A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I wish all of you positive vibes and productivity in 2020! 2019 was an extremely rough year for me, both mentally and emotionally. But I'm excited to be moving past all of the angst and awfulness of the past year and start fresh. One of my goals is to spend more time on my writing, namely this story. I've been away from Rose of Gondor for entirely too long. I want to deeply thank everyone who has continued to read this story in my absence and reach out through reviews and messages. You wonderful readers are the key to my determination to finish this story!

I wish this first update in over a year was more action-packed as a way to thank all of you for sticking with me, but I hope the introduction of Eowyn will be enough to satisfy all of you instead. She is one of my favorite characters in Lord of the Rings, and I only hope I can do her justice! I will also note that due to my eagerness to release this story first thing in the new year, it is currently unbeta-ed. Any roughness or mistakes are mine and mine alone. The chapter may be reposted later with any necessary edits, and I will let everyone know in my next update if that has been done. I'm hoping to update once a month for now, so I'm shooting for Chapter Nine to be published February 1st.

Also, if any of you are interested, feel free to follow me on Tumblr! My main account at username Star-Lined Soul is where I primarily reblog writing advice and intend to post about my writing process and other original pieces I'm working on. I also have a sideblog under username roseofgondor that is dedicated to LotR and inspiration for this story. Both are linked in my author profile for easy access, and my ask box is always open if you have any questions about this story or my writing or absolutely anything else. I'd love to hear from all of you!

And now I'm finished with the shameless plug and will let you get to the important part: the chapter!

Please review and let me know what you think!

Thanks for reading!

Lauren

Chapter Eight

Common Ground

Returning to the waking world was like fighting that cursed river all over again. Time and again, Rimiriel would rise to the very edge of consciousness. Time and again, the clawed grasp of heavy slumber would drag her back beneath the surface. She tumbled and twisted head over heels in the undercurrent of dark dreams filled with fire, blood and death. When she finally breached the surface of awareness and managed to stay afloat, it was with muddled senses and no small amount of confusion.

Coarse sleep-sand glued her eyelids together. Every feather from the down pillows cradling her head had been stuffed through her ears, overcrowding her skull so that she could not piece together a coherent thought. The surrounding quiet was suffocating after days of thundering hooves and steady rain.

For a moment, Rimiriel imagined she had fallen asleep after a night of studying and been carried to bed by one of her brothers. But no, a drowsy voice in her head reminded her. She had wandered far from the libraries of Minas Tirith and she had done so alone. She had traversed the farmlands of the Anorien, survived the icy waters of the Mering Stream, and crossed the grasslands of Rohan with none but her stallion for company. She had seen the golden roof of Meduseld with her own eyes—a feat few in Gondor could justly claim—and met the lord of the famed hall.

As she opened her eyes to the brightness of the mid-morning sun, Rimiriel remembered Théoden King's offer of hospitality. Her foreign surroundings stood witness to the truth of his offer. A servant had led her to this room—spartan, though not in an uninviting way. High wooden beams arched overhead, so different from the stone ceilings of Gondor. A rock hearth still glowing on one side and a single window on the other were all that interrupted the walls aside from simple, solidly built furniture. She reclined in the room's centerpiece: a large bed dressed in blankets made from pelts. Curious fingers marveled at the foreign softness of the warm layers. Aside from the mining villages high in the mountain regions, Gondorian winters were rarely cold enough for furs to be in high demand.

The servant that had brought her to the room had stoked a fire in the hearth and ordered a bath drawn. His retreat had heralded the arrival of a team carrying a wooden tub and a collection of steaming water pots. They had filled the tub quickly and then they, too, had all retreated save a pair of women near Rimiriel's own age.

The servants did not bother introducing themselves, so the Gondorian resorted to quickly cataloguing the pair. One was taller with hooded eyes while the other was slight in both height and build, with a thick spattering of freckles across her nose. What they spoke of the Common Tongue was thickly accented, but their intentions were clear. In no condition to refuse after her series of misadventures, the Gondorian allowed the women to help her disrobe. Deft fingers worked at buckles and clasps, confiscating Rimiriel's belt and vest while she toed off her own boots. She reached for the bottom hem of her shirt and pulled it overhead, letting out a low hiss as aching muscles protested.

