Chapter XVI - Eowyn vanimelda, namarië!
Thunder tore the dark sky into bits. For vile, brief instances, the faces around him were grotesquely illuminated-suddenly humans and Orcs seemed eerily similar, eerily related. Often he could not tell them apart. He prayed that his knife went where it was supposed to go. Senses were blurred. Was it rain or blood sliding down the back of his neck? The flashes were blinding. Was it night or day?
Arrows: spent. Allies left on the wall: impossibly few. He stepped as nimbly as he could over the partially decapitated corpse of a Rohan soldier no more than twenty years of age. The almost-severed face harbored a look of surprise. The loosened eyeball had been blue.
Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. The splatter of blood on blood, the slam of flesh on flesh, metal on metal, teeth on teeth. Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. His father had taught him, "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes." He had seen so many eyes, eyes frozen in the position of massacre and rage. He had lost track. He hadn't heeded his father's advice for a good part of this battle. He hadn't the strength.
Gimli shouted a number of his fallen over the din of battle.
"Twenty-one!"
Legolas laughed harder than was appropriate, spinning between Uruks, ignoring the throbbing pain in each limb. And he knew his count was uncountable, was impossibly high. So he made up a number, ready to throw the Dwarf off guard.
"Two dozen, son of Gloin. Better luck-" a pause as he drove his knifepoint into an eye socket "-next time!"
Roaring Dwarvish laughter. Neither cared that they were soon to die. Gandalf and Erkenbrand were nowhere to be found. Daylight was an impossible dream now. Darkness was the ultimatum. Desperate, and still smiling maniacally, he looked over the wall once. A sea of black, moving shapes jeered up at him. Spearheads and scimitars glinted in the storm. Over the side of the wall he could see a light-a little torch was moving through the masses of Uruk-Hai. A light. He stared at it, lost, amazed. He realized what was happening a moment later, a moment too late. Then the earth groaned as though it were splitting open, as though a volcano was rising at unnatural speed.
The wall exploded beneath him. Legolas felt himself hurled up into the air like a piece of shrapnel. He couldn't see anything. Smoke filled his eyes and mouth. Intense pain cut through his torso. Somehow he held onto his bow. Shadows flew past him. Stones. Soldiers. Uruk-Hai. The fell like rain upon the inner keep.
He hit something. It was likely a wall. The wind was knocked out of him, his head snapped back and collided with the stone. Immediately he blacked out and fell to his knees, gasping, bleeding, utterly disoriented. Dust and stone fell all over and around him. Booms sounded as pieces of masonry as big as houses slammed back to the earth. Men screamed. Uruks bellowed. One Elf gasped for air. A flume of blood fell from his lips as he coughed. The internal bleeding from hitting the wall was very bad. He could sense that. He would have to stop fighting, or he could die.
That was all he could guarantee. He *could* die.
Somewhere a horn sounded, and the desperate cry: "Retreat! Retreat to the caves!"
Legolas shook his head, and the bones in his necked felt like they were on fire. He used the wall to drag himself up. He looked at the ground around him only once; along with the stones and dust, a rain of human limbs had come down. He tightened his grip on his bow, feeling life return to his stunned fingers, and he began to walk. Then he began to run. He had to find Aragorn and Gimli.
The horn blasted again.
He reached behind him-one arrow left in his badly damaged quiver. It wasn't even one of his own-he had plucked it from the crushed supply of a fallen Rohiric soldier. One arrow. He spun around again. A slight pathway was visible, leading to the stairs, leading to the cave mouth. Where was Aragorn? Where Gimli? The Dwarf had disappeared, his diminutive height hiding him from the fiercely-glittering Elven eyes.
*Focus.*
He sprinted toward the stairs, his calf-muscles seizing up from trauma. He hurtled over bodies, over limbs that still contained some gory animation. Hands reached for his ankles, pleas of help, pleas to be killed swiftly by the kind Elf. But he ran on, knocking his arrow, frantically scanning the dwindling battle for any of his allies. A wave of Orcs came pouring over the wall. Bodies were crushed. He looked away, sickened.
