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shieldofrohanMarriage has been far from her mind for a long time. What time has there been for such things, such planning for the future, when there is no future to plan against? There is only the endless drudgery of the now; of stolid duty, of the daily running of the city and the tending to her uncle's ailing health, of bitter shadows and dark dreams as the stormclouds gather. How is she to think of marriage, then? How could she even think of wedding someone, of being a bride in some foreign city, when all her duty and all her life is here? No, marriage has not been on her mind; but only the quiet grind of life when all that she would live for is fading around her.
This changed all at once, when it changed. Two matters precipitated the change: the first, the death of her cousin, so dear to her heart. All of a sudden, she and her exiled brother are all that remains of the dwindling line of Eorl; all of a sudden, that abstracted future is shorter than ever. It is her uncle, her King, who speaks of marriage then; who clasps her hands where he lies in his sickbed, and tells her through tears that he would see her wed, that ere he dies he must see her happy.
And this might not have changed things so deeply - for she will not rush to wed, when there is no man she would call worthy of turning her from duty - were it not for the second matter. Word that comes in dribs and drabs, tangled by distance; letters that capture her, that she returns in kind. They are, to begin with, a distraction; a fantasy, to sustain her through dark days. A lost prince, wrongfully kept from his throne; an ancient line, a terrible wrong, the promise of a right reclaimed. She has visions of her place in this tale, of the glory that has eluded her in these shadowed halls: how there will come a day when, at full strength, the Eorlingas ride to the aid of another kingdom, as once they rode to Gondor's aid so long ago; and she will be at their head, and she will be Queen, and who then will overlook her in the shadows? Who then will turn away, ashamed, from her pain and sorrow? Then will all be restored, and she will linger no more in hollow darkness, but smile again, and be loved.
It is a fantasy. In her heart, she knows this; in her truest mind, she knows that she can promise nothing but an already-embattled army that will not leave its posts, and a king without a throne can promise nothing but more war. But there is glory in war, too, and there is romance in what she has been told; and she is young, for all her hardness, and her blood has ever run too hot. It is a fantasy, but one she sorely needs; and she has come to love the king whose face she has never seen, whose tragedy is the stuff of songs.
And still it might not have changed anything. It is the confluence of the two, the quirk of timing - that the offer of marriage comes so near on the heels of Théodred's loss and Éomer's exile - that turns the tide. How can she do otherwise? She writes in answer, and seals it with her uncle's ring. Come. To wed, to stay, to await the turning of the tide. And what she does not write: Come, and marry me, and make of my life a song. Come: I have waited too long in dreary duty.
And the days pass, and there is a future to await; there is something to hope for, at last, and even her uncle's continued ill-health will not deter her from the strange blossoming of hope in her breast. The war drags on, and the darkness lingers, and all is not well in Edoras; and yet, there is change on the horizon, and she will not always be alone. She will not always be a ghost in her own halls, the White Lady whose beauty and sorrow are all that are known of her. She will be a queen, even if she is a queen in exile; and she will not be alone.
The king, she has heard, has a sister too. This is another spark that brightens her darkness while she waits; for she has never had a sister of her own, and for all the love she bears towards her brother and her departed cousin, for all her fierce devotion to her kinsmen, how fine a thing it seems to have another woman in her life! She has written again to Magister Illyrio; assured him that the Lady Daenerys will be most welcome, and as dear to her as a true sister; and every word of it she has meant. Excited as she is to be wed, to be loved, to be Queen, she is almost as excited again to have some woman in her life who is neither maid nor servant. She imagines a woman like herself, lonely and chafing against the weight of grief; a woman who will understand, as no man ever has, the burden of womanhood. They will sit together, she imagines, and comb and braid one another's hair, and weave and sew and work, and they will laugh, and they will find a companionship that Éowyn, who for so long has been the sole lady of the hall, has craved since her childhood.
She will have a sister. She will have a husband. She will have a purpose, one more glorious than simple house-stewardry. She will be a queen.
It is a heady thought. It fuels her, and her already industrious days are fuller than ever; she still nurses Théoden through his illness, still oversees the business of the city and the kingdom as she must, but her mind is more thoroughly on the preparations for Viserys' arrival: the feasts to be thrown, and the guests to be called, and how she must be her most regal and her most beautiful, ready for the war to come.
It is, then, a grander hall than ever that greets the Pentosi travellers. She is glad to know that it is a sunny day when they arrive: that they will see from afar how the roof of Meduseld gleams like gold in the autumn light, that the wind that stirs the long grass of the plains and sets the green banners fluttering is not too cold or too harsh. The city bustles with activity; there is music for the first time since the prince's body was borne homewards, and an air of (still muted) festivity; and through the green and white of Rohan's colours, she has contrived to work patches of red and black, a reminder of the union to come.
