This is a companion piece to my vignette "The Ecstasy of Death", but I
don't think you have to read it to understand this. Also, I was listening
to Metallica's "One" and "Bleeding Me" while writing this, so if it really
depresses you, you know why. ;)
Disclaimer - Everything belongs to the good Professor and those fine folks over at Tolkien Enterprises. Also, I took some lines directly from RotK, so most of the dialogue doesn't belong to me either. I'm just playing around in the sandbox and hoping I don't screw things up too royally. ;)
The Agony of Life
*~*~*
Houses of Healing
*~*~*
"Great gladness it is to see you wake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!"
Éowyn pondered Gandalf's words, all the while forcing any evidence of the grief that plagued her heart out of her face, hoping those who surrounded her could not see the sorrow that filled her.
Gladness. They were glad. They rejoiced to see the Lady Éowyn alive after her ordeal on the Pelennor. Of course they were happy. A life had been saved.
But Éowyn did not wish to be saved.
"To health?" she said softly. "It may be so. At least while there is an empty saddle of some fallen Rider that I can fill, and there are deeds to do." But as she said this she mourned within, for she knew there would be no hope of her riding off to battle for a very long time. "But to hope?" Hope? What hope could she have if she would not be permitted a brave death in battle? What could possibly be left for her if not death by the sword? What gift could life grant her now that she had lost everything?
"I do not know."
*~*~*
When all but Éomer had departed, Éowyn's brother took her hand, his brows furrowed with concern. "Are you certain you are well, sister?"
She looked up at him, her lips forming a smile that held anything but happiness. "Well enough, dear brother. But I am weary, and I would like some time to myself."
Éomer regarded her gravely for a moment before nodding, giving her a brave attempt at a smile. He stood and kissed her brow. "Rest well, dear Éowyn." When he reached the door, he paused and turned back to look at his sister. He seemed as though he wanted to say something else to her, but words failed him, and he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The moment the door closed, Éowyn allowed the tears to flow.
She had been so close, so agonizingly close to receiving what she had sought when she had left Rohan. Death had been upon her, ready to swoop down and seize her weary soul, to carry her away from the imprisonment of life. But death had lingered too long, and her chance to die with her sword in her hand was gone. Life had triumphed, and now it gloated in its victory, tightening the chains that had long weighed down Éowyn's heart. It seemed to know that she was too weak to fight back, seemed to laugh at her pain.
For the briefest of moments, Éowyn considered taking up her blade and turning it on herself, but chased the thought away in an instant. Only those too cowardly to fight would take their own lives when trapped, and Éowyn would not be a coward.
But trapped she was, within the walls of the White City and the walls around her own heart. Both were walls of the coldest stone, and Éowyn knew that no amount of fighting would allow her to break them. She could do naught but weep for the death that had seemed so near and was now so far from her reach.
When last Éowyn had wept for death, they had been tears of joy. Now her tears were mournful, tears of a woman lost and alone. She had nothing, she had no one, not even a king to look up to and honor. Théoden was gone, taken by the death that Éowyn had longed for; Éomer, she knew, would soon be leaving for an even greater battle, and it was likely that he would not return; and Aragorn...
Éowyn squeezed her eyes shut at the thought. Yes, she loved Aragorn, and her heart ached, for she knew he would never return her feelings. But what had hurt more than even the unrequited love she felt for him was what she had seen in his face after awaking.
Pity. She would rather have him feel hatred towards her than have to see the pity so clear in his eyes whenever he looked upon her. No one pitied a warrior who fell in battle. No one pitied a noble queen who sat proudly upon her throne. But Éowyn was neither of these, nor would she ever be, and for her despair she received pity. And now she would be all the more pitiful, lying in bed, naked without armor nor sword, her weaknesses exposed to the world of scorn. With every beat her heart took it would mock her, with every breath her lungs would ridicule her. Even in her sleep she knew she would find no comfort. Demons would haunt her dreams, laughing as she lay in sloth until she was finally driven mad by her anguish.
Gandalf had called her valiant, and her deeds would be remembered, should anyone survive the shadow of Mordor. But what did it matter? What did she have left to live for? Would she be sought by men and claimed as a wife? No. No husband would suffice. Not even the Lord Aragorn did she desire anymore, for she would have no man who would give her pity. And never would she allow a man to tie her down. No, Éowyn would grow old alone, should she be given the chance to grow old at all. And as she thought this, a frost spread within her until all her heart was covered in an unrelenting winter, destroying any hope of a spring brought by love and joy. Éowyn would love nothing except death. For what force could possibly freeze the ice that now enveloped her heart?
Éowyn found small solice in the knowledge that the end was no doubt nearer than ever. The fires of Mordor would soon spread, engulfing all in the fury of destruction. Little, if any, hope remained for victory against the Darkness, and in this Éowyn found a bitter comfort. For others, winning the war against Sauron would be cause for rejoice. For Éowyn, it would be a terrible blow. It would mean life, and life was pain.
Éowyn had once told Aragorn that she did not fear pain, and still this was true. She was now too weary to fear anything, even life, and so she would have to carry on. What more could she do? She knew death was not far. Her time would soon come.
