When she thinks of childhood, Éowyn thinks of hair the color of her own tumbled together with hers, of laughter and stolen jam tarts underneath blanket fortresses, of her brother growing tall and strong while she followed like the pale moon follows the sun and wept when she was left behind.

She is older now, cold and strong herself, and she no longer weeps. But Éomer still glows like the sun; and now her hair catches wisplike in his beard when it spills with his over the pillows, and his hands on her are as soft as their laughter.

Éowyn needs no other light.