She awaits them outside the hall itself, and even the presence of Gríma Wormtongue beside her, glowering, will not sink her spirits. Soon, she thinks, you will be nothing to me. Soon, I will see you driven out. When I am queen.
She looks, in truth, like a queen already. She has made sure of it. Her waist-length golden hair is bound back by a silver circlet, her white gown embroidered richly in green and gold, her head held high and her smile both sweet and noble. There is a sorrow in her still, but it is for the moment held at bay, a dim shadow in clear grey eyes. She steps forwards to greet her betrothed, and for a moment, the fantasy seems to hold. He is, perhaps, shorter than she had dreamed, gaunt with hardship, sharp-edged and pinched; but there is a fire in his violet eyes, and he holds himself well enough, and he is handsome in his way. She is not displeased, she decides; he is no Eorl nor Isildur, but he is king enough in his heart, she will not doubt that. She smiles and welcomes him inside, where the firelight plays on carved wood and ancient tapestries, where the tables are set and the lamps are lit, and where her uncle sits (not so tall as once he did; not so kingly now the light has left his eyes) upon the high throne.
It is enough. She will not allow it to be otherwise. Rohan gains by this marriage; there is a bride-price to exchange for her dowry of fine horses and good armour, and there is the promise, too, of renown to come. She gains by this marriage most of all. It is a joy; she will not allow it to be otherwise. Even with her brother gone, it is a joy.
And perhaps, in all of this, she blinds herself to the things that will not fit the tale she wishes to tell. Perhaps there are things she excuses, which she might not otherwise: he is not the most polite, but he is a stranger in a foreign land, and he does not know the customs; he is not the tallest or strongest man she has known, but he is a king; he is a trifle vain, but is she not also too much aware of her looks in this moment? It will be easier, she tells herself, after the wedding. When he comes to know her and her people more fully, to see all the beauty that Rohan has to offer, then it will be easier; and songs are not often sung of these strange early days, when things are between this and that.
His sister is not so impolite. In truth, his sister feels barely present, to Éowyn's admitted grief: a quiet, shy thing, delicate as a bird, too often hastened away. But this, too, will pass - must pass. Daenerys' furtiveness, no doubt a result of that same alien land which brings out her brother's scorn, will pass in time. This will be a home to them, until their own home - her new home - is restored. She will see to it, she determines, with a stubbornness that has seen her through so many trials before; she will not relent, and when the wedding is done, they will know that they are kin here.
The wedding comes soon enough, only a few days later; and she stands before her uncle, dressed again in his robes of state, and she thinks she almost sees him smile through his grief as he blesses their union; thinks, for a moment, that she sees the old spirit return to him. Any doubt is gone. She can only smile, and look at her new husband from beneath modestly-lowered lashes, and think with a thrill of excitement: Queen. I am queen. And they will sing songs of how we reclaimed the throne.
This changed all at once, when it changed. Two matters precipitated the change: the first, the death of her cousin, so dear to her heart. All of a sudden, she and her exiled brother are all that remains of the dwindling line of Eorl; all of a sudden, that abstracted future is shorter than ever. It is her uncle, her King, who speaks of marriage then; who clasps her hands where he lies in his sickbed, and tells her through tears that he would see her wed, that ere he dies he must see her happy.
And this might not have changed things so deeply - for she will not rush to wed, when there is no man she would call worthy of turning her from duty - were it not for the second matter. Word that comes in dribs and drabs, tangled by distance; letters that capture her, that she returns in kind. They are, to begin with, a distraction; a fantasy, to sustain her through dark days. A lost prince, wrongfully kept from his throne; an ancient line, a terrible wrong, the promise of a right reclaimed. She has visions of her place in this tale, of the glory that has eluded her in these shadowed halls: how there will come a day when, at full strength, the Eorlingas ride to the aid of another kingdom, as once they rode to Gondor's aid so long ago; and she will be at their head, and she will be Queen, and who then will overlook her in the shadows? Who then will turn away, ashamed, from her pain and sorrow? Then will all be restored, and she will linger no more in hollow darkness, but smile again, and be loved.
It is a fantasy. In her heart, she knows this; in her truest mind, she knows that she can promise nothing but an already-embattled army that will not leave its posts, and a king without a throne can promise nothing but more war. But there is glory in war, too, and there is romance in what she has been told; and she is young, for all her hardness, and her blood has ever run too hot. It is a fantasy, but one she sorely needs; and she has come to love the king whose face she has never seen, whose tragedy is the stuff of songs.
