Chapter 2 – The Black Breath
by Siberia
"Uncle! Cousin!" she exclaimed. She ran across the plains of Rohan to greet Théoden and Théodred. She placed her arms around the two men and embraced them, for she loved them dearly, as she would her father and her brother. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks, which glistened under the warm sunshine. "I thought you were dead!" she declared, unable to contain her excitement. "Or perhaps, I am the one who is now dead, but it matters not, for I am joyous beyond words that we are finally together again!"
At that instant, a fell voice thundered in the air. The sky swiftly grew dark, consuming much of the light. A grotesque figure materialized before them, its mouth dripping words of the Black Speech. Although she could not understand what was being said, she could discern that the Shadow intended to harm her kinsmen. She stood firm, fearless of her opponent.
"Stay away, you foul beast! You shall not take them away from me again!" She reached for her sword, intending to smite the dreadful creature, but she was horrified to learn that her weapon was no longer by her side. The spectre easily threw her body against a rock face, and by the time she was able to lift herself up again, she suddenly became aware of the stench of blood trickling beneath her feet. Her gaze lowered to the ground, and she collapsed to her knees when she saw the slain bodies of Théoden and Théodred. "No!" she cried.
*****Éowyn woke up screaming. Cold sweat covered her pale visage, her heart racing with agony. The Black Breath still hung heavily on her. She had fought valiantly against the Witch-King, but her victory came at a great cost. The Lord Aragorn had released her from the curse with the aid of athelas plant, but he knew that her wounds were deep and that her recovery would be slow. The White Lady had managed to calm herself down, realizing that it was only an apparition that she had experienced, and that she was a patient in the Houses of Healing.
However, that did not lessen the anguish or the frustration she felt, for her uncle and cousin were no longer part of this World. All I have left is Éomer, Éowyn moaned silently. What I would not give to be riding into battle with my brother at this moment! Yet, I am forced to remain here, wasting away while the War rages on. A sharp pain emerged from her arm, and the Shield-maiden instinctively placed her hand on the wounded area, recalling the forceful blow with which the King of the Nazgûl had struck her.
A servant girl had heard the commotion and rushed to her bedside. "My Lady, are you alright? I heard you screaming."
Éowyn suddenly felt embarrassed by her outburst, and she replied sternly in an attempt to retain her composure. "Yes, 'twas only a nightmare." The Lady of Rohan refused to lie in idleness any longer, and she sought to escape this prison. When she tried to rise from her bed, however, she nearly collapsed unto the floor. Only the presence of the young woman had broken her fall.
"My Lady," the servant girl uttered with concern, carefully ensuring that she has not touched the Shield-maiden's injured arm. "You should rest further; you have not yet recovered fully from your illness. Ioreth told me that you would not be completely healed for at least seven days..."
Éowyn then raised her voice in anger, "Seven days! War is brewing, the end of the world may be near, and you are telling me that I must stay here for seven days? I might as well rot to death! I do not desire to be treated like an invalid! Let go of me!"
The servant girl obeyed, raising her hands away from the patient. Éowyn began to lose her balance again, for the relentless headache had gripped her viciously. She closed her eyes from the extreme discomfort, her fingers gripping at her temples. Reluctantly, the White Lady leaned her body against the wall for support. The dizziness began to fade, and when she had settled down again, Éowyn commanded quietly, "Please prepare a bath for me. I am certain that I will feel better once I have cleansed myself."
The young woman bowed her head. "Yes, my Lady."
While Éowyn bathed, her mind wallowed in thoughts of her family and of the futile love she felt for Aragorn. If only I was born a man, she uttered to herself. My life would have been much simpler. I would have been permitted to fight, and perhaps my beloved kinsmen would not be lying in a cold grave if I had been by their side. Tears swelled from her grey eyes as she pondered on this. At that moment, she suddenly became aware of the thumping of her own heartbeat. The Shield-maiden sighed. Still I live, yet I desire death above all else. Curse this loveless, cruel world!
