his lips. “Thank you, my Lady,” he replies. He tries to nod, but his hair being held prisoner makes it nearly impossible. Iris is amazed, for Éowyn does not take to strangers so easily.
“Do you like me?” the girl asks curiously.
“Yes, I think I like you very much,” he answers after a moment’s pause.
Joy lights the child’s face.
“Éowyn, come. It is time for bed,” Iris instructs.
“Oh, can’t we stay?” Éowyn begs, turning sad eyes to her nurse.
“No.” She firmly takes her charge by the hand. “You have already stayed out later than you should. You can play more tomorrow.” She gently starts ushering the child down the path.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” Éowyn asks her new friend over her shoulder as she is instantly pulled away.
“Yes, my Lady Éowyn. I will be here,” Thorongil says.
Having to be content with this reassurance, Éowyn sadly waves goodbye to him and allows Iris to lead her back into the Golden Hall and be put to bed.
Why a Child Leaves
The courtyard echoes with the sounds of blades clanging against each other, the scuffing of feet on the cobblestone rocks, and the grunts of the two men as each attempts to find an opening of weakness in the other. Unbeknownst to them, they are observed with much interest and excitement by three children from a window above them.
“I cannot wait to learn to wield a sword,” one boy sighs.
“You have only three more years of waiting,” consoles his cousin, smiling.
“I shall be a marshal,” the first decides, nodding firmly.
“And I will ride by your side!” the other exclaims.
“But do not forget your other princely duties.”
“Ah! My studies are so boring. My tutor scolds me for fidgeting and not paying attention, but I cannot help it. I want to be outside, roam the plains, ride Brego, and enjoy dueling with you.”
Silence hangs in the air as the children return their attention to the circling knights below them.
“Do you suppose I would be allowed to use a sword?” a third voices muses.
Both boys burst out laughing.
“I doubt it, dear sister,” Éomer answers between chuckles.
Théodred clutches his stomach, laughing still.
“And why is that?” Éowyn demands, glaring back and forth between her brother and cousin.
“You are too little and not strong enough,” replies Éomer.
“I will be when I’m older!” objects the girl, her eyes flashing as her hands ball into fists.
“Ladies of the royal house do not fight with blades,” Théodred says. “They run the household and do sewing all day. And you will start having dancing lessons soon.”
“I do not want to learn to dance! I want to learn to fight!”
The two boys exchange a half-amused, half-wondering look. Just what has piped Éowyn’s interest in sword fighting?
“There are not many – if any – women who have skill with a blade,” Éomer points out.
“Father will let me; I know he will,” Éowyn states certainly.
“And if he does, you may look like a fool to all the men. They would probably not dare challenge you in fear of defeating you quickly. You would not be as strong as they. They might come to disrespect you,” Théodred cautions.
“Just go play with your dolls, or have Mother brush your hair. Or ask Iris about the slippers she is embroidering for you. That is what you should do,” Éomer orders. Ignoring his sister’s teary glare, he turns to Théodred. “And now, I challenge you, Prince Théodred, to a duel.”
“I accept, my cousin.”
“I want—”
“No!” both boys cut off Éowyn.
“You have never beaten either of us. But if you want to be defeated again, you can perhaps face the winner of the match.” Éomer tosses the comment over his shoulder before following Théodred from the room.
Éowyn stands still for a moment, her small body trembling with hurt and anger. Forcibly she kicks off her slippers, satisfied when her kicks cause them to fly across the room and hit the wall. Tossing her head, she marches from the room.
---
Thorongil slowly walks alongside his horse as they climb the narrow road leading to Golden Hall of Meduseld. The corners of his mouth turn up as he surveys the familiar surroundings of Rohan.
He squints in the sunlight as he notices a small figure coming purposely towards him. The curly golden hair flies about in the wind, along with dress, under which Thorongil notices with amazement and amusement a small pair of bare feet. It is when the child is only a few feet from him that his guess is proven correct. He is surprised she appears unaccompanied. A frown settles on his face as he watches her sniff and wipe her sleeve over her eyes. He hesitates a moment and then speaks when she is about to go past him.
