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Date Posted: 18:41:46 03/03/03 Mon
Author: ~delle
Subject: Song of Eowyn: The Lady of Rohan
In reply to: ~delle 's message, "Non LFN Story" on 18:32:51 03/03/03 Mon

Sing, you men of the Mark
Sing of Théodan Ednew, son of Thengel
Forget not his son Théodred, fallen in battle to the forces of the Dark
Sing of Eomer, sister-son to Theodan Ednew
Third Marshal of the Mark
And of Éowyn, Lady of Rohan
Shield-maiden of the Rohirrim
With a skill at the sword and a pride to match any man


They had ridden away, leaving her behind.

Again.

She stood before the doors of Meduseld, the Golden Hall of her ancestors, the empty stirrup cup in her cold hands, watching the last spurts of dust from their passage stain the horizon. She had grown up with them: Éomer her brother and Théodred, son of her uncle-king. They had been taught together, learned to ride and train horses together, practiced their swordplay together. Until she grew breasts while they sprouted the whiskers that proclaimed them Men of Rohan; then she was left behind.

Before her uncle-king had withered and ailed, it was not such a bad fate, to remain at Edoras. She was the shield-maiden, the King’s Regent and Théodan King had taken that responsibility seriously. She had been taught strategy and diplomacy and was well prepared to manage the affairs of Rohan in the absence of the men of the House of Eorl.

Ere the arrival of Grima, called Wormtongue and the subsequent slow decline of her uncle-king’s mind and body. It was by the decree of Théodan King – through Grima – that she no longer stood at the king’s side as he met with emissaries to Rohan. Grima stood in her place. Slowly emissaries became unwelcome in Edoras.

Éowyn found her life, her activities, slowly constrained. Grima had missed his calling, she thought bitterly, as the wind rose and her formal white skirts billowed about her legs, he should have been a horse-breaker, not Counselor to Théodan-King. Certainly he was adept at tightening the lead, restricting her movements into smaller and smaller circles. She wrapped her arms around herself. I’ll be ready for a bit and bridle soon.

“Lady?” A young house-page had approached; lost in thought, Éowyn had not heard his step. “The Lord Grima desires you to come to the King’s presence.”

“Yes, yes,” Éowyn responded absently. “I’ll be right there.” The child remained at her side. “Is there more to the message?”

“No, Lady. The Lord Grima instructed me I should accompany you to Théodan King.”

She bit back a scream of frustration, smoothed a small smile on her face. “I assure you I am perfectly able to find my way in my own hall to my own uncle. I will be right behind you. Go now.” The child frowned, uncertain; she shooed him off with an impatient wave of her hand.

So, Grima demanded her presence; another jerk of the lead rope. Defiant, she lifted her skirts and ran for the stables.

It was only a matter of moments to saddle and bridle her horse. Even as she swung in the saddle, the Captain of the Guard approached and lifted a hand to her reins.

“Release me, Hama,” she commanded.

“Lady, it is the King’s order that you not ride out unattended.”

“Grima’s order, you mean.”

“I heard it from the King’s own lips, Lady.”

“I would not go against my uncle-King’s commands. I will wait while you saddle your mount.”

Hama bowed, signaled to two other men and hurried into the stable; still another guard raised a hand to Windfola’s reins. Éowyn fixed him with a steely glare. “I said I would wait. Do you doubt the word of the Lady of Rohan?”

“Lady, we have been commanded,” the guard replied, his head dipping in apology.

“And I will not be treated like a unruly child,” she snapped. “I have given my word. That is sufficient for your orders.” She pulled at the reins; irritated, Windfola tossed his head and jerked free of the restraining hand on his bridle. It was only a matter of moments before Hama and his riders emerged from the stables. She kicked Windfola harder than necessary, leaned in and gave the horse his head. He clattered down the cobbled streets of Edoras and galloped on the wide plains outside the gates.

She rode fast and hard, with no particular destination but to feel the wind in her hair and the rhythm of the horse beneath her. Hama and the guards respected her privacy; staying close enough for protection, they remained far enough away for her to pretend she was young and free, her uncle was healthy and powerful and she had no greater responsibility than to be back at Meduseld for the evening meal.

