Disclaimer: The characters in this story all belong to Tolkien the genius.
I have nothing on him, and yes, I am plagiarizing, breaching the copyright,
whatever by writing this story. So sue me. I'll give you my LotR action
figures.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------
He watched her, she knew he did. His eyes traced every curve of her body as she wandered aimlessly through the Halls of Meduseld, his hungry gaze feasting on her feminine form. This time, though, she didn't see him as he came up behind her, a hair away from laying his hands on the thing he wanted most.
She felt ice on her neck, then a burning flash of pain. Her catlike defenses screamed in agony, as she whirled, the picture of icicle grace. It was him.
"Get OFF me, wretch!" Her voice, roughened by her swallowed tears, cracked and broke, making her feel more miserable at his touch. "You vile, putrid worm, leave me with my peace! I suffer with every coming dawn, must you make it more unbearable?"
He did not seem to heed her words. "A pale morning, like cool springtime still wrapped around winter's ice touch. . . the silk golden hair flowing behind you as you haughtily pace your 'home.' You are not welcome anywhere here anymore, Eowyn, niece of the former King. "
"I cannot love, I cannot despair. I care not." Though her voice betrayed her loathing, her beautiful face remained its usual calm, void of any emotion. "I agree, this is my home no longer. My king is ruled by an evil charm, no longer capable of recognizing his own kin from foe. He does not welcome me, he does not even know my face. If I could just have him know me once more. . ." She broke off, tears impossible to withstand any longer. But he must not see her weakness, must not see that she cared. Her feet flew as she ran for the one place she was still loved.
----
Her mare nuzzled her face, licking salty tears away. Many a time had she cried into Lihtan's mane, breathing the musky scent of horse. The horses knew the feeling of carrying a burden, just not so heavy as the one she balanced now on her shoulders. She felt comfort in the barn, her legs and feet scratched by hay, her hem caked with manure, comfort she'd known her whole life.
Eowyn spread her body along the horse's back, wishing all the pain away as she twisted her white fingers in Lihtan's long mane. She remembered back to a time when things may have been called good.
----
The sun threw golden streaks across the emerald hills, the sky ablaze with warmth. It was a wonderful day to be chased by an older brother, especially if you always won, thought the girl as she raced across the grass, still slick with dew. Eomer was stupid. He was eleven years of age and still scared of frogs. She'd put one in his bed, and he'd woken this morning with it sitting inconspicuously atop his mouth.
The tiny girl of seven years leaped over a rock twice her size, limbs flailing every which way, arms wheeling to keep her balance. She wouldn't fall. She grinned in victory when her thick golden braid hit her back with a satisfying "thwump."
Eowyn turned around, and watched as her brother tripped over a rock she'd cleared easily, seconds before. He fell in the mud.
"You are positively an OLIPHAUNT!" she screeched smugly. It wasn't so much that he was clumsy, he just never paid attention to his surroundings like she did. Too bent on victory, as always. She decided now was not the good time to poke her tongue out at him. He'd throw a fit, then Modor would become upset, and Eowyn would have to put all her effort into coming up with a believable lie as to why the frog had been in his bed to begin with. Then, in all likelihood, she'd be sent to bed hungry for "fabricating the situation", as Modor liked to put it.
She turned back to find her brother running at her back full speed, his filthy face a mixture of anguish, fury, and fear. Sniggering, she sprinted to the stables faster than was necessary, just to prove her superiority.
It was time to rest. She flopped in the grass, her already-filthy dress now streaked with green. Their laundress would have her head. It was her best gown, a white one with silk embroidery at the collar and hem. Why did her mother always make her wear white, anyway? Eowyn found it useless. So easy to stain. She'd much prefer something like forest green velvet, or perhaps a deep red muslin. But no, her mother told her she'd be beautiful one day, a queen, with eyes the grey of the sea and hair that looked like molten gold. Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, the pride of men. And so she must dress likewise.
Eowyn's stomach groaned and cramped. It was most certainly time for lunch. Hopping nimbly to her feet, she did up her tall-buttoned boots, small white hands catching every hook, and skipped towards Meduseld, heart racing. Today was a day for living.
