Chapter One: A Cage
A shaft of light shone down on Éowyn face. She stirred. Her senses returning; each inch of her body felt as if it had been beaten repeatedly. A dull pain was beginning to prickle on the top of her right eye and her arms felt oddly heavy.
Something wasn't right … she thought dimly, whilst breathing in the scent of some pungent aroma ... something wasn't right …
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
What she saw nearly made her cry out; she was locked in possibly one of the gloomiest, smallest, dilapidated cells in Middle Earth. Even Edoras would never accommodate such despicable living conditions! Slime oozed from the walls, like pus seeping from an infected wound, and the air smelt heavily of decay. Attempting to ignore this unpleasant sensation, Éowyn noticed her arms were shackled to the wall behind her. A dull pain throbbed above across her forehead which felt taut with dried blood.
She had obviously been struck with a blow to the head.
Only one person would be responsible for this travesty: Grima.
He must have poisoned her drink, and kidnapped her after the burial of her cousin. There was no other explanation. Oh, if he was caught, Edoras would have the long-awaited pleasure of his public execution!
Maybe, the worm had brought her to this place himself. Perhaps she was in his dark quarters, hidden in a secret chamber in which not a soul knew about and so now he, could do whatever willed. But she couldn't be? He was banished …
As her fury ebbed away, her grey eyes adjusted to the gloom and she observed her surroundings in closer detail. The only light source emanated from dying torch brackets outside her cell.
Éowyn sniffed and sank back against the cold wall.
She tried, fruitlessly, to shake off the shackles that bound her, but they were fastened tight.
Another dull pain began to throb in Éowyn's head, which she knew had nothing to do with her injuries. Through the immense discomfort she was in, another surge of white-hot anger pulsated through her. Her shackled hands yearned to grasp the handle of a sword. Some cold blade she could swing and drive through his accursed flesh. To destroy him … just as he had done to her. To her Uncle. To Rohan.
The snake in the grass …
As her body seethed with rage, she remembered her last moments before she ended up here.
He came to Rohan.
The dark stranger appearing from the distant plains as she stood atop the Golden Hall. As the wind whipped her golden hair, she watched him enter Edoras accompanied with three others: an elf, a dwarf and Mithrandir, the wizard who saved her Uncle from Saruman's evil clutches. But he … he had saved her.
Not one to be coyed by men, Éowyn could still her heart racing as as she observed him; a handsome, regal face with fathomless eyes … and he had treated her with a tenderness she had known little of.
Aragorn … Last of the Dunedain, destined to be a King.
A lump began to form in Éowyn's throat.
Being trapped in a cage was her worst fear, as Grima knew all to well. He created and installed the very barriers of her life. For years, she was confined to a prison of fear and grief she tended to an ailing King. Hope had long forsaken the halls of Meduseld!
Her own lease; learning how to wield a blade.
In some dull, shut-out memory, Éowyn remembered the furious rides across the plains atop Windfola, her faithful steed at the break of dawn. She remembered how strength had not left her and was up till the late of night, cantering under the stars.
Why did it seem her whole life was flashing before her eyes?
For the first time in years, she was afraid.
A chill wind swept through the cell and she glanced down; she was wearing what appeared to be the torn rags of what was once an elaborate, tailored dress. The shining white, was now a faded grey, congealed with dirt.
A low moan dragged Éowyn from her dark thoughts. Her eyes swept to a dark corner, and she dissected a crouched figure shackled to the wall. A shock of charcoal hair tumbled to the floor, framing a thin, waxen face.
Yet it was not the starved appearance of this woman, that unnerved Éowyn, it was the deathly silence surrounding her like a shroud … as if she was nothing more than a shadow …
Éowyn made to speak but the woman had already lifted her head, acknowledging her presence.
"You live." Her voice was hoarse.
"Yes," replied Éowyn and she too, was shocked at how guttural her voice sounded. It rang eerily around the minute cell. "I – I where am I?"
It was a childish question but she needed to know.
The woman gazed at her with her sunken eyes.
"A darl place," croaked the woman. "He brought you in yesterday."
"Who? Grima?" Éowyn twisted her head around quickly, as if half-expecting the wretched man to sprout from the shadows but the woman shook her head, looking confused.
"Marius," she said. "With the monks. But why they brought in some like you, I know not … you are no Briton."
"No," breathed Éowyn, staring at the woman who stared back with something that looked like pity in her eyes. "I am not a Briton."
"Such wondrous hair," murmured the woman lethargically, sinking her head against the wall. "Like a river of gold."
"Who is this Marius?" Eowyn probed her. "And what are monks? "
The woman smirked. "A fool. He owns a Roman estate, and the monks are his servants. They practise the religion of their so-called God."
Éowyn stared at her in disbelief. Romans … monks … gods … where on earth was she?
"And … and you have not heard of a man called Grima?"
"No … sorry."
Panic began to rise in Éowyn's chest. "So … so why are you in here?"
The woman smirked again. "Because … I refuse to do a madman's bidding. Men lose their way."
Éowyn knew this for a fact. She noticed the woman didn't move her hands, despite the frequent shuffling of her feet. The fingers poked out at odd angles from the sockets.
"What happened to your hands?"
A shadow seemed to flicker across the woman's eyes.
"They were dislocated by one of the monks," she said in a low voice. "You haven't got you yet … but they will … " her voice tailed off.
Éowyn bowed her head.
"People die in here, don't they?"
The woman nodded gravely.
"Martyrs …?"
"No," murmured the woman. "People who refuse to be slaves. People who want their country back."
Éowyn said nothing. So she was in a dungeon where people were tortured because they were sinners in their own land. The thought made her feel slightly sick.
"Do you fear Death?" asked the woman sharply.
The question caught Éowyn off-guard. She tilted her up. "No."
"Then what is it your fear?"
Éowyn looked hard at the woman for a few seconds before answering.
"A cage," she said quietly in the still silence of the cell. "To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valour has gone beyond recall or desire, and yet …" She broke off as a wave of anguish swept through her. "I did not think that would be my fate."
She mastered furiously to keep her face emotionless but the woman's gaze was close and piercing.
Little did her companion know, that she had said these very words to the one person who had given her hope. The one person whom she might not see again. Feeling thoroughly ashamed for showing weakness, she glanced over at the woman and was embarrassed to see a tear, sliding down her cheek.
"It will not be your fate," she said.
"No," said Éowyn stubbornly. "It will not."
"What is your name?" asked the woman.
"Éowyn, yours?"
"Guinevere …"
Guinevere … it was a graceful name and Éowyn couldn't help but wonder …
"Well, Guinevere, I am glad to have met you."
"Me too …"
"I do not know much," said Éowyn, resting her hung arms. "But we must keep our wits."
Guinevere nodded her thin face.
"Strength of mind," she mused. "Many men cannot see beyond the muscle. Whilst we linger here, Éowyn my friend, we shall not sink into despair nor fade away like our captors intend."
Éowyn smiled slightly, even though it ached her face. She was a Shield Maiden, by the words of that man, a Daughter of Kings and she would not wilt easily to any pestiferous, wicked ways of any torturer or tyrant.
Until …
A door creaked from up ahead and the sound of footsteps rang down the corridor. Éowyn glanced at Guinevere and saw that her face was suddenly tense, alarmed.
"They are here," she said in a hushed voice. "God be with you."