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I.

Edoras 

Late Summer 

Third Age 3002

         Golden light emanated from the end of the hall. Éowyn hovered at the threshold to her chamber, wreathed in shadow. She was unable to make herself walk forward towards the light, nor retreat backward into the gloom. She ought to be sleeping, but the storm had wrested her to wakefulness with its booming voice, and sleep now eluded her. For a while she had lain in the darkness of her room, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, tracing the whorls and carvings with her dark-adjusted eyes. But the storm continued to rage, and each time she reached the cusp of drowsiness, another cold flash and violent peal of thunder would split the night, jolting her back to wakefulness. 

The longer that she had lain there, the more the din and the dark had seemed to press in on her. Finally, when she could stand it no further, she leapt from her bed and crept to the doorway, where she now stood as she worked up the courage to search for her brother. 

He was somewhere within that warm light, Éowyn knew; being eleven, Éomer was afforded the enviable privilege of remaining in the central hall after supper. She listened carefully for the sound of his voice, but she could not discern it amidst the indistinguishable conversation that floated down the passageway. She shifted from foot to foot, and in her right hand she tightened her grip on Simbelmynë, her toy pony. 

She looked down at him. His button eyes stared back at her, unwavering. Go! He seemed to urge, Go find Éomer, he will know what to do.

“He will be cross with me,” Éowyn murmured in response. “Or else he’ll laugh at me and call me a coward for being afraid of a storm.”

You’re not usually afraid of storms, Simbelmynë countered.

“No, but that was before, at home. They’re scarier here,” Éowyn replied sadly. She dropped her gaze to the floor, which wavered as tears pooled unbidden in her eyes. She swiped at her face with the back of her hand. Suddenly, another boom shook the hall, this one louder than any of the others; it was sharp, like the cracking of a whip. Éowyn jumped. Fear coursed through her, chasing away her hesitancy and sending her racing down the hallway towards that warm glow. 

         She burst into the central hall, Simbelmynë swinging wildly in her grip. In front of her were several large trestle tables. They were sparsely occupied; here and there sat groups of unfamiliar men gathered in conversation. Their large forms hunched towards one another, or else towards the mugs of ale they held in their hands, and they noticed Éowyn not at all. Frantically, she scanned the room for Éomer, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where was he? She had been so sure that she would find him here.

Her heart dropped, and her limbs began to feel heavy, and tears again stung the corners of her eyes. Though a dozen people sat before her, Éowyn felt utterly alone. She crept backwards until her back brushed the wall behind her. Her tears overflowed her eyelids and flooded down her face. At the table nearest to her, a dark-haired man began to laugh aloud; it was a harsh, barking sound, and though the man was wholly unaware of Éowyn’s presence, she couldn’t help but feel that he was laughing at her; at her cowardice and her loneliness and her confusion. As if in accordance, the sky rumbled anew. Éowyn slid to the floor. She gripped Simbelmynë in both hands and buried her face in his woolen mane.

“Where is he? Where is he?” she babbled to Simbelmynë as tears soaked his fabric. “I want to go home. I want to go home!”

The murmur of voices around her changed, quieted. Warily, Éowyn looked up. The laughing man was now quiet and staring directly at her. He smiled slightly, and she glared back at him from behind a curtain of tear-matted hair. He inclined his head towards his companions and spoke softly. The man next to him chuckled.

Éowyn hid her face in her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She wanted them all to go away; she wanted to be far from this place; this so-called golden hall that was not home. She wanted the men to be silent; she wanted the storm to be silent; she wanted to be by the fire at Aldburg, safe in the embrace of her father, under a quiet and starlit sky. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that when she opened them, she would find that all of this had been a dream; that her parents lived still; that the events of these past weeks had been but a thought in her mind, scraps of dark imagination that would burn away like mist beneath the morning sun.

A hand gently squeezed Éowyn’s shoulder. Someone said her name, softly, then repeated it. “Éowyn. Éowyn, are you alright?” She slowly opened her eyes. Above her stood Théodred, her cousin. Next to him was the dark-haired man, and behind them both stood Éomer, his arms crossed.

“She’s meant to be asleep,” grumbled Éomer.

Théodred ignored Éomer and turned to Éowyn. “Did the storm frighten you?”

“No!” Éowyn replied defensively. She hugged Simbelmynë to her chest.

“She’s lying,” insisted Éomer. “She’s been frightened of everything, even of her own shadow, since we came here.” At this derision from Éomer, tears flooded Éowyn’s eyes anew.

“Hush, Éomer,” chided Théodred. “Treat your sister with more kindness.”

“But she doesn’t do as she’s told, she wanders the halls at night; she follows me around and hardly gives me a moment’s peace.”

Théodred looked sharply at Éomer. “You are four years her elder. It is little wonder that she looks up to you, especially now, in the wake of your untimely losses. You are all she has left of home, Éomer.”

Éomer looked down, and his expression softened, but he said nothing, and his arms remained crossed. Théodred turned back to Éowyn.

“Shall I send for Háryth, so that she might take you back to your room?” Théodred asked, referring to the pinch-faced woman who was supposed to be Éowyn’s new nurse. Éowyn shook her head vehemently. She hated Háryth, who spoke with a nasally voice and was constantly telling Éowyn all the things she ought not to be doing. 

“Then Éomer, perhaps you might walk your sister back to her chamber.”

“Me? Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong.” Éomer scowled anew. 

Hearing this, Éowyn cried, “Neither have I! I want to stay in the hall too, like Éomer. I don’t see why he should be allowed and I should not!”

“Because you’re a little girl, and I’m almost a man!” rejoined Éomer.

Indignation coursed through Éowyn. “I am not just a little girl,” she cried in response. “I am seven . I can swim across the pond at Aldburg and climb any tree and ride Windfola at a gallop. I am certainly old enough to stay up with you, Éomer!” 

“Are not! You’re still a scared, snivelling little girl, you aren’t even brave enough to stay in your room during a summer storm, so instead you come crying out here to bother us all!” 

A loud sound roared in Éowyn’s ears at these words, though if it was thunder or her own anger, she could not tell. She felt as if something within her had cracked open; as if the tempest outside had come to now live within her bones, and she was filled with a wild energy that could not be restrained.

“No!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, and she cast herself towards Éomer, flinging her arms at him with abandon. Éomer stepped back and raised his hands in a defensive posture to ward off her blows. As she stepped forward again to close the space between them, a strong arm encircled her waist and pulled away from her brother. She found herself lifted off of her feet and held firmly against Théodred’s chest. For a moment, her limbs wheeled helplessly through empty air, and she gasped heavy sobbing breaths. 

“Peace, Éowyn!” Théodred said harshly, though without anger. “I will have peace in this hall.” Théodred carried her a few paces, then set her down on a long bench of carved wood. She let out another shuddering breath, but as quickly as it had come, the feral energy was fading from within her, and she slumped. Théodred knelt, and placing firm hands on her shoulders, he looked her squarely in the eyes. 

“If you wish to be taken seriously and considered mature enough to join Éomer in the hall, then I would have you act as such. Do you understand?” 

Éowyn took another ragged breath and forced down her indignation. It was Éomer who had goaded her, after all! But, alas, Théodred did not understand. Further protest would not avail her. She nodded slowly, blinking away the remnants of hot tears. 

“Good,” said Théodred, and he gently handed Simbelmynë back to Éowyn; the pony had fallen from her hands sometime during her outburst. Théodred turned now to Éomer, and to Éowyn’s surprise, he admonished him also. “And you, Éomer, I see how you needle her. If you are nearly ‘a man grown,’ as you claim, then you will know that casting insults towards the fairer sex is not behavior that is becoming of a man of the House of Eorl. I also expect better from you, if you wish to retain the privileges which you have been afforded.” 

Éowyn watched Éomer stiffen at Théodred’s words. His mouth twitched, as if he too were considering to protest, but he mastered himself.

“I understand, cousin,” he said, and then silence fell on them all. Théodred gave Éomer a pointed look and then nodded towards Éowyn. After a moment, Éomer said, “I am sorry, sister. I should not have spoken to you thus.”

Théodred nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Now all is forgiven.” Éowyn narrowed her eyes, for she herself had yet to express any forgiveness towards Éomer. Yet, she had little time to dwell on that fact, for Théodred now rose to his feet. “However, I deem that sleep is now far from any of our minds, and the storm outside continues unabated. So perhaps we shall have a tale instead.” Théodred lifted his gaze from his young cousins and turned to address the dark-haired man, who had remained standing nearby throughout the entirety of the drama. “You, my friend, are welcome to stay for the tale, if you wish to hear a little of the lore of the Riddermark.”

But the dark-haired man merely smiled politely and murmured some excuse that only Théodred could hear. Then the stranger drifted away towards the center of the room, and joined some other group of unfamiliar men, leaving Éowyn and Éomer alone with their cousin.