A flicker of slight movement to the left caught the side of her eye. She looked eastward, and leapt in pure delight. Her father's patrol was back! She hoped he brought good news from Isengard. And presents. Most definitely those, too. A new saddle for her Lihtan, made by the finest leatherworkers in the Dale. Or a delicate hairclip, gifted to him for his golden-haired girl by a group of Elves, passing west forevermore.
The battalion approached. Eowyn squinted, trying to make out her father's handsome face. Something was not right. The men, far fewer than had set out, slumped in their saddles, their faces grief-stricken, beautifully heart-wrenching. Her father's horse. . . it was alone. Horses never returned without their riders unless. . .
Her knees went weak. Somewhere far away, a muffled voice was screaming, screaming into oblivion. Incoherent wails, moans of agony. They slowly merged into words.
"NOOOOOOOO, NOOOOOOO! You cannot take him from me! Evil demon-spawn, he can't be dead!"
Eowyn's ears rang, metal clashing and clanging. Her walls were closing in. . . and suddenly her voice was hoarse from screaming, too. Sounds she had never made before welled up inside her chest. . . bursting their way out of her lungs, ripping her throat in two. And red, red swam before her eyes. . .red blood. She tasted copper. Her mouth filled with red. . .blood. . .red. . .
----
The funeral procession slowly made its way down the hill. The family followed. Eowyn's eyes were red-rimmed, swollen nearly halfway shut. Her throat ached from screaming. . .that first day they had returned. . .
Her mother was unusually calm. They'd dragged her off, and put her to sleep. Now Theodwyn took everything so gently, so sweetly, but Eowyn knew she was ripping to shreds inside. Her face had not smiled yet, not shown any emotion at all. It was as stone. Theodwyn's hair, nightingale black, a color so uncommon in their country, had lost its old luster and gleam. Her eyes were dim, so cold, so frozen. Lifeless.
They'd reached the tomb. Eowyn stepped forward. The cold, hard words gripped her brain before she set them loose, ripping them from her chest, grief etching every word, reminiscent of her mother's cries.
"Bealocwealm hafad freone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gleomenn sorgiende on Meduselde."
She felt the tears come, but no, she must be strong, strong for her mother, for her brother, for her uncle, cousin. She must be strong for herself.
"Westu Eomund hal. Westu faeder. . ." The door slammed shut. Gone.
She was a child no more.
----
Eomer found her later, in the stables, tucked between her mare's front legs. She was sleeping, resting her head against Lihtan's thigh. He picked her up, carried her to her rooms, slid her white gown over her head and dressed her for bed. Then he tucked her in lovingly into her bed, recalling a conversation they'd had with Theodred earlier that day, before the burial.
"Will you sing for him today, feaman?" Theodred had asked, trying to break the stone wall between himself and the small girl-child.
"No." came her curt reply.
"But why?" Eomer cut in, frantically trying to overcome his exasperation at his sister's stubborn behavior. "Everyone loves to hear the White Lady sing."
"I'm not a white lady, Mer. My heart is broken, and the music is gone from inside. I can't sing."
Theodred and Eomer had exchanged a worried glance, then Eomer had left Eowyn in the much more capable hands of their older cousin.
Now looking down at his sister, he placed a worried kiss on her golden head. "Be brave, feageboren, " he whispered. "Modor needs your spirit and strength right now, more than ever before."
----
She'd not seen her mother in two weeks. The once-radiant lady was shut in her room, once-elegant hands that draped around once-elegant dresses now ragged, pale, veined, draped across filthy shifts. She was gone. She was Modor no longer... she was dead. A lifeless body. Soon she would leave this earth to be buried with her husband. It was what she wanted most.
----
The hills blossomed with bursts of color. Blue and white, snowdrops and bluebells, once Eowyn's favorite. Now she cared not for the spring. It meant only another day to grieve.
Her mother was gone. Dead, seven years in the passing, on the anniversary of Eomund's death. Eowyn had forgotten how to feel joy. Her brother had taken her father's place, riding patrols with their cousin Theodred, son of the king. It would not be long before they would return, battle-broken and wounded forever.