Perhaps then Éowyn would finally be free.
*~*~*
Disclaimer - Everything belongs to the good Professor and those fine folks over at Tolkien Enterprises. Also, I took some lines directly from RotK, so most of the dialogue doesn't belong to me either. I'm just playing around in the sandbox and hoping I don't screw things up too royally. ;)
The Agony of Life
*~*~*
Houses of Healing
*~*~*
"Great gladness it is to see you wake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!"
Éowyn pondered Gandalf's words, all the while forcing any evidence of the grief that plagued her heart out of her face, hoping those who surrounded her could not see the sorrow that filled her.
Gladness. They were glad. They rejoiced to see the Lady Éowyn alive after her ordeal on the Pelennor. Of course they were happy. A life had been saved.
But Éowyn did not wish to be saved.
"To health?" she said softly. "It may be so. At least while there is an empty saddle of some fallen Rider that I can fill, and there are deeds to do." But as she said this she mourned within, for she knew there would be no hope of her riding off to battle for a very long time. "But to hope?" Hope? What hope could she have if she would not be permitted a brave death in battle? What could possibly be left for her if not death by the sword? What gift could life grant her now that she had lost everything?
"I do not know."
*~*~*
When all but Éomer had departed, Éowyn's brother took her hand, his brows furrowed with concern. "Are you certain you are well, sister?"
She looked up at him, her lips forming a smile that held anything but happiness. "Well enough, dear brother. But I am weary, and I would like some time to myself."
Éomer regarded her gravely for a moment before nodding, giving her a brave attempt at a smile. He stood and kissed her brow. "Rest well, dear Éowyn." When he reached the door, he paused and turned back to look at his sister. He seemed as though he wanted to say something else to her, but words failed him, and he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The moment the door closed, Éowyn allowed the tears to flow.
She had been so close, so agonizingly close to receiving what she had sought when she had left Rohan. Death had been upon her, ready to swoop down and seize her weary soul, to carry her away from the imprisonment of life. But death had lingered too long, and her chance to die with her sword in her hand was gone. Life had triumphed, and now it gloated in its victory, tightening the chains that had long weighed down Éowyn's heart. It seemed to know that she was too weak to fight back, seemed to laugh at her pain.
For the briefest of moments, Éowyn considered taking up her blade and turning it on herself, but chased the thought away in an instant. Only those too cowardly to fight would take their own lives when trapped, and Éowyn would not be a coward.
But trapped she was, within the walls of the White City and the walls around her own heart. Both were walls of the coldest stone, and Éowyn knew that no amount of fighting would allow her to break them. She could do naught but weep for the death that had seemed so near and was now so far from her reach.
When last Éowyn had wept for death, they had been tears of joy. Now her tears were mournful, tears of a woman lost and alone. She had nothing, she had no one, not even a king to look up to and honor. Théoden was gone, taken by the death that Éowyn had longed for; Éomer, she knew, would soon be leaving for an even greater battle, and it was likely that he would not return; and Aragorn...
Éowyn squeezed her eyes shut at the thought. Yes, she loved Aragorn, and her heart ached, for she knew he would never return her feelings. But what had hurt more than even the unrequited love she felt for him was what she had seen in his face after awaking.
Pity. She would rather have him feel hatred towards her than have to see the pity so clear in his eyes whenever he looked upon her. No one pitied a warrior who fell in battle. No one pitied a noble queen who sat proudly upon her throne. But Éowyn was neither of these, nor would she ever be, and for her despair she received pity. And now she would be all the more pitiful, lying in bed, naked without armor nor sword, her weaknesses exposed to the world of scorn. With every beat her heart took it would mock her, with every breath her lungs would ridicule her. Even in her sleep she knew she would find no comfort. Demons would haunt her dreams, laughing as she lay in sloth until she was finally driven mad by her anguish.
Gandalf had called her valiant, and her deeds would be remembered, should anyone survive the shadow of Mordor. But what did it matter? What did she have left to live for? Would she be sought by men and claimed as a wife? No. No husband would suffice. Not even the Lord Aragorn did she desire anymore, for she would have no man who would give her pity. And never would she allow a man to tie her down. No, Éowyn would grow old alone, should she be given the chance to grow old at all. And as she thought this, a frost spread within her until all her heart was covered in an unrelenting winter, destroying any hope of a spring brought by love and joy. Éowyn would love nothing except death. For what force could possibly freeze the ice that now enveloped her heart?
Éowyn found small solice in the knowledge that the end was no doubt nearer than ever. The fires of Mordor would soon spread, engulfing all in the fury of destruction. Little, if any, hope remained for victory against the Darkness, and in this Éowyn found a bitter comfort. For others, winning the war against Sauron would be cause for rejoice. For Éowyn, it would be a terrible blow. It would mean life, and life was pain.
Éowyn had once told Aragorn that she did not fear pain, and still this was true. She was now too weary to fear anything, even life, and so she would have to carry on. What more could she do? She knew death was not far. Her time would soon come.
Perhaps then Éowyn would finally be free.
*~*~*