Eventually Wildfola ran himself out. He stood on the crest of a low hill, blowing noisily. Éowyn found herself breathing heavily too; both from the exertion of the gallop and from the exhilaration of reclaimed freedom. She laid her head on her horse’s sweaty neck and watched the sun lower to the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of rose and orange, tinged with deep azure. Behind her she heard the stamping of the men’s horses, anxious for their stalls and their dinner. Reluctantly she turned Windfola’s head for home.

There would be penalties for this freedom, however fleeting, however illusory. Her ceremonial dress was sweaty and dusty, smelling of horse and the plains of Rohan. She determined to clean it herself, to pay the penance for a few moment’s grace rather than add to the burden of her maidservants. She stabled her horse, rubbed him down and treated him to a scoop of extra oats as recompense for her earlier bad temper.

She was self-honest enough to admit she was delaying her inevitable confrontation with Grima Wormtongue. Giving Windfola an extra pat and kiss on the nose, she resigned herself to the inevitable and mounted the stairs to the Golden Hall. Before entering the massive carved doors, she shook out her skirts, brushed back her tangled mass of hair and raised her head proudly. The attending soldiers opened the heavy doors at her nod.

At the end of the long hall, Théodan King, son of Thengel, slumped on the throne of his elders. His face was hoary and waxen, long furrows of wrinkles surrounding the opaque eyes that were once so piercingly blue, like her own. Like the mother she barely remembered. His hair had gone completely gray and hung lankly about his face. He sagged to the right side, where the pale face of Grima Wormtongue hovered ever present at his ear, whispering, always whispering.

Stiffening her back, Éowyn walked the long hall to the foot of the dais, her eyes fixed on the elderly face before her. How had he become so old, so fast? She dropped a deep courtesy and waited for the King’s command to rise.

Instead, she heard the unctuous tones of Grima. “Your Majesty, your niece Éowyn has deigned to make an appearance in your hall.”

Éowyn kept her head down, in respect to the king. “I was summoned to your presence, Sire. I am here; what do you desire of your Éowyn?”

“She lies,” snapped Grima. “She was called by the King hours ago and she did not come.”

Protocol or not, Éowyn stood upright and met his dark eyes defiantly. “I do not lie. I am the Lady of Rohan; my honor is my own and will not be judged by the likes of Grima Wormtongue. The King did not summon me; Grima called me here. And I will come or not come, as I chose, when Grima Wormtongue calls.”

“She rode out, with few guards for her protection, Lord,” Grima turned back to the drooping King. “She needs to be restrained, for her own security, for the honor of the Kingdom. Can we risk the capture of the Lady of Rohan by the invading outsiders? You must decree, my Lord, that she is not to go forth without your express permission.”

The earth heaved beneath her feet. “Not my horse! My Lord, I beg you, do not take this small freedom from me.” She dropped to her knees before the King, laid her head on his feet. “Please, my uncle, please, do not rein me in so.”

“Grima.” Her uncle’s voice was no more than a sighing breath.

“It is for her own protection, my King.” Triumph rang in Grima’s tone, a cruel, sadistic pleasure at her distress.

“My Lord, my uncle, the blood of the Rohirrim runs in my veins, even as it runs in yours. I need the air, I need the freedom of riding my horse over the plains of our land.” She lifted her head, heedless of the tears than trickled down her cheeks as she extended her hands to him. “The scent of the grasses, the feel of the leather reins in your hands, the rhythm of the steed under your thighs… remember you these things, my Lord? It is not the impulsive action of a thoughtless girl, it is life’s blood to those of Rohan.”

“You must... heed Grima.”

She felt the victory swell out of the Wormtongue as he bent over her, his face nearly cheek to cheek with hers; his hands splayed on her shoulders. “Come, my Lady, you have heard the decree of the King. You will, I know, be ever-obedient to your liege.”

His hands were over-warm; she could feel the heat scalding her skin through the heavy fabric of her gown. His touch left her stone-cold, frozen in disgust and dread. She rose swiftly, shrugging the clutching fingers from her shoulders as she did and stood again at the foot of the throne. “As your Majesty speaks, so does your dutiful niece obey. Do I have the King’s permission to leave?” The rheumy blue eyes slid over her, hardly focusing. The aged head gave the slightest nod and she curtsied deeply before turning around and retracing her steps to the outer doors.

