Éowyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shieldofrohan) wrote2023-10-26 11:57 pm
shieldofrohan) wrote2023-10-26 11:57 pm
for joran
She had wished for glory and great deeds. She had wished to be remembered. It had been what chafed most deeply about the silent service of her time in Meduseld - worse than the fear, worse than the slow grief of losing her uncle piece by piece, worse than the shadows drawing in. Worse than any of it was the loss of hope, the knowledge that there would be no songs of her sacrifice, only the cold creeping closer of an end that would not come.
But she had wished, always, to live and die in glory; to be a warrior, if only once, and be the stuff of songs.
And it had been granted to her, in the end. There had been the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves, and the reek of blood and sweat and shit, and the roaring of her blood in her ears. There had been terror, and she had almost quailed; but she had stood against it, stood against an evil that might have crushed her, and she had prevailed. Glory and great deeds. The stuff of song.
The thing about songs was that they ended. The hero awoke, against all odds, and the day was won, and the story was over, and then there was only another kind of silence.
The Houses of Healing were a quiet place. They were not dark and shadowy, as Meduseld had seemed to her in those final days, but neither was there any warmth in the white stone of their walls. They seemed hushed, even when she ventured outside of her room, as though the whole place held its breath. Perhaps it was the whole city, that was holding its breath. The whole world. Waiting for the final end. Waiting for word of the final sortie, the last force of the kingdom of Men, riding out to Mordor's gates to make its last stand.
And she, again, left helpless to do anything but linger and hope. As though her hope had not burned away years ago.
She grew stronger, as she had promised, and stronger meant only that she realised how weak she had become. The Witch-King's mace had shattered her shield, and flesh and bone were more brittle than wood and steel: her arm hung limp and useless in its sling, and it hurt to breathe, where arm and shield and mail-shirt had been driven into her ribs. Her head spun when she stood too long. Her body, which had always done as it was commanded, turned against her. She grew stronger, all the same; and, growing stronger, grew into the realisation that she would never be strong again.
But she was strong enough now, at least, to stand, and to walk a little way. Out into the garden, then, where the March wind cut through her cloak, but where the light was stronger, and where she could breathe cold air. She walked slowly, white-faced and tight-jawed, her pain apparent; but she walked tall, all the same.
From here, she could almost see the outer wall of the city, ruined and broken down. She had no desire to look down at the battlefield where her song had reached its crescendo - the place where she had failed, even in her triumph. The place where Théoden King had died, and had he even known, in the end, that she stood in his defence? Had he felt himself alone, at the last?
No. She did not want to look there. Her stomach lurched at the thought. But she leaned against the low wall, steadying herself with her good hand, and looked farther out, westward over the plains and the river, towards the jagged mountains of Mordor. Looking at the shadow that gathered there, that would consume them all. Imagining how small the force was, that stood for the realms of Men: how small, and how hopeless, and how her brother rode at the head of them. And how she waited here, again, because her song was done. She had won glory and great deeds, one moment of triumph - and for what? To wait, again, for the end? Or to live, and be broken, and never be herself again?
Standing there, staring out at the end of the world, she cut a striking figure. She was tall, and fairer than most men of Gondor - and, while there were other Rohirrim among the injured cared for here, the Houses of Healing, so soon after a long and bloody battle, were not filled with other women. That alone made her incongruous, when the bruised and battered look she had, and the sling holding her ruined arm to her side, made it clear that she was a patient. But there was something else, too: the stillness of her, standing there at the wall, rigid and intent even where the cold and exhaustion made her tremble. She was easy to see, and yet she seemed not to see anything or anyone else, as though she had closed out the rest of the world.
So much so, indeed, that she did not realise she was not alone until the effort of standing grew too much, and the cold too great: until she turned reluctantly from her vigil to find some place to sit and gather her strength, and found that there was someone else in the garden with her. For a moment, there was colour in her white cheeks, something that might have been anger or embarrassment - for it was clear from the redness of her eyes and the tearstains drying on her cheeks that she had been crying, and equally clear that she did not appreciate it being witnessed. She tried to draw herself taller still, as if to shore herself up against judgement, only to wince and hunch for a moment against the sharp pain in her ribs.