She had not thought about how she might look to an observer until she heard a small gasp and a foreign curse.

"You need a healer!" Taller's eyes darted between the dark bruises marring Rimiriel's torso where cruel river rapids had slammed her against unforgiving rocks. She waved her hand and the other attendant scurried toward the door.

"Please, no!" Freckles paused at Rimiriel's call, one hand resting on the door. "I would not want to cause any more trouble than I already have."

"Better to cause trouble now than to be dead tomorrow," Taller noted, one eyebrow raised.

"It is not so bad as that. Simple bruises, no more. A healer would only tell me to rest, which is already my intention."

Taller hesitated a moment longer, but finally waved Freckles away from the door with a few quick words in their native tongue. Freckles instead retrieved a bundle from a basket of supplies that had escaped Rimiriel's notice, scattering a handful of herbs over the steaming bathwater.

"They will help you feel better," Taller explained while helping Rimiriel with the rest of her clothes.

"Thank you."

Taller only nodded as she guided the Gondorian over to the tub. The mingled scents of chamomile and lavender wafted from the water; the steam teased Rimiriel as its whispers sent goosebumps crawling across her skin. She gasped as she stepped in, but it devolved into a content sigh as the heat worked blissful magic on her tired body.

Despite the lady's attempts at protest, Freckles undertook the daunting task of untangling matted, mud-saturated hair. Taller guided Rimiriel in choosing from a selection of bathing oils, waving unstopped bottles under her nose. She chose one that reminded her of the gardens at the Houses of Healing. The soft scents combined with the warmth of the water and the fire crackling merrily in the background wove a soothing spell. The bath chased the thrill of completing her mission from her blood as effectively as it washed the dirt from her skin. Slowly, the exhaustion following days without rest settled deep in her bones. Her eyelids grew heavy.

She had held out until her bath was finished and she had donned a clean linen shift. Crawling into bed, she had allowed the servants to excuse themselves, but she had fallen asleep before the door could close behind them.

The stiffness in her bones now implied that she had not moved since.

A shiver traced Rimiriel's spine as bare feet met the cold stone floor. The merry fire in the hearth had died down to embers while she slumbered. The persistent chill of a dying winter had taken advantage of the weakened defenses, invading through the unshuttered window to chase away the room's warmth. The Gondorian stood and stretched her arms high above her head. A moan of relief slipped past her lips as she felt sore muscles loosen and seized bones crack.

Drawing one of the furs close around herself, Rimiriel crossed to the window. Thrice as tall as it was wide, it offered a narrow view of the world to the east. The sun painted the snow-capped mountains in the distance with brilliant golds and silvers. Below Meduseld sprawled the thatched roofs of Edoras, where townsfolk bustled between various buildings. The lady smiled at the quaint picture so different from the White City where she had been born.

The comfortable silence was broken by her stomach loudly reminding her of how long she had gone without a proper meal. Pressing a hand against her complaining belly, Rimiriel wondered if it would be acceptable to leave her room in pursuit of sustenance. She knew little of Rohirric customs of hospitality. How much liberty was she allowed as a guest? Would it be rude to not wait until someone came to collect her? She certainly could not risk offending Théoden King when he had not yet agreed to aid her people. Her stomach growled once more. It did not care what manners might dictate.

Chewing her lower lip, she cast her eyes about until she spotted a dressing gown draped across the chair of a small desk. Her boots had been taken for cleaning with the rest of her mud-encrusted clothes, but a pair of slippers had been left alongside the robe. She returned her blanket to the bed before pulling the dressing gown around her and securing the belt at her waist. The slippers were a bit too large, but they would have to do for the time being.

Rimiriel found the halls empty despite what she thought to be a late hour. Had she not been abed so long as it seemed? Trailing one hand along the walls of rough stone, she wandered the passageways without encountering a single soul. Where two corridors met, she guessed which would be the best to take, filing the choice in her mind so that she might retrace her steps if necessary.

Right. Left. Left. Forward. Right…had she been down this hall already? They all looked the same!

She could not decide if she hoped to encounter someone who could guide her in the right direction. By remaining solitary, she avoided explaining why a guest was roaming alone. Rimiriel had begun to lean toward the former when a new junction of corridors assaulted her senses with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the high-pitched lilting of easy chatter amongst women.

