Giedd sculon singan gleomenn...
Eowyn's singing voice was a strong one, full to the brink of sorrow and choked off as if she could no longer breathe. She did not cry; she had done enough of that in the bitter cold, in the weeks before metarrë. She sang for the loss of Eomer, for Theoden, for Merry. She sang because there would be none else here to do so for her, or for Rohan.
She sang to mourn her own loss, and to move on.
It was Narvinyë, and Eowyn would honor her people and her history to treat it as the new beginning it should be. Perhaps it would take time, and she may never forget her brother, nor her uncle, but for now, she was alive. The Lady of Rohan she was no longer except in heart. There she would stay, perhaps in some part untouched by frost, surrounded by the love she held for a life she had no longer. There she would be safe, and there her love would stay protected.
Eowyn sighed, her gaze fixed on the sea before her. She visited the shore daily, and it was there, upon the hot sand, her fair skin pinkening under the hot sun, that she let even an inkling of the child in her long buried surface. It was still a sight she could not believe she had the pleasure of having, for the sea had always been a tale to her. Rohan was about earth, about dirt and yellow grass reaching for the sky in fields as far as the eye could see.
The dress she wore was not quite as shockingly revealing as many of the women here wore, but Eowyn had slowly grown used to it. The material was as blue as the sky, and when she gathered it up to slowly step forward into the water, it fell softly around her knees.
With a shuffle of feet quite undignified for a Lady, Eowyn reached wet sand and waited. Soon enough, the water rushed back up onto the shore, covering her feet and splashing her legs, and Eowyn gasped.
They were small steps, but it was a new year, and Eowyn was stepping into the sea for the first time. She found it surprisingly warm.
She sang to mourn her own loss, and to move on.
It was Narvinyë, and Eowyn would honor her people and her history to treat it as the new beginning it should be. Perhaps it would take time, and she may never forget her brother, nor her uncle, but for now, she was alive. The Lady of Rohan she was no longer except in heart. There she would stay, perhaps in some part untouched by frost, surrounded by the love she held for a life she had no longer. There she would be safe, and there her love would stay protected.
Eowyn sighed, her gaze fixed on the sea before her. She visited the shore daily, and it was there, upon the hot sand, her fair skin pinkening under the hot sun, that she let even an inkling of the child in her long buried surface. It was still a sight she could not believe she had the pleasure of having, for the sea had always been a tale to her. Rohan was about earth, about dirt and yellow grass reaching for the sky in fields as far as the eye could see.
The dress she wore was not quite as shockingly revealing as many of the women here wore, but Eowyn had slowly grown used to it. The material was as blue as the sky, and when she gathered it up to slowly step forward into the water, it fell softly around her knees.
With a shuffle of feet quite undignified for a Lady, Eowyn reached wet sand and waited. Soon enough, the water rushed back up onto the shore, covering her feet and splashing her legs, and Eowyn gasped.
They were small steps, but it was a new year, and Eowyn was stepping into the sea for the first time. She found it surprisingly warm.