And still it might not have changed anything. It is the confluence of the two, the quirk of timing - that the offer of marriage comes so near on the heels of Théodred's loss and Éomer's exile - that turns the tide. How can she do otherwise? She writes in answer, and seals it with her uncle's ring. Come. To wed, to stay, to await the turning of the tide. And what she does not write: Come, and marry me, and make of my life a song. Come: I have waited too long in dreary duty.
And the days pass, and there is a future to await; there is something to hope for, at last, and even her uncle's continued ill-health will not deter her from the strange blossoming of hope in her breast. The war drags on, and the darkness lingers, and all is not well in Edoras; and yet, there is change on the horizon, and she will not always be alone. She will not always be a ghost in her own halls, the White Lady whose beauty and sorrow are all that are known of her. She will be a queen, even if she is a queen in exile; and she will not be alone.
The king, she has heard, has a sister too. This is another spark that brightens her darkness while she waits; for she has never had a sister of her own, and for all the love she bears towards her brother and her departed cousin, for all her fierce devotion to her kinsmen, how fine a thing it seems to have another woman in her life! She has written again to Magister Illyrio; assured him that the Lady Daenerys will be most welcome, and as dear to her as a true sister; and every word of it she has meant. Excited as she is to be wed, to be loved, to be Queen, she is almost as excited again to have some woman in her life who is neither maid nor servant. She imagines a woman like herself, lonely and chafing against the weight of grief; a woman who will understand, as no man ever has, the burden of womanhood. They will sit together, she imagines, and comb and braid one another's hair, and weave and sew and work, and they will laugh, and they will find a companionship that Éowyn, who for so long has been the sole lady of the hall, has craved since her childhood.
She will have a sister. She will have a husband. She will have a purpose, one more glorious than simple house-stewardry. She will be a queen.
It is a heady thought. It fuels her, and her already industrious days are fuller than ever; she still nurses Théoden through his illness, still oversees the business of the city and the kingdom as she must, but her mind is more thoroughly on the preparations for Viserys' arrival: the feasts to be thrown, and the guests to be called, and how she must be her most regal and her most beautiful, ready for the war to come.
It is, then, a grander hall than ever that greets the Pentosi travellers. She is glad to know that it is a sunny day when they arrive: that they will see from afar how the roof of Meduseld gleams like gold in the autumn light, that the wind that stirs the long grass of the plains and sets the green banners fluttering is not too cold or too harsh. The city bustles with activity; there is music for the first time since the prince's body was borne homewards, and an air of (still muted) festivity; and through the green and white of Rohan's colours, she has contrived to work patches of red and black, a reminder of the union to come.
She awaits them outside the hall itself, and even the presence of Gríma Wormtongue beside her, glowering, will not sink her spirits. Soon, she thinks, you will be nothing to me. Soon, I will see you driven out. When I am queen.
She looks, in truth, like a queen already. She has made sure of it. Her waist-length golden hair is bound back by a silver circlet, her white gown embroidered richly in green and gold, her head held high and her smile both sweet and noble. There is a sorrow in her still, but it is for the moment held at bay, a dim shadow in clear grey eyes. She steps forwards to greet her betrothed, and for a moment, the fantasy seems to hold. He is, perhaps, shorter than she had dreamed, gaunt with hardship, sharp-edged and pinched; but there is a fire in his violet eyes, and he holds himself well enough, and he is handsome in his way. She is not displeased, she decides; he is no Eorl nor Isildur, but he is king enough in his heart, she will not doubt that. She smiles and welcomes him inside, where the firelight plays on carved wood and ancient tapestries, where the tables are set and the lamps are lit, and where her uncle sits (not so tall as once he did; not so kingly now the light has left his eyes) upon the high throne.
It is enough. She will not allow it to be otherwise. Rohan gains by this marriage; there is a bride-price to exchange for her dowry of fine horses and good armour, and there is the promise, too, of renown to come. She gains by this marriage most of all. It is a joy; she will not allow it to be otherwise. Even with her brother gone, it is a joy.
And perhaps, in all of this, she blinds herself to the things that will not fit the tale she wishes to tell. Perhaps there are things she excuses, which she might not otherwise: he is not the most polite, but he is a stranger in a foreign land, and he does not know the customs; he is not the tallest or strongest man she has known, but he is a king; he is a trifle vain, but is she not also too much aware of her looks in this moment? It will be easier, she tells herself, after the wedding. When he comes to know her and her people more fully, to see all the beauty that Rohan has to offer, then it will be easier; and songs are not often sung of these strange early days, when things are between this and that.