They'd always tried to shield her from the cruel world. Always protected her. But things were more apparent now. The king had a new advisor. Grima Wormtongue, he said his name was. A slinking man, full of filth and hate. He crawled around, still young in age but with the bent form and looks of a man a century older. His watery eyes followed her every move. . . tracing the curve of her maturing thirteen year old body. . . she always felt his eyes on her skin. Always felt that crawl when he would place his clammy hand on her cheek. She bathed whenever she left his presence, but she couldn't wash the pain away.
----
She met her brother by the bath halls, the most inconspicuous place there was. The halls were heavily guarded these days, everyone a threat.
They entered the armory, and Eomer fetched the swords he'd hidden the day before, then led outside to a practice field. When Eomer was here, she could bear arms openly, without Wormtongue holding her from fighting. He tossed her the smaller blade, and she caught it deftly. Fighting was her outlet for emotions. She'd been trained as a shieldmaiden since she learned how to walk, and she used to patrol the borders and participate in hunting parties. Now she was forbidden, except when her brother returned.
"You are a child no longer, Eowyn." His voice rumbled in his chest. "The world is a cruel place, and you must learn to fight against it. Never give up, nor let the weak and manipulative win. Have strength. "
They drew their blades.
----
GrIma held her against the wall, pressing his slimy face and forked tongue to hers. But Eowyn fought back strongly, shoving his arms away and hitting him, hard, in the first convenient place. He doubled over, clutching his gut, before slamming her to the wall once more, taking away her pride, his slimy lips upon her innocent mouth. She tried to scream behind him, but found she couldn't. Mustering up the last of her strength, she hurled him away and ran, ran for all she was worth, to the stables.
Eowyn covered herself with the hay in Lihtan's stall, trying to cry silently while still retaining her dignity. But it was impossible to hold the tears back; big, dry sobs that shook her whole body. She stayed there for a long time, her horse sensing something was wrong and nuzzling her face encouragingly. Only after Eowyn had slept for a few hours, concealed by mounds and mounds of straw, did she feel ready to face her life and family again - the family who'd tried to train her in defense, the family whom she'd failed.
----
"Eowyn, what is wrong?" her cousin asked her. Theodred and Eomer had always been her protectors, and looked after her when times looked like they'd never be good again. Even now, they could still tell when she was troubled. They'd help her. But she had to be strong.
Eowyn's steel grey eyes met theirs. "Even those without souls can still have their hearts broken."
----
They were desperately in trouble. Her brother's forces were in the Westfold, fending off mountain orcs, but more always attacked from the north. They needed troops.
"I shall lead them, Uncle." Eowyn's voice was strong again, filled with determination. She could go, and make her brother proud.
"Why should we send one who is but a child to defend our city? She will fail. She does not know power, she does not know strategy. She cannot fight." Wormtongue scoffed, dashing all her hopes for glory in the dust.
"No." Theoden spoke his mind for the first time in days. "Eowyn will go."
----
Her uncle had passed into shadow. He did not know her; he did not even know his own son. Manipulated by the wizard's pet, he ruined a grand kingdom little by little. Wormtongue was his mouth now, Saruman his brain. His addled mind could only see the worst. It was a dark world, the mind of Theoden King. He knew no better than to ignore his niece at news of his son's death. He knew no better than to banish his nephew, now the heir to his throne. He knew nothing anymore.
----
Wormtongue tormented Eowyn. He was hopelessly in love, yet still he harbored a cruel hatred. His words were like poison in her ears, driving the clean thoughts away, banishing them forever in the deep recesses of her mind. He whispered curses to her, slithering remarks about what she thought when no one was there, when she hid inside herself and wanted to run.
Eowyn needed an escape. His words entwined her, bewitching her with his cunning master's mind. Before long she would not know herself. She needed a way out.
And then, suddenly, one appeared. As quick as the dawn comes in spring, her uncle was free again, Wormtongue was thrown out, and she'd never hear him creep into her soul anymore. The sudden joy in her heart overshadowed the loss of Theodred, her dear cousin. She could feel again. And she loved, loved everything around her - but mostly Aragorn, a king among men. He saw who she truly was, through all the sadness and despair: he saw a strong, brave woman where a grieving one had once been. Though he did not yet know it, he'd pulled her away.