Her knees weakened, her mouth watered and her stomach groaned. Her wanderings had brought her near the kitchens. What luck! Not caring how mad she might look, she closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose as she turned a slow circle in the middle of the intersection. The world tilted momentarily off-kilter; she braced a hand against the wall to keep her balance.

The tantalizing smells were stronger in one direction over the others, so Rimiriel followed her nose. Babbling voices rose in volume, clashing cookware accenting the unfamiliar guttural syllables. The strong scent of spice mingled with something sweet. A few paces more brought the Gondorian to a half-flight of stairs and a heavy wooden door at their base. She set her weight against the door.

As it swung open, a blast of warm air sounded a charge. An army of robust smells-roasting meat, sweet herbs, and tangy spice-assaulted the invader. Her empty stomach clenched in agony. Her vision went fuzzy. Her knees buckled. She leaned against the doorframe, hoping the stone threshold could steady her until the onslaught passed. Dark spots danced in her eyes, resisting her attempts to blink them away. Between the shadows, Rimiriel spotted a mannish form approaching. A gentle hand landed on her arm as the figure hovered at her side. It spoke, but she could not make out the words through the ringing in her ears.

Everything was muffled and out-of-sorts. Why did she feel so hot? She tried to speak but could make no sound.

The figure must have understood. The gentle touch tightened to a vice grip pulling Rimiriel further into the kitchen and pushing her down on a stool. The level change made the room spin and the blots in her vision swirl faster, so she screwed her eyes shut tight. Leaning forward and burying her head in her knees, sucking deep breaths into her lungs and fighting the urge to vomit, the lady wished she had not chosen to leave her room.

A light touch landed on her shoulder. Rimiriel groaned what she hoped was a request to be left alone. It was ignored as the touch became a forceful shove that pushed her up and back to lean against the wall. Her empty stomach heaved as her gut flipped and spun, protesting the change in position. Gentle hands laid a cool, damp rag across her sweaty forehead, ripping a relieved gasp from her throat.

A spoon snuck past parted lips. It was only a simple soup of beef stock carving a hot path down her throat to pool in her belly, but the explosion of flavor across her tongue was enough to make Rimiriel dizzy again. She devoured more soup, not sparing a thought for the pitiful picture she made. The sickness and disorientation passed slowly as her stomach forgot the feeling of emptiness.

Rimiriel finally reached up to pull the rag off her eyes so that she might see who had come to her rescue. Sitting opposite was a woman old enough to be her grandmother. Her simple garb signified she was a servant of the house, but her posture suggested she held some level of authority. A wrinkled face played host to a kind, encouraging smile and dark, piercing eyes. Rimiriel read no judgement in that stare, but only concern and curiosity.

"Feeling better?" the woman asked. Her pronunciation of the Common Speech was rough to Rimiriel's ears, but not indiscernible.

She matched the casual tone. "Much better, thank you."

It was true; the dizziness had abated and the spots in her vision had faded away. The ringing in her ears had also subsided as her stomach stifled its demands for sustenance.

With the return of her senses, however, Rimiriel noticed the silence in the kitchen that had been so noisy. Peeking around her helper, she saw that workers had abandoned their duties in favor of openly staring at her. Mortified by how pathetic she must seem to warrant such unapologetic scrutiny, the lady cast her eyes to her lap.

She was not the only one to notice the kitchen's shifted focus. The woman who had been helping her barked an order in what could only be Rohirric; her unyielding tone sent the women back to work in a frenzy. Rimiriel took note that this woman was undeniably in charge here. Such knowledge might prove useful.

"Excuse them," the cook said as she returned her attentions to the source of her kitchen's unrest. "We haven't had guests from the south since before many of them were born."

The comment did little to soothe Rimiriel as she felt her body flush. Her actions here reflected not only on herself but on all of Gondor. What a fool of herself she had already made!

"It is no trouble," the lady lied. She focused on the elder woman's kind face and apologetic tone rather than the distrustful glances she could still feel. It was no small task, especially considering the two women hissing in their native tongue, heads bent together and never taking their eyes off her. Her aunts and various tutors had spent countless hours lecturing her on manners and proper courtesy. Now was not the time to shirk their teachings and humiliate herself further.

