Songs upon the Wind: Vignettes and the like

"And Eowyn did not go, though her brother sent word begging her to come to the field of Cormallen...And then Faramir came and sought her, and once more they stood on the walls together; and he said to her: 'Eowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?"

- The Steward and the King, the Return of the King

This is, perhaps, another way their conversation could have gone.

Ah! there is no italics on this site!
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Why Do You Tarry Here

The day fades in a glorious sunset, crowning your dark head with a flaming wreath, gilding your tanned skin with gold. It shines into your eyes until they are as a sea brimming over with the sun; the grey overtaken by blue. You are quieter than usual, and though you don’t know it your eyes pry my dark thoughts inexorably into the daylight, but gently, so gently that in the end, it is I who yield my secrets.

I look away from your eyes.

You know the letter has come; there is no need for this pretense, or this fear that wriggles deep within my stomach. I owe you nothing, whatever they say.

"It’s like a callus, the war," I say – for I have no graceful metaphors. I am a shieldmaiden; what need would I have of them? And I owe you nothing, not even poetic words of parting, though your eyes glow at the sight of me, and your smile washes over my face like the evening tide. I do not know what the evening tide looks like; but you described it to me, remember? I had watched your hands dance across the air, your dark hair waving in the wind, and I knew your smile to be so.

"It deadens you,: I continue, not knowing what I spoke, "to sensations and feelings, until you no longer knew what you felt, or even if you could feel, and know such things that you had not experienced before the blinding."

No sound comes from you, only an indrawn breath as I take your hand, your sword hand, your bow hand, the hands of an artist – a musician, a painter, a poet – too fine-boned and slender for the calluses that streaked it like so many cruel welts. I run my fingers across your palm, my calluses against yours, my scars – willfully acquired and gloried over – against yours – forced upon you by duty and need. "We are different, you and I."

There is no need, no time, to dissemble.

"I cannot stay, I say," impatiently, as if you are to blame for my maudlin sentimentality. "My brother has need of me, Rohan needs me; now, and in the future."

I owe you nothing.

But you know me well; you know I do not go solely for my brother; that I do not hesitate because of my wounding. I wait for your words; that mere suggestion at which I may shield myself again in righteous anger, and condemn you and your audacity for speaking the truth, while we both know full well what shadows encase my heart.

Say it. Say I know why you go to the Field of Cormallen, Say I know what you seek in the face of the King, Tell me stop being foolish and take that which is given to you so freely. Say it so I may reply that you lie like a wretched selfish scoundrel, that you can never understand, and that I go for reasons you cannot conceive of.

I despise myself when I lie to you.

Your lips move, but no sound comes out.

I’m looking at you now, finally, when you will not meet my eyes. My hands still grasp yours, as if to squeeze the reply from your lips. Your eyes are beautiful, have I told you that?

And you look back at me; it seems that you might be angry, but you smile – a twitch of a smile, but it was there behind the furrowed brows. Your eyes bore into mine, so deeply that it hurts like nothing ever has and I revel in it, in the burning pain.

You try to smile again, a chuckle this time, and again fail miserably. Your eyes close briefly as you take my hand and bring your dry lips to my palm, and when they look upon me again, they shine. I love your eyes.

"I cannot keep you here," you say; your voice like the earth upon which the tide rises and falls.

And I realize, you already have.