There were still times when she wanted to sink inside herself and pull into her soul, but those were few and far between. The day the four riders had come to Meduseld had been her resurrection. The gift they'd given her was more precious than anything in the world. Though war was upon them, she saw each day with new light.
----
Translations: feaman- literally "little one" feageboren- lterally "little sibling", I use it as more of a "litlte sister" Bealocwealm hafad freone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gleomenn sorgiende on Meduselde.- An evil death has set forth the noble warrior
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld. faeder- father modor- mother
Think that's all, if I missed one, let me know, and I'll tell you what it is. And yes I did have symbols and accents, but ff.net was being a fooker and wouldn't let me use them.
-------------------
Author's note: Hullo. This is my first story in a while, and my first ever LotR fic, let alone Eowyn fic. Please cut me some slack, and I hope I made all of your expectations, and if I didn't, I don't mind getting flames. They are quite humorous, actually, considering the fact that none of them ever use proper grammer or standard American English language. And, in the words of Rhi the Great (sorry I keep stealing this Rhi dear, it's just so wonderful and true), they will only be used to charbroil the next Mary Sue we find. So booyah.
Mind you, this was written at 12 at night, when my muse, Ginger (yes, she's imaginary) was whacking out, and it was for an English thing. So if it's not your thing, too intense or whatever, so be it. I don't mind. It's not my thing, either. :P I need smut, not rape (and not smutty rape, either).
Many thanks to Tolkien the genius who created the world I've currently got my head stuck in, Tori Amos for just being my Tori, all my LotR soundtracks, Bevin for being Bevin, Sa and Jen for being Sa and Jen, Leah for being Leah, so on and so forth. Oh, and to lovely Rhiannon being the best beta, fellow livejournaler, and, most especially, friend, anyone could possibly ask for.
Hope you enjoyed! (Which, of course, means r/r!)
Spontaneous violent love to all readers,
-Shae
PS- I'm sorry I rambled. :P
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He watched her, she knew he did. His eyes traced every curve of her body as she wandered aimlessly through the Halls of Meduseld, his hungry gaze feasting on her feminine form. This time, though, she didn't see him as he came up behind her, a hair away from laying his hands on the thing he wanted most.
She felt ice on her neck, then a burning flash of pain. Her catlike defenses screamed in agony, as she whirled, the picture of icicle grace. It was him.
"Get OFF me, wretch!" Her voice, roughened by her swallowed tears, cracked and broke, making her feel more miserable at his touch. "You vile, putrid worm, leave me with my peace! I suffer with every coming dawn, must you make it more unbearable?"
He did not seem to heed her words. "A pale morning, like cool springtime still wrapped around winter's ice touch. . . the silk golden hair flowing behind you as you haughtily pace your 'home.' You are not welcome anywhere here anymore, Eowyn, niece of the former King. "
"I cannot love, I cannot despair. I care not." Though her voice betrayed her loathing, her beautiful face remained its usual calm, void of any emotion. "I agree, this is my home no longer. My king is ruled by an evil charm, no longer capable of recognizing his own kin from foe. He does not welcome me, he does not even know my face. If I could just have him know me once more. . ." She broke off, tears impossible to withstand any longer. But he must not see her weakness, must not see that she cared. Her feet flew as she ran for the one place she was still loved.
----
Her mare nuzzled her face, licking salty tears away. Many a time had she cried into Lihtan's mane, breathing the musky scent of horse. The horses knew the feeling of carrying a burden, just not so heavy as the one she balanced now on her shoulders. She felt comfort in the barn, her legs and feet scratched by hay, her hem caked with manure, comfort she'd known her whole life.
Eowyn spread her body along the horse's back, wishing all the pain away as she twisted her white fingers in Lihtan's long mane. She remembered back to a time when things may have been called good.