“Well, then I suppose it is just us three. Very well. Come, my cousins.” Théodred pulled Éowyn to her feet and led her and Éomer to a shadowy corner of the hall. Rich tapestries adorned the walls here, depicting golden-haired men on horseback, vast expanses of sky, and in one panel, a fearsome dragon. It was stitched in metallic thread that seemed to catch the amber firelight and glow from within. Beneath the tapestries stood a curved wooden bench, topped with cushions of faded velvet. Théodred motioned for Éowyn and Éomer to sit on the bench. They did as they were bid, though Éowyn noticed that Éomer took care to maintain a space between them. She glanced towards her brother’s face, trying to search it for signs of lingering anger, but he maintained a neutral expression and did not meet her eye. 

Théodred remained standing and positioned himself in front of Éowyn and Éomer. Firelight illuminated his pale hair from behind and cast a shadow about his face, so that he seemed stern and wizened beyond his years. He began to speak in a low and serious tone. “So, my little cousins, much has been said this night about fear and courage. You both claim that you are brave enough to stay up late in the hall during this fierce storm. But you are newly arrived to the courts of Edoras, and you have yet to have your courage tested by one of our most cherished traditions. But it is not for the faint of heart! I wonder if either of you are really brave enough to weather it?”

“What do you mean?” Éomer asked, a little incredulously. “What tradition?”

“I only mean that on nights when the sky is restless, here in the golden hall of Meduseld, we oft sit around the fire and share dark tales of fell deeds and fearsome creatures. And mind you, these are no wives tales. These are tellings of true events, passed down from the men who experienced them firsthand. Once you hear them, you cannot unlearn what was told to you. Are you daring enough to hear such tales, Éomer?”

“Of course!” Éomer sat tall and puffed out his chest.

“And you, Éowyn?” Théodred asked. Éowyn immediately nodded, though in truth she felt a little apprehensive. Her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, had once told her of an ancient beast that took the form of an enormous spider and desired to devour all light. Though prior she took little heed of spiders, ever since hearing Morwen’s story, she looked upon them with suspicion and made sure to check the corners of her room each night, lest she find the offspring of that evil beast lurking there.

Still, in the wake of her conflict with Éomer, Éowyn was determined to show no fear. She forced herself to sit up taller and widen her eyes in a mask of enthusiastic excitement. Whatever Théodred would tell, Éowyn was determined to demonstrate her courage.

Seeing both his cousins assent, Théodred nodded slowly. “Good, I thought as much. Now, which tale shall I tell? Have you heard the story of Scatha the Worm?”

“Of course!” Éomer declared. “He was slain by Fram, son of Frumgar in a feat of great bravery and cleverness.” 

“Ah, you are already familiar with that one. Then I shall have to think of another.”

“That story isn’t very scary anyways,” said Éomer. “Since we know the Worm dies in the end, and Fram takes all of the treasure.”

“That is true. Well then, perhaps I shall tell a different sort of tale, then; one with no certain conclusion. Tell me, cousins, what do you think of the woods?”

“The woods? I haven’t been there much, I suppose. The men of Aldburg go into the woods to hunt or gather wood. But they seldom stay long,” Éomer replied. Éowyn said nothing, but nodded in agreement with her brother. Their home at Aldburg had stood on a broad hill at the feet of the mountains; around it unfolded rolling hills and wide grasslands. There had been glades of trees here and there, and higher on the slopes of the mountains had grown a sparse woodland of fragrant pines. Her nurse, Dernlida, had taken her to the edge of the forest on occasion to pick wildflowers or look for mushrooms. But they had never gone deep into the woods; Dernlida had seemed ill at ease beneath the trees, and she had always hurried them away as quickly as could be managed. 

As if to confirm Éowyn’s thoughts, Théodred said, “Yes, our people are uneasy in the woods; we prefer wide open land where one can see far off in any direction. We have always been thus, since the days of the Éothéod. And we have good reason, for in the deepest forests of our realm dwell dangers uncounted. I will tell you now of two such dangers, though they lie many leagues from here. Have either of you heard of the Entwood?”

Éomer nodded. “The name, I suppose. It lies to the north of here.”

“Indeed it does. But do you know why it is called such?” 

Éomer shook his head.

“Unlike the woodlands here in the south, which are for the most part open to the same sun and sky that look down upon our open grasslands, the Entwood dwells in a perennial twilight. The tree boughs grow thick and tangled overhead, blocking out nearly all light from the sky above. There, the forest floor lies in unceasing gloom. If a man goes but a little ways into the wood, he will notice that the air becomes stale; it feels sour, and thickened almost, like curdled milk. His stomach will begin to churn, and the hair on his arms will start to stand on end. If he ventures further still, his vision may start to waver and his heart will quail.” Here, Théodred leaned close in towards Éowyn and Éomer, his voice dropping to a serious rumble. He looked each of his cousins in the eyes gravely.

“This happens to even the bravest of men, and is not a sign of cowardice; rather, it is an effect of the great malice that dwells in the heart of that forest; the reason for which that forest is named ‘the Entwood.’ Indeed, for it is the Ents that dwell there, ancient creatures, the hostility of the woods in animated form. They are creatures of wood and leaves, thrice tall as a man, but they walk about on legs and feet, and they have faces with deep-set, green-glowing eyes. 

“They are, in essence, trees come to life, and they are filled with anger at all races that dare to hew limb and bough, no matter their reason for doing so. They discern not any difference between Man and Orc; they care not that we men take only what we need from the forest to build our halls and heat our homes. They see us as wanton ravagers, and they seek ever to revenge themselves upon us. If a man is careless enough to linger long within the Entwood, then it is only a matter of time before the forest takes him. Either he will meet one of the Ents, and they will twist and tear at him with their huge wooden hands; or else the trees themselves will cast their roots about his legs and drag him into the earth, for though Ents and trees are different, the trees do the bidding of their masters, and they are ever watchful of intruders.”

As Théodred spoke, visions of grasping roots and the crushing gloom of the woods came into Éowyn’s mind. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and shuddered. No wonder Dernlida had refused to let them linger in the woods. At times Éowyn had resented her old nurse for refusing to let her explore deeper into the forest, but now she felt glad that Dernlida had led them away, lest she be entangled by roots and trapped beneath the earth to await the judgement of an angry Ent. She imagined a pair of gleaming green eyes scorching her with an evil stare. Her heart quickened, and she crushed Simbelmynë between her arms and her chest. 

“You look afraid, little cousin,” Théodred said, though a glimmer shone in his eye.
“I am not!” Éowyn lied, though her voice wavered and she knew that she was unconvincing. She looked quickly towards Éomer, expecting him to laugh at her anxiety, but to Éowyn’s surprise he did not. Instead he stared far off.

After a moment, he asked, “Are you telling the truth, Théodred? These are real creatures, and not something you made up to scare us?” With a little satisfaction, Éowyn noticed that her brother’s tone was muted, and he no longer seemed brash and confident as he had earlier. 

“Are you scared, cousin?” Théodred replied, the edges of his lips curling into a slight smile.

Éomer answered quickly. “No, of course not.” Then, deflecting, he turned to his sister. “Éowyn is, though, even if she’d never admit it. Look at how she’s squeezing that toy. I just want to know if you’re scaring her on purpose.”

Éowyn scowled, but before she could muster a rejoinder, Théodred responded.

“I am relaying to you what has been told to me. And I have no reason to doubt the word of those men who have passed these tales down before they came into my keeping. Moreover, I have been twice to the Entwood myself. Both times we stayed only within the eaves of the forest, but even there, the air within was indeed heavy, and our horses became ill-tempered and loath to follow our commands as soon as the shadows of the wood fell upon them. The same feeling overtook my men before long, and we took our leave of the forest quickly thereafter. I would not return thither, except in the greatest of need.”

At this, a shadow passed over Éomer’s face, and he said no more. In the space of the silence, Éowyn felt her dread rising as images of strangling roots and fell-faced trees grew again in her mind. Were these sinister creatures confined to the Entwood alone? Could they be lurking closer to home? She knew, vaguely, that Harrowdale – the valley at whose mouth Edoras stood – became wooded as it rose higher into the mountains. Was it possible that such creatures lurked in those very trees? Her skin began to crawl, and she twisted a strand of Simbelmynë’s woven mane roughly in her fingers. 

But then she felt Éomer’s eyes on her. She didn’t want her brother to see her fear, so she forced herself to lower Simbelmynë to her side, and in a wavering voice, she asked, “H-how far into the forest would one need to go to see an Ent?”

Théodred looked at her gently. “I have no idea, little cousin, and I hope never to find out. But do not worry yourself overmuch; the Entwood is many leagues from here, and it is a place you shall never have need to go. Yours should be a life of peace and bliss, far from the gloomy depths of the forest.”