“Little Éowyn?” he calls softly.
The child stops and looks up at him. Her face remains blank as she examines his face. Perhaps she does not remember him. It has been over a year since he was last here. But the girl’s eyes widen in wonder.
“Thorongil!” she exclaims with a hint of questioning.
His answering smile is all the confirmation she needs. Her sadness forgotten for the moment, she reaches her arms out and is swung into the man’s welcoming hug. Peals of delightful giggles escape Éowyn as Thorongil swings them around several times. She buries her hands in his dark locks when he simply holds her tightly for a moment. She pulls away to look at her friend and tugs playfully on his beard.
“It is longer,” she comments, meeting Thorongil’s twinkling eyes. “I missed you.”
“And I missed you,” he says.
He is rewarded with a grin. He sets her back down on the ground.
“What will your nurse say when she discovers you are going about barefooted?” he wonders with a shake of his head.
“I did not feel like wearing my slippers,” Éowyn explains.
“I see,” Thorongil nods. “And where are you off to? You are not hiding from your nurse again?”
Reminded of the conversation she had with Éomer and Théodred causes Éowyn’s face to darken once more and she sighs. “No. I am leaving Rohan.”
Not expecting that answer, Thorongil’s eyebrows rise. “All by yourself? Without any provisions or escorts?” he asks.
“Yes,” she nods firmly and starts walking again down the road.
Thorongil watches her retreating back. He wonders if anyone knows she is out here. He turns his horse around and follows her. “May I come with you, my Lady?”
“Certainly!” she answers after a moment.
Quickly he catches up to her and silently walks beside her. He is surprised when they reach the huge open gates of the city and Éowyn walks through them, leaving Edoras. He sees she is quite serious about leaving.
He notices that her walking has slowed and she is limping slightly. His focus centers on her bare feet, now a dirty brown color. It was a long walk from the Golden Hall to actually leaving the city. And the loose stones the child tread over probably added to her feet’s soreness. He is amazed when she gives no sign of halting for a rest but determinedly walks on with her head held high. The child is so young, yet already full of strong will and spirit.
“Little Éowyn!” he at last breaks the long companionable silence.
The child halts and looks back at him inquiringly.
“We have gone a long way. Perhaps we should rest a little to keep up our strength,” he suggests, rubbing the neck of his horse.
At first he is sure she will refuse and insist they move on, but instead she agrees. Thorongil notices the winces she attempts to hide as she walks back to him. Letting his horse roam, he meets Éowyn and scoops her up in his arms. Settling both of them on the ground, he takes a little foot in each of his hands and gently massages them. The pressure he applies to the sore soles causes Éowyn to bite her lip, but soon she relaxes against him as the aches slowly leave her feet.
Glancing up at the sky, Thorongil notes it will be evening soon. No doubt Éowyn’s absence has now been noticed and perhaps there is already a search party out looking for her.
“Why are you leaving Rohan?” he asks softly.
“Because Éomer and Théodred said I will not be allowed to learn to sword fight when I’m older, for I am part of the royal family. And they said the knights would mock me for fighting, that I would always lose at a duel. I have never been able to beat my brother or my cousin when they have duels with logs. So I am going to another country where they will let me fight, and they would be proud of me.”
Thorongil nods, beginning to understand.
“Are there any women in Rohan who know how to sword fight?” Éowyn looks up hopefully at Thorongil.
“Yes, there are some,” he answers slowly, “but not many.”
Éowyn claps her hands in delight. “They wish to be able to defend their country?” Thorongil nods. “That is why I want to use a sword,” she says firmly. “Are they mocked for having such skill?”
“Some believe their place is to tend to their family and take care of the house, not fight like a warrior.” He places a calming, reassuring hand over hers as he senses her objections rise. “But,” he goes on, “there are some who respect those few ladies who can wield a sword, who willing would go to battle for their country. Shieldmaidens they are called.”
“Shieldmaidens,” Éowyn tries out the name.