----
The sun threw golden streaks across the emerald hills, the sky ablaze with warmth. It was a wonderful day to be chased by an older brother, especially if you always won, thought the girl as she raced across the grass, still slick with dew. Eomer was stupid. He was eleven years of age and still scared of frogs. She'd put one in his bed, and he'd woken this morning with it sitting inconspicuously atop his mouth.
The tiny girl of seven years leaped over a rock twice her size, limbs flailing every which way, arms wheeling to keep her balance. She wouldn't fall. She grinned in victory when her thick golden braid hit her back with a satisfying "thwump."
Eowyn turned around, and watched as her brother tripped over a rock she'd cleared easily, seconds before. He fell in the mud.
"You are positively an OLIPHAUNT!" she screeched smugly. It wasn't so much that he was clumsy, he just never paid attention to his surroundings like she did. Too bent on victory, as always. She decided now was not the good time to poke her tongue out at him. He'd throw a fit, then Modor would become upset, and Eowyn would have to put all her effort into coming up with a believable lie as to why the frog had been in his bed to begin with. Then, in all likelihood, she'd be sent to bed hungry for "fabricating the situation", as Modor liked to put it.
She turned back to find her brother running at her back full speed, his filthy face a mixture of anguish, fury, and fear. Sniggering, she sprinted to the stables faster than was necessary, just to prove her superiority.
It was time to rest. She flopped in the grass, her already-filthy dress now streaked with green. Their laundress would have her head. It was her best gown, a white one with silk embroidery at the collar and hem. Why did her mother always make her wear white, anyway? Eowyn found it useless. So easy to stain. She'd much prefer something like forest green velvet, or perhaps a deep red muslin. But no, her mother told her she'd be beautiful one day, a queen, with eyes the grey of the sea and hair that looked like molten gold. Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, the pride of men. And so she must dress likewise.
Eowyn's stomach groaned and cramped. It was most certainly time for lunch. Hopping nimbly to her feet, she did up her tall-buttoned boots, small white hands catching every hook, and skipped towards Meduseld, heart racing. Today was a day for living.
A flicker of slight movement to the left caught the side of her eye. She looked eastward, and leapt in pure delight. Her father's patrol was back! She hoped he brought good news from Isengard. And presents. Most definitely those, too. A new saddle for her Lihtan, made by the finest leatherworkers in the Dale. Or a delicate hairclip, gifted to him for his golden-haired girl by a group of Elves, passing west forevermore.
The battalion approached. Eowyn squinted, trying to make out her father's handsome face. Something was not right. The men, far fewer than had set out, slumped in their saddles, their faces grief-stricken, beautifully heart-wrenching. Her father's horse. . . it was alone. Horses never returned without their riders unless. . .
Her knees went weak. Somewhere far away, a muffled voice was screaming, screaming into oblivion. Incoherent wails, moans of agony. They slowly merged into words.
"NOOOOOOOO, NOOOOOOO! You cannot take him from me! Evil demon-spawn, he can't be dead!"
Eowyn's ears rang, metal clashing and clanging. Her walls were closing in. . . and suddenly her voice was hoarse from screaming, too. Sounds she had never made before welled up inside her chest. . . bursting their way out of her lungs, ripping her throat in two. And red, red swam before her eyes. . .red blood. She tasted copper. Her mouth filled with red. . .blood. . .red. . .
----
The funeral procession slowly made its way down the hill. The family followed. Eowyn's eyes were red-rimmed, swollen nearly halfway shut. Her throat ached from screaming. . .that first day they had returned. . .
Her mother was unusually calm. They'd dragged her off, and put her to sleep. Now Theodwyn took everything so gently, so sweetly, but Eowyn knew she was ripping to shreds inside. Her face had not smiled yet, not shown any emotion at all. It was as stone. Theodwyn's hair, nightingale black, a color so uncommon in their country, had lost its old luster and gleam. Her eyes were dim, so cold, so frozen. Lifeless.
They'd reached the tomb. Eowyn stepped forward. The cold, hard words gripped her brain before she set them loose, ripping them from her chest, grief etching every word, reminiscent of her mother's cries.
"Bealocwealm hafad freone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gleomenn sorgiende on Meduselde."