The cook nodded before sweeping through the kitchen in search of more food for her half-starved guest. When she returned to Rimiriel's side, she had a plate of toast in one hand and a cup of water clutched in the other.

She seemed apologetic as she passed them into the lady's outstretched hands. "I'd offer you something heartier, milady, but it's nearing time for the midday meal and you'll be expected."

"This is more than kind," Rimiriel assured her in return. She did not wish to be any more of a burden than she had already.

She was kept under scrutiny for a few more long moments. The elder woman seemed to expect her to relapse at any moment and send her dishes crashing to the floor. After watching her finish one of the pieces of toast, the cook was finally satisfied in the lady's recovery. A wide grin and a kind pat on Rimiriel's cheek, and then the cook excused herself.

With their overseer disappearing in a series of brisk steps, the workers set to speaking amongst themselves once again. Despite knowing none of their tongue, the meaning was not lost on Rimiriel as she noticed the women breaking from chopping vegetables, kneading dough and washing dishes to glance—or stare, as it were—in her direction. Not undisturbed by the malice that danced between the curious tones, the Gondorian elected to keep to herself. It was not the first time she had faced such hostile scrutiny, and it was unlikely to be the last.

She nibbled at her toast, still warm from the fires. It had been dressed in a sort of fruit preserves, unfamiliar but not unpleasant in their sweetness. They were not the famed preserves of South Gondor, but still Rimiriel hummed in satisfaction. Even such a simple thing was like a king's feast when one was hungry enough.

She had been fortunate in her life to never know what it was to be starving. She had missed the occasional meal when studying or tending the wounded in the wake of a skirmish, but this was the first time she had experienced the overwhelming sickness that came from exhausting all her body's reserve energy and then some. Such vulnerability was not something she was eager to reacquaint herself with anytime soon—especially not while she was alone in a strange land. She had been lucky this time, she knew, in running into someone like the kind cook who had helped her rather than one who would do her harm. Eventually, luck always ran out.

"Do you think she can wear my clothes?"

Éowyn matched Hilda's trot down the halls of Meduseld as they followed a familiar path toward the kitchens. She had been in the midst of preparations for the midday meal when her progress had been halted by the call to her newest duty. Meduseld's foreign guest had finally risen- and found her way to the kitchens on the verge of starvation, to hear Hilda tell it.

Perhaps the lady was in as poor shape as her brother suggested, Éowyn thought. Otherwise occupied when the Gondorian had arrived the day before, the Rohiril had not witnessed the spectacle for herself, but all anyone had wished to discuss at the evening meal was their highborn visitor. Though the Rohirrim were not dishonest by nature, they were known to exaggerate for the sake of a good tale. Éowyn knew there was a seed of truth in the talk of a woman dressed as a man appearing at court. She knew it was likely that the lady had suffered a long and perilous journey; the servants who had seen to the lady reported that she had been exhausted and bruises marred her body. And it took no particular intelligence to notice the sobriety in the usually lively hall and conclude that the Gondorian truly had come to request that Rohan join their southern neighbor in the fight against Mordor.

But the stranger's failure to appear at dinner barred Éowyn from forming her own opinion on the matter. Someone had tried to wake the lady, but she would not rouse despite all efforts. In many eyes, this was damning evidence of their guest's character more than it was a normal result in the aftermath of a strenuous journey.

"Some promising alliance," one soldier had grumbled.

"Typical southern nobles!" another crowed from the depths of his umpteenth pint of mead. "They can ask ye to die for them, but ye'd best no' 'spect anythin' in return. Cheats 'n' liars, the lot o' them!"

Both raised their pints to join a chorus of agreement when Éomer offered the scathing comparison of their visitor to an aggressive half-drowned rat.

The king had said nothing in response to these comments, if he heard them at all. Éowyn had noticed her uncle's silence and assumed he was preoccupied with considering Gondor's request. He had asked her to ensure their guest was treated well and would join him for the midday meal, but that had been all.

