The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Before the Storm (2)

The night had settled heavily over the camp at Dunharrow, a thick blanket of quiet and anticipation. Inside her tent, Visenya sat cross-legged on the bedroll, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders, catching the faint glow of the oil lamp that flickered on the small table beside her. She had tried to find rest, but her mind refused to let her body follow. The low hum of the camp outside filtered in, the occasional murmur of soldiers, the restless shuffle of horses, and the rhythmic clang of a smith's hammer in the distance.

Visenya closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The weight of what was to come pressed against her chest like a great stone, heavy and unyielding. Her fingers absently traced the edge of the silver dagger Galadriel had gifted her in Lothlórien, the cool metal grounding her for a moment. It was a beautiful blade, deceptively light, with intricate Elven runes etched along its edge. A blade that would not be consumed by the flames of evil. She wondered if she would remain as unyielding.

But thoughts of battle were not the only thing keeping her awake. She thought of her children—Rickon, Lyanna, Brandon, and Alys. Their faces flickered in her mind, as vivid as if they were standing before her. A dull ache spread through her chest as she remembered them, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of their absence. She had said her goodbyes in Lothlórien, or so she thought. But as the night pressed on, the ache returned, stronger than ever.

She pushed the thoughts away, trying to focus on the here and now. There was no room for the past when the future was so uncertain. Tomorrow would come with blood and steel, and Visenya had to be ready.

The flap of her tent rustled, and she turned her head slightly, instinctively reaching for the dagger. But she relaxed when she saw Éowyn slip in quietly, her face glowing with a mixture of determination and frustration.

"Éowyn," Visenya greeted her softly, a flicker of a smile crossing her lips. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

Éowyn shook her head, her long hair falling over her shoulders. "I cannot rest. I've tried, but my mind races with thoughts of the battle, of what lies ahead." Her eyes were bright, filled with a fierce energy that Visenya recognized all too well. It was the same fire that had burned in her own heart so many times before.

"Sit," Visenya gestured to the spot beside her, and Éowyn complied, settling herself on the bedroll with a sigh.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the sounds of the camp muffled by the heavy fabric of the tent. Visenya could feel the tension radiating from Éowyn, the conflict raging beneath the surface. She had seen that same look in her own reflection many times before—when duty and desire pulled her in different directions.

"You're thinking of the battle," Visenya said softly, though it was more a statement than a question.

Éowyn nodded, her jaw tight. "I am ready to fight. I've trained for this, prepared for this moment, and yet..."

"And yet they will not let you fight," Visenya finished, her voice soft with understanding.

Éowyn's hands clenched in her lap, her frustration clear. "They treat me as if I am fragile, as if I do not know the dangers of war." Her voice wavered, betraying the depth of her anger. "But I am no child. I have seen battle before, even if I was not on the front lines. I know what it means to fight for those you love."

Visenya watched her closely, her heart aching for the young woman beside her. She understood all too well what it felt like to be underestimated, to have one's strength questioned simply because of who they were born to be. For so long, Visenya had been told that her place was not on the battlefield, but at court—giving counsel, raising children, ruling beside her husband. But she had never accepted those constraints.

"You are right to want to fight," Visenya said after a moment, her voice low but steady. "And your heart is in the right place. But you must be careful. War is not just about strength, Éowyn. It is about knowing when to strike, when to retreat, and when to hold the line."

Éowyn turned to look at her, her expression a mixture of curiosity and frustration. "You sound like my brother," she muttered. "Always telling me to be careful, to stay behind."

Visenya smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But I am not telling you to stay behind. I am telling you to choose your moment carefully. You are strong, Éowyn. I have seen it in you. But strength alone will not win this war."

Éowyn's eyes softened, though the fire in them did not fade. "I just want to do something, anything. I do not want to be left behind while others fight and die for the people I love."

Visenya reached out, placing a hand on Éowyn's arm. "You will have your chance. Trust in that. And when the moment comes, you will know it."

Éowyn nodded, though the tension in her shoulders did not fully ease. The weight of her desire to fight still hung between them.

Suddenly, there was a soft rustling outside the tent, and both women turned toward the sound. The flap opened, and Merry poked his head in, looking slightly sheepish.

"Sorry to disturb you both," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But, uh, Éowyn, you told me to meet you at the smithy..."

Éowyn blinked, then let out a soft laugh. "I did, didn't I?" She stood, brushing off her skirts, and gave Visenya a small, apologetic smile. "It seems I have a promise to keep."

Visenya chuckled. "Go on, then. I'll be here if you need me."

With a nod, Éowyn turned and led Merry out of the tent, her determined stride carrying her across the camp. Visenya watched them go, her thoughts lingering on Éowyn's words.

She understood that drive, that fierce need to fight for the ones you love. It was what had driven her into battle time and time again, and it was what would carry her through the coming war. But there was more to it than just strength and bravery. War tested more than just the body—it tested the spirit, the will to endure.

Visenya took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger. The battle would come soon enough, and when it did, she would be ready.

Meanwhile, outside the tent, Éowyn and Merry made their way through the camp, the firelight casting long shadows as they walked. Merry clutched his small sword tightly in his hand, his face set with determination.

"You really think I can do it?" Merry asked, glancing up at Éowyn as they approached the smithy.

Éowyn smiled down at him. "I do. You have more courage than most men I've met, Merry. And that will carry you far."

Merry grinned, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "I just hope it's enough."

"It will be," Éowyn assured him, her own doubts buried beneath her determination. She had no intention of letting anyone—man or Hobbit—face this battle unprepared.

As they entered the smithy, the blacksmith looked up from his work, his hammer pausing mid-swing.

"Ah, Lady Éowyn," he greeted her with a nod. "What can I do for you?"

Éowyn gestured to Merry, who held out his sword. "This blade needs sharpening. He'll be riding into battle tomorrow, and I don't want him doing so with a blunt edge."

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He took the sword from Merry, examining it with a critical eye before setting it on the grindstone.

As the smith worked, Éowyn and Merry stood in companionable silence, the steady rhythm of the grindstone filling the air.

"Do you think we'll win?" Merry asked quietly after a long moment.

Éowyn's gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the dark shape of the mountain loomed. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But we'll fight, Merry. And we'll fight for the ones we love."

Merry nodded, his grip tightening on his sword. "For Frodo, Sam, and Pippin," he said softly.

"For Frodo," Éowyn echoed, her heart swelling with determination.

The grindstone spun on, the sound ringing out into the night as the camp of Dunharrow prepared for the dawn.