Thorongil watches her thoughtfully. He has fought many wars in his time. Many brave soldiers have sought valor and glory on the field while the fight is long, tiring, and terrible. Some are overwhelmed by the cries, the blood, the foul air. Their hearts fill with terror. They sometimes flee; sometimes they cannot bring themselves to strike the fatal blow; sometimes they cannot defend themselves quickly enough and fall by the sword.
As Éowyn settles herself more comfortably against him, he wonders if she should someday hold a sword in her hands if she would have to face the horrors of war. He senses she will not fail in her desire to learn – she will become a shieldmaiden someday. She will develop strength, eventually winning duels. He believes she will win the respect of the soldiers, even those who do not think it is her place to be a shiedmaiden.
Thorongil frowns, deciding whether to share something or not. He takes a chance. “Prince Théodred’s mother, Elfhild, was a shieldmaiden.”
“Was she?” The child’s face is as bright as the sun as she smiles. “Why did she become one? Did she take part in any battles? Was she respected by her people?”
“I could not say. You would probably be able to find out from your mother or uncle,” he suggests.
Éowyn nods. “Do you think it is silly of me to want to be a shieldmaiden?” she asks worriedly.
“No, I do not think you are,” her friend answers sincerely.
Glancing up towards the sky alight with bright, brilliant colors from the setting sun, Thorongil is about to suggest they head back when Éowyn’s stomach growls. Eyes dancing with amusement, he tickles Éowyn, who giggles.
“Are you hungry, little Éowyn?” At her affirming nod, he adds, “We did not pack any food with us, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps…if we go back now we will not miss dinner,” Éowyn wonders.
Thorongil asks, “You will leave Rohan another time?”
“No, I will become a shieldmaiden of Rohan. Then I will still be able to see my family,” the child decides.
A sigh of relief escapes from the man, and he smiles. “Then we should start back immediately.”
He sets Éowyn to her feet before he gets to his own. He gives a short shrilling whistle, and soon his horse returns to his side. Thorongil carefully seats the girl on the mare’s back and climbs on behind her.
The return to the Golden Hall seems to fly by. He notices several soldiers who, on spotting him and Éowyn, quickly ride ahead of them to announce their arrival.
As Meduseld looms before them as they near, Thorongil tilts his head to one side, hearing an unusual, far-off sound, which increases as they go on. He cocks an eyebrow when Éowyn turns to meet his questioning gaze. She answers in a knowing serious and apologetic tone:
“Iris.”
The man hides his smile behind his hand and nods solemnly.
When Thorongil brings his horse to a halt before the Hall, there is a group to welcome them. Iris wails loudly at the sight of her charge safe and sound. Théodwyn, Éowyn’s mother, is dry-eyed, but looks no less relieved. Éomund hugs her, a smile breaking his concerned expression. The tenseness falls from Théoden’s shoulders. And Théodred and Éomer are racing down steps. They engulf Éowyn in a tight group hug when Thorongil lowers her down.
He watches as the three children walk up the stairs to the adults. Éowyn’s hands are held in her protective brother’s and cousin’s grasps; all is forgiven and forgotten.
Why a Child Daydreams
Éowyn shakes her head in exasperation as she leaves behind the giggling girls spying on her brother and cousin, who are in the middle of a wrestling match in the courtyard. Éomer and Théodred… brave and handsome warriors? Well, let those girls think they will be someday! Éowyn laughs. They can daydream about marrying one of them all they wish. But they are the daughters of some of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting, and such a thing seems impossible in the girl’s mind. She is not yet seven, but she understands – from overhearing Iris discuss the matter with others – that marriages of alliance are expected for her, her brother, and her cousin when they are older; those girls would not be considered worthy of Éomer and Théodred.
Éowyn steps outside the Golden Hall and for a long moment surveys the city of Edoras stretching out before her, her gaze eventually reaching beyond to the great plains and majestic mountains. Soon her annoyance has been forgotten as she stares at her beloved country.
The girl is about to return inside when she catches sight of a man seated on the bottom steps of the Hall. Smiling brightly, she walks down the stairs and sits herself down beside him, not at all worried about getting her dress dirtied.
The man turns to her, and his face brightens. “Good morning, little Éowyn.”
“Good morning, Thorongil,” she replies politely, returning his smile.