She knew she should feel honored by her uncle's faith in her, but still the Rohiril chafed under the yoke of responsibility. Did she not have enough to do without coddling some foreigner? How did one go about tending a daughter of the Steward of Gondor anyway?

The first step would be finding the lady some proper clothes, she knew, having already heard from Hilda that the Gondorian had arrived in the kitchens still in borrowed nightclothes. Even that task seemed daunting. From the little she knew of Gondor's customs, Éowyn understood that much of an individual's status reflected in their manner of dress. Would their guest be offended if offered a gown that was too plain? How was Éowyn to know what colors their guest liked? Did she prefer draping sleeves or fitted? An open neckline or something more modest?

"She is a bit shorter than you, m'lady," Hilda reported before her mistress's thoughts could spiral out of control. She clicked her tongue before continuing her observations. "But of a similar build, I think. We may have to tack the hem, but one of your gowns should do well enough until her own clothes are clean and mended."

Éowyn nodded. Having entered the king's service long before his niece had been born, Hilda was not one to stand on ceremony with the younger Rohiril. The unyielding woman had been a source of discipline and wisdom from the moment Éowyn and her brother had arrived at Meduseld after their parents' deaths. Having raised six children of her own, Hilda had taken on the responsibility of raising Théodred after the death of Théoden's queen. Doing the same for her liege's niece and nephew had been pure instinct. As Éowyn had grown to adulthood, Hilda taught her the duties of overseeing the Golden Hall—traditional responsibilities of the king's closest female relative. Filling a hole left empty by the Rohiril's deceased mother and aunt, Hilda had never steered Éowyn astray. She trusted the wise woman's judgement above anyone else on matters such as these.

Hilda paused with a hand on the door to the kitchens. "Be sure to address her as your equal," she advised, her tone carefully even. "The lady does not strike me as so particular, but she is still the daughter and chosen emissary of the Steward of Gondor. And he is king of that realm in all but name. Take care to honor her accordingly."

Only after Éowyn had confirmed her understanding did Hilda lead the way into Meduseld's kitchens. Unsure of what she had anticipated after all she had heard of their foreign guest, the Rohiril was somehow still surprised. Perhaps she had expected some wooden sign declaring outsider to be hung around the stranger's neck, or maybe she had thought to find the lady shouting orders about the kitchens as her lofty upbringing might suggest.

Instead, the Gondorian was tucked into an out of the way corner of the kitchens, unassuming where she sat on a stool with one of the hall's cats purring in her lap. She was humming and running her fingers through a tawny coat, a half-smile on her lips as the cat arched into her touch. In a green dressing gown cut and quilted in traditional Rohirric style, only the lady's dark hair swept unbound over one shoulder and the unfamiliar tune of her song made obvious her position as a guest. Before Hilda could alert the foreigner that she was no longer alone, she had already turned to watch their approach. Sensing the shift in her attentions, the tabby quickly vacated her lap to amuse himself elsewhere.

Éowyn resisted the urge to squirm as sharp eyes scrutinized her from head to toe. She held her head high and proud as Hilda gestured to her.

"M'lady, this is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and niece of Théoden King."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Éowyn," the Gondorian said as she rose to her feet and swept into a curtsy in one practiced motion.

Éowyn envied the innate grace in the action as she met it with her own simple bob. "Likewise," she returned blankly. "My uncle has tasked me with attending to your needs during your stay here in Meduseld. He asks that you join him for his midday meal so that you might further discuss the circumstances that brought you to our realm."

"Then of course I will oblige him."

An uncomfortable silence fell once the Gondorian had followed Éowyn from the kitchens. The Rohiril would never admit it to her charge, but she was uncertain of how to proceed. The customs of hospitality required welcoming a guest and extending a hand in friendship.

But this was a stranger. One who had brought with her the threat of war. The Rohirrim still had not recovered from another time when they had welcomed a stranger. The wizard Saruman had taken over Isengard under the promise of a strong alliance, welcomed by Rohan's king so many years ago. Then he had betrayed them. He had caused the death of her cousin Théodred, had poisoned her uncle's mind almost beyond recovery, had sent armies to raze the villages, and had left all of Rohan on the verge of destruction. So many had died because of his influence. It would take years for the realm to recover from such treachery. And now a stranger was asking them to sacrifice even more? How could she be expected to counter such a demand with hospitality and friendship?

