"Am I nothing, then?" Her affront is not altogether feigned; being ignorant of any other meaning, it is easy to take the comment amiss. She straddles Mercutio's hips, sitting up with an arched eyebrow. "Do not wrong me, lady, I am hale enough to make myself harder to handle."

But she does not particularly want to, at this moment. Nor, while she is a little unsure of what was meant, does she genuinely think the comment was intended as a dismissive one. As Mercutio's hands work at her skirts, baring fair, toned thighs, Éowyn's own hands go to her embroidered belt, making quick work of first that and then the brooches at her shoulders, so that the heavily embroidered silk falls away and leaves her in her underdress and petticoat.

"Come," she remarks, leaning over to set the brooches down on the nearest surface, "tell me you would fain have me lighter, and less of me to carry; and I will shed a little more weight, if you ask."