Éowyn's Nightmare
Disclaimer/Warning: None of the characters are mine; none of their thoughts and actions (except for the initial scene and Aragorn's and Éomer's words) are J.R.R. Tolkien's. Warning: While this story isn't contrary to the spirit of Tolkien's characters (especially as portrayed in the Peter-Jackson-Film), it is rated M for a scene of sexual violence and some pretty explicit language.
To die, to sleep — To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause… Hamlet, III, i.
The Lady Éowyn was prepared to die in battle, a desperate shieldmaiden following the bloody path of her heroic ancestors. There was nothing to live for now with him gone, and every hope of victory gone with him. She had riddento war with the Host of Rohan, had been among the first to tear through the enemies' ranks and had fought bravely in the thick of battle, until finally she met the foe that was to be her doom. When the Lord of the Nazgûl raised his mace, she didn't close her eyes. She was ready for Death. Welcoming the end, she used her last strength to deal him a deadly blow.
Yet even as he fell, a dark cloud torn by slender lightning and dissolved in the western wind, she fell, too, and he pulled her with him in his destruction, down into the darkness of her deepest fears. She had been ready for Death. What she wasn't ready for was the undiscovered country of the Black Breath, the realm of nightmares, where she became her enemies' helpless prey.
She came round to find herself smothered by a heavy body pressing her into the mud. An orc was rutting inside her, the pain of his harsh grating member unbearable like a saw cutting her flesh from the inside. She screamed and retched, gasping for air, inhaling the stink of his breath. In response, the orc bared his yellow fangs in the horrible travesty of a grin. Ragged bits of rotting meat stuck between his teeth, and there was blood on his lips. His eyes glinted with satisfaction as he closed down on her. Instinctively, Éowyn struggled against the hairy weight crushing her ribs, the claws digging deep into her shoulders, but her shield-arm was shattered and all her strength gone. The orc growled with pleasure and increased the rhythm of his pounding, lifting and pushing her body over the ground with every thrust. An icy feeling of despair paralyzed her limbs. There was nothing she could do except turn her head sideways and press her cheek into the wet, bloody mud as she succumbed to waves of pain tearing her apart.
A movement right beside her caught her eye. Blinking away the dirt and the tears, she recognized the Halfling. He was crouching on his knees a short distance away, swaying and hugging his right arm and staring at her in helpless terror. He didn't see his enemy come up behind him, battle-axe swinging loosely in one hand. She tried to cry out, to warn him of his danger, but the orc had his claws around her throat now and was strangling her. He did it slowly, methodically, moving inside her and watching her all the time. A rushing sound filled her ears and the pain became not less, but somehow distant. Her vision blurred. She heard a dull thud and felt the spray of hot blood on her face, and she knew that the other orc's weapon had found its mark. Somehow this came as a relief. She would soon follow the Halfling.
Yet in the instant before she was ready to embrace the welcome darkness, the orc let go. Against her will, her body sought life; air flooded her lungs. She coughed violently and her vision returned, speckled with fiery sparks. The orc was still there, leering down at her, but behind him a figure loomed – the wizened figure of a man clad in black and brandishing a dagger. For a moment she thought he was going to slay her, and she would have considered it an act of mercy. Instead, he grabbed the orc and roughly pulled him away. The beast snarled but did not attack. Suppressing a sob, Éowyn curled up on her side, hiding her shame.
Then the man spoke in a familiar, insinuating voice:
'Ah, my Lady Éowyn… what an unfortunate situation I find you in. I think I deserve some gratitude for interrupting, do I not?'
She didn't have to look up to recognize Gríma Wormtongue, nor to hear him approach in a rustling of robes and kneel by her side.
'We are not so proud anymore now, are we?' he said softly, and she could feel his finger trailing over her cheek. 'Do you remember my words in the Golden Hall? ''The time will come when the decayed house of Éorl will be crushed in the mud and their brats will beg for mercy''. Do you remember? Now that time has come. Look at me!'
He bent down to her and held her chin, forcing her to lock eyes with him.
