A Woman's Place
When he had seen her limp body, lying on the battlefield, surrounded by lifeless soldiers, the amount of emotions that managed to course through him in that fraction of a second were too numerous to count. But if one emotion were to stand out among the others, it would be the pain.
The pain that churned deep in his gut as his heart pounded deeper and deeper into his chest, threatening to wither away to nothing at all. She was dead. His sister, his Éowyn, his one last ray of hope in this dark, dismal world, was gone.
Or so he thought. When the rest of the men heard his cries of anguish, they ran to him, stricken by the sight of her body lying broken, her fair hair fanned across the ground, creating a halo of purity amidst the death and decay.
Aragorn pulled him away from her body, murmuring words to comfort him as he tried to mask his own sorrow. A few men went to pick up her body as Éomer struggled against Aragorn's unyielding grasp.
A shocked cry, and Éowyn's body slumped as one of the men lost his grip. "Her heart!" The soldier exclaimed, his voice urgent. "It beats still!"
Éomer's head snapped up, wishing nothing more than for the words he just heard to be true. Sure enough, when he got near to her, placing his fingers on her neck he felt a pulse, slow, but strong. He should not have expected less. She was a daughter of Rohan. Her spirit would outlast even the bloodiest of battles.
There was mild chaos as everyone rushed to get her medical attention. Among it, Éomer stood, silent and unmoving. Aragorn moved towards him, touching his shoulder and drawing him out of his trance. "You should go to her. She could awaken at any moment."
Éomer focused on breathing. "What else must this wretched war take from us? What else must we unknowingly sacrifice before its end?" He regarded the vast expanse of land in front of him. What was once a peacefully flowing plain, covered in tall green grass and flowers still unmarred by winter's cold hand, was now a graveyard. The ground was trampled, the grass dead, and the soil stained red by the blood of the fallen. It was unlikely that flowers would ever grow here again.
Aragorn gave him a sage look, one that conveyed wisdom beyond his years. "Sometimes we suffer great pains from the decisions of others, but we should not let our selfish desire for happiness get in the way of their progress." They sat in silence, both soaking in the sort of brotherly camaraderie that came from conquering impossible enemies alongside one another.
"Come," Aragorn said, trying to raise Éomer's spirits as he clapped him on the back. "We shall go see her together."
Out of respect, they had given her a separate room, away from the moaning, crying and stench of death that clogged the air in the rest of the infirmary. Éomer sat to the side, feeling helpless as he watched Aragorn methodically wipe her brow with a wet towel. Her once white skin was marked with scars and dark bruises.
When Aragorn had to leave, Éomer took to the job in his stead, using the water and rag to wash the blood off her face, out from under her fingernails, trying to get all traces of battle away from her spirit. He feared that if it stayed there any longer, the unshed tears that lingered in his eyes would spill.
Moments passed, but Éomer had long since lost the ability to tell between minutes and days. She took a deep shuddering inhale, and he sat back, his hand pulling away from her as he waited. Her eyes fluttered open and she struggled to sit up, appearing disoriented. He watched her, his voice caught in his throat.
"Why do you grieve?" Her light, airy voice pierced his soul, and he couldn't quite tell if he was feeling an overwhelming pain or an intense joy.
"I do not grieve." His voice was heavy and rough from the weight of his tears. "I rejoice."
Her eyes lit up. "We have won, then?"
"Yes." He slumped in the chair, feeling weary.
"Éomer?" She knew her brother too well to dismiss the tension in the air. He didn't answer her.
A few seconds passed as the realization dawned on her. "You disapprove of me." It was not a question.
He didn't deny her observation, and she felt betrayed. "After all this, you still disapprove of me. Are you truly that small-minded?"
He got up out of his chair, trying to keep his frustration in check. "We will not discuss this now. You are weak, you need your rest."
"I am not weak!" She emphasized, grabbing him by his wrist to stop him from leaving.
His gaze rested on her, and softened. "You misunderstood," Éomer said quietly, reprimanding himself for being unable to convey his thoughts without offending her.
She glared back at him, not backing down - not this time. "I misunderstood nothing. You doubt my abilities because I am a woman. Even after I fight alongside you and your men, you doubt. I excused your discrimination before because I never had the opportunity to prove myself, but I will bear your chauvinism no longer."
Éomer, shocked by her outburst, opened his mouth to protest. "That is not true-"
"Then what is true?"
"I do not want to lose you!" His voice was harsh as he shot the words back at her like an accusation. She quieted, and he took the opportunity to explain himself.
"I have come to terms with the possibility of my own death and the deaths of my brothers. I accepted this the moment I picked up a sword. But if we are all to die, something must be left. Something must be kept pure and safe and untouched. There must be something left to fight for." He knelt by her side, bowing his head as if in prayer.
Her tone was sincere, soft, pleading. "How would you feel if the entire army went to war and left you behind? If every person you loved rode off to battle and still you sat, helpless in the castle, twiddling your thumbs and wondering how many had fallen to the blade of the enemy in that night?"
His anger bubbled at the surface. "That is an unfair question." He accused.
"That is the truth."
"It is different for you, sister!" He felt as though he had snapped, the full weight of his emotions crashing down on him. "I am a man, you are a woman. Our minds act differently. There is no valor, no honor in sitting by idly. A man is nothing without his honor."
She laughed bitterly. "What are we to you, Éomer? Are all women mindless shells, useful only for procreation and the occasional frivolities of romance? Are we all the same to you?"
"No!" He tried to argue, but she was not finished.
"Do we not want for the same things as men? Do we not yearn for greatness, for meaning? Do we not feel the pain of loss as strongly as you do? Do we lack your constitution, your will to fight? Do we lack your innate war-time instincts? Do we lack the intelligence to see when we are being wronged? What is it about us that you find so inferior?" She nearly spat at him, so infuriated by his implications.
"Éowyn, Éowyn, sister." He repeated her name, placing a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to calm her outburst. "I have never, not once in my life, thought of you as inferior. And I apologize for my words and the reaction they incited. It was not my intention to offend." He wrapped her in a hug and after a moment of hesitation, she returned the gesture.
"I do not doubt your ability to fight." He murmured to her quietly. "I doubt my own ability to survive on this earth without you."
They pulled away and Éomer smiled at her. "You must rest now, regain your strength. Let us place this conversation out of our minds, at least until you are fully healed."
She smirked at him and her eyes regained a bit of the sparkle that he was accustomed to. "When you come back, I can tell you of how I killed the Witch-king of Angmar."
He laughed softly. "A battle story that will be told around firesides for centuries to come, I am sure. Sleep well, Éowyn… Rider of Rohan."