Chapter Text
The Rohirrim rose on the crest of the hill, their golden hair and fine green cloaks bathed in the sun’s soft warm glow. Ahead lay the white city of Minas Tirith. As Éomer breathed in the dewy morning air he scarcely recognized the tiered fortress. It was nearly a year since the battle of Pelennor Fields, and time had done much to heal the land. No longer did the city look as he remembered that fateful day, with flames and smoke and destruction abound. Rebuilt and restored, it seemed to exceed its former glory. It shone bright in the morning light. The stone gleamed as white as the simbelmynë that blanketed his uncle’s mound, and even from a distance, greenery and bursts of colorful flowers dotted the citadel.
To his left he heard a sharp breath and involuntarily his shoulders tensed. He turned to see Éowyn gaze at the city with an unreadable expression on her face. Beneath her Windfola grew anxious, but her rider’s steady hand and soothing whispers calmed her. While Éomer had debated suggesting she stay in Rohan, in the end it was Brona who voiced it out loud. Éowyn had icily insisted on coming. “You are one of the King’s council, not mine, Brona.” Unbothered, the elderly woman gave her a knowing smile and squeezed her arm. “Eomund’s daughter can face anything,” she said.
Éowyn had returned to Rohan a changed woman. Aragorn might have healed her body, but her mind—her very soul it seemed—was yet to be cured. The change was imperceptible to those who didn’t know her well, but to Éomer, her sorrow was clear. She laughed but there was no light in her eyes. She trained daily but her focus lacked its usual sharpness. She was more restrained, more thoughtful. In years past, Éomer would have delighted in his sister's lack of impulsive outbursts, but it brought him no joy now. Many a night he heard her wake from her nightmares in the room next to his. On those dark nights, he sat by her bed and held her hand as she struggled to fall back asleep, seeming like a shadow of her former self.
“My lord?” To his right, Holdred stared at him expectantly. His gray hair flew in the breeze and his heavily lined face held a look of confusion. “We are less than a mile away now.”
Éomer nodded at the old man. He had been Theoden’s chief advisor, before Grima weaseled his way into his place. Upon his ascension, Éomer had reinstated the man, and gained a fierce ally. He had a knack for numbers and management and it was largely due to Holdred that Rohan survived the harsh winter. He was also the only member of the council who did not hound him to marry on a daily basis, for which Éomer was eternally grateful. Brona was the worst offender by far. Not only did the former shieldmaiden badger him constantly, she either spoke to him as though he were a child or she employed dramatics.
“You need an heir, young man.”
“My young king, we must find you a wife.”
“Oh, what joy it would bring to hear the laughter of children in Meduseld once more! Who knows if I shall live to see the day?”
When Brona decreed that she and Holdred would join the king’s party, he had allowed it if she swore to not to plague him by parading him around every single woman present. After many objections she finally acquiesced.
Éowyn was not safe from her schemes either. Upon the council’s decision to join the anniversary celebration of the war’s end, Brona had remarked upon the eligible men they would meet in Gondor. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that single men in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
Éowyn had merely rolled her eyes at this. Though doubtlessly more melancholy, she was still as stubborn as she had been before the war. “You may try, Brona, but do not hope.”
Éomer leaned forward slightly and Firefoot, sensing his master was eager to arrive, resumed his pace. Their visit would be a long one. Though his people had survived the war of the ring and nearly the first year after, Éomer recognized his need for guidance. Aragorn, though new to ruling, was much older and a great deal wiser than himself. Éomer knew himself to be a just man and he did not doubt his love for his people. But he was also an honest man, and he knew his weak points. Diplomacy, political intrigue, and the inner workings of governing a people did not come as easily to him as they did to his brother in arms. With Aragorn’s counsel--and that of Prince Imrahil, who would also be staying—he felt sure he would return Rohan as a more confident and knowledgeable king.
It was what his people deserved. He would not fail them.