'Today, you saw the king fall in his folly. Théodred is long dead, and haughty Éomer met his doom, too, on the battle-field. There is no-one left – only you. Would you bear the house of Éorl a mongrel heir? Or wouldn't you rather have a husband of your kind?'
A cold hate flooded her at these words, drowning her pain and her dishonor, and she spat in the abhorred face before her. Gríma flinched but did not let go.
'I do not have to ask now, you know,' he said, 'nor fear your disdain. After this' – he threw a glance at the orc still waiting close by, eyeing his lost prize like a cat watching a wounded mouse in a corner – 'after this, even the pig-sty of Rohan will be too good for you.' He sniffed, brushing her muddy hair with his nose. 'That smell will never go away. But I don't mind. I've grown used to it.'
He came even closer and whispered in her ear: 'I killed your brother, did you know that!? But never fear, I do not wish you dead. Oh no… quite the contrary. You will live, and you will come to love me in the end.'
'Never!'
Her voice came out so broken and raw that she didn't recognize it.
'Oh yes, you will. Unless you prefer them' – he indicated the orc and a group of smaller, sniffling companions nearby – 'to me…'
She mustered her last strength and tore her face away from his touch. Trembling, she raised herself on her knees.
'I would sooner die than have you,' she cried.
Gríma only gave her a cruel smile, his eyes glittering under their heavy lids.
'As you wish. You shall beg for my attention soon enough – for you should know that there is no death for you to escape to here… only darkness, and despair.'
He got up and retreated a few steps, away from her and the orcs. The beasts grunted and advanced.
'As for me,' Gríma resumed, 'I have been waiting and watching a long time. A very long time, indeed. A little longer won't hurt. Besides, I have discovered that sometimes there is pleasure in watching, too.'
At this, Éowyn felt her insides turn to stone. Her violated flesh seemed to congeal and become hard as ice. The pain itself, half forgotten in her hatred of Wormtongue, froze and became a shield she could cling to. She closed her eyes and deliberately moved her broken arm, welcoming the sharp, dizzying sensation. Close by, the orcs started grunting and scuffling in a clatter of armor, as if the whole horde were fighting for precedence. She stiffened, cold and white, bracing herself against the inevitable. Eventually, heavy steps advanced and she prepared herself for what she knew must follow.
But instead of an orc's cruel grasp, she suddenly felt tender lips on her brow and heard a soft voice calling her from afar:
'Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!'
She felt herself go limp as if in a swoon at the sound of that voice – a voice she had heard before, in another world still containing hope, and although she didn't believe this was happening, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. Surprisingly, she smelled a strange fragrance, totally unlike the orc's disgusting reek. It was fresh and sweet like the first air of spring, and it cut through the stench of blood and pain like keen sunshine through ice, dissolving it as daylight chases away a bad dream. She even seemed to feel warmth on the skin of her arm and brow.
'Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!' the gentle voice said again, much closer now. 'Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!'
She opened her eyes. Gríma had disappeared. Close by her side the Lord Aragorn was kneeling, his long sword still unsheathed. He was holding her hand and looking at her with such an expression of pain and compassion in his eyes that her heart ached at the sight and her throat felt constricted. He knew everything that had happened, knew it and blamed himself, she felt sure. The realization should have made her cringe with shame, but instead it made her ordeal seem unimportant, a fading, slightly nauseating memory. All she wanted now was to lie safely in his arms.
But even as she clung to him, his presence faded and she knew it for what it was, another dream, nothing more. The cruelty of it left her devastated and she would have wept, had she not heard a different voice calling her name. This voice, too, was familiar, and it was choked with tears.
'Éowyn, Éowyn!'
She blinked and recognized her brother, Éomer, whom she had believed slain, sitting beside her. He was clutching her hand and crying. For a moment she was confused, not daring to give in to the sudden joy she felt. She listened. Except forÉomers subduedsobs, everything was very quiet. The sweet fragrance still seemed to linger in the air. There was no sign of the battlefield; beneath her sore back she felt soft, cool linen. A warm feeling of relief and love grew within her; yet with it, like a vine choking a young tree, came a sense of loss and hopelessness. Then she looked at her brother and called him by his name, and she knew that, finally, she was dreaming no more.