The Angel and the King
Aragorn's arrival in the Black Ships, bringing to Minas Tirith the army of the dead had made victory almost certain for them. There was a lull in the battle as the Orcs looked on in despair when one of their huge Mumakil's was engulfed under a swarming green sea of the dead and brought crashing down to the ground. Aragorn looked upon this sight with satisfaction, then he saw the scores of brave young men that had fallen and he was filled with sorrow, and a self-reproach the as hasty as he had already been, he should have been quicker.
As his eye strayed across the Pelennor Fields, he noticed small figure in the distance, holding a sword straight out in front of her, her golden hair blowing gently in the wind. She was faced with a tall, dark, black shape - The Witch-King of Angmar, the most deadly foe a living man could ever encounter. And Éowyn was battling with him face to face. alone.
He gave an anguished cry, and ran to her. He ran as if all the hosts of Mordor were at his heels. But she was far away - too far. He would not get there in time. in time to do what? He did not know. He knew only that he must reach her, if only to be with her. As he watched, the Witch-King swung his lethal weapon down heavily onto Éowyn's shield. She gave a great cry, and staggered backwards as the shield splintered. Aragorn's mouth went dry as the Witch-King advanced dangerously on her and took her roughly by the neck. Aragorn ran desperately, almost giving up hope, when a small figure crawled slowly up behind the black shadow and plunged a shining dagger deeply into its back. He emitted an ear-splitting shriek and released Éowyn in his dismay. She straightened herself up, exhausted, and with one swift motion, she plunged her blade straight into the darkness of the Witch- King's head. This time, the cry was so shrill, anyone who heard it blocked their ears, appalled. The Witch-King seemed to disintegrate before their very eyes. He became a part of the Earth, just as if he had never been.
Éowyn, however, was nearly spent. She fell to the ground, drained of all her strength, just as Aragorn finally reached her. Her breathing was slow and laboured, and each breath she took brought her closer to the cold clutches of death. But still Aragorn refused to believe what his heart was telling him: that it was already too late. He rested her head in the crook of his arm and stared at her anxiously.
"Aragorn." she said with difficulty. "Forgive me. I had to come. I could not stay and watch and wait. The suspense would have driven me insane."
"Hush." he whispered gently. "Please try not to speak, it will rob you of your strength. I will take you back to Minas Tirith, and there you may rest and be healed."
"No," she replied softly. "My time has come. But I do not regret my decision to leave. This was all I ever wanted."
She smiled contentedly, but as she looked up into Aragorn's eyes, her smile waned slightly.
"Except." she murmured.
Aragorn raised his hand to her cheek, and brushed away a tear with his thumb. "Except what, my Lady?" he whispered.
Éowyn gazed up at him, and her lips moved to form the word, but no sound came could be heard.
"You."
And Aragorn took her in his arms and kissed her under the beautiful sunlit sky, and the meeting of their lips was like the moon lighting up the darkness and the shadows of night; it was meant to be. But all too soon, Éowyn's head fell slowly to the side, and her eyes closed peacefully. As Aragorn observed her sleeping face, his eyes filled with tears he was powerless to hold back and his heart was aching with a terrible pain he feared would never leave him. And he wept - wept at the loss of that which he had never had.
"Éowyn." he choked. "Don't go. I cannot lose you. I have only just found you. Éowyn! Do not leave me here. I love you too much."
But she was gone. Her skin was as soft and as pale as the petals of a Simbelmynë, and a small smile graced her lips from which the warmth of life was slowly ebbing. Éowyn had fulfilled her desire for renown, and tales of the valour of the White Lady of Rohan would be sung in many a verse by the minstrels of Middle-earth for many long winters to come.
But she was gone, and all the valour in the world could not bring her back now.
***
A whole year had passed since Frodo had destroyed the Ring of Power. Aragorn had been crowned the High King of Gondor, and he was married to the beautiful Elven Princess, Arwen Undómiel. But he could never be truly happy, for there was ever a gnawing pain at his heart - an empty space where Éowyn had once been.
Aragorn stood on one of the many balconies at Minas Tirith, looking up at the starry sky. As he watched, one of the stars seemed to grow brighter. A beautiful silver mist was forming around it. The mist was becoming sharper and clearer, and began to take a form... what was it. an Angel? Aragorn watched the shape in wonder, until he saw what it truly was.
"Éowyn." he breathed and held his hand out to her.
He could have sworn that she had smiled and that the mist had reached out to meet his touch. and then she was gone. Aragorn stared in wonder at the star, which was now shimmering sleepily, and he wondered if he could have dreamt it. He went slowly back inside, and lay down heavily on his bed. The pain in his heart had always been there - but now it was burning him. A fiery, agonizing passion for what was never his threatened to engulf his soul and confuse his senses. Silent tears of inconsolable grief slid down his face.
And that was how the people of the court at Minas Tirith found him the next morning, his unseeing grey eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, his cold, stiff hand clutched to his breast.
Some said it was an attack of the heart that took him. Others said evil spirits had stolen him away. But no-one ever guessed the truth - that the King had succumbed to grief, and had gone to join his Angel in the heavens, and there they would dance among the stars until the end of eternity.