"Did you sleep well, my lady?" Éowyn finally asked in attempt to break the disconcerting silence.

"I did, Lady Éowyn. Thank you."

It was quiet again.

The path to her own quarters was a short one, at least. But even the relief of arrival was short-lived as Éowyn noticed the Gondorian studying her new surroundings. She considered tales she had heard of the southern lands: vast cities of stone ruled by great lords, such an excess of riches that precious gems served as toys for children, whole buildings used for nothing more than hoarding books and knowledge, citizens whose sole duty was to create art through paintings and sculptures. Looking around her own room with a new eye, the Rohiril noticed cracks and discoloration in the wooden furniture that had once been her mother's when she had been a child of this hall, bedclothes worn thin from frequent use, tapestries hanging on the walls woven by her own hand rather than that of a master. She had always been comfortable in her room, surrounded by the familiarity of her own belongings. Thinking of how it must look to one who had been born into a world of such wealth as Gondor, however, it all felt inadequate. Éowyn wanted nothing more than to push the woman from the room and slam the door behind her.

But it was too late. The lady had already crossed the threshold. Well. Best to finish this quickly.

Éowyn marched over to the heavy chest at the foot of her bed, unlatching and flinging open the lid to reveal its contents. She dove into the collection of gowns, pulling one out only to frown and return it after imagining the color against the foreigner's skin or contrasted with steely eyes. Another was shaken to remove the creases in the fabric, earned a nod and was draped across the bed. This one had an odd cut to the neckline that the lady might not appreciate. That one grew irritating and itchy after a time. This one might do. That certainly will not.

"Did you weave this?"

The odd question pulled Éowyn from her task only for her heart to plummet into her stomach. The Gondorian was inspecting one of the wall hangings, running a slow hand across multicolored threads that intertwined to depict a herd of horses racing through a field.

"Yes," Éowyn managed around the knot in her throat. She waited for the quality to be deemed poor, the handiwork sloppy, the subject matter boring.

"It is beautiful. I wish I had such talent."

Stunned by the lack of sarcasm or derision in the lady's tone, the Rohiril felt heat rising in her cheeks. "Th-thank you," she stuttered. She did not know what she should be doing with her hands. "You are not a weaver, my lady?"

"I never possessed the talent or patience for it," the Gondorian admitted while crossing the room to study its other tapestry. "Much to my aunt's disappointment…the Lady of Dol Amroth is held in high regard across Gondor in both weaving and embroidery."

"And what about your mother?"

"She was not a seamstress, either. Music was her preferred domain, in which I am also talentless. But I have heard many tales of her skill on the harp."

"Only tales?"

"She died when I was very young. I consider myself fortunate that she passed beyond this world before I could prove a disappointment to her."

"Oh." Silence reigned in the room for a long moment as Éowyn cursed her own curiosity. Struggling to find a proper response to the foreigner's offhand revelation, she wished she had never spoken.

"My apologies, my lady. I should not have spoken so loosely."

The wavering voice brought the Rohiril's attention to flushed cheeks, eyes studying every facet of the room except where she was standing, a hand rubbing the back of the neck, and the way the lady shifted from foot to foot. Almost as if she were…nervous?

Éowyn considered her own apprehension toward the hall's guest. She was strange to them, but were they not also strange to her? Whether it was wise or not, the lady had come to Rohan alone. She was outnumbered in a land of unfamiliar customs and laws, forced to rely on the hospitality of strangers. She considered the hostile words being tossed around Meduseld without challenge and the malicious stares of the kitchen staff that had not escaped her attention only minutes before. Looking to the woman who was now gazing only at her feet, tension in every line of her body, Éowyn wondered: what had the woman done to deserve such behavior? Yes, she had arrived with the promise of war, but she was a messenger seeking aid, not some foreign invader thirsting for blood. There were those who claimed the woman had treated their king with disrespect, but Éowyn could not swear she would not do the same if she were seeking an alliance from a reluctant lord while innocent lives hung in the balance. If she were in the same position as their foreign guest, alone and with no idea of where to turn, she would hope for the kindness of a friend to help her navigate the foreign environment.

