"The Mark gives its worship to the Huntsman," Éowyn remarks drily, "and pity befits a hunter ill." Thinking, as she says it, Are you to be pitied, then? - and it is not fair that her pride should be so readily pricked, when she has been so ambivalent about the matter herself, but it rankles, all the same. What have you lost, my lady, that is so much more than you have gained?

She sighs, closing the door behind her and slipping off her shoes. "It was a fine affair, and I am glad that it is over. Pour me a cup, as you have the wine?"

Another thing: she had expected to be the one pouring wine, in this situation, the dutiful bride to a handsome groom. Well, Mercutio is handsome, but she is not quite a groom, and if there is one virtue to that, it is that the ground between them is altogether more even. The thought does give Éowyn a little strength, considering that at the very least, this night need not be one of submission.

She lingers a moment by the door, hesitating despite herself, before crossing to join Mercutio by the fire. There is that crack in her armour again, an uncertain young woman peering through the stone-faced princess.

"Is it so piteous a thing, to be married?"