i would have all the strengh of men...only to clench my fists uselessly.

My mother would have told me the secrets of a woman's strength, she would have ridden next to me and whispered in my ear. And I... I would have carried her words close to my breast, to feel them beating with my heart. A woman's strength... she would whispered... a woman's strength is what she gives, not takes away. I can watch those who would not fight, or could not, and to the crones I bow my head. For they too have a woman's strength, laden down with old age and children, their stomach's weak from birthing. And yet... their strength is far greater than mine, I see in their eyes the same freedom I wish to taste. I see in their eyes the battles they have fought, and until now I thought I had seen the swords they would have carried underneath their cloaks. Not all stories have cloaks and daggers, and not all whispers bring wisdom. My mother could whisper secrets, but she also whispered happiness. Ride fast...catch the wind... she would say, and I believed that if I rode fast enough, I could.
I see in my uncle's eyes the strength of men. I see in him the fear of a father who has lost a son, the fear of the youth vanishing, not from himself, but from those around him. He fears those around him vanishing, one by one, because he is only as strong as those who support him. I see in my uncle the undying strength of will now, because he will fight the losing battle. He will fight to the end, inspired perhaps by some speech given to him, or by the hope borne to him in the form of victory. No longer is Helm's Deep a symbol of our strength, but instead our people. My brother too carries the strength of men with him, but my mother also whispered to him. Eomer...Eomer... she would say, Eomer, your sword may be strong, but what hand holds the sword can be as strong as metal? What you can cleave is not as strong as metal. In battle it is not those you have slain, but those you have saved. He too carries the people with him, bouyed by his own victory. And it was not the victory of Helm's Deep which breathes life into my brother, but a victory of self. I have yet to fight such a battle.
Tomorrow they ride to Minas Tirith. Tomorrow they ride to die. I would hold all their strength in my arms, and lead them into battle...but it is not my strength to hold. With it I can only clench my fists. I cannot take their strength, I cannot lead them anywhere. I have not yet won my own battle of self, I have not gained the shine my brother has. I have not seen the victory of self. I have not see my strength. Tomorrow...they ride to Minas Tirith. Tomorrow...they ride to their deathes.

I am Eowyn, and I carry with me a woman's strength.

Fool...no man can kill me.

I am not a man. I look into the With King, and see the strength to take away. If he had a face I would expect it to be long, gnarled with a pointed pinched look. I cannot say it is looking into death, because he is not death. I am no man.

The strength of women... Eowyn...what do you have to protect? What can you give? Who will you be?

I am Eowyn. And I carry with me a woman's strength.