01 September 2007 | 266 words | Work in Progress
Title: Gone A-Haying (Part 1 of 2)
Éowyn held out a handful of silvery grass. “Clover and sweet timothy—the right and proper fare for young horses. Once those rocks have been cleared, this will make a fine hayfield.” The north wind had loosed her hair from the braids, and silken streamers whipped about her face. The seemly housewife’s coif had long since fallen, unnoticed, to the ground as they walked. Among the blenched grasses and the branches despoiled of any greenery, her rosy face and golden hair were the only traces of color.
The wind rose and fell with the rustle of dry seed heads.
“I fought a battle here,” Faramir told her, though “battle” was too grand a word for that fight. It had been no more than the chance meeting of a few unlucky men. He remembered how the air had shimmered with the pulsing of the insects. He pointed to a linden tree. “We buried the fallen over there.” It seemed he could not cross a field without stumbling on these shallow graves and seeing again the faces of the slain.
“Then we must build a high cairn to mark the place where they rest.” Éowyn’s voice sounded thin and harsh in the cold air, but the press of her gloved hand was warm upon his arm. He rarely spoke of his days as a Ranger; yet when he did, she understood as only another soldier could. He often thanked the Valar for sending him such a wife.
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