Black mist enshrouded her. All around her were the sounds of the battle. The roar of the fell beast. The scream of the Nazgûl. And the fear. The all-encompassing fear that pierced her heart. Her uncle lay below his horse, broken, gasping, reaching out to her for help. But she couldn't reach him, while all around her the mists were growing ever denser and darker.

"Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Come to your King…" it was barely audible, no more than a whisper amongst the mist. Then it came again, louder and clearer, "Éowyn, shieldmaiden of the Mark. Come to your King!"

She turned around, and a faint light shone upon her face.

"Éowyn! Éowyn!" this time the voice she heard was that of her brother. Full of love and hope and pleading. And she knew that she must come. With the greatest of efforts, she walked away from the swirling black mists, toward the light, which was becoming brighter and warmer with every moment, until it was unbearably bright. Éowyn forced herself to continue to stride onward.

She felt big rough hands touching her face, and tears dripping upon her nose.

One more effort, Éowyn, she thought. Open your eyes.

As the room came into focus, she saw those hazel eyes that looked like the pastures of autumn, tears cascading down their edges. Éomer was here. So it wasn't a dream. Her uncle was dead. Her brother was now King of Rohan. She and Merry had slain the Witch King. And she was alive.

So she had failed, it seemed.

She had been called back from hell and asked to keep on existing. Robbed of her escape; of her valiant and glorious death. Yearning to fly free, she'd again been netted and thrust back into her cage.

As she regained her senses, Éowyn winced. Her entire body ached. Sharp pains radiated throughout her shield-arm, belying the broken bones beneath expertly wrapped bandages. Her sword arm, which had slain that foul monstrosity was cold and numb, but she could feel a tingling sensation starting to return to her fingertips. Éomer drew back slightly, and Éowyn saw she was in a small room, with a window pointing west. This must be the House of Healing in Gondor. Everything came into focus then. Éowyn could see Éomer's anguish, elation and dread for her intertwined. A king, a warrior, but to her, ever the big brother. His anguished look returned her to the time she'd waded too deeply into the river, and was swept under the current before being pulled to her rescue.

Dear brother, I fear we find ourselves on the banks of that river yet again, Éowyn thought, though this time I would fight to sleep, and you would have me wake up.

But wake up she would, because of the look in Éomer's eyes. If she were to leave him, as their mother and father, their cousin, and now, their uncle had, he would be a man completely broken by grief. So she decided, for the time, to stay.

"Brother" her voice quavered, but she willed the joy she saw in his eyes to reflect in her words. At this, Éomer let out a small wail and grasped his sister's cold right hand, kissing her fingertips.

"Sister! I thought I'd lost you. I thought you were gone." Éomer's voice was awash with relief despite the tears still flowing down his face. Éomer put his hand to her cheek, letting his fingers gently glide against her skin. Éowyn smiled. If one was to rob her of her glorious death, she was glad that it was him.

But… it wasn't him. The first voice was that of Aragorn, and yet when she opened her eyes, he was no longer there, having not even lingered to watch her open her eyes. The absence of the man who called her forth cast a shadow upon her heart. Aragorn would never see her person, only her sex. The shadow's hold on her grew. Éowyn willed herself to concentrate on the love in her brother's eyes, forcing the shadow in her heart to retreat.

She let her mind return home. Racing Éomer through the thickets, their harried parents chasing behind them. Sitting in the open fields gorging themselves on wild strawberries. Attacking their father with sticks crying the battle calls of the éored, then being scooped up and tickled until they dropped their weapons in fits of giggles, secure in his arms. She remembered running into her mother's waiting embrace, smelling the scent of lavender in her hair. She remembered whispering to Éomer at night of the dragons they would slay and maidens they would rescue from towers guarded by the biggest and meanest of goblins.

Alas brother, for I am the maiden in the tower, Éowyn thought, as nostalgia snapped quickly back to despair, for she remembered the impotent rage in her brother's face at the slow poisoning of their uncle and the obsessive energy that Gríma Wormtongue had focused on her. Of the husk of her mother choosing to die rather than live without their father.

She forced herself into the present again, looking into her brother's eyes. She was the slayer of the Witch King and yet she was also the maiden in the tower, and so very tired.

"Brother, forgive me, but I need rest," Éowyn looked steadily into Éomer's eyes, "I promise I shall wake again tomorrow to see you."

Éomer relaxed his gaze at these words, placed a kiss upon her forehead, and left. Éowyn was not sure why she felt compelled to make such a promise, but knew that she would keep it. The shadow would not win her, at least not tonight.