She stepped to the edge of the courtyard, overlooking the stairs and the streets of Edoras below. Above her the sky had darkened to coal black, sprinkled with the faint light of the early stars. The bit was in her mouth, a bitter and rancid taste, the reins tight on her neck, holding her close to the building, prohibiting her from walking further away. She stood for a long, long time, staring out at the empty hills to the north, letting the cold winds dry the tear tracks on her cheeks. He would not attempt the saddle; no, not yet. His goal would be to break her spirit ere he attempted to lay the leather on her back.

And for the first time, she trembled; and struggled with the sudden surge of fear that she would not be strong enough to throw him off.

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[> Song of Éowyn: The Advent of the King -- ~delle, 22:02:20 03/05/03 Wed




Riding her horse might be forbidden her, but that didn’t require her to stay closed up in the Hall from sunrise to sunset. Even in the dead of winter, it was always warm in the stables; surrounded by the massive horses of the Mark, Éowyn found both safety and comfort.

Éowyn spent hours every day in the stables, brushing and caring for Windfola. The love between the Rohirrim and their mounts was celebrated in songs spanning back the centuries. Éowyn had been barely out of leading strings before she was given her first pony; at twelve she gone out to the fields with her uncle-King and her brother to find her first horse. It was tradition within the Mark that the horse chose the rider as much as the rider the horse.

It was a memory she treasured her entire life. Walking among the herd of horses, surrounded by their large warm bodies, to touch and stroke and talk to the beautiful creatures was one of the most momentous experiences of her life. She had lost all sense of time as she wandered in the midst of them, chestnut and bay, the occasional black or gray. Some would not let her draw near, others followed her around, nuzzling her hair and shoulders.

“You stood apart, did you not, Windfola?” she whispered as she brushed him. “You waited for me to come to you.” The horse snorted and tossed his head; understanding him, she moved to his head and stroked his nose. He lowered his head until they were eye to eye. “So you looked at me, those years ago.”

He had held her gaze for a long time, till her eyes burned with the desire to blink. Yet she had stared back, waiting for his response. Finally he had nickered, broke their locked stares and butted her with his massive head, knocking her straight to the ground.

So he did again now, dropping his head still lower and nudging her powerfully with his nose beneath her arm. Older, wiser, and stronger now, she didn’t fall, but still had to take a step back from the push.

The rumble of horses’ hooves, ridden with great speed through the streets of Edoras - even to the entrance of Meduseld itself - reached her ears. Gathering her skirts, she ran out, internally cursing herself for not wearing her sword. If this was an attack on her uncle-King, she was helpless to help protect him. Fool! Fool!

As she approached the hall, she could see men dismounting from their horses. It was a troop of Rohirrim, not an invading force of Orcs. Several of the men had removed their intricate helmets and were staring up at the Golden Hall itself. Although she was still too far away to see them clearly, something in the turn of their bodies told her to continue up to Meduseld. Dashing up the stairs into the hall, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the small group of men entering one of the side chambers. Her stomach clenched; someone had been badly hurt, then. Which friend might I lose tonight?

She pushed her way through the throng of large armored male bodies until she reached the bedside. Her breath caught as she saw the pale face on the cot.

“Théodred!”

Her cousin slowly turned his head to her; his lips parted but no words were forthcoming. Éomer was on his other side, gently removing Théodred’s helm. Blood caked one side of Théodred’s face, streaking his blond hair black and glinting wetly in the flickering torch light.

Éowyn turned to the man nearest her. “Go to the hall. Tell the women to fetch my healing bag. Hurry!”

As she turned back, she met Éomer’s grave stare. Her breath caught in her throat at the grief in his blue eyes. He glanced down and nodded at Théodred’s body, carefully hidden by a blanket.

She extended a hand to the coverlet, then paused and looked up again at Éomer. His face twisted in grief and she could barely restrain the answering sob that caught in her chest. It was physically painful to turn back the blanket. She knew what she would find: Théodred had taken a spear to the belly, up and under his left ribcage. This was a wound beyond her ability to heal.

Gently, she covered her cousin again, then closed her eyes and bit back the cry welling within her. He needed her care, not her grief.

“Léod, get the Lord Éomer a chair. Sit you, brother, and stay with our lord cousin. Woldà, get you to the kitchen and ask Mistress Cook for as much hot water as she can spare. The rest of you…” she paused and took a deep breath, looking at the men. They had ridden hard after a grueling battle; she saw that several of them were nursing small wounds and they all looked ready to fall. Only their duty to Lord Théodred had compelled them to continue standing. “The rest of you may go to the hall. I will have food and drink sent to you as soon as I can command it. Are there any injuries that cannot wait until after I see to the Lord?”