And then: "Legolas!"
It was Aragorn. Legolas' heart sang with joy as he watched the Ranger slice his way through the Uruk-Hai, so near the steps. Aragorn looked torn, and a cut marked his brow, but he had survived the blast. Aragorn he reached the stairs somehow, skipping the first four, leaping up toward the Elf.
"You live! I saw you for a moment, and then the wall blew, and you were gone."
"I think I blew with it," the Elf laughed. Blood run from one corner of his mouth. Aragorn saw this and stopped smiling.
"We must retreat."
"Everyone has gone inside!" Legolas said, narrowing his eyes at a moving target behind his friend. There was the loud, "Fwih-KANG!" as the dart leapt from the string and plunged through the lead Uruk's neck. Legolas grinned and reached forward, catching Aragorn by the forearm. Leaning on each other more than they should have, the weary warriors stumbled inside.
* * *
She had slept again, fitfully, collapsing against the stone wall behind her. A cramp had begun to grow on her stomach, as well as an ugly purple bruise shaped like the leafy hilt of an Elven knife. She was aware of the slick, dampness of the stones around her, and wondered whether this liquid was blood or a simple dripping that came through the roof. She heard the sighs and groans of the warriors around her, and these sounds came together in a sort of rhythm that lulled her into a meditative state, then deep slumber.
* * *
Inside the caves, Legolas' pulse did not lessen. All movement seemed to spin. He awkwardly swiped his knife blade over the fabric of his tunic, then felt the rush of awareness hit him. He walked as swiftly and inconspicuously as he could to where he had last put Eowyn. Anguished faces washed by him. He faintly registered the moans and death-gasps all around him, but his heart was numb to all life in that room-save to one.
Her head was tilted back a little, her neck resting as comfortably as was possible on the grooved stone of the cave wall. A few drenched strands of golden hair had settled over the contours of her face-weirdly angelic in slumber despite the subdued carnage all around her. A dim shadow hid the majority of her visage. For all the world, she was a sleeping boy who had not yet begun to grow his beard.
For a long moment he stood there, perfectly still, gazing at Eowyn with so much love that it was painful. Her breath, steady and tranquil, was a lulling rhythm. Her bound chest rose and fell demurely. Her dark lashes fluttered. Beneath them, he caught the glitter of her eyes. The internal bleeding within his own body had halted, but he knew he was still in pain- yet somehow, looking at Eowyn, he did not feel any of it. It was with great anxiety that he finally tore his gaze away from her sleeping figure and slowly spun on one heel, ignoring the tug of the invisible threads that linked them.
Aragorn, Théoden and a few of the captains were standing in some sort of small circle, more age in their faces than was due for their years. Legolas half-wandered, half-walked over to them, and he caught the dismal edges of their talk. Eomer was missing. So was Gimli.
Théoden's face was hideously pale so the veins near his temples and under his eyes stood out more than they usually did. His eyes seemed to be unfocused on the faces around him. His head slowly shook from side to side, as though Aragorn's words had no impact on his mind. The Ranger saw this, and placed a steadying hand on the king's arm and the old man continued.
"How shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate? Had I known that the strength of Isengard was grown so great, maybe I should not so rashly have ridden forth to meet it, for all the arts of Gandalf. His counsel seems not now so good as it did under the morning sun."
And Aragorn replied, his tone deep and steady: "Do not judge the counsel of Gandalf until it all is over, lord."
Legolas dipped his chin in thought, his blood-soaked fingers spiraling across his bowstring, its song mournful and keening. He thought of Gimli. He prayed to the Valar, sorrow gnawing at his throat.
Théoden slowly replied, "The end will not be long. But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap." His clouded eyes were alight with a fire the Elf found to be at once disturbing and deeply moving. "Snowmane and Hasufel and Arod and the horses of my inner guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm's horn, and I will ride forth." Then, seeing clearly for the first time, Théoden turned to the Man and the Elf at his side. "Will you ride with me then, sons of Arathorn and Thranduil? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song-if any be left to sing of us hereafter."