“But are you sure that the Ents live only in the Entwood? Has anyone seen one elsewhere? What if they are living just there, in Harrowdale!” Unbidden, her voice belied her alarm.

Théodred noticed, for he lowered himself from his theatrical stance and placed a warm hand on Éowyn’s shoulder. Looking her squarely in the eyes, he said, “Truly, Éowyn, worry not. The hill of Edoras is high, and the walls of Meduseld are strong. No Ent shall come here. You are safe in this hall, from all manner of evil.”

Éowyn made herself nod in response, and she fell silent. She did not say the words that were in her mind: that she did not wish to spend her life ensconced within the walls of Meduseld, and that Théodred’s assurances were, therefore, of little comfort. At home, she had ridden Windfola abroad over the undulating grasslands of the Folde, and she had spent many a warm afternoon swimming in the nearby pond, or – when Dernlida would suffer it – crawling through the clusters of willowbrush near the creek. Even in the name of safety, she could not stand a life shut up indoors. So she wished Théodred would tell her more of the Ents, of where they lurked, and how they might be avoided. 

Her wishes, however, would go unanswered, for Théodred rose again and began his next tale.

“So now you are aware of the Ents and the hostility that simmers beneath the boughs of the Entwood. But to the north there is still a greater danger, although of a different sort. Fifty leagues or more from the southern borders of the Entwood lies the Golden Wood. Have you heard tell of this place in any stories or songs?”

Both Éowyn and Éomer shook their heads. 

“Then I shall reveal it to you now. You see, the danger of the Golden Wood, the old tales say, is that at first it seems fair. Unlike the Entwood to the south, which belies its foulness immediately, the Golden Wood is said to be filled with a soft mist and a golden light, like an early morning of high summer. A rider who finds himself there will feel immediately at peace; the eaves of the woods will call him in from the windswept plains, and the soft shade will embrace him and soothe his weariness. He will dismount from his horse, and feel inclined to rest a while beneath the fair-seeming trees. 

“But it is a trap. Indeed, the longer a man lingers in the forest, the more he will become becalmed, until he falls into a sort of drowsiness and the world around him begins to feel like a dream. All sense of vigilance will fade from him, and he will slowly wander ever deeper into the glades. He will leave his horse behind and become progressively enmeshed in the shade of the woods, until all paths of return are beyond his recall. 

“And it is then that he will find himself truly ensnared in the nets of the Lady. For indeed, there is a powerful witch who dwells in that forest. The Lady of the Golden Wood, she is called. She weaves webs of magic between the trees to trap all those who enter her realm unbidden and force them into thralldom. It is said that she bends the plants, the weather, the seasons, and even time itself to her will; for indeed, the tales say that the hours flow differently within her realm, that there time is slower, and if a traveler is ever permitted to depart from the Lady’s nets, that he may return home to find many months gone by, when to his seeming, he spent only days within the Wood.” 

“Why does she trap people?” Éowyn asked. “Why doesn’t she just send them away or use her magic to prevent them from entering the forest in the first place?”

“It is said that the will of the Lady is fickle. She does all things according to her own amusement. Some say that she seeks thralls to serve in the maintenance of her kingdom. Others say that she merely traps men for her own entertainment; that she is an ancient being, older than the sun and the moon, and that the lives of men are to her as the lives of mayflies; that she captures men and watches them wander senseless through her forest as a child might capture a beetle and watch it crawl within a cup. And still other stories say that she takes men to serve as sacrifices, that she bathes in their lifeblood and by that method retains her youth. Although that last tale I do not believe.”

“Why not?” breathed Éomer, his eyes wide. For her part, Éowyn had drawn Simbelmynë close to her face again and was peering warily at Théodred. 

“Mostly because it was told to me by Maerith the cook, who will say anything to shock her audience. But also, because it is said, in the tales of our forefathers, that on a time the Lady of the Golden Wood lent aid to Eorl, as he rode to the field of Celebrant to fight for Cirion, the Steward of Gondor. In those days, evil dwelt in Dol Guldur, and our forefathers were loath to ride near to it. But Eorl and his men were compelled to ride past, and as they drew nigh to that evil hill, a bright mist issued forth from the Golden Wood that concealed them and allowed them to pass unhindered. So in that instance, at the least, the Lady saw fit to do some good for Men. Though as to her motive in doing so, I cannot guess.”

“She doesn’t sound nearly as frightening as the Ents,” Éowyn said. “At least she does not tear men limb from limb.”

“Maybe not. But I mislike the notion that a place can feel fair, and yet ensnare a man forever. A man’s freedom is his most prized possession, Éowyn. For my part I would rather die than be taken as a thrall.”

Éowyn thought for a moment and then nodded solemnly. She could not imagine a life where she was compelled to remain in one place forever, against her will. 

“I would also die rather than be enslaved!” Éomer declared. “Especially by a witch. But I’m not afraid of the Witch of the Golden Wood. I don’t think her nets could hold me for long. I would find a way to outsmart her and return home.”

“Maybe,” chuckled Théodred. “You are a clever lad, Éomer. But I would still urge you to be cautious, should you ever find yourself near the Golden Wood. The tales say the Lady is cunning.” 

With this, Théodred dropped onto the bench beside them with a satisfied sigh. He draped an arm lightly over the shoulders of both siblings.

“Ah, the hour grows late. And the storm seems to have finally abated.”

To her surprise, Éowyn realized that she had entirely forgotten the storm, she had been so enraptured by Théodred’s tales. The drum of rain on the roof had ceased, and she could not remember the last time she had heard a roll of thunder.

“Perhaps it is time now to return to your bed, Éowyn? In fact, I think we should all retire. Look, most of the men have gone off to bed.” Théodred gestured towards the center of the hall. The trestle tables were now mostly emptied, and the fire was burning low. Warm darkness gathered in the corners of the room, and here and there men reclined on pallets, making ready for sleep. 

For a moment, Éomer looked as if he would protest, but he seemed to think the better of it and got to his feet. To her surprise, Éomer reached out and offered Éowyn his hand, and pulled her to her feet. 

“Will you be able to sleep now, Éowyn? Or will the Ents and the Witch of the Wood haunt your dreams and send you running to find me again?” Éomer asked, except now his voice was gentle, and he tousled Éowyn’s hair lightly. 

“I’m not scared of tales!” Éowyn maintained, although secret dread still curled in her heart. 

“Good,” affirmed Éomer with an affectionate pat. Éowyn supposed that pat served as Éomer’s real apology; the previous one had been forced out of him by Théodred. She looked to her cousin, who sat still on the bench, but was smiling at them broadly. 

“I am glad you enjoyed my stories, little ones. Long has it been since I have had a chance to tell them properly to a willing audience. May they serve as a reminder to care for one another, for there are many dangers in this world, whether they be recorded in tales or not.” Théodred rose, and led the three of them from the main hall and down the passage that led to Éowyn’s room. At her door, they paused. 

 “Rest well, Éowyn. And may your dreams be untroubled by the fell creatures of the forest,” Théodred said, and he bent to embrace her. 

“Goodnight, sister. Sleep well. Perhaps tomorrow we can ride out together,” Éomer said. Then her brother and her cousin took their leave and Éowyn was left alone in her room once more.

She settled on her bed, and gazed once more at the carven ceiling, drenched in shadow. She thought now that the spiraling patterns looked a bit like roots and branches, entangled around some unseen victim; or else, they might represent the webs of the Lady of the Golden Wood, reaching outward to trap her forever in this room. 

But those woods are far from here , she reassured herself. And perhaps the tales are not even true . 

You think they are, though, don’t you? Simbelmynë asked at her side. Éowyn nodded. 

Well at least Théodred saw that you’re just as brave as Éomer. Maybe he’ll keep letting you stay up late in the hall, said Simbelmynë. 

“Maybe,” said Éowyn softly to the darkness of her room. She pulled Simbelmynë close to her chest and turned over onto her side.

There she lay for a while longer, while sleep eluded her. Her mind continued to race with thoughts of creatures of the forest, strange and fell. But the night was now silent and the thunder had passed, and slowly the images of the gloomy forest began to fade into the beginnings of more pleasant dreams. The last thing she remembered before sleep took her was the image of the pond near Aldburg, on a day of high summer. She splashed in the clear cool water, and peered into the depths hoping to see a fish. When she looked up, she saw that the forest had marched down from the slopes of the mountains and that trees now encircled the pond, but Théodred was by her side and she was not afraid. Instead, he stood there, regaling the trees with stories of their own kind, and they laughed because they were not beasts at all, but rather gentle and full of mirth.

II.

