I own nothing.
"Your words are poison."
And poison they are, and there must be some measure of the poison in her own heart to pay any heed to them for even a moment. She had shook with the grief of her cousin's death and the weight of her own loneliness crashing down on her, yet again, and here were the words she'd longed to hear for so long, words of understanding and comprehension, so badly needed that she'd almost forgotten who was speaking them.
However, for all that Éowyn of Rohan has longed to hear words of understanding, real understanding, spoken to her, she knows who speaks the words. She has seen the effect of the words of Gríma Wormtongue all too clearly on her own uncle, seen them in the way her brother rode out of Edoras. There is honey in his words, honey to trap unwitting flies, and poison behind them, ready on a forked tongue.
Éowyn has seen the damage Gríma's words have wrought. On her uncle, on her brother, on her cousin, on herself, in the numb chill that seeps up from her fingers and toes, as she tries to make herself cold to the world, and numb to all hurts, but can never quite manage not to feel the sting of blow after blow. She's seen it in the darkness in the Golden Hall, in her uncle's blank, sightless eyes. This is the man who has brought the house of Eorl to ruin. This is the man who shadows her every step, eyes always on her, never giving her a moment's rest.
So Éowyn says the words, cursing her own weakness, and leaves Gríma Wormtongue behind in her now late cousin's bedchamber without a second glance, searching out fresh air and a place to breathe.
The wind batters against her slim body, sending her long, golden hair whipping across her face like a battlefield flag, old and tattered with age and decay, ready to fall apart at any moment (That's the story of the whole hall, nowadays, and her own story as well). Éowyn's face stings in the wind a bit more than it usually does, as she paces up and down the flagstones, but perhaps that's just the tale of the dried tear tracks on her cheeks. She blinks her eyes against the sun, so accustomed now is she to darkness, and looks out on the plains of Rohan.
Her world has been shrinking since the first hint of darkness and decay wormed its way into the Golden Hall. Since the coming of that man she left behind. Since the years began to sit far too heavily upon her uncle the King's shoulders. Since her brother was banished. Since her cousin died. Her world has been shrinking. Her world is shrunk.
How long has it been since she looked into Théoden's eyes and seen her uncle looking back at her? How long has it been since she heard him speak to her, heard him use a voice she recognize, and not that frail, wispy voice that sounds more like the voice of a ghost living in human flesh, than the clear tones of her strong uncle? How long has it been since all was as it should be in the Golden Hall?
Where have you gone? Éowyn wonders, when she looks into the wizened face of Théoden King. It took less than a year for you to age so drastically. It took less than a year for you to become a stranger in my eyes, and for you to stare through me as though I was made of smoke. Will you do nothing? Your son is dead. Your kingdom is in flames. Will you do nothing? Uncle, Théodred is dead, will you do nothing?
Éomer has gone, riding north with his men as though all the evil spirits of Middle Earth were snapping at their heels. Théodred is gone, passed into cold death, where none can reach him; Éowyn felt the life pass out of his body underneath her hands, so battered and small and sad, trailing out of the door and out of sight. She wishes she could join them, but which one she wishes more to follow, she does not know, and dares not wish to know. They have escaped. She can not.
"…now that your brother has abandoned you…"
She had heard the slightly faltering footsteps outside the door and hoped it would be Théoden, rising at last out of dotage and silent senility, if only to take back the reins of his country. If only to finally look on the face of his son, if only after death. If only to give her some comfort, though she has not asked for it, and dares not. It was those words, the accusation of abandonment, that spurred Éowyn to anger, enough to turn away in the end. She shudders to think of what she might have done if Wormtongue had not made that misstep.
But have you not said the same thing to yourself, since he left? Éowyn asks herself, in the merciless tones that honesty uses. Have you not slung the same accusations at your brother, since he was banished from the King's sight? Even knowing that he could not help but leave, even knowing that he could not take you with him, have you not resented Éomer, for being able to leave at the time of his own choosing, to be able to actually do something about the danger spreading through the country? Have you not resented him for being able to ride out, while you must stay behind, and wait for his return?
The world is shrinking and turning to darkness, and here at the heart of it is where duty bids her to stay. Duty bids her to stay and watch the decline of a man she loves as a father. Duty bids her to stay in the place where her footsteps are dogged by a loathsome man. Duty has bid her to stay and watch her brother leave Edoras, possibly never to return. Duty has bid her to stay at her cousin's bedside and watch helplessly as he dies.
Éowyn paces the flagstones, putting off the moments when she must return to the hall and attend to the King. She is the only one standing between this place and utter darkness now, she knows that, but to her, Meduseld is no longer home. It has become a maze, a place where once familiar sights seem less so with each passing day. Reason and honor turned on their heads and the counsel of corrupt men wins the day. She paces the floor of her chamber at night, muttering to herself in frustration and despair all the things she can not say in the light of day. These words would break the hearts of anyone she spoke them to, harsh and bitter and utterly unforgiving. In the light of day she knows why she should not listen to the bitterness of her own heart, but when darkness falls and creeps up on her, she can see nothing past her own pain and isolation.
And why can I not banish these thoughts altogether? she wonders bitterly. Why can I not simply refuse to think on it, and be what I am supposed to be? Why can I not turn myself cold to all hurt? Why am I not strong enough to stand against this darkness without feeling its touch in my heart?
Éowyn sighs heavily. She often has dreams of sprouting wings or becoming a great white bird, and flying away from this place, forsaking duty and darkness and searching out a better day for herself than simply waiting passively for one to come. She would, if she could, fly to a place, far over the mountains, where she is free to follow the calling of her own heart, where she is free. However, just as she is on the verge of finding that place, Éowyn awakes, and remembers that she has no wings, and can not fly.
It's time to go back inside, and return to her duties.
Then, one of the flags is ripped off of its pole by the wind, and goes flying over Edoras out towards the plains. Éowyn stares after it, stock-still and silent, watching this latest sign of the Golden Hall's decay flutter out of sight, and as she does, she sees three horses, bearing riders, riding up the plains towards the city.
Three horses, but four riders, for one appears to bear two. There is nothing extraordinary about them; they are not Rohirric warriors, Éowyn can tell that much, and riders often come to Edoras to do business or bear messages. But for some reason, when she sees them, she feels as though she has breathed in fresh air for the first time in years, and she watches them until she can't put off going inside any longer.