Eowyn inhales, bliss hot on her tongue. If she willed it, she could imagine she was beneath her bed of furs in Edoras, Eomer somewhere in the room, watching the wind carry the rain and listening to the deep laugh of the skies. There, even in her fear, she would speak and revel in the tales their mother had told themâit was a great comfort and a greater sorrow. âI believe it had been well into Autumn, for the leaves felt like slick apple peels beneath my bare feet, and I do think my maid had fallen somewhere in this muck of memory, right there onto the hidden ground, linen splayed upon the reds and yellows.â
âAm I meant to not laugh at this image?â
âAt the sorrow of Lady Gwyn? A shame,â Eowyn laughs as Arwen tugs at her ear. âI will continue: it was Autumn and the harvest had only just finished. The streets were lined with bushels of wheat and squash, and the stores filled thick with tawny rivers of ale. They say the smell of memories is the last to leave the mind; and I do not know the truth of that, only that I can smell the air of that day like I am still standing in the streetsâmy small world then was full of the sweetbitter of coming winter. Even now, I can feel the chill on my brow.Â
âI came then, out from the stablesâfor as a young girl it was my duty to aid in the cleaning of my horseâand fled from Gwynâs hands out into the peopled street. I stole from the bushels, and ran through the alleys with an apple in my hand. My people laughed, and some bristled, for I was, in my youth, surly and garish. And come this day, I was marked not by nobility, but by the horse fur on my garments and the wet wind in my hair. I left them all, however, for the lamentation of the fields, for there we had buried what remained of my father and I wished more than anything for his admonishment, for I missed even that.Â
âIt is odd, Arwen, how we grieve such things, is it not? How I missed my fatherâs cruelty and not his kindness. I wanted him to clot my ear and tell me to put on shoesâI wanted it like I wanted water when I thirst.â
Arwenâs hands are pruned, but against her cheek they are still soft. âGrief is cruel in that way, it does not let you miss what you wish you could.âÂ