Edoras 

Autumn

Third Age 3002

Éowyn raced up the hill, heedless of all else except fleeing from the sound of her brother’s voice. Hitting a patch of soft turf, her left ankle rolled inwards and she yelped from the unexpected pain. Still, she did not stop, and she continued to climb the grassy embankment. She crested the top and reached the line of alders that stood guard at the crown of the hill. Here she paused, for she was loath to enter the glade of trees, especially as the sun had already slid behind the peaks of the White Mountains and dusk was descending quickly.

But then, she heard Éomer’s voice drawing nearer: “We’re coming, Éowyn! Ready or not!” His voice sounded from lower on the hill. This spurred her into motion — she would not let him win this game again – and she sprang forward into the shadows of the trees. She stumbled forward, blindly at first, as her vision adjusted to the dim shade. The trunks here grew close together, and low branches tore at her clothes. She pushed herself forward through brush and the bracken until she reached a cluster of young trees. Their thin trunks twisted skyward and formed a thick tangle with a hollow space at the center. Without thinking, she wiggled her way into that space and crouched low. Hopefully Éomer would not find her here. 

She hid herself not a moment too soon, for just as her ragged breathing stilled, she heard voices approach the trees.

“Do you think she’s in here?” asked Gárwine, son of Elfhelm, one of Éomer’s new companions. Gárwine was ten, a year younger than Éomer, and over the last few weeks, the two had grown close.

“I’d wager not,” replied Éomer. “She becomes nervous near the forest, I don’t think she’d choose to go in alone. I think she’s gone down the other side of the hill and snuck back towards the gate like last time.”

“You’re probably right,” Gárwine affirmed, and from the sound of their steps, the two boys seemed to turn and retreat down the hill, leaving Éowyn alone in her hiding place. She smiled. Finally the victory would be hers. Éomer would not find her near the gate, and he would be forced to give up and declare her the winner. Indeed, that was their game: Éowyn would hide, and Éomer (and sometimes Gárwine) would search. If Éomer found her, then she lost; but if he gave up on searching, then she would have the victory, as well as a portion of her choosing of Éomer’s supper. Since the game’s invention a few weeks past, Éowyn had not won, but she was certain that today her fate had changed. She stayed low and silent in her hiding place, just in case Éomer and Gárwine were playing a trick on her. 

In the silence of the forest, the moments slid by slowly. Éomer came never back to the wood, and slowly the daylight drained from the sky and the shadows of the trees deepened. At first, Éowyn could think only of her victory; each moment that Éomer did not find her brought her closer to an additional slice of bread or scoop of custard.

But, as the light grew dimmer, and the air cooled, and a stiff breeze picked up out of the north and sent an eerie rushing sound through the wood, Éowyn’s mind wandered back to the tales that Théodred had told during the summer.

She had tried to put her fear of them to rest. Indeed, in the days that followed their telling, she had asked all manner of folk what they knew of the Ents, or of the Witch of the Golden Wood. She had even asked Uncle Théoden, and he, along with all the others, had assured her that no fell creatures lurked anywhere near Edoras.

‘The Lady, I believe, is real,’ Uncle Théoden had said. ‘I once rode with a man who claimed to have seen her realm, and I have no cause to doubt him. But as for the Ents, I know not whether they dwell in the Entwood, nor anywhere at all. My son is fond of stories, and loves to thrill his audience. But fear them not, sister-daughter, for I promise that Théodred’s stories are the most vividly any of us shall ever experience an Ent.’

Éowyn had tried to believe her uncle. She had also tried to recall her dream, the one she had had the night of the storm, where the trees had all been laughing and not fearsome at all. But no matter how she tried, she could not drive the images of twisting roots and entangling magical webs from her mind, and she was left now with a creeping unsettled feeling whenever she was near the woods. 

Though she had forgotten that feeling briefly as the rush of hiding and the thrill of potentially winning the game had occupied her, it now came back to her in full strength. As twilight thickened, and the wind strengthened, Éowyn began to imagine sounds coming from deeper in the wood. Was that a low, rhythmic stomping she heard? The feet of an angry Ent, marching towards her? Or was it just the sound of her own heart, thudding in her chest? Or that! Was that the howling of the wind, or was it a sinister song, the voice of a witch trying to lure her deeper into the gloom? She pressed herself lower to the ground. She knew she could leave the woods, but she still did not want to give Éomer the victory. She could be brave, she thought. She could wait just a few more minutes, just to be sure that he had ceded the win. 

The moments ground by. Éowyn was growing cold. She shivered, half from chill, half from anxiety. Still, she was afraid to move, lest Éomer – or something else – notice her. It was almost full dark now, she could no longer discern detail in the woods around her, only a pale gray glimmer where the trees opened into the grass atop the hill. 

She should get up. Surely Éomer had given up by now. She just needed to rise and crawl back towards the clearing and —

Something grasped at her sleeve. She screamed and wrenched her arm away. Whirling, she prepared to face her attacker, but she saw only branches. Had they always been there? Had they moved closer, grown larger? In the dim light, she could not tell. Suddenly, the thin-trunked trees of her hiding place felt as if they were closing about her, trapping her in a cage of wood and brambles. She panicked. The game was over. She had to leave the woods immediately, or be forever lost to them. She tried to rise and run back towards the field, but a root reached up and grasped her sore ankle, tripping her. She screamed again as rough bark tore through her skin. She attempted to right herself, but the branches pressed down on her from above. It was real, it was all real. The forest was angry and it was trying to take her. Her heart beat faster and faster and adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her breaths became ragged as the crisp autumn air burned in her lungs, and tears branded her cheeks. She fought her way back to her knees, and then began to half-crawl, half-drag herself towards the light. The branches pressed closer and closer and closer and the roots rose up through the earth and tried to seize her, but she kept going. 

Then she heard it: the sound of shuffling footfalls. They could not be Éomer’s; they sounded too large. It was an Ent, she knew it now without any doubt: the fell creature was hard on her heels and gaining on her. At any moment he would reach out his massive, thorny hands, and then he would have her and he would tear her limb from limb as the green fire of his eyes burned through her…

Éowyn burst into the light. The trees fell away behind her as she flung herself flat into the grass. She landed on her stomach, skidding over the turf. A small relief passed over her as she realized she had escaped the trees, but to her horror, the footfalls continued; she could hear the distinctive swish of grass and snaps of twigs underfoot as the huge creature approached. She staggered to her feet and risked a glance over her shoulder to assess the distance between her and the Ent and… she ran straight into Théodred.

“Éowyn!” he yelped, as the force of her impact knocked the breath from him.

“Théodred, Théodred there’s an Ent!” she screamed, trying to warn her cousin of their peril. But suddenly, she realized that the footfalls had ceased. She looked over her shoulder and saw only empty space between her and the alder grove. The northerly breeze whipped through the grass, and it shimmered gray and silver in the dying light. The Ent had disappeared. The footsteps she heard had been Théodred’s own. 

Théodred looked at her, puzzling for a moment over her declaration. Then he took a breath and called over his shoulder, “I found her, she is here!” Éowyn looked beyond him and saw Éomer and Gárwine and Elfhelm and Háma the guard, all trudging up the hill.

“What are you doing out here alone after dark?” Théodred asked. “We’ve been searching for you for nigh on an hour.”

Éowyn took a shaky breath, her limbs still trembling. “I was hiding, it is a game that Éomer and I play, and Gárwine too, sometimes. I hide and–”

Théodred cut her off. “It is a dangerous game if it sends you beyond the walls of the city alone. There are wolves and worse in these hills. This is not appropriate behavior for a maid of any age, and especially not a daughter of the house of Eorl. Stay with your brother next time.”

“But the point of the game is to–”

“Éowyn, I do not wish to see you hurt. Please, do as I say,” Théodred said in a voice that was full of care, but would brook no argument. Éowyn drooped her head sadly. She did not protest, but neither did she agree. Her mind felt addled, still shaken by her narrow escape. 

Théodred nodded, satisfied. He then crouched low, and he placed two hands on her shoulders. He smiled and then a twinkle came into his eye. 

“An Ent, you said?” he asked, changing the subject. “Did you really see one?” 

Éowyn nodded wildly. “I could hear him stomping through the trees. It was so frightening, Théodred. You got here just in time, you must’ve scared him off.”

“Maybe,” said Théodred. “Well, you are lucky that he did not catch you, lest you be dragged into the shadows of the trees forever.”

“He was right on my heels. I could feel the roots and branches grasping at me!”

“That sounds frightening indeed. I am glad you escaped.” 

Éowyn again nodded. Then she knit her brow. “But… I thought there were no Ents near Edoras.”

Théodred, to Éowyn’s wonder, smiled more broadly. “Well, no one knows for certain, do they? So let this narrow escape be a lesson to you not to go wandering in the woods alone after dark. Even here, near the city, untold dangers may lurk. Now come, let us return home.” Then he rose and took Éowyn’s hand and led them back towards the others before Éowyn could ask Théodred why he did not seem at all concerned by the appearance of an Ent just outside of the palisade walls.