"I will ride with you," Aragorn replied almost immediately. Then he looked to Legolas out of the corner of his eye.
Legolas' eyes were downcast upon his bloodied bow, his long, slender fingers dancing up and down the length of the string. His gray irises, which had seemed so pale a few hours ago, were now wild with storm clouds. At last the Elf looked up and at least one Rohiric soldier took a step back.
"As will I."
* * *
Her dream was not restful, nor was it very long. She had not the will to sleep in mind, only in body. Physical exhaustion and pain had made her collapse with anguish and fatigue. The dreams were just as distressing.
"Ride back," his voice said, speaking in a tongue she did not know yet somehow understood. "If you do nothing else for me, ride back while you may. We cannot save Helm's Deep-we cannot save any of our skins. Ride. Ride before they discover you. Ride before they wrong you. You-must-ride." And then there was a rushing by her ears as though she were on horseback, a breath upon her brow, and then a flash of light.
She woke with a start. A rumbling had begun in the earth. There was the beat of hooves, the cries of men-of battle! She tried to rise, but her body screamed in protest and she collapsed once more. The heady intoxication of sleep clung to her eyelids. *Elf magic!* she realized, angry at that blasted prince who had descended upon her right when she had meant to watch him whirl, killing with a swiftness no Man might match.
"They are riding out to die," a young, battered soldier to her left said to no one in particular. "The last ride...of Théoden."
*Say not so,* she pleaded silently, her heart tight in her chest, anguish stinging her eyes. She tried to rise again, but the pain was too great. Dizziness and fatigue beat her down. She felt helpless and, worst of all, useless. How could she let them die? Her brother. Her uncle who had been her father for so many years. All the brave men of the cavalry that she had known. Aragorn, with the potent eyes. Gimli with his rough laugh. Legolas. Legolas and his sweeping knives, his flying arrows, his face flecked with blood. Legolas with his hand upon Arod's head, a gentle smile curving his lips. Legolas in gray and green, hair tossed by the wind, bending his bow. Legolas pulling down one side of his collar, showing her his skin.
An explosion sounded outside. The caves rattled. Men groaned. She bit back a cry, digging her hands into the rock wall, finding her steadiness again. The noise went on, ceaseless. She strained to hear an Elvish battle cry, but then remembered him as the silent fighter, the noiseless warrior, the unspoken blade amid the chaos of war. How could he die? She had discovered him! How could he leave her? How could he?
Mustering all her strength, Eowyn slammed one palm against the cave wall and shoved herself upward. The exertion made her grunt in pain and weariness, but it was nothing. *Nothing. Stand taller. Straighten your shoulders. You are a warrior of the Rohirrim.*
"It's over," a soldier whispered.
*Now take a step. Your sword is not far. It is no matter. Grab another. There! One lies a few yards away!*
"We're going to be slaughtered alive," a moan realized a little to her right.
Her step faltered, more angry than afraid. Then she planted her heel. Her sight was blurring, but her footing was now sure. The thunder of hooves grew louder and louder. Men clutched at each other in the deep, awaiting their doom. Her strength lessened, her vision spiraling. *Perhaps it is over. Perhaps, Legolas, this is greater than you or I.*
The horn of Helm Hammerhand blared through the valley and the wounded men in the caves fell into silent awe.
She lay back again. Her face was as hard and cold as ice, her eyes staring straight ahead, icy gray, unmoving, unblinking. Light danced off her chain mail and made starry images on the roof above her. Perfectly still, she patiently awaited the end.
* * *
*Perhaps she will have time to run. Perhaps there is a passage out of the caves. Perhaps she has a chance. If not-let them kill her swiftly.*
Legolas flipped his knife in his hand, caught it, and brought his arm down in a graceful arc, cleaving an Uruk's head in twain. Arod whinnied beneath him, bleeding from an ugly gash near his neck. Legolas pressed his knee there, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood.
