Giftfic #2, for Cim_halfling
Dec. 13th, 2005 07:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneMy dear ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cim_halfling requested this:
And I have no idea what I'd request from you, if I could. Hmmmm, I love your Harry Potter, but I love your Tolkien even more. Please, could I have a little something about my beloved Eowyn?? Just a snippet if you please, and before FOTR.
For you, my dear heart who continues to beta for me and whom I am ever grateful to have met at TORn's Two Towers party, an early Solstice gift. I walked out of my building tonight in tears, but looked up and saw a nearly full moon, and thought of you. Blessings. You are one to me.
Title: A Liminal Patience
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: G
Summary: Beauty burrows resolutely in the eye of the beholder.
The POV came rather out of the blue, but I hope that you like it. And my thanks tollembas for her beta.
A Liminal Patience
Only she could make the sound of a crashing sword-blade seem like birdsong. The affectionate murmurings he overheard as she bequeathed them to Léoma, her steed, were rain spatters on the dry earth of his ears, parched with the King’s affairs and ever-widening responsibilities sent from his true master in his tower of Orthanc. Many nights he lay awake, the moon battering her light through his window, as he tried to trace the path of his heart. There had been another, in the more isolated folds of his youth, but her wounding and memory had dimmed as he threw himself into the workings of the court in the Golden Hall.
During his years in Meduseld, he had proven himself insightful and vigilant in matters of state. As time passed and he grew in favor with Théoden, so had the King's precocious niece matured. Éowyn, now fifteen years of age, resembled nothing so much as a silver birch; slender, pale, and grounded in the soil of Rohan. She was shrewd and deliberate, possessing a beauty so untarnished it bruised his spirit. Always aware of the lingering suspicion in the eyes of the King’s son, he was careful as he managed occasions to watch Éowyn ride. To his mind, her body shimmered with joy astride her horse, thundering across the plain or simply riding in the royal paddock, her goldspun hair in a heavy plait. He admired her strong, lithe form as she practiced for battles she would never see. She determinedly engaged in the thrusts and parries taught to her brother, wielding a foreign sword, surreptitiously discovered to have belonged to her Gondorian grandmother. The darkness forgave him his thoughts, as he imagined himself a tear of her sweat, sliding from pulsing temple to jaw, down her creamy column of neck.
Too late he had realized that his patron, the wise, gracious wizard, used his skills of speech to encourage him to reveal more than he had wished about his affections. Saruman had not chided him for his longing, but he now restrained his tongue to speak only of the tidings of Rohan and her rulers. His visions of Éowyn he treasured like aged wine, and he savored them as such, unhurried and alone: a crooked lower tooth, glimpsed as she laughed unabashed at a tale of questionable propriety told by her cousin; an expression of utmost resignation as she sat through the tedium of an embroidery lesson; a faint flush in her throat when one of the royal stableboys grasped at her wrist, vying for her attention. The last brought with it the icy burn of jealousy, molten ire which he assuaged with calm self-assurances. Time would reveal to Théoden that he, Gríma of the Westemnet and devoted, loyal councillor, had from his first days cherished her. She, too, would see how he had willed for her protection, that through these many years he had served as watchful, loving guardian, patiently awaiting the day when she would turn at the sound of his footfalls —
and hold out her hand.
Only she, Éowyn of the House of Eorl, could proffer herself, necessary air to his soul. For without her, the grasses of Rohan were a sea, and he, a drowning man.
* * * * *
A/N: Tolkien doesn't say where Gríma is from, but if Saruman is to have picked him out, it made sense to me to have him be from the Westemnet in the middle of Rohan and a strategic location.
cim_halfling requested this:And I have no idea what I'd request from you, if I could. Hmmmm, I love your Harry Potter, but I love your Tolkien even more. Please, could I have a little something about my beloved Eowyn?? Just a snippet if you please, and before FOTR.
For you, my dear heart who continues to beta for me and whom I am ever grateful to have met at TORn's Two Towers party, an early Solstice gift. I walked out of my building tonight in tears, but looked up and saw a nearly full moon, and thought of you. Blessings. You are one to me.
Title: A Liminal Patience
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: G
Summary: Beauty burrows resolutely in the eye of the beholder.