As they made for the gate, Éomer fell in step with Éowyn. He reached his arm around her shoulders and brought her in for a half hug as they walked.

“I am glad you are safe, sister.” Éowyn leaned her weight against him, relishing the warmth of her brother close at her side. They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, until Éomer suddenly withdrew his arm and gave her an implish look.

“However, I believe I still won our game.”

“Nuh-uh!” protested Éowyn. “You didn’t find me!”

“You left your hiding spot before I declared that I had given up.” A sly smile spread over his features.

“But- but I had to! There was… there was an Ent! It was chasing me. I would have died if I had stayed.”

“Be that as it may, the custard is still all mine tonight.”

“Éomer!” Éowyn screeched, her fear now forgotten in the face of this threat to her much desired victory, as well as her much desired custard. “That’s not fair! He was chasing me! I would have won!” Éomer laughed and tousled Éowyn’s hair. Then he raced ahead to find Gárwine. Before Éowyn could think how to argue against her brother, Théodred leaned down and spoke into her ear. 

“I heard custard was the prize tonight, cousin. Would you like mine? I think you deserve it.”

III.

Aldburg

Winter

Third Age 3012

“We shall go tomorrow, then, if the fair weather holds,” Éomer declared. He sighed contentedly and leaned back in his seat at the high table, the seat that had once belonged to their father. Théodred reclined next to him, and the two of them together sipped at their wine. 

Éowyn, meanwhile, glowered. How dare Éomer sit there, playing the part of lordling, seeming so content to fill their father’s chair, when he had only a fraction of their late father’s nobility and good sense? All day Éowyn had been trying to get him to reconsider his plans, but he had roundly dismissed her every protest. It seemed that the excursion would be proceeding, despite Éowyn’s best efforts.

She stared daggers at Éomer, but neither he nor Théodred noticed, which stoked the intensity of her rage all the more. She raised her own cup to her lips and drank a little, then set it down with unnecessary force. It made a resounding thud on the table. Still, neither man looked at her, although one of the guards startled and looked at her, briefly alarmed. She stared back at him with a frosty expression until he looked away. Then she leaned back in her chair and continued to glare across the trestle.

Finally, after a few moments, Théodred turned to her and asked, “Éowyn, are you well? You have been rather quiet this evening. Are you not excited for the hunt tomorrow?”

“She’s angry at me,” Éomer interrupted. “But she will not tell me why. She has been sulking since the afternoon.”

Éowyn sat up abruptly. “Do you really not know?”

“No, sister, I do not. I have done nothing wrong that I can recall, save for host you and our cousin for the last two weeks, offer you good meat and fine wine, and regale you with stories of all that you have missed at Aldburg since the summer.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes at Éomer’s sanctimonious prevarication. “Do not mistake my anger with you for lack of gratitude for your hospitality, Éomer. You know that I have enjoyed my visit to our childhood home.”

“Then what cause do you have to be cross with me?”

“I am cross because you insist on going forward with your foolish plan. You really think we will find this enormous stag – that conveniently, only you have seen – in the depths of the woods? One animal, amidst all those trees? You will waste everyone's time, and we will return empty handed.” 

“What do you know of hunting deer, sister?”

“I know that you would do better to track a herd of deer across the open plains, where you might spy them from far off.” Éowyn felt a desperate surge of hope that, perhaps, this time, her reasoning would convince Éomer, and they might yet avoid the shadowy forest that had long filled her with dread.

Éomer squinted at her from across the table, shaking his head, and Éowyn’s stomach sank. Éomer said, “Our numbers on this hunt will not be extensive enough to circle a herd on the open plains. The forest will provide much better cover for approaching our quarry. You must know this, Éowyn. Why are you so determined to sway us to this unwise path? Be glad that you ride along with us at all.”

Éowyn gritted her teeth. She hated when Éomer implied that her inclusion on his excursions was due to his grace rather than her own capability. But she did not tell him that, she had tried many times and he never quite understood. She frantically wracked her brain for another argument, anything that might direct their outing elsewhere. “I am trying to tell you that your plan is a fool’s errand, unbefitting of the Third Marshal of the Mark and the new lord of Aldburg. Dragging your household through the woods on your futile quest for a single stag is arrogant and pointless.”

A knowing look came into Éomer’s eyes. “Ah, so it’s the woods again? Are you still frightened of the stories Théodred told us as children?”

Éowyn felt a surge of horror as her brother articulated the real reason for her protest. She could never admit to him that he had guessed at the truth – she would lose his respect forever. “How foolish, Éomer, of course not. This is about your blind pursuit of an animal that doesn’t exist!” Even as she vehemently deflected, an enraged shame burned in her chest. Nearly a decade had passed since that frightening autumn evening when she thought an Ent had chased her through the forest. She had long since accepted that the Ent had only been a figment of her imagination, conjured up by cold, hunger, and the swift-falling night. 

Yet, despite her best efforts, she had not ever been able to shake the sense of dread she felt when she lingered in the forest. The trees made her feel hemmed in, trapped, and if she stayed over long among them, she would often feel a sense of impending doom come over her; it was the sense that if she lingered within that enclosed space, that she might never see the open sky again. She much preferred the expanses of the plains, where she could ride far and see farther; where wind flowed freely through the silver-green grass. 

She could not tell that to Éomer, though. Something had shifted between them this past year. He seemed to see her now as someone set apart from himself; a woman, no longer a girl, no longer the scrappy companion that she had once been to him. He had begun to treat her as something delicate, something in need of protection. She could never reveal to him anything that might reinforce that notion; on the contrary, she was determined to prove him wrong.

“Éowyn, if you do not wish to ride out with us tomorrow, I will not be upset. But if you join us, we will maintain our original course.” Éomer looked to Théodred as if he wished for their cousin to take his side.

Théodred sat up in his chair. “Your brother is right. You do not have to join the hunt. I know in times past you have enjoyed the riding, but no one would fault you if you decided to remain behind. It will be cold up on the slopes of the mountains, and in all likelihood we will not return hither until well after nightfall.”

“I would not stay behind if all the men are riding out,” Éowyn said resolutely, pretending that trepidation tugged at her not at all. “So have it your way, Éomer. We shall go to the forest, I care not. Just don’t complain to me when we see naught of your precious stag.”

—---

The next day they rode out at dawn. The sky was clear, the color of pearl, and a fresh coating of frost glittered on the grass. The wind stung Éowyn’s cheeks, and Windfola’s breath became mist in the frigid air. All day she made sure to ride at the front of the company, abreast with Éomer, and when they entered the forest, she held her head high and set her jaw and hoped that Éomer would not lead them into the place where the trees grew thickest.

IV.

Edoras

Late Autumn

Third Age 3018

In the waning afternoon, she stood on the terrace, as was so often her custom these days. A cold wind was blowing, and clouds in the north were gathering, a sign that one of the first storms of winter would soon be upon them. Éowyn’s fingertips had long since gone numb, but she refused to return indoors, lest she be drawn into some menial conversation with the kitchen staff about her uncle’s latest refusal of food; or worse, accosted by Gríma. She pulled her hands inside of her sleeves and swung them in a wide half circle, trying to draw warm blood back into them. It was a trick Théodred had taught her one winter, years back, when they had still frequently gone riding together. 

At the thought of Théodred, she looked to the north and tried to discern from far off where he and Éomer might be among the wide swaths of brown and gray. They had ridden north with Éomer’s éored days ago, defying Gríma’s counsel, to subdue a band of orcs that were rumored to have crossed the great river into the Wold. 

If Éowyn squinted her eyes, she felt she could almost perceive where the grasslands flowed upward to meet the high wildlands of the Wold. But this time of year all the meadows had gone to brown, and it was difficult to know with any certainty where Éomer and Théodred might now be. 

She sighed. For all the petty arguments she and her brother and her cousin had endured, they loved each other deeply. And, as their uncle’s health failed and his mind slipped further and further from clarity, Éowyn had grown to depend on the two of them all the more, for they were often the only voices of reason in Théoden’s crowd of counselors, and they certainly were the only two who took more than a passing interest in her ideas or welfare. Yet, they were now gone again, and she was left behind once more, relegated to waiting upon her increasingly enfeebled king as the autumn drew to a close and the nights grew longer and colder and darker.

Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to sneak down to the stables in the deepest hour of the night and saddle Windfola and simply ride north. Perhaps she would find Éomer’s éored, or perhaps she would not. Perhaps she would become lost in the wilderness and slowly be driven senseless by hunger and cold. Or perhaps she would make it so far that she would pass beyond the borders of Rohan, into some other place entirely.

The notion of the Golden Wood came to her mind, that tale that Théodred had spun so long ago. She felt now that she at last fully understood Théodred’s terror of the Lady that dwelt therein, of her proclivity for ensnaring men and claiming them as thralls. For, more and more of late, she felt that she herself had become enmeshed in some sort of spell, some fell enchantment that kept her bound to Edoras and that shrunk her life about her until it pressed in on her like a dense wood. 