His sister is not so impolite. In truth, his sister feels barely present, to Éowyn's admitted grief: a quiet, shy thing, delicate as a bird, too often hastened away. But this, too, will pass - must pass. Daenerys' furtiveness, no doubt a result of that same alien land which brings out her brother's scorn, will pass in time. This will be a home to them, until their own home - her new home - is restored. She will see to it, she determines, with a stubbornness that has seen her through so many trials before; she will not relent, and when the wedding is done, they will know that they are kin here.
The wedding comes soon enough, only a few days later; and she stands before her uncle, dressed again in his robes of state, and she thinks she almost sees him smile through his grief as he blesses their union; thinks, for a moment, that she sees the old spirit return to him. Any doubt is gone. She can only smile, and look at her new husband from beneath modestly-lowered lashes, and think with a thrill of excitement: Queen. I am queen. And they will sing songs of how we reclaimed the throne.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-05 10:04 pm (UTC)And is it so different now? As she steps forward, a hand extended to offset the balance her unannounced arrival might have cost, she looks over her brother's newest work. He would claim that this is the nature of dragons: to leave nothing standing in his wake. The bride's silks are razed, moonlight catches on fair skin and the dark blossoms of bruises, and golden hair has been torn to glimmering rags. She should have written.
But what words would she have found? What would not read as cowardice and dishonor? And had she not hoped, in the cellar of her heart, that she would arrive at this place in her brother's shadow and see his eyes brighten with a new light? Hadn't she hoped against hope that he would behold this hall and these people and his resplendent bride and think, this is nobility? Wouldn't he feel in his own heart a warmth to devour the cold rot? Wouldn't he be, as heroes always were in the songs, overtaken by such love that not even madness could prevail?
Tears gather in her eyes now to witness what such whimsy has cost her, and she comes another step forward, reaching to brush a steadying hand at Éowyn's elbow, trying not to see all the ways she has been so crudely spurned.
For a moment she can only shake her head; there is nowhere to go, and her brother will never be king. He will be killed or he will be consumed by the same madness which laid siege to their father. But her father had once been a good and just king, hadn't he? A man of ambition and laughter? The soil of his mind had been rich and fruitful, generous and beautiful, before the worms had come. Yet it is not the same; her brother has never been anything but worms.
She knows this, and so does he. His blood was never once noble, and he is less a warrior than any stableboy provoked to defend himself with a rusty blade. He will never sit a throne or wear a crown or command an army or be worthy of this woman on the wall. Contrition comes suddenly and too late, her heart a bird with an arrow buried in its breast.
"I am so sorry, my lady. I had prayed that he would see you and forget all the rest. I should have - I should have written, I should have prayed for the gods to stop his heart instead of save it."
no subject
Date: 2022-02-06 03:33 am (UTC)"He is your brother still." She moves another step, to safer ground. Red pain aches in the pit of her belly, clawing at her thighs. She wonders what she would do, if she thought Éomer capable of such brutality: if his fury on the battlefield were turned against those in the corridors of peace, what would she do, and would he not be her brother still? Would she turn against him, if he turned against honour? She wants to believe that she would, that the needs of her people would outweigh those of her heart; but does she not still keep her loyalty to Théoden, even as his honour falters? Would she not always remember her mother's tears, her father's blood and split-wide skull, the pain that binds them as sister and brother? Would she have written?
"He is your brother," she says again, and her hand comes up to touch the other woman's, and her smile is pained, her eyes tearing up afresh; and she makes of the thought something else, which is less sharp against the bone; "and so you are my sister, and I am not your lady. Please. I am so tired of the White Lady, and all her ways; I am so tired of a lady's duty. If there is one kindness you would do for me, then let me be Éowyn, and nothing more."
She will bear herself as the White Lady, she thinks with bitter understanding, against all the travails this wedding has doomed her to. She must. She will be noble and forbearing, and she will hide her pain and stifle her pride where she must, and she will keep her people always in mind, and she will be in all things a lady. It is what her blood demands; it is what her people need. She must, then, step down from the parapet this night and every night thereafter. She must hide the bruises, and wash away the blood and stains, and swallow the pain of memory; she must be his wife, as long as it is demanded, and where she can, as she has done with Gríma all this time, she must move in small and womanly ways to counter the harm he will do. The White Lady will be married to the beggar king, and she will be stone in the face of his fury, and she will do what a lady must.
But not here, and not now. She does not have the strength. She cannot find the courage. Slowly, painfully, wincing at each movement, she sinks down to sit uncomfortably at the edge of the stone, her head in her hands.
"It was not your duty to warn me," she says, after a moment longer. Her voice has thickened again, tears building in her throat. "It was not your duty to kill hope. It was my duty that I failed, to need no such warning; to temper my own hope with sense. I built my own road here."