His eyes caught sight of a tall, dim forest he had not seen before. He smiled a little. *Visions of home to comfort an Elf on his way to Mandos. How strange.*
The sky erupted with the fierce light of dawn, horns sounded, Men screamed in agony and ecstasy, relishing in their last ride. He thought of Eowyn's beautiful, slanted gray eyes, their dark lashes, the golden fall of her hair. He thought of her graceful hands strong and sure around the hilt of a gold-handled sword. He thought of his mouth crushed against hers, the rain mingling with her saliva. He could die for such a dream. She was a thing to be praised in Quenya. She was a light to be heralded by song.
And then there came another cry, a cry he had not heard before.
"Erkenbrand!"
The riders glanced about wildly, ignoring bleeding wounds and sore limbs. Even Legolas rose up in the stirrups and stared where so many hands were pointing.
And Aragorn laughed and said, "Behold the White Rider."
* * *
Eowyn had been quite ready to die. She had not been prepared to live, nor had she been prepared to be heaved to her feet by a strangely-smiling lad.
"Might I lend you a hand?" a young soldier asked her, smiling with an amiability that thrilled her. No battle pride here: just one soul reaching out to another. Then she remembered who she was, and who he thought her to be.
Eowyn's heart froze, but she cleared her throat and said as gruffly as she could. "No need, my brother." To prove her words she stood. The pain on her abdomen increased. She stumbled a little, but caught herself. The young soldier stared at her in apparent bewilderment. She prayed he did not note the willowy quality of her calves under the chain mail. She lifted her head and stretched in the most masculine way she could, then strode away.
The Men sleeping or groaning in pain around her had begun to rise, stretching their limbs and lending shoulders to those unable to stand alone.
A little sunlight came in through the wooden door fixed to the cave mouth. Limping a little, she stepped outside, drawing her navy cloak around her to ward off the chill of morning. Many of the Men were riding or running toward a green in the distance. She spied a forest there that she had never before seen, as well as several small figures parlaying. One was clad in the purest of whites. That was Gandalf. And a bit to his left: she thought she saw a tall, slender figure wielding a beautifully-curved bow. Mustering all her self-control, she turned away from the vision, focused on one thing: getting home.
Horses were being saddled, riders were readying themselves to make for home to resupply or heal nasty wounds. She knew she must join them. Had she not been given the strictest of orders to stay at home? Were they not expecting to find her there, to tell her of the battle? She must not tarry. Ducking her head, masking her voice when she had to, Eowyn followed the departing. She found a riderless cavalry steed, ignored the blood all over its saddle, and mounted it in as much of a masculine manner as she could. Then she joined the leaving column. Her advantage was in the fact that she was a fast rider, and sped before them, crossing the plains in nearly half the time it had taken her comrades in arms to return home. She kept to herself, not speaking, not smiling, only pressing her steed onward, faster, as though afraid. The Men who rode a bit behind her were laughing with joy, but she was silent.
* * *
Léofa met her at the agreed spot. Eowyn tore off her helmet, sweaty and rusted from the rain. She fled to her chamber and unwound the cloth around her breasts, gasping with relief at the loss of pressure. Then, with joy, she collapsed on her bed, catching the covers in her fists. She felt profoundly ready to burst into tears. She never cried.
*Why did I listen to you? Why was I compelled?* She had thought, for some crazy reason, that he might follow her here. She had thought he might be here waiting for her. But he was called away. She needed to let him go. She was not one to get attached. Yet he was the only one-and he, a thing of a different race entirely! Was she so odd that no other human might understand her? Did it take the steady eyes of an Elf? She gasped for air, and tears threatened, but she held them back. Why had fate doomed her to become drawn to one she was never meant to know?
Tears stung Eowyn's eyes, but she was far too proud to ever let them fall, even then, brutally alone.
-Fin-
Give the baby a review, please.
Continued in Chapter 17: Whispers of Home (Saruman is making an appearance, also: what ever became of the Elves taken from Mirkwood?)