She felt the tears come, but no, she must be strong, strong for her mother, for her brother, for her uncle, cousin. She must be strong for herself.
"Westu Eomund hal. Westu faeder. . ." The door slammed shut. Gone.
She was a child no more.
----
Eomer found her later, in the stables, tucked between her mare's front legs. She was sleeping, resting her head against Lihtan's thigh. He picked her up, carried her to her rooms, slid her white gown over her head and dressed her for bed. Then he tucked her in lovingly into her bed, recalling a conversation they'd had with Theodred earlier that day, before the burial.
"Will you sing for him today, feaman?" Theodred had asked, trying to break the stone wall between himself and the small girl-child.
"No." came her curt reply.
"But why?" Eomer cut in, frantically trying to overcome his exasperation at his sister's stubborn behavior. "Everyone loves to hear the White Lady sing."
"I'm not a white lady, Mer. My heart is broken, and the music is gone from inside. I can't sing."
Theodred and Eomer had exchanged a worried glance, then Eomer had left Eowyn in the much more capable hands of their older cousin.
Now looking down at his sister, he placed a worried kiss on her golden head. "Be brave, feageboren, " he whispered. "Modor needs your spirit and strength right now, more than ever before."
----
She'd not seen her mother in two weeks. The once-radiant lady was shut in her room, once-elegant hands that draped around once-elegant dresses now ragged, pale, veined, draped across filthy shifts. She was gone. She was Modor no longer... she was dead. A lifeless body. Soon she would leave this earth to be buried with her husband. It was what she wanted most.
----
The hills blossomed with bursts of color. Blue and white, snowdrops and bluebells, once Eowyn's favorite. Now she cared not for the spring. It meant only another day to grieve.
Her mother was gone. Dead, seven years in the passing, on the anniversary of Eomund's death. Eowyn had forgotten how to feel joy. Her brother had taken her father's place, riding patrols with their cousin Theodred, son of the king. It would not be long before they would return, battle-broken and wounded forever.
They'd always tried to shield her from the cruel world. Always protected her. But things were more apparent now. The king had a new advisor. Grima Wormtongue, he said his name was. A slinking man, full of filth and hate. He crawled around, still young in age but with the bent form and looks of a man a century older. His watery eyes followed her every move. . . tracing the curve of her maturing thirteen year old body. . . she always felt his eyes on her skin. Always felt that crawl when he would place his clammy hand on her cheek. She bathed whenever she left his presence, but she couldn't wash the pain away.
----
She met her brother by the bath halls, the most inconspicuous place there was. The halls were heavily guarded these days, everyone a threat.
They entered the armory, and Eomer fetched the swords he'd hidden the day before, then led outside to a practice field. When Eomer was here, she could bear arms openly, without Wormtongue holding her from fighting. He tossed her the smaller blade, and she caught it deftly. Fighting was her outlet for emotions. She'd been trained as a shieldmaiden since she learned how to walk, and she used to patrol the borders and participate in hunting parties. Now she was forbidden, except when her brother returned.
"You are a child no longer, Eowyn." His voice rumbled in his chest. "The world is a cruel place, and you must learn to fight against it. Never give up, nor let the weak and manipulative win. Have strength. "
They drew their blades.
----
GrIma held her against the wall, pressing his slimy face and forked tongue to hers. But Eowyn fought back strongly, shoving his arms away and hitting him, hard, in the first convenient place. He doubled over, clutching his gut, before slamming her to the wall once more, taking away her pride, his slimy lips upon her innocent mouth. She tried to scream behind him, but found she couldn't. Mustering up the last of her strength, she hurled him away and ran, ran for all she was worth, to the stables.
Eowyn covered herself with the hay in Lihtan's stall, trying to cry silently while still retaining her dignity. But it was impossible to hold the tears back; big, dry sobs that shook her whole body. She stayed there for a long time, her horse sensing something was wrong and nuzzling her face encouragingly. Only after Eowyn had slept for a few hours, concealed by mounds and mounds of straw, did she feel ready to face her life and family again - the family who'd tried to train her in defense, the family whom she'd failed.
