Work Text:
Tolkientober 2024 - #2
One of the things she appreciated most about him, was his patience.
From what she could remember of her father, he had loved her dearly but he had not had the mind to truly sit with her to talk or play with her. His mind was always absent, thinking about potential Orc invasions, Dunlendings pillaging settlements or other matters that took the better part of his day. Though he would often return with little trinkets or toys for her and her mother, she had often thought she would have been happier if they could have gone on a horseback ride together instead.
Éomer he had treated differently. But that was because he had been a boy and rather like his father in nature.
And while Éomer had been more receptive to advice from others compared to their old man, he too often had not the patience for his little sister.
Indeed, it was none other than him who had been willing to pause everything else just to smile at her and to genuinely partake in whatever play she had been involved in. His attention for her had only grown when Uncle Théoden had taken in his niece and nephew after their parents’ passing.
Sure, her Uncle had loved and cared for her as well – often likening her to her mother, but truthfully, the closest she had to a parent had been him.
Théodred.
Beloved Cousin Théodred.
Buried at the fords of the Isen, so far from his ancestors.
Éowyn bit back a sob as she stood before his grave. Grass and weed were growing on and around the mound, and if it had not been for the stone marker bearing his symbol – a sun over two horses – a less observant passant would have overlooked it.
It was unjust.
Though she understood why the Rohirrim had buried him here – they had to worry for their safety but also for the safety of Théodred’s remains – but it still pained her that he was all alone here.
After a shaky sigh, she sang for him. A tale of his bravery but also his warmth and his ambitions for Rohan. As she sang, her voice broke and many tears fell, but she sang until the end. For who else would sing the daughter’s lament for him except for her?
Her song was over, but her tears took their time as she stood, no longer frozen but swaying in the wind.
The wind pushed along the clouds blocking the sun, and when the warm yellow rays finally hit the ground and Éowyn’s damp face, something caught her eye and she gasped.
Just below the highest part of the mound grew a thick-stemmed, hairy-looking weed. Oh, but it was not a weed. One of the stems held a bud – one that was not yet ready to bloom, but she could see white shining through the outer layers of the flower. It was a familiar sight.
Éowyn cried anew and yet she smiled.
Simbelmynë.