On a Field of Battle

I did not ride to battle that morning with an eye toward furthering the ambitions of my house. Let me be clear about that from the start. No, when my Knights struck out across the plain of Pelennor, in confluence with the Rohirrim and hard on a meeting with the forces of Mordor, my only thought was victory.

But when the great winged beast fell, all our van paused to wonder and regroup. I pulled up nearby, rasping the gore from my sword and soothing my horse, who would go no further toward the carcass. I saw in a long glance the events that had played out here: the headless mount, its foul master now rigid in death, and the slayer of both unmoving in the mud. A banner of gold hair streamed out from the victor’s head, bright against the trodden turf and soiled armor.

I saw also the ruined form of Théoden of Rohan, and I overheard his exchange with a young cavalryman, his heir and now, as I watched, the new king. That young man, bathed fresh in grief, assumed his new command admirably, I thought. He named the dead, not just his king but also the others broken nearby. I nodded: a leader who honors the least of his charges inspires others. He came at last to the golden-haired soldier, and there the stern certitude of his mien cracked.

“Éowyn, Éowyn,” he wailed asudden, dropping to his knees. The muscles between my shoulders needled at the call, for it rent the air like a spectre’s howl. Beneath me, my horse rolled his eyes and struggled to be away. I held him fast, unable to tear my gaze from the scene, unable to look away from such raw and ghastly grief. “Sister,” a rumble among the foot soldiers informed me. The golden-haired soldier had been sister to the new king of the Mark. Ahhh.

I fought no more with my mount, but wheeled him about to reform our lines. We had a battle yet to fight, and I perforce would lead my Swan Knights into it. Yet that scene lingered with me, even during the grim day that followed. And much later, when we had our victory and sought rest, two thoughts blossomed in my mind: first, these men of the North appeared unthreatened by women of uncommon spirit, of whom my daughter was one. And second, if the new-sworn king of Rohan could mourn so savagely for a sister, how devoted might he someday be to a wife?


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AN: I should probably mention, for those who haven't memorized the appendixes, that Imrahil's daughter Lothiriel did eventually marry Eomer. There is much fic written about this union, and much smut. Nothing in the text implies that Imrahil was the matchmaker, though. That's my little fabrication.

Thank you very much, Binka, for the beta. You have saved me some embarrassment. You know of what I speak.