----
"Eowyn, what is wrong?" her cousin asked her. Theodred and Eomer had always been her protectors, and looked after her when times looked like they'd never be good again. Even now, they could still tell when she was troubled. They'd help her. But she had to be strong.
Eowyn's steel grey eyes met theirs. "Even those without souls can still have their hearts broken."
----
They were desperately in trouble. Her brother's forces were in the Westfold, fending off mountain orcs, but more always attacked from the north. They needed troops.
"I shall lead them, Uncle." Eowyn's voice was strong again, filled with determination. She could go, and make her brother proud.
"Why should we send one who is but a child to defend our city? She will fail. She does not know power, she does not know strategy. She cannot fight." Wormtongue scoffed, dashing all her hopes for glory in the dust.
"No." Theoden spoke his mind for the first time in days. "Eowyn will go."
----
Her uncle had passed into shadow. He did not know her; he did not even know his own son. Manipulated by the wizard's pet, he ruined a grand kingdom little by little. Wormtongue was his mouth now, Saruman his brain. His addled mind could only see the worst. It was a dark world, the mind of Theoden King. He knew no better than to ignore his niece at news of his son's death. He knew no better than to banish his nephew, now the heir to his throne. He knew nothing anymore.
----
Wormtongue tormented Eowyn. He was hopelessly in love, yet still he harbored a cruel hatred. His words were like poison in her ears, driving the clean thoughts away, banishing them forever in the deep recesses of her mind. He whispered curses to her, slithering remarks about what she thought when no one was there, when she hid inside herself and wanted to run.
Eowyn needed an escape. His words entwined her, bewitching her with his cunning master's mind. Before long she would not know herself. She needed a way out.
And then, suddenly, one appeared. As quick as the dawn comes in spring, her uncle was free again, Wormtongue was thrown out, and she'd never hear him creep into her soul anymore. The sudden joy in her heart overshadowed the loss of Theodred, her dear cousin. She could feel again. And she loved, loved everything around her - but mostly Aragorn, a king among men. He saw who she truly was, through all the sadness and despair: he saw a strong, brave woman where a grieving one had once been. Though he did not yet know it, he'd pulled her away.
There were still times when she wanted to sink inside herself and pull into her soul, but those were few and far between. The day the four riders had come to Meduseld had been her resurrection. The gift they'd given her was more precious than anything in the world. Though war was upon them, she saw each day with new light.
----
Translations: feaman- literally "little one" feageboren- lterally "little sibling", I use it as more of a "litlte sister" Bealocwealm hafad freone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gleomenn sorgiende on Meduselde.- An evil death has set forth the noble warrior
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld. faeder- father modor- mother
Think that's all, if I missed one, let me know, and I'll tell you what it is. And yes I did have symbols and accents, but ff.net was being a fooker and wouldn't let me use them.
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Author's note: Hullo. This is my first story in a while, and my first ever LotR fic, let alone Eowyn fic. Please cut me some slack, and I hope I made all of your expectations, and if I didn't, I don't mind getting flames. They are quite humorous, actually, considering the fact that none of them ever use proper grammer or standard American English language. And, in the words of Rhi the Great (sorry I keep stealing this Rhi dear, it's just so wonderful and true), they will only be used to charbroil the next Mary Sue we find. So booyah.
Mind you, this was written at 12 at night, when my muse, Ginger (yes, she's imaginary) was whacking out, and it was for an English thing. So if it's not your thing, too intense or whatever, so be it. I don't mind. It's not my thing, either. :P I need smut, not rape (and not smutty rape, either).
Many thanks to Tolkien the genius who created the world I've currently got my head stuck in, Tori Amos for just being my Tori, all my LotR soundtracks, Bevin for being Bevin, Sa and Jen for being Sa and Jen, Leah for being Leah, so on and so forth. Oh, and to lovely Rhiannon being the best beta, fellow livejournaler, and, most especially, friend, anyone could possibly ask for.
Hope you enjoyed! (Which, of course, means r/r!)
Spontaneous violent love to all readers,
-Shae
PS- I'm sorry I rambled. :P