Indeed, no longer was she permitted to ride out of sight of the city, no longer was she allowed to walk alone beyond the walls, no longer was her time hers to do with as she willed. Gríma, under the guise of enacting the king’s will, insisted on knowing her whereabouts at all times. He claimed it was necessary for both her safety and so that she might be easily found should the king have need of her, but Éowyn knew his chief purpose was to limit her freedom. She railed against it, at first, but her protestations fell mostly on deaf ears. 

In many ways, her life had become much like the imagined doom of the men in Théodred’s tale, and the irony of it all was that she had been ensnared without ever leaving Edoras. Théodred had been wrong; not even the high hill of the city nor the thick walls of Meduseld had protected her from such a fate.

So, as she looked far off across the distant grasses and to the imagined line of woodlands beyond, she wondered idly if it would be not better to contend with the Lady, rather than her fading uncle and the lecherous Gríma and the dark shadows that gathered now within Meduseld itself. 

She could take Windfola and ride, even this very night. By dawn they could be far from this place, surging ever forward into the oncoming wind. They could go north and north and north, ‘round the eves of the Entwood, over the pleated landscape of the Wold, and on across the Limlight, until they reached the Golden Wood itself. And therein Éowyn and Windfola could journey, to find the truth of that tale at last. Perhaps she would die; Éowyn cared not. Perhaps she would be captured and enslaved, or even slaughtered for blood to renew the Lady’s youth. Or; maybe, a different fate would be reserved for her, for Éowyn was not a man in a song or tale, but a living, breathing woman. 

Éowyn sighed. She was, indeed, not a man in a song. Witch or no, Golden Hall or Golden Wood, there would be no glorious end for her; no final escape, no valiant demise. Her days would grind onward, and she would slowly be crushed to death by the walls of her own home, or else meet some other unremarkable doom. She pushed thoughts of flight and Wood and Witch from her mind. Resigned, she turned swiftly and went into the hall, to serve her uncle’s evening meal.

V.

The Gray Wood 

March 14th

Third Age 3019

Dernhelm, for that was who Éowyn had become, lay in darkness beneath the trees. Whether it was still twilight or whether night had indeed fallen, she did not know. All was much the same now, the days were composed of gloom unceasing. All day she had ridden, Merry behind her, as the trees pressed closer and closer in. Yet, for what felt like the first time in her life, the thick limbs of the forest induced in her no fear. Her fate mattered little to her now; tomorrow, all would end. As she had slowly realized, there would be no glorious end for Éowyn, Lady of Rohan. But, perhaps for Dernhelm, there might still come a more worthy demise, yet it would not be at the hands of a witch or Ent, but rather on the battlefield. She rolled over on her side, the dark branches of the trees forming a canopy above her, and she caught what little sleep she might. 

VI.

The Houses of Healing

March 21st

Third Age 3019 

He was speaking of the forests of Ithilien. And, to Éowyn’s surprise, the way he was speaking of them – with fondness, reverence, and joy – made her almost wish that such a future might exist, that their doom might not be so absolute. She imagined seeing those woods herself, and not feeling trammeled by them. She pictured instead being soothed by the beauty of their secret glens, and by the company of the man who would lead her there. But alas, these were foolish thoughts. The dark wave building over the Black Land would soon break and sweep away those woods, this city, and all the free lands of the West.

VII.

The Woods of Ithilien

Summer

Third Age 3021

They walked on in silence for a time, high on the ridge-top. Faramir was ever in the lead, and Éowyn kept a few paces behind, stopping now and again to examine some interesting flower, or to glance westward, whereupon the land fell gently downward into the golden haze of the Anduin valley. 

“We shall come to the cutoff soon, I think,” said Faramir. “It is just beyond the high point.” He gestured ahead along the ridge, where the spine of the hill rose to a peak. The hill-top was bare, and covered in grass that was just beginning to go golden in the dry heat of summer. Éowyn nodded and pressed forward to keep pace with Faramir. Before long, they reached the rise, and there paused. Overhead, the sky was cloudless and blue, and the westering sun poured warm light over everything. Around them on all sides spread the woodlands of Ithilien.

Faramir pointed southwest, over the rippling treetops. “The route is just there,” he said. Éowyn nodded, though she was unsure if she truly grasped what he was pointing at. Faramir had a way of discerning secret paths through the wooded landscapes of Ithilien that Éowyn had yet to fully understand. He attempted to explain his methods of wayfinding to her, but Éowyn still found them somewhat inscrutable, for they seemed to rely mostly on an instinct for the topography of Ithilien that she herself had yet to develop. 

Indeed, in her heart, Éowyn was a little discomforted by this land that was meant to be her new home. Ithilien was exceedingly fair, yes, but it was so starkly different from the wide grasslands and stony vales of the Riddermark. There, at least, she understood the habits of the seasons and the landscapes and the weather, and for the most part that land was wide open and unforested, and one could ride far and fast beneath the unceasing sky. 

In contrast, Ithilien was comprised of many steep-sided vales, most of which were clotted with dense trees. Travel on horseback was slow; or, at times, impossible. And the climate was different too: it was far warmer, and there seemed to be only two seasons: a mild, wet winter and a hot, dry summer. It was ironic, she thought, that for so many years she had desired nothing but to flee from Meduseld, as she felt trapped therein, and she railed against the invisible bonds that had held her there. Yet, now that she had indeed made her escape, she more and more often looked upon her homeland with a kind of nostalgia; not for the dark years that had passed there, but for the land itself, and for the way that she knew it so deeply. 

However, Faramir loved Ithilien, and she loved him, and so she was determined to match his devotion to his home. Thus, for the last several months, she had pushed her misgivings aside and committed herself to learning the many indiscernible paths that he traced through the hills. Whenever possible, she insisted that he take her to walk abroad from their dwelling at Emyn Arnen and teach her more of these hills.

“I came here seldom during the days of the War,” Faramir explained as he led them down today’s intended path, “for we were more often in North Ithilien, near Henneth Annûn. I shall take you there, sometime, for I think you would like it. There are many fair falls and pools there.”

“Yes, you have told me. As well as a secret hiding place and a forbidden pool, which I hope you will show me.” Éowyn grinned. 

Faramir looked back over his shoulder at her, but did not break his stride. He smiled slyly. “Maybe,” he said, “although it is commanded that no foreigner, not even the fairest Lady of Rohan, gain knowledge of the path to that place.”

Éowyn scowled playfully. “Surely such protocols can be abandoned now that war has ceased. And, am I not now a woman of Gondor, seeing that I have married the Steward?”

“I don’t imagine that you shall ever properly be a woman of Gondor,” Faramir teased, “Nor would I have it so. But I suppose you are indeed the Lady of Ithilien, a station which may permit you to see the path to the refuge with unbound eyes. I shall have to think on it.” He shot her another playful glance.

Éowyn chuckled. “Alright then. While you’re at it, consider also whether I might be permitted to take a swim in the secret pool beneath the Window.”

“Éowyn!” Faramir said, affecting mock outrage. “Are you not satisfied with the many other pools and streams in this land?”

“No. I wish to swim in them all.”

“I do not doubt it. I’ll admit that prior to meeting you, I had no idea that swimming was such an important part of Rohirric culture.”

“It isn’t,” Éowyn replied cheekily. “Hardly anyone in Rohan knows how to swim; there are scarcely any bodies of water besides the swift-flowing rivers or the frigid meres high in the mountains. But at Aldburg there was a pond, so the village children gathered to swim there on hot days, and one summer, Éomer and I learned by mimicking them. Thereafter I would try to sneak off to the pond at every opportunity, much to the frustration of my nurse. Once I even stole away to the pond during a wedding, and leapt in fully clothed.”

“I’m sure your nurse was pleased.”

“Oh without a doubt. In fact, she jumped in fully clothed to join me!” Éowyn jested, and they both laughed. 

Suddenly, though, Faramir came to a halt. “Well, speaking of pools and streams, we should be nearing the headwaters of the creek that runs down to the village at Emyn Arnen.” He looked around. “I do not see it though, this canyon is completely dry.”

“Perhaps it has become dry during the summer?” Éowyn asked.

“Not likely. It flows year round. We crossed it ourselves when we set out this morning.” 

“Have we taken a wrong turn?”

Faramir frowned, but said nothing. He gazed intently around them. They had followed one side of the canyon down from the ridge above, and were standing in a lightly wooded glen. Ahead, the gulch narrowed and became a steep gorge running downwards between two cliffs. 