Thunder tore the dark sky into bits. For vile, brief instances, the faces around him were grotesquely illuminated-suddenly humans and Orcs seemed eerily similar, eerily related. Often he could not tell them apart. He prayed that his knife went where it was supposed to go. Senses were blurred. Was it rain or blood sliding down the back of his neck? The flashes were blinding. Was it night or day?
Arrows: spent. Allies left on the wall: impossibly few. He stepped as nimbly as he could over the partially decapitated corpse of a Rohan soldier no more than twenty years of age. The almost-severed face harbored a look of surprise. The loosened eyeball had been blue.
Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. The splatter of blood on blood, the slam of flesh on flesh, metal on metal, teeth on teeth. Slash. Sweep. Twirl. Stab. His father had taught him, "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes." He had seen so many eyes, eyes frozen in the position of massacre and rage. He had lost track. He hadn't heeded his father's advice for a good part of this battle. He hadn't the strength.
Gimli shouted a number of his fallen over the din of battle.
"Twenty-one!"
Legolas laughed harder than was appropriate, spinning between Uruks, ignoring the throbbing pain in each limb. And he knew his count was uncountable, was impossibly high. So he made up a number, ready to throw the Dwarf off guard.
"Two dozen, son of Gloin. Better luck-" a pause as he drove his knifepoint into an eye socket "-next time!"
Roaring Dwarvish laughter. Neither cared that they were soon to die. Gandalf and Erkenbrand were nowhere to be found. Daylight was an impossible dream now. Darkness was the ultimatum. Desperate, and still smiling maniacally, he looked over the wall once. A sea of black, moving shapes jeered up at him. Spearheads and scimitars glinted in the storm. Over the side of the wall he could see a light-a little torch was moving through the masses of Uruk-Hai. A light. He stared at it, lost, amazed. He realized what was happening a moment later, a moment too late. Then the earth groaned as though it were splitting open, as though a volcano was rising at unnatural speed.
The wall exploded beneath him. Legolas felt himself hurled up into the air like a piece of shrapnel. He couldn't see anything. Smoke filled his eyes and mouth. Intense pain cut through his torso. Somehow he held onto his bow. Shadows flew past him. Stones. Soldiers. Uruk-Hai. The fell like rain upon the inner keep.
He hit something. It was likely a wall. The wind was knocked out of him, his head snapped back and collided with the stone. Immediately he blacked out and fell to his knees, gasping, bleeding, utterly disoriented. Dust and stone fell all over and around him. Booms sounded as pieces of masonry as big as houses slammed back to the earth. Men screamed. Uruks bellowed. One Elf gasped for air. A flume of blood fell from his lips as he coughed. The internal bleeding from hitting the wall was very bad. He could sense that. He would have to stop fighting, or he could die.
That was all he could guarantee. He *could* die.
Somewhere a horn sounded, and the desperate cry: "Retreat! Retreat to the caves!"
Legolas shook his head, and the bones in his necked felt like they were on fire. He used the wall to drag himself up. He looked at the ground around him only once; along with the stones and dust, a rain of human limbs had come down. He tightened his grip on his bow, feeling life return to his stunned fingers, and he began to walk. Then he began to run. He had to find Aragorn and Gimli.
The horn blasted again.
He reached behind him-one arrow left in his badly damaged quiver. It wasn't even one of his own-he had plucked it from the crushed supply of a fallen Rohiric soldier. One arrow. He spun around again. A slight pathway was visible, leading to the stairs, leading to the cave mouth. Where was Aragorn? Where Gimli? The Dwarf had disappeared, his diminutive height hiding him from the fiercely-glittering Elven eyes.
*Focus.*
He sprinted toward the stairs, his calf-muscles seizing up from trauma. He hurtled over bodies, over limbs that still contained some gory animation. Hands reached for his ankles, pleas of help, pleas to be killed swiftly by the kind Elf. But he ran on, knocking his arrow, frantically scanning the dwindling battle for any of his allies. A wave of Orcs came pouring over the wall. Bodies were crushed. He looked away, sickened.