"How long have you been there?" There was an accusation in her tone, as though he did not have just as much right to be in the gardens as she did.
But she had wished, always, to live and die in glory; to be a warrior, if only once, and be the stuff of songs.
And it had been granted to her, in the end. There had been the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves, and the reek of blood and sweat and shit, and the roaring of her blood in her ears. There had been terror, and she had almost quailed; but she had stood against it, stood against an evil that might have crushed her, and she had prevailed. Glory and great deeds. The stuff of song.
The thing about songs was that they ended. The hero awoke, against all odds, and the day was won, and the story was over, and then there was only another kind of silence.
The Houses of Healing were a quiet place. They were not dark and shadowy, as Meduseld had seemed to her in those final days, but neither was there any warmth in the white stone of their walls. They seemed hushed, even when she ventured outside of her room, as though the whole place held its breath. Perhaps it was the whole city, that was holding its breath. The whole world. Waiting for the final end. Waiting for word of the final sortie, the last force of the kingdom of Men, riding out to Mordor's gates to make its last stand.
And she, again, left helpless to do anything but linger and hope. As though her hope had not burned away years ago.
She grew stronger, as she had promised, and stronger meant only that she realised how weak she had become. The Witch-King's mace had shattered her shield, and flesh and bone were more brittle than wood and steel: her arm hung limp and useless in its sling, and it hurt to breathe, where arm and shield and mail-shirt had been driven into her ribs. Her head spun when she stood too long. Her body, which had always done as it was commanded, turned against her. She grew stronger, all the same; and, growing stronger, grew into the realisation that she would never be strong again.
But she was strong enough now, at least, to stand, and to walk a little way. Out into the garden, then, where the March wind cut through her cloak, but where the light was stronger, and where she could breathe cold air. She walked slowly, white-faced and tight-jawed, her pain apparent; but she walked tall, all the same.
From here, she could almost see the outer wall of the city, ruined and broken down. She had no desire to look down at the battlefield where her song had reached its crescendo - the place where she had failed, even in her triumph. The place where Théoden King had died, and had he even known, in the end, that she stood in his defence? Had he felt himself alone, at the last?
No. She did not want to look there. Her stomach lurched at the thought. But she leaned against the low wall, steadying herself with her good hand, and looked farther out, westward over the plains and the river, towards the jagged mountains of Mordor. Looking at the shadow that gathered there, that would consume them all. Imagining how small the force was, that stood for the realms of Men: how small, and how hopeless, and how her brother rode at the head of them. And how she waited here, again, because her song was done. She had won glory and great deeds, one moment of triumph - and for what? To wait, again, for the end? Or to live, and be broken, and never be herself again?
Standing there, staring out at the end of the world, she cut a striking figure. She was tall, and fairer than most men of Gondor - and, while there were other Rohirrim among the injured cared for here, the Houses of Healing, so soon after a long and bloody battle, were not filled with other women. That alone made her incongruous, when the bruised and battered look she had, and the sling holding her ruined arm to her side, made it clear that she was a patient. But there was something else, too: the stillness of her, standing there at the wall, rigid and intent even where the cold and exhaustion made her tremble. She was easy to see, and yet she seemed not to see anything or anyone else, as though she had closed out the rest of the world.
So much so, indeed, that she did not realise she was not alone until the effort of standing grew too much, and the cold too great: until she turned reluctantly from her vigil to find some place to sit and gather her strength, and found that there was someone else in the garden with her. For a moment, there was colour in her white cheeks, something that might have been anger or embarrassment - for it was clear from the redness of her eyes and the tearstains drying on her cheeks that she had been crying, and equally clear that she did not appreciate it being witnessed. She tried to draw herself taller still, as if to shore herself up against judgement, only to wince and hunch for a moment against the sharp pain in her ribs.
"How long have you been there?" There was an accusation in her tone, as though he did not have just as much right to be in the gardens as she did.