It is miracle upon miracle, wonder upon wonder, and so it is less surprising than it might be to see the architect of this unbelievable morning. All the same, she is beyond miracle or wonder. There is amazement among all who see her, but those who were present at the battle, who saw what she defeated, are most struck of all. They rise to meet her, from their conversations and their breakfasting and the binding of wounds, standing in salute.
Éowyn rises with them, slowly and painfully but with her pounding head forgotten. Now, in daylight, she cannot imagine how she thought their rescuer was young; oh, there are no lines on her face, and no grey in her silver-gold hair, but there is no youth in her, either. Again, Éowyn thinks of a star, riding upon the earth, too bright and too blinding to look upon. She feels herself small in comparison, a tiny figure beneath the span of an ancient and all-covering sky, a blade of grass at the foot of a mountainside. She is a child, she thinks, and there is despair in the thought, beneath the wonder: she is a child, and how can she hope to offer anything at all, to this Lady or her wood, or to the people who are gathered around her?
Her weapons have found their way back to her, another miracle in a day full of them. She is grateful most of all now for her spear, which has less value in itself than her sword, but which serves well enough as a prop; leaning on it, she is able to step forwards without too much assistance from her companions, her injured leg dragging as she pulls herself forward to meet the three approaching Elves. It is more difficult to lower herself to one knee without falling, but she manages it, and does her best to summon her Sindarin.
"Lady. We are in your debt. It will not be forgotten." As though it could matter; but it must be said, all the same.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-22 02:45 am (UTC)Éowyn rises with them, slowly and painfully but with her pounding head forgotten. Now, in daylight, she cannot imagine how she thought their rescuer was young; oh, there are no lines on her face, and no grey in her silver-gold hair, but there is no youth in her, either. Again, Éowyn thinks of a star, riding upon the earth, too bright and too blinding to look upon. She feels herself small in comparison, a tiny figure beneath the span of an ancient and all-covering sky, a blade of grass at the foot of a mountainside. She is a child, she thinks, and there is despair in the thought, beneath the wonder: she is a child, and how can she hope to offer anything at all, to this Lady or her wood, or to the people who are gathered around her?
Her weapons have found their way back to her, another miracle in a day full of them. She is grateful most of all now for her spear, which has less value in itself than her sword, but which serves well enough as a prop; leaning on it, she is able to step forwards without too much assistance from her companions, her injured leg dragging as she pulls herself forward to meet the three approaching Elves. It is more difficult to lower herself to one knee without falling, but she manages it, and does her best to summon her Sindarin.
"Lady. We are in your debt. It will not be forgotten." As though it could matter; but it must be said, all the same.