The POV came rather out of the blue, but I hope that you like it. And my thanks to
llembas for her beta.Only she could make the sound of a crashing sword-blade seem like birdsong. The affectionate murmurings he overheard as she bequeathed them to Léoma, her steed, were rain spatters on the dry earth of his ears, parched with the King’s affairs and ever-widening responsibilities sent from his true master in his tower of Orthanc. Many nights he lay awake, the moon battering her light through his window, as he tried to trace the path of his heart. There had been another, in the more isolated folds of his youth, but her wounding and memory had dimmed as he threw himself into the workings of the court in the Golden Hall.
During his years in Meduseld, he had proven himself insightful and vigilant in matters of state. As time passed and he grew in favor with Théoden, so had the King's precocious niece matured. Éowyn, now fifteen years of age, resembled nothing so much as a silver birch; slender, pale, and grounded in the soil of Rohan. She was shrewd and deliberate, possessing a beauty so untarnished it bruised his spirit. Always aware of the lingering suspicion in the eyes of the King’s son, he was careful as he managed occasions to watch Éowyn ride. To his mind, her body shimmered with joy astride her horse, thundering across the plain or simply riding in the royal paddock, her goldspun hair in a heavy plait. He admired her strong, lithe form as she practiced for battles she would never see. She determinedly engaged in the thrusts and parries taught to her brother, wielding a foreign sword, surreptitiously discovered to have belonged to her Gondorian grandmother. The darkness forgave him his thoughts, as he imagined himself a tear of her sweat, sliding from pulsing temple to jaw, down her creamy column of neck.
Too late he had realized that his patron, the wise, gracious wizard, used his skills of speech to encourage him to reveal more than he had wished about his affections. Saruman had not chided him for his longing, but he now restrained his tongue to speak only of the tidings of Rohan and her rulers. His visions of Éowyn he treasured like aged wine, and he savored them as such, unhurried and alone: a crooked lower tooth, glimpsed as she laughed unabashed at a tale of questionable propriety told by her cousin; an expression of utmost resignation as she sat through the tedium of an embroidery lesson; a faint flush in her throat when one of the royal stableboys grasped at her wrist, vying for her attention. The last brought with it the icy burn of jealousy, molten ire which he assuaged with calm self-assurances. Time would reveal to Théoden that he, Gríma of the Westemnet and devoted, loyal councillor, had from his first days cherished her. She, too, would see how he had willed for her protection, that through these many years he had served as watchful, loving guardian, patiently awaiting the day when she would turn at the sound of his footfalls —
Only she, Éowyn of the House of Eorl, could proffer herself, necessary air to his soul. For without her, the grasses of Rohan were a sea, and he, a drowning man.
* * * * *
A/N: Tolkien doesn't say where Gríma is from, but if Saruman is to have picked him out, it made sense to me to have him be from the Westemnet in the middle of Rohan and a strategic location.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 05:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 04:07 pm (UTC)Merry Yule to you!! (((hugs)))
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 06:34 am (UTC)one of my fave lines:
possessing a beauty so untarnished it bruised his spirit
and also the very last line. just wow.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 04:08 pm (UTC):blush: Many thanks! Yeah, 'tis creepy Grima. Hee.
I am so glad that you enjoyed this, even quoting lines back! Makes me feel very accomplished. Love your xmas icon, too. Very cute!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 04:50 pm (UTC)She, too, would see how he had willed for her protection, that through these many years he had served as watchful, loving guardian,
This is inspired! You write such a compelling, haunting Gríma.
*hugs* to you and your muse!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 04:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 06:20 pm (UTC)Thank you, so very much. :) Poor Grima, gets so little fic attention. I'm glad that you felt he was compelling; I really do believe that he had reasonably honorable intentions when he was first in Meduseld, and that Saruman corrupted him, perhaps fairly quickly.
So pleased that you enjoyed!! The muse thanks you too. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 06:09 pm (UTC)*shivers* and an icon for me too! *feels so very loved* Thank you again, K., this is so beautiful....
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-14 06:22 pm (UTC)Good- I'm glad that the element of understated desperation caught you. And happy iconage! I should make another couple of more generic Rohan-centric ones.