AN: It was customary, in Viking times, for one of the household to stay up at night and tend to the central hearth. This person made sure it was banked properly, so that it would be easily stoked in the morning. Although it was an important job, it was usually carried out by one of the servants, and not the lady of the house.
This is more movie than book, I’ll admit, and is primarily based around the scene where Aragorn finds Éowyn lying in the Hall in The Return of the King (SEE).
I have been promising Amy this story for almost two years now. Someday, mellon nin, we will remember that damn fan wank.
Disclaimer: Oh so very not mine in the least. But they’re pretty, so I play with them sometimes.
Rating: PG
Summary: The first to notice was Gríma Wormtongue, of course. For little that the White Lady did long escaped his notice.
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Hearthside
“The King now returned to the Hornburg, and slept, such a sleep of quiet as he had not known for many years...”
- “The Road to Isengard” The Two Towers
The second to notice was Éowyn’s nurse. The old woman had escaped the careful dismissal of long trusted servants by virtue of her reassignment to the drying room when Éowyn came of age. Gríma never knew that the woman who prepared herbs for the evening roast was the dearest, non-kin person in Éowyn’s life. Her dressing and serving maids had been chosen for their stupidity and malleability, women that Éowyn could never take confidence in. If, on occasion, Gríma’s tea made him feel ill, he passed it off as indigestion from badly cooked meat that graced the King’s ever colder high table.
The old woman had risen early, the cold had no mercy on old bones, and gone into the main Hall to stoke the fire when she found her old charge asleep next to the hearth. Wrapped in one of her brother’s old hunting cloaks, Éowyn dozed next to the fire. The old woman was slightly alarmed – the accumulation of pillows and the presence of the divan itself indicated that this was not the first night her lady had spent such – and wondered what could bring her dear girl to forsake her room.
The old woman looked at her mistress more closely. She had grown so pale and so thin, the low fire enough to cast shadows across her fair, white cheeks. Beneath her eyes were dark rings, present even when she slept, that spoke of a weariness sleep alone could not cure. The old woman sniffed the air and smelt the smoke from the fire and the stench of horse from Éomer’s cloak. The old woman smiled slightly, only her lady could find such smells a comfort, and reached out to touch her face to find it cold as ice. Éowyn flinched away from her touch but did not wake.
There was a rustle in the corner of the room. She started and looked around to see the grim, hunched figure of Gríma Wormtongue looking at her with thinly veiled malice in his eyes. The old woman was caught; her months of aiding her mistress from afar were finished. She bowed her hear, not to him, but to her own sweet girl.
That night, the King slowly told the old woman that her long years of service were being rewarded with a well paid sum and retirement to where her sister dwelt in the Westfold. The old woman bowed to the King, his son, his nephew and his niece.
Gríma Wormtongue was not in the Golden Hall to see his victory. He was in the privy, having left his empty tea cup at his place beside the King.
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“Behold Eorl the Young!” said Aragorn. “Thus he rode out of the North to the Battle of the Field of Celebrant.”
-“The King of the Golden Hall” The Two Towers
The third to notice was Théodred. He had argued with his father and ridden out of Meduseld late at night to clear his head. The argument had varied only slightly over the years, Théodred insisting that Rohan defend, his father insisting that Rohan needed no such defense, and Théodred was sick at heart of having it. His father would not see reason and no one could make him see it.
Théodred’s cape snapped in the night wind as Brego rode hard with no urging from his master. Théodred knew his mount was clever and wondered if Brego knew that something in the Hall was amiss and thus road away from it with ease. Surely, the horse must have noticed that Snowmane had gone long with no visitor to his stall save for the stable boys and the King’s niece, and had not been ridden in longer.
The night air of Rohan was clear and crisp and Théodred felt the murkiness and confusion of the indoors melt away from him. Somewhere, though from which direction exactly he could not tell, he sensed a foreboding in the air. He had ridden east in hopes of catching an early sunrise, but the dark feelings he had shed upon leaving the hall strengthened as he road westward. Long before the sky turned pink, Brego’s step faltered and when he turned his head for home, his master did not stop him.
In the cold morning, Théodred found his favourite cousin sleeping next to the hearth, still in the fine brocade she had worn at supper when she bore the cups. Théodred had noticed that Gríma Wormtongue had gripped her hand as she passed him, a gesture that, while not forbidden, was neither within his right. Éowyn had flinched and refused to look into even the eyes of her brother for the rest of the meal.
Théodred cursed himself inwardly for missing that which was now displayed so plainly before his eyes. Here, in the Hall, a sharp cry would bring the nightwatch at a run. In her bower, Éowyn was more exposed, out of ear-shot and out of sight. Théodred vowed silently that he would save his cousin from this. He would make her safe within the Hall, or he would send her thence under the protection of her brother. His father, though distant of late, would surely listen if it was in regard to Éowyn.
There was a rustle in the corner of the room. Théodred started and looked over only to find the grim, hunched form of Gríma Wormtongue looking at him with veiled malice in his eyes.
Théodred’s brow furrowed, first wondering and then angry at what would bring his father’s councilor to the Hall at such an hour. Théodred decided at the moment to send his cousin from the court, with his father’s permission or without.
That night at supper, Théoden slowly announced that there had been rumours of orcs to the west and that Théodred would lead a small contingent of riders to scout out the truth of the rumours. Théodred bowed to his father and to Éomer, willing him to see the truth as well. He could not look at Éowyn.
Gríma Wormtongue was not in the Golden Hall to see his victory. He was in the stables, trying to weave thistles into Brego’s saddle blanket. When they asked about his bruises in the morning, he said he’d tripped on a rug and fallen against his desk.
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“But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in.”
-Gandalf, “The Houses of Healing” The Return of the King
-Gríma Wormtongue, The Two Towers
The first to notice was Gríma Wormtongue, of course. For little that the White Lady did long escaped his notice. He sat, never daring to approach, and longed for such a time that he might catch the Lady unaware in a spot less central to the comings and goings in the Hall.
Across from him, keeping nightly vigils because his Lord could not, sat Háma, the Captain of the King’s Guard. And never did he sleep the nights when his lady stayed by the warmth of the fire, but stayed out of sight watching over her, and him, as she slept.
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finis
GravityNotIncluded, About forever, 2006