Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a bloody thing.
A/N: A few of you have expressed thanks for not putting romance into it. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but that will come in eventually (I think-with my weird imagination, you can never be too sure). I'm not sure if it will be the classic they lived happily ever after' ending, though-basically, I do not know how Éowyn's going to end up, except that she doesn't commit suicide. Suggestions (but not obstinate demands) are very welcome! Oh, and of course many thanks to you wonderful reviewers!





Hope Unlooked For
Chapter 3: North


[I fear] a cage, to stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.
-Éowyn, The White Lady of Rohan



Éowyn rode her horse Endumiel, at an easy pace. The mare was steady of foot and capable of great speed, but Éowyn did not want to gallop. She was content to trot along, admiring the great river and the abundance of nature in every shape and form that grew along the shore. It was incredibly beautiful: the lush trees, the overgrown grasses, the birds that sang so sweetly. And yet she saw none of it.

She was clad in leggings and a tunic, which concealed the light mail she wore underneath. A sword and two daggers were fixed to her belt;hard boots adorned her feet. Over all she wore a great green cloak with a hood that fell forward to cover her face.

She journeyed on Endumiel's back for many days, and grew stranger with each step her horse took. It seemed that her condition grew better, that she was healing, for she thought of her sorrows less and less; they seemed far away, part of another, stranger world that did not concern her. And yet, as she travelled further and further from her home, she seemed less and less Herself: when she looked at her reflection, it was a stranger looking back at her, a stranger with her same face in her clothes, but a stranger nonetheless. Her heart was twisted with bitterness and strange thoughts, and her mind was alien to her. She rode on in silent agony, and yet felt better with every step Endumiel took farther away from Meduseld. Her heart was light and heavy at the same time; she felt both good and ill. Gradually she came to forget most everything from her own home-she could hardly even remember her brother, except as a faraway name, of no interest to her. The only part of her old life that seemed real was her love/hatred for Aragorn, and that was no comfort, for thinking of him brought only pain. Despite her scorn of him on his wedding night, she could not erase his face from her mind, and she thought of him at all times, especially at night, when the stars seemed to shine bright enough as to penetrate her very being.

And so it was that The White Lady of Rohan travelled, going North all the time, moving as if dead. After some time (whether it be many months or a few hours, she could not tell), she came across a small lake-a pond, really-in the middle of a vast forest. She went to its edge, for she was thirsty, and the water was clean. She looked at her reflection, and it seemed to lie: for staring back at her was a beautiful woman, looking fair and kind in both face and spirit-and Éowyn knew this was not her, it could not be her-the soul she now carried inside was neither fair nor kind. With sudden resolve, she drew her sword from its sheath, and, holding her hair out long in front of her, made two quick strokes, and saw a mass of golden hair fall to the forest floor. Encouraged, she cut again, watching with bated breath as her golden locks, praised by all in Rohan, fell to be one with the many leaves and other dead matte on the forest floor. Now, as she looked back at her reflection, it suited her temperament much better: the lack of hair seemed to make her eyes stand out more, two burning bright spots in her otherwise haggard and pale face. Her hair fell to just past her earlobes, and was not cut cleanly at all. She looked like a young boy, a starving boy who had been in the wild for many years. Such was her nature then.

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Mirkwood. The place had a strange feeling to it, not really of malice, more of enormity, as if it were so large and dense that no one could ever have a hope of passing through it. Éowyn, growing up next to Fangorn, was a bit prepared for this, but the mighty forest still sent chills through her body. She would have to be very, very careful that she did not lose her way. She entered the outskirts of the huge wood very cautiously, for the forces of good had not had enough time to clear all traces of evil from this forest, and she knew that Sauron had once had a mighty fortress here; so she was watchful.

When she was arrived in a clearing, some strange sense made her halt Endumiel. The horse was nervous, fidgety-strange for a beast normally so calm. Something was here, watching her, she knew it. Frowning, she quickly drew her sword. Endumiel saved her life, leaping forward as five orc arrows whistled out of the trees, aimed at the place Éowyn and her mount had been standing. Endumiel's quick thinking saved both their lives.

Yanking a knife from her boot, she threw it in the direction the arrows had come from, and was rewarded with a shriek of pain. Rearing her horse, Éowyn charged into the forest, as orcs surged out to meet her. There were many, but she was still ahorse, and fury gave her strength. With a cry she locked swords with one orc while Endumiel gave a great neigh and lashed out with her hooves. Éowyn beheaded the orc, turning around to run through another. So intent was she on the fight that she did not see the orcs waiting in the treetops until it was too late: one of them saw its chance and leapt on her back, falling to the ground and taking her with him. Éowyn lay half on the ground and half off, for her foot was still stuck in Endumiel's stirrup, and her assailant leapt to his feet with a feral cry, lifting his primitive blade high-

****

Don't you just love cliff-hangers?