Eowyn Waits
She lies awake at night and she waits. The dark allows her to relax her stony expression, and she no longer hides the fear and grief that haunt her, but she finds little comfort in the nocturnal hours. She waits for him to arrive.
He shows little subtlety whilst the sun is up. He watches her, and trails her, and corners her for private speech. He makes her skin crawl and people's tongues wag. But, she is courteous and unmoved, she is the daughter of Éomund and she can endures this. Or perhaps she does her bloodlines no honour and is merely too afraid to offend her king over his trusted advisor.
She waits. She wonders if tonight his desire will overcome his fear. She watches the thread of light beneath her door. She warps night- noises and hears him creep towards her.
Despite her disgust she doubts herself. Her uncle trusts him: can he truly be so loathsome, then? She thinks she perhaps does him an injustice. He is no orc, there is no blood upon his hands, he seems to dote upon the king, seems to care. And sometimes he knows the thoughts of her heart like no other, `though that does not please her. If he comes none of that will matter, even the king would show no mercy for his assault.
She waits and is prepared. Her stolen kitchen knife long ago replaced, upgraded to a dagger. She sharpens the blade every evening. If he comes she is no longer content to merely fight him off. If he comes she will end it. And as she waits she is uncertain whether her heart quickens with fear or with hope.