And then: "Legolas!"
It was Aragorn. Legolas' heart sang with joy as he watched the Ranger slice his way through the Uruk-Hai, so near the steps. Aragorn looked torn, and a cut marked his brow, but he had survived the blast. Aragorn he reached the stairs somehow, skipping the first four, leaping up toward the Elf.
"You live! I saw you for a moment, and then the wall blew, and you were gone."
"I think I blew with it," the Elf laughed. Blood run from one corner of his mouth. Aragorn saw this and stopped smiling.
"We must retreat."
"Everyone has gone inside!" Legolas said, narrowing his eyes at a moving target behind his friend. There was the loud, "Fwih-KANG!" as the dart leapt from the string and plunged through the lead Uruk's neck. Legolas grinned and reached forward, catching Aragorn by the forearm. Leaning on each other more than they should have, the weary warriors stumbled inside.
* * *
She had slept again, fitfully, collapsing against the stone wall behind her. A cramp had begun to grow on her stomach, as well as an ugly purple bruise shaped like the leafy hilt of an Elven knife. She was aware of the slick, dampness of the stones around her, and wondered whether this liquid was blood or a simple dripping that came through the roof. She heard the sighs and groans of the warriors around her, and these sounds came together in a sort of rhythm that lulled her into a meditative state, then deep slumber.
* * *
Inside the caves, Legolas' pulse did not lessen. All movement seemed to spin. He awkwardly swiped his knife blade over the fabric of his tunic, then felt the rush of awareness hit him. He walked as swiftly and inconspicuously as he could to where he had last put Eowyn. Anguished faces washed by him. He faintly registered the moans and death-gasps all around him, but his heart was numb to all life in that room-save to one.
Her head was tilted back a little, her neck resting as comfortably as was possible on the grooved stone of the cave wall. A few drenched strands of golden hair had settled over the contours of her face-weirdly angelic in slumber despite the subdued carnage all around her. A dim shadow hid the majority of her visage. For all the world, she was a sleeping boy who had not yet begun to grow his beard.
For a long moment he stood there, perfectly still, gazing at Eowyn with so much love that it was painful. Her breath, steady and tranquil, was a lulling rhythm. Her bound chest rose and fell demurely. Her dark lashes fluttered. Beneath them, he caught the glitter of her eyes. The internal bleeding within his own body had halted, but he knew he was still in pain- yet somehow, looking at Eowyn, he did not feel any of it. It was with great anxiety that he finally tore his gaze away from her sleeping figure and slowly spun on one heel, ignoring the tug of the invisible threads that linked them.
Aragorn, Théoden and a few of the captains were standing in some sort of small circle, more age in their faces than was due for their years. Legolas half-wandered, half-walked over to them, and he caught the dismal edges of their talk. Eomer was missing. So was Gimli.
Théoden's face was hideously pale so the veins near his temples and under his eyes stood out more than they usually did. His eyes seemed to be unfocused on the faces around him. His head slowly shook from side to side, as though Aragorn's words had no impact on his mind. The Ranger saw this, and placed a steadying hand on the king's arm and the old man continued.
"How shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate? Had I known that the strength of Isengard was grown so great, maybe I should not so rashly have ridden forth to meet it, for all the arts of Gandalf. His counsel seems not now so good as it did under the morning sun."
And Aragorn replied, his tone deep and steady: "Do not judge the counsel of Gandalf until it all is over, lord."
Legolas dipped his chin in thought, his blood-soaked fingers spiraling across his bowstring, its song mournful and keening. He thought of Gimli. He prayed to the Valar, sorrow gnawing at his throat.
Théoden slowly replied, "The end will not be long. But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap." His clouded eyes were alight with a fire the Elf found to be at once disturbing and deeply moving. "Snowmane and Hasufel and Arod and the horses of my inner guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm's horn, and I will ride forth." Then, seeing clearly for the first time, Théoden turned to the Man and the Elf at his side. "Will you ride with me then, sons of Arathorn and Thranduil? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song-if any be left to sing of us hereafter."
