Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The song is from BtVS's "Once More With Feeling."

Author's Note: Pre Gandalf freeing Theoden from Saruman and Wormtongue. Eowyn perspective but not first person. It was inspired by this song by Joss Whedon.

I touch the fire and it freezes me.
I look into it and its black.
Why can't I feel?
My skin should crack and peel.
I want the fire back.

Now through the smoke she calls to me.
To make my way across the flame.
To save the day,
Or maybe melt away.
I guess it's all the same.

So I will walk through the fire.
'Cause where else can I turn?
I will walk through the fire
And let it...(burn)

-

Eowyn sighed and rolled off the bed with reluctance. Another day, another battle against the rising darkness. Another day to fight off Wormtongue's poisonous bile. Another day to watch her uncle die.

Dressed in white, a ghostly presence in the shadowed hall.

Her place still the same, still behind her uncle, she heard the words of Grima. They bounced around her, some connecting more often then she would've liked had she been able to feel them piercing her armor. Every day passed in the same decaying manner. Less registered as he slunk into their minds and souls.

And feasted off their despair and darkness.

Eowyn watched as her brother left her alone.

Again.

Somehow, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing seemed to matter to her anymore. Meaningless were her words of defense against the poison of her stalker shadow, Wormtongue.

It had been to long since anything had pieced her thickening walls.

Yet her people still cried for help. Still wanted to believe that the light would come. So she still rose and stood in the darkening shadow of her uncle. The battle for his soul engaged in, ever more losing herself and not feeling it.

There was no thought to herself at all. No thought to what was happening to her as time passed. Every thought was directed at protected the king. Every ounce of her energy was spent fighting for her uncle, trying to bring him back.

A cold shaft of light, ever dying for want of light. Ever more to waste, to die, for want of warmth.

But then, a faint shift in the air. A change, a freshness in the wind. A new breeze blew, clearing the old decay away to reveal the glory of the dawn.

A man came.

Noble of bearing, though covered in grime and sweat. Shaded by sorrow, weighed down with the cares of the world, though the light could not be disguised. Could not be contained, it reached out and pushed the shadows back.

And hope was born again in the withering heart of a rose.

The End.

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