The Rohiril had never had many friends; few understood her well enough to earn such a title. Even her own brother had grown deaf to the yearnings of her soul: a desire for freedom and choice and the opportunity to answer the call of the blood that rushed through her veins. The blood of warriors and kings, wasted within the body of one condemned to a small life. She had grown skilled at pretending. The charade of dutiful niece blind to the invisible shackles caging her within Meduseld had become so familiar she could almost forget she had not created the chains herself. She supposed she could pretend again, at least until the outsider returned to her own lands. What was one more illusion?

"I also lost my mother when I was young." She kept her voice soft and even, offering an encouraging smile as it had the intended effect of drawing the stranger's eyes from the floor. Éowyn beckoned the Gondorian closer. "Come, see which of these you prefer."

There was still a wariness in the lady's slow approach and tense posture. Éowyn pretended not to notice as she chose a navy gown and held it against the Gondorian's torso. A small smile tugged at the corners of round lips as the lady held the heavy skirt out to one side. She swayed in place before glancing at the other waiting dresses.

"These are all lovely…you have fine taste, Lady Eowyn."

"Choose whichever you like." The Rohiril busied herself with adjusting a dark grey, velvet gown to avoid acknowledging her charge's praise. "This would complement your eyes."

The Gondorian pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she fingered the soft fabric. She finally asked, "Which is your favorite?"

The question confused Éowyn. She looked to the Gondorian with narrowed eyes, finding her absentmindedly fingering the soft fabric of the navy gown still clutched to her chest, oblivious to any scrutiny. Why did the lady want to know? Was it some sort of test to ensure she was not being forced to wear cast-offs? Her way of making certain that she would only be dressed in the best Rohan had to offer? Surely it was not an intended slight against Éowyn herself? The same woman who seemed so nervous could not also be so haughty as to demand Éowyn's favorite gown and no other, could she?

It occurred to her that perhaps she was not the only one who had practice in pretending.

Sometimes deflection forged the quickest path to an answer.

The Rohiril shrugged. "I do not see how my opinion matters, my lady. I am not the one who will be wearing it."

"That may be true," the Gondorian returned, "but I would be loath to repay your kindness by damaging your favorite gown. If there is one you feel no particular attachment toward, I would much rather borrow it over any other."

And then, like an afterthought, "Please, call me only Rimiriel. I have never been much of a lady."

She had assumed the worst yet again. Guilt squirmed in Eowyn's gut in response to her guest's simple reply and its underlying grace and consideration. Not a lady, indeed. "Then it is only fair that you must do the same for me."

"Of course!" Round lips split into a wide smile that sparked lightning in stormy eyes. It was an infectious, unguarded thing that had the Rohiril meeting it with her own grin even as the lady repeated her name slowly, as if tasting it and testing its sound.

Eowyn returned to the more pressing matter at hand as she studied the line of dresses sprawled across her bed. Rimiriel had little to fear, as none of the dresses were considered favorites, and so it became a game of which gown would best serve the wearer. Reminding herself that this was not about her own tastes, Eowyn took a moment to study her charge from head to toe. Rimiriel was lithe and long-limbed. Her skin was pale, but with an olive undertone that Eowyn found strange compared to that typically seen in the Rohirrim. A high-collared gown would do little to complement the lady's long, graceful neck; fitted sleeves would serve her better than wide, draping ones. Narrowing down the collection based on these observations, Eowyn nodded and selected a gown, holding it at arm's length as she turned to her waiting guest.

"I have never much cared for purple, but I believe this will suit you well."

The process of readying the Gondorian for the midday meal went far too quickly for Eowyn's liking. She could not remember the last time she had so enjoyed the company of another woman.

It had begun with Eowyn's inquiry as to Rimiriel's interests while helping her don a clean chemise and then lacing her into the chosen gown. If the lady's aunt was gifted in sewing and weaving and her mother had been a talented musician, but Rimiriel claimed neither of these for her own, what talents had the Gondorian fostered in her childhood? The answer—painting, drawing, archery and horsemanship—had come as a surprise to Éowyn at first. But she could not deny that the muscle definition she noticed while dressing the lady suited that of an archer and rider.