"I will ride with you," Aragorn replied almost immediately. Then he looked to Legolas out of the corner of his eye.
Legolas' eyes were downcast upon his bloodied bow, his long, slender fingers dancing up and down the length of the string. His gray irises, which had seemed so pale a few hours ago, were now wild with storm clouds. At last the Elf looked up and at least one Rohiric soldier took a step back.
"As will I."
* * *
Her dream was not restful, nor was it very long. She had not the will to sleep in mind, only in body. Physical exhaustion and pain had made her collapse with anguish and fatigue. The dreams were just as distressing.
"Ride back," his voice said, speaking in a tongue she did not know yet somehow understood. "If you do nothing else for me, ride back while you may. We cannot save Helm's Deep-we cannot save any of our skins. Ride. Ride before they discover you. Ride before they wrong you. You-must-ride." And then there was a rushing by her ears as though she were on horseback, a breath upon her brow, and then a flash of light.
She woke with a start. A rumbling had begun in the earth. There was the beat of hooves, the cries of men-of battle! She tried to rise, but her body screamed in protest and she collapsed once more. The heady intoxication of sleep clung to her eyelids. *Elf magic!* she realized, angry at that blasted prince who had descended upon her right when she had meant to watch him whirl, killing with a swiftness no Man might match.
"They are riding out to die," a young, battered soldier to her left said to no one in particular. "The last ride...of Théoden."
*Say not so,* she pleaded silently, her heart tight in her chest, anguish stinging her eyes. She tried to rise again, but the pain was too great. Dizziness and fatigue beat her down. She felt helpless and, worst of all, useless. How could she let them die? Her brother. Her uncle who had been her father for so many years. All the brave men of the cavalry that she had known. Aragorn, with the potent eyes. Gimli with his rough laugh. Legolas. Legolas and his sweeping knives, his flying arrows, his face flecked with blood. Legolas with his hand upon Arod's head, a gentle smile curving his lips. Legolas in gray and green, hair tossed by the wind, bending his bow. Legolas pulling down one side of his collar, showing her his skin.
An explosion sounded outside. The caves rattled. Men groaned. She bit back a cry, digging her hands into the rock wall, finding her steadiness again. The noise went on, ceaseless. She strained to hear an Elvish battle cry, but then remembered him as the silent fighter, the noiseless warrior, the unspoken blade amid the chaos of war. How could he die? She had discovered him! How could he leave her? How could he?
Mustering all her strength, Eowyn slammed one palm against the cave wall and shoved herself upward. The exertion made her grunt in pain and weariness, but it was nothing. *Nothing. Stand taller. Straighten your shoulders. You are a warrior of the Rohirrim.*
"It's over," a soldier whispered.
*Now take a step. Your sword is not far. It is no matter. Grab another. There! One lies a few yards away!*
"We're going to be slaughtered alive," a moan realized a little to her right.
Her step faltered, more angry than afraid. Then she planted her heel. Her sight was blurring, but her footing was now sure. The thunder of hooves grew louder and louder. Men clutched at each other in the deep, awaiting their doom. Her strength lessened, her vision spiraling. *Perhaps it is over. Perhaps, Legolas, this is greater than you or I.*
The horn of Helm Hammerhand blared through the valley and the wounded men in the caves fell into silent awe.
She lay back again. Her face was as hard and cold as ice, her eyes staring straight ahead, icy gray, unmoving, unblinking. Light danced off her chain mail and made starry images on the roof above her. Perfectly still, she patiently awaited the end.
* * *
*Perhaps she will have time to run. Perhaps there is a passage out of the caves. Perhaps she has a chance. If not-let them kill her swiftly.*
Legolas flipped his knife in his hand, caught it, and brought his arm down in a graceful arc, cleaving an Uruk's head in twain. Arod whinnied beneath him, bleeding from an ugly gash near his neck. Legolas pressed his knee there, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood.