“Wait here,” Faramir said, and he jogged shortly up the facing hill, disappearing behind a stand of oaks. For a moment, Éowyn did as she was bid. She turned her gaze upward, towards the open space between the crowns of the trees. She could see a bird wheeling in the air high above; it called out once, its voice sharp and clear in the otherwise quiet sky. 

After a moment though, when she could hear Faramir’s steps through the underbrush no more, she turned in the direction where he had gone and followed. Though the way down from the ridge had been only sparsely wooded, this side of the canyon was thick with trees. A frisson of trepidation came over her as the branches pressed close in, but she pressed onward, knowing that Faramir must be nearby. 

She found him standing beneath a large tanoak. A dark look was on his face. She knew that look, it was the face he made whenever he was cross with himself.

“Faramir?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I was mistaken,” he said. “This is not the correct route at all. Ah, I should have sensed it. But I have not been to this part of the hills in some time…” he trailed off, looking irritated.

“Alright,” Éowyn ventured, “then we will just go back the way we came. It is not far back to the ridge.”

“No, we cannot go back that way,” he said, his tone clipped. “Night will fall long before we return home if we take that road.”

“So? Then it will be dark.”

“It isn’t wise, Éowyn. The war may be done, but there are still evil things that creep in these hills after nightfall. I would not have gone out alone with you unguarded if I planned to be away until after nightfall.”

Éowyn bristled. “I am not some blushing maid to be kept safe. Nor am I afraid of beasts that lurk in these hills. This is our home, is it not?”

Faramir sighed, “I do not doubt your courage Éowyn, surely you know this by now. It is simply a matter of practicality. There are only two of us, and we lack sufficient arms.”

“Perhaps you lack sufficient arms, husband,” Éowyn said haughtily, and pointed to the dagger she wore at her belt. Somehow, this dispelled some of the tension that had arisen between them, for Faramir chuckled lightly.

“I should have foreseen that. But truly, it would be wiser for us to return home by a shorter road, if we may.”

“And what way might that be?” Éowyn asked, for there seemed to her to be no route out of the canyon save for the one they had taken. All other paths seemed too steep or choked with trees. 

“Over this rise,” Faramir said, gesturing into the thicket that climbed the hill ahead of them. “And then down into the next canyon. That will lead us to another watercourse, one that flows into the same stream, and from there we can follow it home.”

Éowyn nodded resolutely. Though she had often thought to tell Faramir about her mislike of dense woods, she never had. Indeed, after the events of the preceding years, she felt she had no right to those feelings, if she ever had any right at all. She had survived far fouler things than thickets of trees, and moreover she had learned the truth behind the tales that had so scared her as a child. She had met Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, and she was no evil enchantress, but an Elven queen, noble and beautiful, if also cool and remote. 

And the Ents, in the end, had been nothing short of the salvation of the Riddermark; they had led a host of animated trees to the aid of the Hornburg and they had decimated the armies of the evil wizard Saruman. Not to mention that Merry and Pippin were personal friends with Treebeard, a leader among the Ents of Fangorn, and held him in the highest esteem. No glowing, green-eyed tearer of limbs was he, but rather a gentle giant, more like to Éowyn’s grandfather than to the terror of her childhood dreams.

Yet, even knowing all of that, Éowyn inexplicably still felt nervous in the woods, or in any place that felt too close about her. It was much the same as it ever had been, since her childhood: if she lingered too long in tight trees or any place enclosed, her skin would begin to crawl and her heart would beat rapidly, and she would feel the weight of certain doom settle over her. 

But she told Faramir none of this, lest he think her craven. As he led them through the trees, that predictable feeling began to rise within her once more, but she kept her mouth pressed in a tight line and was silent. 

After a time, they reached the top of the rise. There, mercifully, the trees thinned, and Éowyn’s nerves settled. 

“The stream should be just down this slope,” said Faramir. “I sense that many animals have tread here, and recently, so the water should not be far off.” Éowyn followed his line of sight, and to her dismay, saw an even denser forest stretching out below them. Oak, cedar, and bay all piled close upon one another, and wherever the trees did not grow stood huge thickets of brush. 

Faramir stepped forward, but Éowyn wavered. She looked about, hoping to see some alternative route to propose. She traced her eyes along the ridgeline, down westward in the direction of the village and their home. To her dismay, that route too seemed to drop precipitously, ending in a cliff edge that fell into the canopy below. 

Sensing that Éowyn was not following him, Faramir paused and looked back at her. “Is something wrong?” he asked. She felt the words rise in her throat; she could tell him of her concern and advocate more vehemently to return by the way they had come. Yet, she felt certain that if she made such a suggestion, he would intuit her fear for certain. She swallowed once.

“No. I am fine,” she lied.

They plunged into the woods. The brush tore at Éowyn’s clothes and scratched at her arms, and on more than one occasion a branch snagged at her braid. As they descended lower, it only became thicker. The trees rose tall above them and their huge branches blotted out the light of the sun, and still, downward they went. Every few moments Éowyn thought she spied a clearing ahead, only to be disappointed when they merely entered another thicket. Eventually, they stopped descending and reached the course of the stream, but because of the water the plants grew all the closer. Éowyn could feel her anxiety rising, but still she said naught of it. She told herself that she could keep her feelings in check long enough for them to find a wider path; for surely as they approached the town the trees would thin and widen into the bright meadows and glades that surrounded their hall.

 For his part, Faramir too was silent and seemed to brood over his navigational mistake. Her husband held himself to a high standard, Éowyn knew, and he took pride in knowing his land well. In the earlier days of their marriage, she had tried to comfort him in moments such as these, but it seldom helped, so she had learned to let him be. 

Thus, they walked on in silence. All the while, she hoped at any moment to break out of the crushing forest. Yet, a half hour passed, and then another, and the sun dipped lower in the sky, and they still did not come to any break in the wood. 

Eventually Faramir stopped. “This area is unfamiliar to me,” he said. 

Éowyn’s patience had worn thin: her nerves were frayed from suppressing her unease, and she was growing hungry. “What do you mean unfamiliar?” she asked in an icy tone.

“I mean that I have not been here before.” Faramir said, also shortly. 

“You said that you knew the way.”
“And I was mistaken.”

“So what shall we do now?” Éowyn cried, her voice rising. “Do we return the way we came? Climb all the way back out of the trees and take the long route which I proposed initially and you yet rejected?”

“Perhaps,” said Faramir, deadly calm. “I know not. I need a moment to discern the best path.”

“A moment? Have you not had an hour or more to think as we have been traipsing through wilderness in silence?” Éowyn veritably shouted.

“Do not shout, Éowyn, it does nothing to help us and will serve only to draw unwanted attention should any enemies be lurking nearby.”

“Don’t scold me as if I were a wayward child,” Éowyn snapped.

“Be calm, Éowyn, I–”

“Do not tell me to ‘be calm’! For how can I be, when you have dragged me into the middle of this choking forest, and every turn you make seems to get us more lost?”

“Dragged you? Éowyn, it is you who ever tells me that you cannot stand to be long indoors; I have brought you here at your request.”

“Oh, so you have done all this to humor me then? Was it not you who, in the early days of our courtship, told me that you longed to show the ‘secret glens of Ithilien’?”

“I did, and do not mistake me, I am delighted by your company. But I have many responsibilities as both Steward and as Lord of Ithilien, and I yet set many of them aside to grant your constant requests to go walking or riding. So do not act as if I have brought you here against your will.”

Éowyn felt a jolt run through her at Faramir’s words. Shame and anger mingled within her as one. “Constant requests? I am sorry that my interest in Ithilien bothers you, my lord. I thought my regard would please you, but I suppose I was mistaken. If we ever escape this hateful wood, I promise that I will not bother you again by taking any active role in caring for or governing our lands. I will instead sit biddably indoors and embroider a cushion!”

“You know that's not what I want from you!” Faramir said, his eyes flashing.

“Well, what do you want from me then? For I thought you wanted me to care for this overgrown and tree-choked land, but evidently my attempts to do so are a burden on his lordship's busy schedule.”

Faramir’s restraint cracked. Éowyn could tell by the way he furrowed his brow and stiffened his posture and dropped his voice to a low growl. 

“I do not want anything from you. Not feigned care for these ‘hateful woods’ as you call them, and certainly not another afternoon where our walk begins pleasantly enough and then you grow sullen and angry as soon as we come upon some obstacle. So often you insist to me that you are capable and courageous and have skill to match mine in the wilderness, and yet I see in you mostly fear and trepidation.” 

Faramir’s words felt to Éowyn like arrows aflame, meant to pierce directly to the heart of her fear and burn away the layers of careful concealment that she had built over a lifetime. She was incensed. She could not even find suitable words to issue a rejoinder nor defend herself against his accusations, for they were more true than she would ever admit to him. Instead, she called Faramir a number of choice names in her own language, caring not whether he understood. She stomped ahead into the trees. 

