for hobbitstho

[shieldofrohan]

There has been a new life in Meduseld since the coming of the Fellowship. Some of the oppressive shadow has been lifted, the slick touch of Gríma scoured from the place, and, of course, the darkness has passed from the King's eyes. Théoden, whose care has been Éowyn's first thought for months upon months, now sits hale and hearty in his seat at the end of the table, the old light back in his eyes.

Yet the shadow has not lifted from Éowyn. Grief hinders her, a sense of something lost that never was, a love that might have been but has been stunted at the root. He does not want her, will not want her. His heart belongs to another, and so a tale that might have been written is cut at the first line. The worst part is that she has no reason to feel so spurned. He has good reason: he is betrothed, she hears, and occupied in other matters. Still, some of the light has left her, and in the dying of that hope she sees the dying of her glory and her rise, of the queen she might have been and the love he might have given her.

She walks then, with heavy tread, and holds her quiet while others laugh and cheer. But over the day, her eye begins to fall to another: to Boromir, no king perhaps but a fine and noble man, and himself, she fears, much consumed by grief. For some time she watches him, considering, until at last at the night's feast, she comes to his side, bearing a flagon of wine and a smile. "You hold yourself apart," she observes, setting the wine down in front of him. "What ails you so, my lord?"

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[hobbitstho]

"The weight feels too great to bear, sometimes," he says. His voice is low to match hers. "What can I do but mourn? The worst is done, and as you say, the past cannot be changed. I have ever been a man of honor; I have never failed another, and failed then to make whole what was broken. But in this-- I cannot make right what I have done."

He looks at her, and his grief is fresher now, stirred to wakefulness by her words. "I cannot draw blade in defense of those I drove away; I cannot meet with courage an enemy who has already devoured them, because I bid them flee into its maw."

[shieldofrohan]

She is quiet for a moment. A long moment, the silence only deepened by the burr of conversation around them. At last, she moves, hesitantly, to take his hand in both of hers - not a mannered thing to do, perhaps, but one born of honest concern and grief.

"I can offer you no comfort," she tells him, her voice low. "No promises of peace to come, nor hope restored. Such hope dwells not in me. But even a man dishonoured can live honourably thereafter, and die well, and if it does not wipe away the stain of guilt, yet it is not meaningless. It is not nothing." She meets his eyes, surprised to find that she is no longer looking at him as a princeling or a bold warrior, but as a man whose grief touches her more rawly. "Endure, Lord Boromir. If you must bear the weight, then I see in you the strength to do it well and bravely. Endure, as did the earliest of your line, for shame and grief may be shadowed by a stout heart."

She pulls away, a little embarrassed, and clears her throat. "Forgive me. I ought not to lecture you so, nor rake up such painful thoughts."