A long companionable silence hangs over them as they return their attention to the city. A thoughtful frown slowly caresses Éowyn’s brow, and she looks up at her friend.
“Thorongil?”
He looks down at her.
“Have you ever daydreamed about who you would want to marry?”
His eyes widen, for he is visibly surprised by the question. He thinks for a moment and then answers, “Yes, many times.”
“Really?” The child’s face fills with curiosity.
“Aye,” he admits, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.
“Your lady is very beautiful and of high birth?”
Thorongil nods, wondering what has piped little Éowyn’s interest in this.
She simply nods, her thoughtful frown still in place. “Did you know there are some girls who dream of marrying Éomer and Théodred someday?” she asks.
“No. But it is not really that hard to see why,” Thorongil answers. At seeing Éowyn’s look of confusion, he goes on, “When they are grown, they will be tall, broad-shouldered, and excellent horsemen and swordsmen.”
“They are nobility, and Théodred will be king,” Éowyn muses with a shake of her head, unable to picture it. “The girls were arguing who was the most handsome.” She makes a detestable face.
Thorongil throws his head back and laughs heartily.
“It seems such a silly thing to daydream about the prince warrior they want to marry,” the girl huffs. “I would never do such a thing.”
Letting a few last chuckles escape, Thorongil smiles. “Perhaps someday you will.”
The child shakes her head in denial and then pauses. “I suppose if I did daydream about who I would like to marry, it would be someone like you,” she decides.
“Like me?” For the second time Thorongil’s surprise shines in his face as he stares at her. “I am not young anymore. Nor as handsome as in my younger years, I’m afraid.”
Éowyn studies him for a long moment. “I think you are,” she says sincerely with a small smile.
“I do not want to marry a fair-haired prince,” she goes on, “but a ranger. He would have to have dark hair and a beard. I do not want to become a queen, but be free to ride the plains and explore the wild.” Her face becomes serious as she finishes with, “I want my marriage to be one of friendship and love, not of an alliance.”
Thorongil is astonished and momentarily speechless at this glimpse he has been given of Éowyn’s mind and hopes. May she be fortunate if it comes to pass, he thinks to himself.
“I hope your dream will come true, little Éowyn,” he says out loud.
The girl smiles at him; yet the light that had shone in her eyes when she spoke begins to dim: she knows it is unlikely her dream will become reality. Her position will not allow it.
Wanting to chase away the gathering shadows from the child’s face, Thorongil suggests they go indoors, as time for the afternoon meal is approaching. Her face lighting at the suggestion, Éowyn leaps to her feet, brushes herself off, and happily puts her small hand in one of his large ones.
As they go, Éowyn talks on excitedly as she skips next to her friend. But Thorongil only half-listens to her. Instead, he thinks about what she had shared earlier. She desires a ranger and not a king. And the man wonders…
Why a Child Cries
Iris looks about with a mixture of unease and guilt. How did she let herself be talked into this…? She pulls her cloak closer with one hand and tightens her hold on Lady Éowyn’s hand with the other.
Both tiptoe silently down the deserted, dimly lighted corridors. Iris continues to look about, fearful of being caught as she leads the child along. She shall be in such dreadful trouble. But she cannot refuse her charge this, she realizes, as she sees Éowyn wipe tears from her face with her free hand. Iris’s heart goes out to the girl.
She relaxes a little when at last they reach their destination. Glancing about a final time to make certain they are alone, she knocks softly on a door. A moment later, the door is opened by a middle-aged woman who nods to Iris before giving Éowyn a pitiful look. She ushers the two in before closing the door.
Éowyn clings to Iris’s hand as they slowly move forward. She trembles and sniffs. She stares with confusion and fear at Thorongil, who lies motionless and pale on a small bed. It is strange to the girl to see him so still and lifeless. His eyes are closed, and she can barely see the rise and fall of his chest. The child bites her lip as she takes in the bandage around his head.
Freeing her hand from Iris’s grasp, she steps to the edge of the bed. Gently she shakes his shoulder without drawing a response. “Thorongil?” she says in a near whisper. “Thorongil…” she repeats, louder.