She tread heavily forward, smashing plants underfoot as she went. She glowered in her own mind at Faramir’s accusation. She did have skill and courage to match his own. How dare he imply anything to the contrary? And how dare he see her fear? Yes, it was there. But she had suppressed it! She had pocketed it off and forced herself to walk among his tree-strangled domain regardless, out of love for him ! He had no right to comment on it, nor to think less of her for it! With each thought her frustration rose and she walked faster and faster. She crashed through the undergrowth. Then, suddenly, she stopped. She realized she could no longer hear Faramir’s footsteps behind her. She turned. He was gone. All around her were towering trees, the names of which now escaped her, and huge, strangling bushes. The sky was completely obscured overhead. Her breath caught in her throat. She spun in a circle, and to her horror, realized that she did not even know the direction from which she had come. Her heart raced faster. The shadows seemed to deepen. A drumming sound started up, and she suddenly felt like she was floating, almost removed from her body. Her vision seemed to close about her, and she felt as if she were falling again into one of those dreams, the terrors she had often after she slaying the Lord of the Nazgûl. 

She was taken by the overwhelming urge to flee, but where she could flee to she knew not, for the impassable forest surrounded her in every direction. She felt she could not even cry out, for her voice seemed to crack and break within her, such that she could only issue a whisper. She sank to the ground, and though almost twenty years had passed, she felt as if she were a child in the woods behind Edoras once more, her demise stalking her near at hand. As if in confirmation, she heard the unmistakable sound of brush moving, of some large creature coming to drag her to her fate. Only this time she could not even run, for the sound seemed all around her, and her body would not obey her will, and so she simply made herself small and closed her eyes and waited.

“Éowyn?” Faramir asked, stepping into the space within the brush. “Why are you sitting down? The day is waning, we ought to press on.” His tone still had a hardness to it, on the heels of their confrontation.

She looked up at him, still breathing rapidly. “I can’t,” she managed. “This place…” she trailed off.

“What has happened? Are you hurt?” He crouched low next to her and placed a steadying arm around her shoulders. 

She looked away from him, at the ground, but she knew that he could discern the tears that pooled in her eyes. Shame burned in her cheeks, shame that he had seen her in the depths of her fear. She waited for him to speak, to confirm what she knew in her heart must be true: that he was disappointed in her, that he would forever think less of her now that he had discerned her cowardice. No longer would he see her as a fierce woman of the north, his wild bride who could match his will. He would know her weakness now for certain. She shook her head, unable to explain. She knew not what words to say to justify her emotions.

“I have found the path,” Faramir said steadily, “I am certain now that we are less than a league from the town, and this stream will soon flow into the creek I originally intended for us to follow.” Éowyn nodded, but still failed to speak. Evidently seeing that their departure was not imminent, Faramir sat down beside Éowyn. Silence hung between them, and all was quiet, save for the soft rush of wind through the leaves high above. After a moment, Faramir spoke.

“I spoke in anger before, and I am sorry. In truth, walking together in the woods is one of my greatest joys. I know that it is for you too.”

“You spoke truly, though,” Éowyn finally managed through still-shaking breaths. Faramir said nothing, but waited for her to say more. “I am afraid. I have always felt thus in the woods; or really, any enclosed place. I feel as if I am being crushed.”

“Why have you not told me this before?”

“Because you love this land,” Éowyn said. “And because I should not feel this way. There is no reason for it. For many years I thought it was because of some frightening stories that my cousin Théodred told me as a child. But I have since learned the truth of those tales, and I know there is nothing to be frightened of. Yet, these feelings still come upon me, unbidden. And now I know you have seen it, and that you know that I am no match for you, for I am a coward.” She trailed off, still avoiding his eyes. They both went silent again. Then he gently placed a hand beneath her chin and raised her face so that she met his eyes. 

“Éowyn,” he began, and his voice was gentler now, “‘Tis not your affinity for forests, or lack thereof, that dictates whether you are a match for me. You are a match for me because you are strong-willed and clever and kind and high-hearted. I have known you to be thus since we first met.”

“But knowing my feelings of the woods, do you not now doubt that?”

“Certainly not! And I do not like the idea that you would force yourself to care for something just because you think I want you to.”

She shook her head softly. “I do want to, though. If this is meant to be our new home, then I would learn to love it as you do. I would like to walk at ease beneath the green canopies of the leaves, and find my way readily along secret paths through the trees.”

“And in time you may. But do not push yourself. There is no rush; we have plenty of time.”

“But do you not think that it is shameful that I feel this way?”

“No, I do not. Fear is common, even among those with great renown. Take Imrahil, for example. My uncle hates snakes. There is one who fought orcs and trolls at the very gate of the Black Land, and yet an unexpected encounter with a garden snake will send him into a fit. Do you think him a coward?” 

“No,” said Éowyn. 

“Then why think of yourself that way? I surely do not. For look, here you are, having followed me into what might well be the most impassable thicket in Ithilen, knowing full well that you feel ill at ease in such places. That is not the behavior of someone craven.” 

“I suppose I had not thought of it thus.”

“Well I hope that now you will. And please, do not hide your fear from me. Had it not occurred to you that perhaps I would wish to help you?”

Éowyn shook her head, for that notion had not. For so many years she had hidden her fears, doubts, and desires, first in an attempt to be considered equal to her brother, and later simply because there was no one to whom they mattered. It was still unfamiliar to her to be so open about what was in her heart, even with her husband.

“I will try,” she said. “And I do still wish to walk in the woods with you. I do not truly think of the forest as hateful, that was said in anger.”
“I know,” Faramir said lightheartedly. “You often exaggerate thus when you are angry.” But then he looked at her more solemnly. “But in all seriousness, I do not want you to force affection for this place. I know that it is new to you, and very different than your home. It is true that I have hoped to show you the wild beauty of this place, but my love for you is not contingent upon anything, least of all your feelings about some trees.”

Unexpected relief came over Éowyn at Faramir’s words, for though she had never thought to name it, part of her had worried that he would be disappointed in her if she did not immediately harken to the loveliness of the so-called Garden of Gondor. She paused thoughtfully for a moment and then spoke.

“It is true that Ithilien is very different than the wide open places of the Riddermark. But I tell you the truth when I say that it is, in its own way, splendid. There are more varieties of flowering vine and bush and tree than I had ever imagined in the whole world, and of course there are many fair falls and pools in which to swim; far more than in the Mark. I am sometimes ill-at-ease in the dense woods, but already I have grown to love walking through the meadows near to Emyn Arnen. Perhaps I will one day feel the same about the entirety of this place, or perhaps I will not. But I would like to try.”

Smiling, Faramir rose and offered Éowyn his hand. He drew her to her feet and kissed her tenderly upon the brow. 

“Well,” he said, “we can begin by pushing our way out of here.” Then he clasped her hand gently, and the two of them continued abreast down the canyon.

VII.

Emyn Arnen, Ithilien

Late Summer

Fourth Age 10

The little stream flowed quietly through the trees. Éowyn stood ankle deep in it, looking up at the canopy of lacquered leaves that arched overhead. The air in this part of the forest was close, and only dappled shafts of sunlight filtered down from above. Once, such a place might have unsettled Éowyn, but she had dwelt now in Ithilien for more than a decade, and she had grown fond of these sorts of hidden dells beneath the trees. The forest no longer seemed to trammel her, but to wrap about her gently, as if in an embrace. 

She glanced over her shoulder towards the narrow bank, where Faramir sat with their two children. He was reading to them from some book, but she could tell from Elboron’s face that he was growing restless. A little ways from Elboron sat five-year-old Finduilas, who had begun picking up small pebbles and tossing them at her older brother. He weathered the first two volleys with admirable composure, but when the Finduilas launched the third round of pebbles he cried out loudly.

“Stop it! Mama! Father. Make her stop. ” 

Finduilas, called out for her mischief, burst immediately into tears. Éowyn, suppressing a smirk at this predictable outcome, began wading to the bank. Finduilas came barreling towards Éowyn at the edge of the stream, while Elboron stood behind her with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Éowyn reached out and placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. 

“It’s alright, Finduilas, don’t cry. But Elboron is right to be upset, you should not have thrown rocks at him.”

“That’s right!” Elboron emphasized, “She shouldn’t have!”

“I’m sorry!” Finduilas wailed. 

“You should be! You cry about everything even when it’s your fault,” Elboron shot back.

“Elboron,” Faramir said in a warning tone. “That’s enough. You are her elder, you should accept her apology with grace.”

A strange feeling came over Éowyn, as if she had seen this whole scene play out before. For indeed, in a way she had, nearly three decades prior, on a wild night of storms just after she and Éomer had arrived at Edoras.

“Elboron,” she said, stepping out of the stream and coming to sit on the bank. “Finduilas. Settle down, and let us forget about the rocks. Now, has anyone ever told you about the wonders of the Northern Woods?”