By: Dana
Summary: Not all birthdays are happy.
Characters: Theoden, Eowyn, mention of others
Pairings: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Written for the birthday challenge on ringprov. Written before the events of the Lord of the Rings. Beta'ed by Elly.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Eowyn stands with her arms held straight at her sides, a fierce-stubborn look on fair, dirtied cheeks. There is a dark green ribbon knotted in tangled yellow curls, a rip up one sleeve and down one side of her summer gown - a gown the same green as the undersides of bright summer leaves.

At his approach, she turns, her head held high. Such strength in that gaze - he almost feels that there is not room enough for the both of them on Meduseld's wide porch. It is good, then, that he sent the door guard away.

"How did it happen?" he asks.

Her gaze flashes like grey fire - undaunted, unafraid. "We were only at play."

Her eyes are too much like his sister's, he thinks, and he pushes that thought away. It has not been too long, after all, since Eomund's death, since Theodwyn followed.

"At play?" An echo. "To dirty your face, to so tear your dress. It is not seemly for a young lady of the court. It is your birthday, Eowyn. Did you not find your new gown to your liking?"

Her only reply is bitter like ash. "I was playing with my brother."

Silence, then. It had not looked like play. A killer's fire in her eyes, then, and she had shouted at Eomer as Thodred had pulled her away. I am not, I am not, I am not! I am a child no more!

And he could not speak, not till his son had led Eomer away. And still he doesn't fully understand. It is too soon, her loss is too near. Eomer has Thodred, guidance. What does Eowyn have, all alone? This place is too harsh for a lady.

But he can hope. In time, her pain will pass. In time, she will heal.

"What shall I do with you, now?"

"Whatever you see fit, my lord."

She is already no child. "Come now," he says, stooping down on his knees. "Give your uncle a hug."

She does, though reluctant, and Theoden wraps her up in his arms. She is like a small prickly thing, not wanting this comfort, and he is careful. He feels knotted hair under one hand, and Eowyn turns her head.

What a picture they must paint, he thinks, a king and his dirty maid-child-niece.

"What day is it today?" he says.

"My birthday," is her reply - nothing more than that.

"You are too young for this," he says. Theoden feels the pressure of her hair as she turns her face, looks out over the plains. Eowyn is silent, and grips at his arms. Her hands are small, but her hold is tight. "You are still allowed to live."

Such distressing strength in those hands.

He has watched her, these last months since she came to live with her brother at his court. Months, and she has grown more wild, more prone to long fits of silence. She should be a laughing child, with bright ribbons in her hair. The green in her hair falls in long lifeless strips.

"I know that you do not see it, but you are too young to not live. They are gone, Eowyn, but they will not be forgotten. And they will not love you any less, for moving on."

Eowyn is silent, still, then presses her face to his shoulder. When she looks up, again, tears streak her dirty cheeks. "We were only at play," she says, as though she will never again be allowed; not now that her parents are gone. Not now that she has had to grow up too quick. "Only at play."

But play is not desperation, and he sees the seeds of it her eyes - her mother's eyes. And now her mother is gone, her father too, and she is only a child, though she will never allow herself to be one again.

Theoden holds Eowyn close like his own child of flesh and blood. The breeze blows and their hair mingles together, and they hug each other tight, emerald and crimson and tarnished gold and soft white.

And Eowyn's tears fall quiet like rain.