Aragorn's arrival in the Black Ships, bringing to Minas Tirith the army of the dead had made victory almost certain for them. There was a lull in the battle as the Orcs looked on in despair when one of their huge Mumakil's was engulfed under a swarming green sea of the dead and brought crashing down to the ground. Aragorn looked upon this sight with satisfaction, then he saw the scores of brave young men that had fallen and he was filled with sorrow, and a self-reproach the as hasty as he had already been, he should have been quicker.
As his eye strayed across the Pelennor Fields, he noticed small figure in the distance, holding a sword straight out in front of her, her golden hair blowing gently in the wind. She was faced with a tall, dark, black shape - The Witch-King of Angmar, the most deadly foe a living man could ever encounter. And Éowyn was battling with him face to face. alone.
He gave an anguished cry, and ran to her. He ran as if all the hosts of Mordor were at his heels. But she was far away - too far. He would not get there in time. in time to do what? He did not know. He knew only that he must reach her, if only to be with her. As he watched, the Witch-King swung his lethal weapon down heavily onto Éowyn's shield. She gave a great cry, and staggered backwards as the shield splintered. Aragorn's mouth went dry as the Witch-King advanced dangerously on her and took her roughly by the neck. Aragorn ran desperately, almost giving up hope, when a small figure crawled slowly up behind the black shadow and plunged a shining dagger deeply into its back. He emitted an ear-splitting shriek and released Éowyn in his dismay. She straightened herself up, exhausted, and with one swift motion, she plunged her blade straight into the darkness of the Witch- King's head. This time, the cry was so shrill, anyone who heard it blocked their ears, appalled. The Witch-King seemed to disintegrate before their very eyes. He became a part of the Earth, just as if he had never been.
Éowyn, however, was nearly spent. She fell to the ground, drained of all her strength, just as Aragorn finally reached her. Her breathing was slow and laboured, and each breath she took brought her closer to the cold clutches of death. But still Aragorn refused to believe what his heart was telling him: that it was already too late. He rested her head in the crook of his arm and stared at her anxiously.
"Aragorn." she said with difficulty. "Forgive me. I had to come. I could not stay and watch and wait. The suspense would have driven me insane."
"Hush." he whispered gently. "Please try not to speak, it will rob you of your strength. I will take you back to Minas Tirith, and there you may rest and be healed."
"No," she replied softly. "My time has come. But I do not regret my decision to leave. This was all I ever wanted."
She smiled contentedly, but as she looked up into Aragorn's eyes, her smile waned slightly.
"Except." she murmured.
Aragorn raised his hand to her cheek, and brushed away a tear with his thumb. "Except what, my Lady?" he whispered.
Éowyn gazed up at him, and her lips moved to form the word, but no sound came could be heard.
"You."
And Aragorn took her in his arms and kissed her under the beautiful sunlit sky, and the meeting of their lips was like the moon lighting up the darkness and the shadows of night; it was meant to be. But all too soon, Éowyn's head fell slowly to the side, and her eyes closed peacefully. As Aragorn observed her sleeping face, his eyes filled with tears he was powerless to hold back and his heart was aching with a terrible pain he feared would never leave him. And he wept - wept at the loss of that which he had never had.
"Éowyn." he choked. "Don't go. I cannot lose you. I have only just found you. Éowyn! Do not leave me here. I love you too much."
But she was gone. Her skin was as soft and as pale as the petals of a Simbelmynë, and a small smile graced her lips from which the warmth of life was slowly ebbing. Éowyn had fulfilled her desire for renown, and tales of the valour of the White Lady of Rohan would be sung in many a verse by the minstrels of Middle-earth for many long winters to come.
But she was gone, and all the valour in the world could not bring her back now.
***
A whole year had passed since Frodo had destroyed the Ring of Power. Aragorn had been crowned the High King of Gondor, and he was married to the beautiful Elven Princess, Arwen Undómiel. But he could never be truly happy, for there was ever a gnawing pain at his heart - an empty space where Éowyn had once been.
Aragorn stood on one of the many balconies at Minas Tirith, looking up at the starry sky. As he watched, one of the stars seemed to grow brighter. A beautiful silver mist was forming around it. The mist was becoming sharper and clearer, and began to take a form... what was it. an Angel? Aragorn watched the shape in wonder, until he saw what it truly was.
"Éowyn." he breathed and held his hand out to her.
He could have sworn that she had smiled and that the mist had reached out to meet his touch. and then she was gone. Aragorn stared in wonder at the star, which was now shimmering sleepily, and he wondered if he could have dreamt it. He went slowly back inside, and lay down heavily on his bed. The pain in his heart had always been there - but now it was burning him. A fiery, agonizing passion for what was never his threatened to engulf his soul and confuse his senses. Silent tears of inconsolable grief slid down his face.
And that was how the people of the court at Minas Tirith found him the next morning, his unseeing grey eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, his cold, stiff hand clutched to his breast.
Some said it was an attack of the heart that took him. Others said evil spirits had stolen him away. But no-one ever guessed the truth - that the King had succumbed to grief, and had gone to join his Angel in the heavens, and there they would dance among the stars until the end of eternity.