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“Melmenya!”
In his haste to reach Eowyn, Legolas slid clumsily from Arod’s
back, pushed through the tangle of bracken and briars, and ran
down the sloping bank to the rocks of the Gynd Vyrn, where she
was sitting, completely still, gazing into the bubbling waters
of the Heledir.
Falling to his knees, the elf threw his arms around her. “I
have been looking for hours, melmenya…”
The woman did not reply—though, to Legolas’ relief,
she did lean against his shoulder.
“My father and Haldir, Gimli and Berryn, we have all been
looking for you…” He glanced around the familiar glade.
“What made you come to this place? Where is Brightstar?”
Eowyn lifted her head, and smiled at him, and his heart lurched
at the sorrow in her eyes. “Oh, Eowyn nín,” he
whispered, “what has happened? Where is Brightstar…?”
“He is grazing,” said Eowyn, breaking her silence at
last, “over by the droveway.”
“Then what is it?” He drew her closer, and his elven
senses answered his own question. “It has started,”
he said.
She nodded.
“I am sorry, melmenya. But it will happen, when the
time is right—perhaps next month. Unless you want
us to stop trying,” he added, suddenly. “If the disappointment
is too much—”
“I cannot, Lassui.”
“Then we will wait until you ca—”
“I cannot.” She pulled away from him.
Legolas frowned. “Then we will not, Eowyn nín.”
But she was crying—and not bravely, like the Shieldmaiden
who had captured his heart, but wretchedly, her body shuddering
with each anguished sob.
Terrified, the elf could only watch and wait.
…
Gradually, her tears subsided.
Legolas, not knowing what else to say, murmured, “Do you
remember the last time we were here, melmenya?”
She sniffed. “It was a happy day.”
“Is that why you came here, meleth nín?” Tilting
his head, he studied her face. “What is it, Eowyn? What are
you not telling me? Have you changed your mind? Do you not want—”
“I CANNOT!”
“I do not understand.”
She buried her face in her hands. “I went… I went to
Master Dínendal, Lassui. He examined me. He says…
He says that I am barren.”
Legolas—unable to comprehend that Eowyn, his wondrous
Eowyn, might be anything less than perfect—shook his head—
“I am sorry!” she wailed, “I am so, so sorry!”
He realised that his face had frozen in a frown, and he made
a conscious effort to regain control of himself.
“Melmenya?” He grasped her shoulders. “Do you
think that I…”—he searched for the right word—“do
you think that I am angry? Do you think that I mind? Except
that it makes you unhappy, I do not care at all! If you
are well, and love me, then nothing else matters—”
“But little Meldon,” she cried. “And you—your
dream—your son!”
“My son? No!” He hugged her fiercely. “Our
son, Eowyn. Our son!”
…
“Do you think,” said Eowyn, at last, “that your dream was a mistake?”
The huge autumn sun, sliding towards the trees, was bathing them
in its golden light. Legolas, still holding her in his arms, considered
her question.
“No,” he said. “But I think that the Valars’
plans have many layers.” He kissed her temple.
Eowyn sniffed. “What do you mean?”
“Well—we have been hoping for a child, but perhaps—one
day, somewhere in Middle-earth—a child will be hoping for
parents.”
“And they will bring us together…”
“Could you be happy with that, melmenya? If that was what
happened?”
Eowyn sniffed again, and nodded slowly—though her face was
still wet with tears. Tenderly, Legolas wiped them away. “We
must go home now, meleth nín,” he said. “Gimli
will still be looking for you. Haldir will be frantic—he
has probably called up the Guards already. And my father—well,
he will be declaring us both lost, and appointing Lord Fingolfin
Viceroy.”
To his relief, Eowyn managed a faint smile. “Your father
does not like Fingolfin,” she said. “Fingolfin is far
too strong for him. Your father will choose someone he can bully—he
will choose Lenwë.”
Legolas smiled back.
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