“No, Lady.”

“You are all dismissed. Thank you for your good care of my lord cousin.” As they quietly left the sickroom, Éowyn pressed a trembling hand to her lips.

A maid quietly entered the room and presented Éowyn with her healing bag. Behind her, Mistress Cook and her assistants were carrying pots of heated water and placing them by the bed. Rummaging in her supplies, Éowyn found her willow-bark and began to brew a tea to ease her cousin’s pain. Valarian and yarrow were set in one pot to steep, comfrey root in another while she soaked cloths in a third pan to bathe Théodred’s head injury. Her cousin’s eyes were vague and unfocused; he had not yet spoken.

When the wound was cleansed to her satisfaction, she carefully lifted his head and wrapped a long cloth bandage about his temples. More clothes were lowered into the purifying steep of valarian and yarrow as she prepared to cleanse the abdominal wound. She closed her eyes and took several small breaths to prepare herself for this; then folded back the blanket and began to carefully cleanse the gaping wound. As she feared, Theodred moaned softly in pain to her ministrations. She folded dry cloths into a pad and carefully pressed them into place. The comfrey roots would have to stew longer before a poultice could be made.

She knelt next to the bed and stroked Theodred’s forehead gently. He was more than a cousin; he was a much-loved older brother to her and Éomer. Theodred moaned again, more a sigh than a cry. A tear trickled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it aside. There would be time to mourn later.

“Éomer,” she said softly. Her brother startled awake from his seat where he had been dozing. “Please pour some willow-bark tea in the goblet for our cousin?” She watched Éomer closely as he crossed the room; it would be typical of her brother to ignore his own injuries in consideration to his cousin’s needs. Éomer moved with the grace of an active man, with no stiffness or favoring one side over another. At least he had taken no physical hurt.

“I thank you,” she said as he handed her the cup. “Let me ease our cousin into a rest and then you will tell me what happened?”

“I will tell,” he said, “and then I must tell Théodan King.”

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[> [> One technical note: it seems to be spelled "Theoden", not "Theodan". I thought that was how I'd seen it, and I double-checked IMDB to be sure. -- Nestra, 13:34:45 03/06/03 Thu

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[> [> [> you caught me! I just looked in RoTK and you're absolutely right. Will correct. -- ~d, 17:05:18 03/06/03 Thu

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[> [> Re: Song of Éowyn: The Advent of the King (corrected repost) -- ~delle, 22:52:25 03/10/03 Mon

Song of Éowyn: The Advent of the King


Riding her horse might be forbidden her, but that didn’t require her to stay closed up in the Hall from sunrise to sunset. Even in the dead of winter, it was always warm in the stables; surrounded by the massive horses of the Mark, Éowyn found both safety and comfort.

Éowyn spent hours every day in the stables, brushing and caring for Windfola. The love between the Rohirrim and their mounts was celebrated in songs spanning back the centuries. Éowyn had been barely out of leading strings before she was given her first pony; at twelve she gone out to the fields with her uncle-King and her brother to find her first horse. It was tradition within the Mark that the horse chose the rider as much as the rider the horse.

It was a memory she treasured her entire life. Walking among the herd of horses, surrounded by their large warm bodies, to touch and stroke and talk to the beautiful creatures was one of the most momentous experiences of her life. She had lost all sense of time as she wandered in the midst of them, chestnut and bay, the occasional black or gray. Some would not let her draw near, others followed her around, nuzzling her hair and shoulders.

“You stood apart, did you not, Windfola?” she whispered as she brushed him. “You waited for me to come to you.” The horse snorted and tossed his head; understanding him, she moved to his head and stroked his white nose. He lowered his head until they were eye to eye. “So you looked at me, those years ago.”

He had held her gaze for a long time, till her eyes burned with the desire to blink. Yet she had stared back, waiting for his response. Finally he had nickered, broke their locked stares and butted her with his massive head, knocking her straight to the ground.

So he did again now, dropping his head still lower and nudging her powerfully beneath her arm. Older, wiser, and stronger now, she didn’t fall, but still had to take a step back from the push.

