Eowyn runs her thumb over his mouth, and sings quietly, a favorite tune of the Rohirrim.
"Past are his woes, he has won through his perils He lives in plenty, no pleasure he lacks Nor horses nor goods, nor gold of the mead-hall: All the wealth of princes upon the earth Belongs to my lord, who wants but thee..."
She is no bard, but her voice is a pleasant alto, and the tune is a joyous one of love attained. For she cannot find words for her contentment, and must borrow another's.
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timeasmymeasure
*blatantly steals Anglo-Saxon poetry for own purposes*
Date: 2018-09-22 04:59 pm (UTC)"Past are his woes, he has won through his perils
He lives in plenty, no pleasure he lacks
Nor horses nor goods, nor gold of the mead-hall:
All the wealth of princes upon the earth
Belongs to my lord, who wants but thee..."
She is no bard, but her voice is a pleasant alto, and the tune is a joyous one of love attained. For she cannot find words for her contentment, and must borrow another's.