Éowyn began recollecting mental images of the Lord Aragorn. How strong, noble, and handsome he had appeared to her was when she first laid eyes upon him! The Lady of Rohan saw him as an escape from her many forms of imprisonment; the lechery of Gríma, waiting on her dear uncle as his mind was being poisoned, seeing Rohirrim soldiers returning from battle butchered beyond recognition. But in the end, the Dúnedain Lord was not very different from the other men she had encountered in her life. Aragorn treated her as if she was but a helpless woman, always in need to be kept safe from danger. The warmth of the water had begun to soothe Éowyn's misery, and her mind then drifted into a haze, its thoughts lingering into the past...
****
While at the Rohirrim sanctuary of Dunharrow, the Lord Aragorn had told the Lady Éowyn that he intended to travel towards the Paths of the Dead. She was stricken by his words; for the legends of her people foretold that no living man may pass that way without encountering certain death. She had tried to persuade him to join the King Théoden and Éomer in battle, but the Ranger of the North would not be gainsaid. Later in the evening, she had requested to accompany Aragorn in his quest.
The Dúnedain Lord shook his head. "I say to you, Lady: Stay! For you have no errand in the South."
Éowyn glared into his eyes, her heart faltering at his rejection. She felt betrayed by Aragorn's hypocrisy, for she knew that Gimli, Legolas, and the men of his order were no more suited for this mission than she was, and yet they were allowed to follow him. "Neither have those others who go with thee," she replied sternly. "They go only because they would not be parted from thee - because they love thee." Leaving her subtle declaration of love behind, she swiftly returned to her bedchambers.
Early the next morning, the White Lady garbed herself as a Rider of the Mark; she was clad in chain mail and sported a sturdy helm. The maiden proudly carried her shield, which was embedded with the golden crest of a horse (the symbol of her people), over her shoulder. At her side rested a mighty sword, her weapon of choice. Éowyn was determined to ride with the Ranger, even if it meant pleading with him. The warrior in her soul would not be placated; her heart belonged on the battlefield, and she had grown tired of being left behind to mind the house simply because of her gender.
"Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?" she inquired.
The Lord Aragorn responded gently, "I will not, Lady. For that I could not grant without the leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now on every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"
The Shield-maiden fell to her knees. "I beg thee!"
"Nay, Lady." He raised her from the ground to kiss her hand. Then, he rode away, never looking back, leaving behind a woman whose face became as stern and cold as the North winds.
*****
When she had finished with her bath, Éowyn bade the servant girl to bring her clothes while the healers set the Lady's arm in a sling of linen. She walked around the Houses of Healing in search of tidings from the War, but none of the servants could satisfy her curiosity. With no one left to turn to, the Lady of Rohan sought the Warden. They had disagreed on the state of her health, and Éowyn inquired about any news he might have heard. The Master of the Houses of Healing informed her that the Lords had ridden to Morgul Vale, and that a Ranger from the North was now leading the army.
The White Lady absorbed his words, moving her grey eyes towards his window, which peered eastward. Staring defiantly into the distance, she unknowingly clenched her fist. Hoping that the Dark Lord could hear her thoughts, her mind boldly proclaimed, "I may be injured, but I still have plenty of blood lust left! Beware of the Shield-maiden's wrath, for she has already defeated your finest captain!" Éowyn gradually slipped out from her reverie, for she became wary of the silence that rested between her and the Warden. She spoke again.
"Who commands in this City?" the Lady of Rohan demanded. She did not want to wait in sloth a moment longer. The warrior that resided in her heart had once more summoned her into battle.
The Master looked at her helplessly, admitting that he did not know for certain. He hesitantly replied, "There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."
He will do, Éowyn said to herself. "Where can I find him?" she asked out loud.
The Warden answered, "In this house, Lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know -"
She abruptly cut him off, not wishing to waste another second. "Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."