The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Before the Storm (3)

Visenya sat quietly in her tent, the flickering candle casting long shadows against the canvas. She could hear the low murmur of voices outside, the shuffling of boots and clinking of armor as the men of Rohan moved about the camp. She had tried to rest, to clear her mind from the storm of thoughts, but sleep was elusive. Tomorrow they would ride to war—a war against an enemy that seemed too vast, too powerful. Even with all her experience and strength, there was a weight in her chest she could not shake.

Sighing, she lay back, listening to the faint sounds beyond the tent. The night was thick with the anticipation of battle, the tension in the air almost palpable. The men of Rohan were a proud people, warriors by nature, but even they could not deny the fear that settled in their bones. Visenya could feel it too, and it gnawed at her, a constant reminder of what was at stake.

The sound of familiar laughter pulled her from her thoughts. She sat up, straining her ears, recognizing Éowyn's voice just beyond her tent flap. Curious, and perhaps looking for a distraction from the endless circling of her thoughts, Visenya rose and stepped outside.

Not far from her, she saw Éowyn still helping Merry, the hobbit, with his armor. He stood awkwardly, fumbling with the straps, clearly unused to the weight of the gear. His determination was almost endearing, and Visenya couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"There," Éowyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "A true esquire of Rohan."

Merry beamed with pride, his small frame clad in a leather cuirass and helm that seemed a little too big for him. "I'm ready!" he declared enthusiastically, drawing his sword with a flourish.

Éowyn jumped back, startled but laughing, as Merry clumsily waved the blade. "Sorry," he mumbled, his cheeks flushing. "It isn't all that dangerous. It's not even sharp."

Éowyn shook her head with a grin, her eyes shining with amusement. "Well, that's no good. You won't kill many orcs with a blunt blade." She placed a hand on Merry's shoulder, steering him towards the camp's smithy. "Come on! To the smithy, we'll go."

Merry nodded, taking a few more practice swings as he walked, his steps light and eager. Éowyn followed closely behind, her laughter carrying on the wind.

From their spot near the campfire, Éomer and Gamling observed the scene. They had been sitting quietly, sharing a meal, their expressions somber in the firelight. War weighed heavily on the minds of all who were gathered here, but seeing Éowyn and Merry's antics brought a brief moment of levity.

Éomer shook his head as he watched his sister encourage the hobbit. "You should not encourage him," he said, his voice carrying a note of disapproval.

Éowyn, hearing her brother, paused and turned back to him, her expression shifting from amusement to defiance. "You should not doubt him," she shot back, her tone firm.

Éomer sighed, standing up from where he sat. His protective instincts, sharpened by years of battle and loss, surfaced quickly. "I do not doubt his heart," he admitted, his eyes following Merry's small figure as he walked toward the smithy. "Just the reach of his arm."

Gamling chuckled quietly beside him, nodding in agreement. It was clear to them both that Merry's heart was in the right place, but the dangers of battle were not something a hobbit could truly understand. War was not just about bravery—it was about survival, about blood and death.

Éowyn's eyes narrowed, her defiant stance growing stronger. "Why should Merry be left behind?" she challenged, her voice sharp. "He has as much cause to go to war as you! Why can he not fight for those he loves?"

Visenya, who had been standing quietly in the shadows, felt the shift in the air. She had seen this kind of tension before—between brothers, between comrades before a battle. The need to protect and the need to prove oneself were often at odds in times of war. She lingered, watching the exchange, knowing it would only escalate.