Eowyn ran his fingers over the boots. They were black, beaten and well worn, simple. He ran his hand over the toe box and remembered the foot that used to wear it. Before the war that foot was cracked and dry from many many hills humped and many packs worn. As he turned and looked at the body before him he couldn’t help but question his decision. This person had shot at him over thirty times. Yes this body meant to kill him as dead as he had accomplished. But this was his father and his death deserved reflection.