The man remains unconscious, unaware of the girl’s calling and shaking him.
“Thorongil, you promised to give me and Éomer a backpack ride,” Éowyn says brokenly. “You need to wake up. Please!” She faces the woman and her nurse. “Why won’t he wake up?” she demands, tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Lady Éowyn, Lord Thorongil is…” Iris trails off, unable to offer comfort to the child.
The girl whirls around and throws herself half on the bed, breaking into sobs. She places her hand in Thorongil’s, which rests on top of the covers. When Iris places a hand on her shoulder, Éowyn shakes it off, continuing to cry uncontrollably as she calls to her friend in between gasps.
The two women stand back and lower their gaze. Tears well up in their eyes as they listen to the child’s crying and pleadings. For a long while that is the only sound which fills the room.
Éowyn hiccups and raises her head. Tears still streaming down her face, she sniffs and frowns in puzzlement. Her eyes are drawn to where her hand rests in Thorongil’s, and she stares with disbelief as slowly his fingers close over hers. Shaking, she looks in wonder on Thorongil’s face and at first sees no change. But then she sees his mouth barely open, and a soft rasp escapes. Gasping, she leans closer to him.
“Don’t cry, little Éowyn,” the words barely reach out to her.
She gapes, caught between hope and fear that it is only her imagination playing tricks on her. But, oh, so slowly, his head turns, and his eyes crack open.
“Thorongil!” Éowyn says, a smile lighting her face while her body shakes with her crying. She is unaware of the excitement developing behind her, of the door opening and closing swiftly. She is only aware that her friend is awake and a smile tugs on the corners of his mouth.
“My Lady,” Iris places an insisting hand on the girl’s arm. “We should leave now. The healers will be in to tend to him.” She begins to draw her charge back from the bed.
“No!” Éowyn shouts desperately, her face filled with wild fear.
“Please!” Thorongil begs, his voice laced with pain as he tightens his hold on Éowyn’s small hand.
At once Iris releases the child at these unexpected outbursts. Éowyn scampers back onto the edge of the bed. The panic in Thorongil’s face subsides as he watches her. Silently she cradles his hand, holding his gaze.
Pausing for a moment, Iris steps outside the room to warn the healers not to disturb the two. If anything, having Lady Éowyn near seems to be the best medicine for Lord Thorongil at the moment.
Why a Child Plays
Éowyn ducks in the nick of time; the snowball sails just inches over her head. Peering over the wall of her snow fort, she tosses a snowball toward her brother and cousin. It falls short of their fort. She growls in frustration as the boys laugh.
“You should throw it with more force!” Éomer calls before hurling another snowball towards his sister at the same moment that Théodred does.
Éowyn jumps to the side, clearing the path of one, but the other smashes into the side of her head. She gives a shrill shriek as wet, cold snow runs down her face and under the collar of her coat. She glares at the triumphant boys before picking up a snowball from the pile she made and throws it with purposeful force and aim. This time she catches them unaware, and for a moment her cousin stares at the snowball plastered on the front of his wool shirt. He glares at his cousins’ amusement; Éomer laughs while Éowyn claps her hands in delight at her successful hit. She is amazed, however, when a moment later a snowball hits the side of Éomer’s head, and he cries out, “No fair!”
She ducks as the boys prepare another attack and looks to her left to discover who has joined her side in the snowball fight. She clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles as Thorongil conceals his large frame as best he can behind her fort wall. His eyes are full of amusement and excitement; he looks almost boyish. A devilish grin on his face, he winks at Éowyn and holds out his hand in a silent request for another snowball. Shaking with quiet giggles, the girl gives him one.
She watches him peer over the wall to have a snowball hit him in the eyes. Despite his sudden blindness, Thorongil hurls the snowball in his hand and hits Théodred who was watching in fascination and did not move in time. Wiping the snow from his eyes with a deep laugh, Thorongil rises to his feet.
“Surrender your fort, sirs!” he demands, fighting to keep a straight face.
“We shall fight to the death!” Éomer replies proudly.
Hardly have the words died away when both sides issue war cries and fall into the assault with new energy. The air becomes full of sailing snowballs and shouting and laughing.