His eyes caught sight of a tall, dim forest he had not seen before. He smiled a little. *Visions of home to comfort an Elf on his way to Mandos. How strange.*
The sky erupted with the fierce light of dawn, horns sounded, Men screamed in agony and ecstasy, relishing in their last ride. He thought of Eowyn's beautiful, slanted gray eyes, their dark lashes, the golden fall of her hair. He thought of her graceful hands strong and sure around the hilt of a gold-handled sword. He thought of his mouth crushed against hers, the rain mingling with her saliva. He could die for such a dream. She was a thing to be praised in Quenya. She was a light to be heralded by song.
And then there came another cry, a cry he had not heard before.
"Erkenbrand!"
The riders glanced about wildly, ignoring bleeding wounds and sore limbs. Even Legolas rose up in the stirrups and stared where so many hands were pointing.
And Aragorn laughed and said, "Behold the White Rider."
* * *
Eowyn had been quite ready to die. She had not been prepared to live, nor had she been prepared to be heaved to her feet by a strangely-smiling lad.
"Might I lend you a hand?" a young soldier asked her, smiling with an amiability that thrilled her. No battle pride here: just one soul reaching out to another. Then she remembered who she was, and who he thought her to be.
Eowyn's heart froze, but she cleared her throat and said as gruffly as she could. "No need, my brother." To prove her words she stood. The pain on her abdomen increased. She stumbled a little, but caught herself. The young soldier stared at her in apparent bewilderment. She prayed he did not note the willowy quality of her calves under the chain mail. She lifted her head and stretched in the most masculine way she could, then strode away.
The Men sleeping or groaning in pain around her had begun to rise, stretching their limbs and lending shoulders to those unable to stand alone.
A little sunlight came in through the wooden door fixed to the cave mouth. Limping a little, she stepped outside, drawing her navy cloak around her to ward off the chill of morning. Many of the Men were riding or running toward a green in the distance. She spied a forest there that she had never before seen, as well as several small figures parlaying. One was clad in the purest of whites. That was Gandalf. And a bit to his left: she thought she saw a tall, slender figure wielding a beautifully-curved bow. Mustering all her self-control, she turned away from the vision, focused on one thing: getting home.
Horses were being saddled, riders were readying themselves to make for home to resupply or heal nasty wounds. She knew she must join them. Had she not been given the strictest of orders to stay at home? Were they not expecting to find her there, to tell her of the battle? She must not tarry. Ducking her head, masking her voice when she had to, Eowyn followed the departing. She found a riderless cavalry steed, ignored the blood all over its saddle, and mounted it in as much of a masculine manner as she could. Then she joined the leaving column. Her advantage was in the fact that she was a fast rider, and sped before them, crossing the plains in nearly half the time it had taken her comrades in arms to return home. She kept to herself, not speaking, not smiling, only pressing her steed onward, faster, as though afraid. The Men who rode a bit behind her were laughing with joy, but she was silent.
* * *
Léofa met her at the agreed spot. Eowyn tore off her helmet, sweaty and rusted from the rain. She fled to her chamber and unwound the cloth around her breasts, gasping with relief at the loss of pressure. Then, with joy, she collapsed on her bed, catching the covers in her fists. She felt profoundly ready to burst into tears. She never cried.
*Why did I listen to you? Why was I compelled?* She had thought, for some crazy reason, that he might follow her here. She had thought he might be here waiting for her. But he was called away. She needed to let him go. She was not one to get attached. Yet he was the only one-and he, a thing of a different race entirely! Was she so odd that no other human might understand her? Did it take the steady eyes of an Elf? She gasped for air, and tears threatened, but she held them back. Why had fate doomed her to become drawn to one she was never meant to know?
Tears stung Eowyn's eyes, but she was far too proud to ever let them fall, even then, brutally alone.
-Fin-
Give the baby a review, please.
Continued in Chapter 17: Whispers of Home (Saruman is making an appearance, also: what ever became of the Elves taken from Mirkwood?)