Title: Concerning Stories
Author: Culumacilinte
Characters: Éowyn
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I disclaim, I disclaim! All there characters contained herein belong to the late, beloved John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and I claim no right to them whatsoever; I'm merely having my wicked way with them, and shall attempt to return them in the same state they started out in.
Summary: All her life, Éowyn has heard stories, but when it comes down to it, all she has is herself.
Éowyn remembered stories. All her life she had heard stories; tales of valour and heroism, of ancient curses and of the triumph of love. So inextricably bound up in her life they were that she could barely separate her own life from them; there was no time she could recall where her life was not set in contention with the story-lives she drank in so easily.
There were stories from her brother, told with gleeful wickedness when she was still young enough that he thought to frighten her with them- boyish tales of ancient battles and fabled wars, of mighty warriors with flashing swords and muscles bulging under chain mail and steel plate. Éomer's stories were rife with the rippling of bold standards in a mighty wind, the thunder of the hoofs of horses, the devastation of the battlefield where only the hero was left standing, holding a dripping sword and surveying his vanquished enemies. Éowyn listened raptly to those tales, disdaining to shiver or show fear merely to spite her brother, and wondered just a little what it might be like to hold a sword and feel the heady draught of victory herself.
There were stories too, from the mother she barely remembered; the legends of ancient Elves and Men. Her mother's stories told of magic, of princesses and shieldmaidens who worked with (or against) the gods. They filled her with wonder, her mother's stories did, and she could still recall the cadence of that soft voice, rising and falling, finding such rare passion in the stories she told that her voice would grow in timbre and in meaning and Éowyn would find herself gasping for breath, clinging desperately to her mother's arm and begging her to finish the tale tonight, please!
She had never had much interest in the stories of the travelling minstrels and mummers who would pass through the Golden Hall on occasion; their stories were stiff and formal, full of genealogies and tales of the triumphs of her forebears; of Éorl the Young, of Brand, and of Helm the Hammerhand. These stories she knew too well for them to be of any interest any longer. She cared little for the distant past, for why she had the golden hair and grey eyes and proud bearing of her house; these things she knew already.
After her mother died, there were no more stories, not until Gríma came. Though she loved his stories as she had loved the others, they were different, darker. His stories told the tales of strong women in the ancient times, cursed for their defiance of the Valar, of warriors who fought against fate and failed. Gríma's stories told of a history far beyond anything she had heard before, from the First and Second Ages, and they were full of darkness and doubt, of despair, and the birth of hope despite all. They resonated with Éowyn in a way that the others hadn't though, and she grieved when Gríma became Wormtongue, and his stories turned to whisperings in the dark.
There were stories from the holbytlan, Merry, stories of idyllic days spent in the Shire of his home, of days lazing in the sunlight under trees, of pipe-smoking and larder-raiding. From him she heard much of the history of the hobbits, of how they came to settle in their pleasant land to the North and of their many curious habits and customs, but mostly she heard stories about Pippin. Pippin his cousin, his best friend, Pippin whom Merry loved more than anything in the world, foolish, Tookish Pippin, Pippin who had been sent into danger, and whom Merry's heart ached for.
But there were no stories now, as she lay on the field of the Pelennor, her arm burning, burning, burning. She lay broken on the mantle of her fallen enemy, and its stink was rife in her nostrils; her armour was hot and sticky with blood and all around her she heard the screams of dying horses and the worse screams of dying men. There were never stories of this; of the smoke and fume and despair; of the pain that felt like a thousand frozen knives, of the fear like a poison.
Beside her, her uncle and king lay dead, crushed under the weight of his dear horse, but she did not cry; her body was wracked with dry, wrenching sobs, but there were no tears. And as she lay, she half wondered if anyone would ever tell this story; how Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, shieldmaiden of Rohan had slain the Witch King of Angmar, and afterward, had lain on the field of battle and did not cry.