---
Éowyn rolls the large ball of snow with some difficultly. Halting with the ball next to two larger ones stacked on top of each other, she allows Thorongil to carefully place it on top of the balls of snow. The two stand side by side, carefully inspecting their work. Thorongil gazes down at the child and cocks one brow in question. After gazing seriously at the stacked snowballs, Éowyn looks up at him and nods in approval.
The man uses rocks to make a broad smile and eyes on the top ball of snow, while the girl uses some for buttons on the front of the snowman. He receives sticks for arms. Thorongil’s scarf is placed around the snowman’s neck to keep him warm. The final touch is done when Éowyn, lifted up by Thorongil, sticks the carrot she stole from the kitchens between the snowman’s mouth and eyes. Both survey their work
Éomer and Théodred pause in their game of tag and also examine the smiling man made of snow.
“It would be perfect if he had a helmet and a sword,” Éomer says, smirking a little.
Overhearing his comment, Éowyn turns toward him, but any argument between the siblings is prevented by the arrival of Iris and Thorongil laying a hand on Éowyn’s shoulder. The man and children watch as the woman catches her breath, gives them all a curtsy and says:
“You have been playing out all afternoon. It is time to come inside and warm yourselves up. Cook has some hot cocoa for you.”
The children jump with excitement and rush to the Golden Hall; Éowyn and Éomer drag Thorongil by the hands with them. Iris trails behind, wringing her hands.
“And then we can play hide and seek!” Théodred exclaims, glancing over his shoulder to his cousins and Lord Thorongil. “And Thorongil can be ‘It’!”
The younger two readily agree, and the man only smiles broadly and laughs.
Why a Child Watches
Éowyn cups her chin in her hands and sighs. Her eyes search the plains before Edoras, but her eyes can see nothing except the tall grass swaying in the wind. Still no sign of him.
“My Lady –”
“No, thank you, Iris,” Éowyn does not allow her nurse to finish. “I shall stay here and keep watch.”
The old woman sighs. “Please, my Lady Éowyn, we will be told when Lord Thorongil arrives. Sitting here watching will only make the waiting pass more slowly and be harder to endure. Come, you have not eaten since this morning. Let us go to the kitchens and get something for you. And then perhaps we can go for a walk in the garden,” she suggests hopefully.
“I will stay right here,” the girl replies. She turns her face to Iris and with a sweet smile produces an apple from her pocket. “I shall not go hungry. But I do not have another apple to share with you,” she adds apologetically.
The woman is unable to hold back a chuckle and shakes her head in amusement. She watches her charge return her attention to the view outside the window and begin eating the apple. “Suppose he does not come today?” she wonders out loud.
“Then I shall watch for him tomorrow,” the child answers promptly. “He said he would visit me around my birthday, not precisely on my birthday.”
Iris shakes her head again, amazed by the child’s determination not to give up hope. As she takes up her sewing again, she muses over the unusual friendship the Lady Éowyn and Lord Thorongil share. The child is one who does not take to strangers easily, but something is different about Lord Thorongil. He has a connection with the girl, and they bask in the other’s presence. The image of the Lord Thorongil Iris had carried with her over the years was of a grim man who could be quiet, yet give wise counsel when the need came, and who was loyal. A man of secrets, for at times the woman had seen his eyes shimmer with sadness, his shoulders sometimes slump as though he carried many cares. She had never witnessed him smile or laugh.
But then she discovered he could laugh, smile, and have a twinkle in his eyes when he first met Lady Éowyn. She had been astonished that he caught Éowyn’s interest and that she had connected with him in such way as to cause his face to light up with happiness. And the bond between the two has only kept growing. It has not ceased to amaze Iris.
Éowyn shakes her head and opens her eyes wide, refusing to give in to the drowsiness that is slowly creeping over her. But her head nods, and her eyes slowly start to shut. Deciding get in a more comfortable position, she places her head on her arms on the windowsill and searches the plains a final time before her eyes close against her will.
