Just a few notes before we begin: This is more of a movie fic than a book fic, although, personally, I think it works either way. The title should give you the clue as to where it fits. Please, please, please review, as this is the first fic I've posted. There may be further chapters in the future, possibly. Thank you very much. I'll shut up now.
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Wrong!
The word was intolerable and yet the feelings it caused were grimly familiar. Desperate to steady herself, Eowyn took hold of the notion and clung to it until her raging emotions had ebbed and she was alone with the anger.
Yes, of course she was wrong. Her own stupidity, her own fault, were as clear as spring water. Her mind quickly laid out how she had arrived at this place. Every turn, every move had been a product of her own deliberate choice, and she would not permit herself to think of mistakes or clouded judgment. She was wrong, and from this bleak view of her recent actions she could easily conclude that any redeeming qualities her life may ever have possessed were outweighed by her own determined stupidity. The idiocy of her actions frustrated her; she could sense her own strength and somehow knew she had it in her power to do great things. The failures she perceived -- her uncle's illness, Wormtongue's treachery, Theodred's death, and Lord Aragorn's rejection -- suggested chance and fortune, opponents to whom Eowyn could never admit defeat.
Surely one with so great a destiny could have prevented -- !
Eowyn allowed the frustration to fill her and sank onto her bed. Slowly her surroundings came into focus as her mind settled into its customary dejection. The sounds of the smithy filtered into her tent, she could smell the wool of her blanket, and the banner she had been working lay draped over her camp stool. The other ladies, ignorant of her grief, began singing, and Eowyn absentmindedly traced the words in her mind.
It did not occur to her that there might have been some justification for her part in the matter; she did not imagine that a sympathetic mind could exist that would excuse her desires and expectations. Despair came easily to her, and in a life of so much struggle, what is easy often wins out over what is deserved.
The idea of death in battle visited Eowyn that night as it made the rounds of Theoden-king's camp. Her mind was now more nearly approximating clarity, and she received her guest with cold objectivity. Glory, honor, and fame were displayed before her, bright trinkets to adorn her name when the transaction was settled. But Eowyn spied a more precious treasure in the grisly peddler's bag. She called it peace, though oblivion was its name, and perceived in it a release from her pain. A hope hardly worthy of the name, yet more shining in her eyes than any treasure she had seen in her uncle's coffers.
The tears flowed hot down her face. The maid servant who entered the tent a half hour later was surprised to see Lady Eowyn asleep, and after a moment's hesitation, decided not to wake her. She could be informed of Lord Aragorn's departure in the morning.