The rumble of horses’ hooves, ridden with great speed through the streets of Edoras - even to the entrance of Meduseld itself - reached her ears. Gathering her heavy wool skirts, she ran out, internally cursing herself for not wearing her sword. If this was an attack on her uncle-King, she was helpless to help protect him. Fool! Fool!

As she approached the hall, she could see men dismounting from their horses. It was a troop of Rohirrim, not an invading force of Orcs. Several of the men had removed their intricate helmets and were staring up at the Golden Hall itself. Although she was still too far away to see them clearly, something in the turn of their bodies told her to continue up to Meduseld. Dashing up the stairs into the hall, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the small group of men entering one of the side chambers. Her stomach clenched; someone had been badly hurt, then. Which friend might I lose tonight?

She pushed her way through the throng of large armored male bodies until she reached the bedside. Her breath caught as she saw the pale face on the cot.

“Théodred!”

Her cousin slowly turned his head to her; his lips parted but no words were forthcoming. Éomer was on his other side, gently removing Théodred’s helm. Blood caked one side of Théodred’s face, streaking his blond hair black and glinting wetly in the flickering torch light.

Éowyn turned to the man nearest her. “Go to the hall. Tell the women to fetch my healing bag. Hurry!”

As she turned back, she met Éomer’s grave stare. Her breath caught in her throat at the grief in his blue eyes. He glanced down and nodded at Théodred’s body, carefully hidden by a blanket.

She extended a hand to the coverlet, then paused and looked up again at Éomer. His face twisted in grief and she could barely restrain the answering sob that caught in her chest. It was physically painful to turn back the blanket. She knew what she would find: Théodred had taken a spear to the belly, up and under his left ribcage. This was a wound beyond her ability to heal.

Gently, she covered her cousin again, then closed her eyes and bit back the cry welling within her. He needed her care, not her grief.

“Léod, get the Lord Éomer a chair. Sit you, brother, and stay with our lord cousin. Woldà, get you to the kitchen and ask Mistress Cook for as much hot water as she can spare. The rest of you...” she paused and took a deep breath, looking at the men. They had ridden hard after a grueling battle; she saw that several of them were nursing small wounds and they all looked ready to fall. Only their duty to Lord Théodred had compelled them to continue standing. “The rest of you may go to the hall. I will have food and drink sent to you as soon as I can command it. Are there any injuries that cannot wait until after I see to the Lord?”

“No, Lady.”

“You are all dismissed. Thank you for your good care of my lord cousin.” As they quietly left the sickroom, Éowyn pressed a trembling hand to her lips.

A maid quietly entered the room and presented Éowyn with her healing bag. Behind her, Mistress Cook and her assistants were carrying pots of heated water and placing them by the bed. Rummaging in her supplies, Éowyn found her willow-bark and began to brew a tea to ease her cousin’s pain. Valarian and yarrow were set in one pot to steep, comfrey root in another while she soaked cloths in a third pan to bathe Théodred’s head injury. Her cousin’s eyes were vague and unfocused; he had not yet spoken.

When the wound was cleansed to her satisfaction, she carefully lifted his head and wrapped a long cloth bandage about his temples. More clothes were lowered into the purifying steep of valarian and yarrow as she prepared to cleanse the abdominal wound. She closed her eyes and took several small breaths to prepare herself for this; then folded back the blanket and began to carefully cleanse the gaping wound. As she feared, Théodred moaned softly in pain to her ministrations. She folded dry cloths into a pad and carefully pressed them into place. The comfrey roots would have to stew longer before a poultice could be made.

She knelt next to the bed and stroked Théodred’s forehead gently. He was more than a cousin; he was a much-loved older brother to her and Éomer. Théodred moaned again, more a sigh than a cry. A tear trickled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it aside. There would be time to mourn later.

“Éomer,” she said softly. Her brother startled awake from his seat where he had been dozing. “Please pour some willow-bark tea in the goblet for our cousin?” She watched Éomer closely as he crossed the room; it would be typical of her brother to ignore his own injuries in consideration to his cousin’s needs. Éomer moved with the grace of an active man, with no stiffness or favoring one side over another. At least he had taken no physical hurt.

“I thank you,” she said as he handed her the cup. “Let me ease our cousin into a rest and then you will tell me what happened?”

“I will tell,” he said, “and then I must tell Théoden King.”

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