Slowly opening her eyes, Éowyn jerks her head up in surprise as she sees the afternoon is waning. She must have fallen asleep! Straining her eyes in the coming dusk, she desperately looks over the plains before Edoras. But she can see nothing. Starting to feel disappointment, her gaze wanders over the city, coming to rest on the stairs leading up to the Golden Hall far below her. A figure climbs the stairs and is issued inside.
The child jumps up and races from the window to the door. “Iris!” she exclaims joyfully, rudely awaking her napping nurse. “He is here!”
The girl does not pay any attention her nurse’s pleas to wait for her but runs through the halls to the Golden Hall. At last she enters the hall and leans against a pillar to catch her breath. Looking about with sparkling eyes, she discovers the hall to be almost empty, except for three men standing near the fire; she sees her father’s and uncle’s faces while the third man’s back is to her. She grins.
“Thorongil!”
The men turn towards her. Éomund and Théoden smile, and Thorongil’s face lights up as he kneels down and opens his arms. Éowyn runs into them and squeals when they tumble to the ground. She laughs when Aragorn lifts her up in his arms.
“My, what a welcome!” Thorongil chuckles, looking up at the child he holds. “It is great to see you again…Éomer.”
“That is my brother!” Éowyn laughs.
Thorongil’s eyes widen, and he can barely conceal his amusement. “You cannot be little Éowyn!”
Giggling, she nods.
“My, but you have grown! You must be as big as your brother and cousin,” he teases, settling her on her feet and sitting up.
“Not yet, but I will be! I have just turned seven,” Éowyn informs the man proudly.
“Seven!” Thorongil exclaims and looks up at Éomund and Théoden, who have watched the whole exchange with amusement. “She is growing up much too fast,” he says, shaking his head.
Éowyn hugs him a second time. “You came! Just as you promised,” she says, stepping back. “I knew you would.”
“And I have a present for you,” Thorongil murmurs, searching his pockets.
Éowyn’s eyes light up, and she watches with excitement and interest as he brings a handkerchief from his pocket. On opening it, he reveals nestled inside a gold necklace, a precedent of a flower on a chain with a tiny jewel in its center. The child for a moment looks at it in wonder before bestowing a smile on Thorongil. She holds up her hair and turns around, allowing him to place the necklace around her neck. She touches her gift gently before turning around and sees the pleased expressions on the men’s faces.
“Thank you for your present,” she says, dropping a lovely little curtsy to Thorongil, who has gotten to his feet. “I shall always treasure it.”
“I am glad, little Éowyn,” Thorongil says, returning her smile.
“You will have to visit every year around my birthday!” the child hopes.
“Perhaps, perhaps I will,” the man chuckles with a smile.
---
But it was not to be.
Several months after his visit to Edoras, Aragorn was called on by Gandalf to help track down the creature Gollum and had the guard on the Shire doubled at the wizard’s urging. He was grieved by the news of Éomund’s passing; and his mind turned to the daughter Éomund left behind. But as the years passed, he forgot about those rare happy times he spent in Edoras.
He found the miserable creature Gollum after seven years of searching and gave him over to the elves of Mirkwood. Then two years later he at last met up with the hobbits Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam in Bree, and they made for Rivendell. The Council of Elrond came together and decided what would be done regarding the Ring. He left with the Company of the Ring. The Fellowship was broken with the loss of Gandalf and Boramir, Frodo and Sam’s leaving, and Merry and Pippin’s capture.
It was only after meeting up with Gandalf again and they drew up before Edoras with Legolas and Gimli that he recalled the time he had been here years ago. But it was when he reached out to stop a lady from rushing to the king, when his gaze fell on a familiar necklace, and when he gazed into a pale face, that a wave of memories washed over him. He barely paid attention to the scene before him but, instead, was very aware that he held little Éowyn to him: no longer a child, but a beautiful young woman. Yet he was troubled, for there was no trace of the happiness or joy which had radiated from her before. Her face was stern and cold, and her eyes swam with sorrow and suffering. Aragorn felt a painful ache in his chest as he wondered how she had fallen into such darkness. What had happened to her as her uncle and Edoras had fallen under the influence of Grima and his master, Saruman? What had happened to the child he remembered so long ago?