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"My sister," Éomer says, a frown creasing his lips. Éowyn looks to him, bright tears pricking at her eyes; but they are no tears of sorrow, but anger instead, and when she speaks her voice is filled with rage that is barely contained. "Good morning, brother," she says, and Éomer's frown seems to deepen, heavy with the weight of decision, final like the killing blow of a blade. And she hurts, feels the pain of that blow, is all but dead inside. "I would change it, if I could," he says, knowing that their Uncle is senile beyond his years; and if he could but see this treachery, these lies, then he would know what fate that he sends Éowyn to. And what is safe to think, would be betrayal instead to say. "And it would please him greatly." "And we live to serve," she says, overwhelmed by grief. And this snake has long been in their midst, friend at first, now foe; it is Saruman that Gríma has long served, but there is no proof. There is only the cold of twisted truth. "He has promised, Éowyn; to go against his word..." He need not say more than he has already, and Éowyn presses her fingertips against his lips, a gesture that speaks more than just words. 'No,' she mouths, and shakes her head. The gold of her hair falls like a river as she bows her gaze. He takes her hand, fragile, with his own, and he is not betrayed by the seeming lack of strength of that moon-pale flesh. "We have the day," he says, kisses her fingers; it is a bold action. On any other day, she would have turned it away. But this is it, this is the last, and there is nothing but dark beyond. And it is empty beyond the great hall of Meduseld, the sky is wide and clear, and their kiss is hot against the chill of the morning; when they part, Éowyn tastes her brother's resignation, and Éomer only tastes his sister's grief. "He says that black will suit you, sister," and Éomer's voice is soft, speaking of their Uncle. Éowyn looks away, his hand warm against the curve of her cheek, and she thinks of her fine gown; the last that she will wear, as she is wed. "It is fitting, then," and Éowyn's smile is grim, for it has been long since she was a maiden. And that night, she is startled to learn, that where she had thought Gríma's hands would be cold and hard; instead, they're soft as silk and bind like steel.
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