Prologue: The End
A/N: Somewhat AU-ish, but not too much. The prologue documents the "end" of the story and future chapters will explain the intracacies of Éomer and Éowyn's relationship, examine Gríma's motivations, and the moral decay of the House of Eorl, amidst the War of the Ring.
Disclaimer: JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema own everything.
Crucified in the mud of the graves of a thousand men with a Haradrim halberd, Éowyn lay dying on the Pelennor fields. The wrathful dawn was petrified in her wild eyes, causing tears to crawl in shame behind her helm. 'Éomer …,' a rasping whisper choked on blood pooling in her throat. Breathing taxed her surviving strength and she did not move. Nearby she could hear him recalling the names of the dead. His voice trembled though his cold fury was as foundations of stone.
'Guthláf …' Grey eyes narrowed as they were pinched by knitted brows. Beside his king and the broken body of the banner-bearer lay Meriadoc Brandybuck; the Holybytla from the North country. His diminutive form was pin-cushioned with Enemy shafts, the killing blow struck through his skull. And perhaps it had been a mercy. 'Master Merry …'
'Éomer.'
Above the noise of the thundering mûmakil and the screams of friend and foe, calling to rally for the assault the whisper of his name drew him to her. Suddenly he beheld his sister as she lay. He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart. A wave of nausea gripped his gut and clawed its sour way into his gullet. 'Éowyn!' He cried at last and fell to his knees beside her. 'What … devilry … is this? How come you here?'
The shieldmaiden swallowed, animated only from the lips and spoke as blood coated her teeth. 'For you, brother.' Pride lit her face and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, spilling more of her insufferable life.
'No,' said the young king, fighting thought to save her. The gauntlets pulled taught over his vambraces closed around her stained hands, encompassing the halberd spitted through her breastplate. I will kill her if I take it out. I have killed her already. She is dead. 'Éowyn!'
'Éothain is his father's son … not Gríma's.' Éowyn's jaded spirit fled the drowning house. In her eyes Éomer saw it wade through her tears. 'My sin is undone, at last. I am free.' Then she was still and did not speak again.
The revelation must compete for the Rider's distress for Éomer was at once filled with a madness. He parenthesised Éowyn's face and slipped the helm from her matted hair, searching her eyes furiously. 'Éowyn? Éowyn!' So violently did he shake her in desperation that her head lolled to the side and thick globules of blood strung their way to the grass.
About him his men watched anxiously. Their king was dead and the Lady Éowyn also. Now their lord was beside himself with grief. They should not survive the cruel dawn.
'Death,' muttered Éomer in a fey mood as he released his sister and sat back, his knees sinking in the cold grey earth. 'Death take us all.' Then without taking counsel or waiting for the approach of the men of the City, he swung into the saddle and cried in a fell voice, 'Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!' He raised his sword-arm for the charge, kindling the fury of the Rohirrim. And then out of the corner of his eye he saw Gríma.
The Wormtongue was clad awkwardly in his battle garb, sundered from the host that yet remained. He had lost his mount. None heeded him as he stood blinking away tears at the sight of Éowyn's corpse. At Éomer's cry he raised his peculiar eyes and fear chased the heat of battle from his perspiring face. Deathly white did he become, for a laugh rose in Éomer's throat, deep and dark and unhinged, as he looked on the snivelling craven.
'Your turn comes,' he yelled and turned the tip of the blade threateningly towards Gríma, but his words were lost to all except the wormtongue above the tumult. The Rohirrim sang no more. Roaring away southwards, loud and terrible, they went to avenge the fallen.
TO BE CONTINUED