She speculated that Rimiriel must have been a fine horseman with equal talent for the bow to enjoy such sport. This was met with glinting eyes and a smirk that belied the Gondorian's otherwise humble reply: "My skills are adequate."

Her curiosity piqued, Éowyn had fished for more details to little avail. Rimiriel had a useful skill in which she managed to shift most questions back on the Rohiril. The younger woman had not noticed at first, so easily did the Gondorian bob and weave through a conversation, but now she was taking mental note of the tactic. It could be useful. She did not call the lady on her evasion; most of the questions Éowyn yearned to have answered were ones her uncle was also likely to ask. She would have the answers one way or another, and she could not blame anyone for not wishing to tell the same stories more than once.

After failing to convince Rimiriel to leave her hair hanging free, Éowyn plaited the soft curls—dark as freshly-tilled earth and so different from the Rohirrim's shades of gold and yellow—into a single braid from the crown of her head to follow the line of her spine. The Rohiril then offered up her jewelry chest for the Gondorian's perusal. Rimiriel had tentatively surveyed the contents before asking if any pieces were of particular value to their owner.

The question did not seem so odd this time.

Éowyn hesitated for only a moment before admitting, "Most of them I inherited from my mother."

Rimiriel's returned smile was small and sad as she gently shut the lid of the chest. "I have never preferred jewelry."

A knock on the door shattered the wordless understanding passing between the ladies. At Éowyn's call, a young servant girl entered the room and bobbed a quick curtsy. When she rose, her gaze fell on Rimiriel and held fast as she blinked owlishly, her lips parted in surprise.

Eowyn could not blame the girl when it was she who had perhaps done her job too well. The Gondorian made a stunning picture in the gown of deep purple velvet. An open collar emphasized the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders, while a fitted torso and sleeves accentuated the lady's figure. Rimiriel's natural grace and noble bearing made her appear more regal than any number of jewels could have.

As she surveyed her handiwork, Eowyn noticed the Gondorian fidgeting under such bold stares. She directed the servant's attention away from her charge firmly, but not unkindly. "What is it, Henwyn?"

A flush rose in the servant's cheeks. "Sorry, m'lady. Dinner is ready. Théoden King and Lord Marshal Éomer are waiting for you," she stuttered.

Éowyn thanked and dismissed Henwyn before turning to find the Gondorian's face had drained of color as she stared at the door. "Are you alright, Rimiriel?"

"Suddenly I am afraid," the lady admitted quietly.

"Afraid?" Eowyn parroted. "Yesterday, the gossip-mongers compared you to the very fires in the deep pits of the earth. Where could this fear now be coming from?"

"Yesterday, I was focused only on being heard…there was no consideration of the aftermath." Panicked eyes met the Rohiril's gaze. "What if the king refuses to help my people?"

Eowyn cursed herself again for her foolishness. These were times of darkness and peril. A friend would not match a companion's worry with teasing and dismissal.

"You cannot think about that." The lady laid her hands on the Gondorian's shoulders in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. "My uncle is many things, but he is not cruel and he is not unfair. State your case and trust him to judge it true."

Rimiriel nodded, swallowed hard, but said no more, schooling her expression back into one of calm indifference. She stood with her back ramrod straight and her head held high as if she were preparing for her own execution.

The Rohiril knew better than to judge so quickly this time as she read the Gondorian's severe demeanor for the defensive armor it was. Instead, she stepped to Rimiriel's side and entwined their arms as she saw girls and young women do when they walked the streets, heads bent together as they giggled and shared secrets.

"You do not have to face this alone," she vowed. "I am here with you."

As they stepped into the hallways of Meduseld once again, Éowyn turned their path toward the king's chambers. Still arm in arm with the Gondorian, she felt Rimiriel tighten her hold even as the tension in her shoulders lessened considerably.

"Thank you, Éowyn."

The words were so quiet the Rohiril nearly missed them, informal and heavy with gratitude. The warmth they sparked in her chest felt nothing like pretending. Éowyn considered what she had observed in Rimiriel in their short time together: considerate but not patronizing, kind but not spineless, brave but not fearless. She could think of worse traits in a friend.

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Drop me a review and let me know what you think and don't forget to follow me on Tumblr!

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Next update: February 1st

Lauren