He stood menacingly, a black iron blade held in his gruesome hand.
She had never remembered them this tall. Standing before her, with a
mocking smile and grand stature both wide and tall, she felt fear rising in
her body, and it ceased to move, too feel...she could not remember a time
when she had been able to feel, to move...she stood motionless. Somewhere at
her feet, Eldarion cowered in fear, a great shadow hovering over him as the
orc blocked out the sun, and slowly took a step forward, advancing. Her
heart pounded against her chest; the chaos of the battle below lingered
'round her ears; yet inside her it was immensely quiet, as if a great hand
had stopped the wheels of time to mock her fate.
And it was Eldarion who pried her back into consciousness; his desperate wailing registered in her mind, and with it she hearkened to reason, to duty. To protect the young prince, the boy that would be king. She had a sword, sheathed in her belt, and she knew how to use it. And use it she would, for her country, for her king. A promise of valor echoed in her ears; this was how she had felt all those years ago. Despite the time that had withered her, she felt the young, restless shieldmaiden of Rohan draw her sword, and stand before the orc in superiority, in a thrilling readiness for battle, readiness for death and renown. This time she was fighting for something different. As much as she felt obligated to defend Eldarion, she fought to see Theodwyn again, her flesh and blood, and her husband, and the King. If she died, she would never see them again. The boy cowering at her feet only reminded her of this. And so she stood tall, poised, her sharp blade in her one good hand.
"Run, Eldarion," she whispered. "Run to Luthien, and wait for me."
The boy did not object. In alternate circumstances, she would have been overjoyed for the boy's compliance; but now she stood before her enemy as her heart pounded in steady beats, her eyes boring into the orc's. His eyes did not flicker to the running Eldarion, but remained on her in an attempt to boast his superior size and armor, and how he would be the one to prevail. He was met by a steady determination; her light eyes shone clear against his dark shadow, defiant, she prepared herself for him to strike and knew victory was to be at her hand.
With a howl he charged at her; her body tensed as she reached up to parry the blow. The impact sent a shock through her body, and she staggered backwards. Pain shot up her arm, and she looked up at the attacker, who still had the smug smile upon his gruesome face. This was nothing like fighting at Minas Tirith with light foils and graceful, rule-abiding thrusts and parries; this was a fight for her life, and for Eldarion's. To lose this battle would be at a great cost. Her confidence disappeared in the single blow; the shadow over her was one of fear, and now she was at a loss of what to do. Doom was imminent...Arwen had died, and so would she...defeated after a single stroke, she stared up, dumbfounded.
Eowyn.
Something brought her hope before her eyes again; the call of her uncle, of Theoden...she had faced a similar, greater evil, and now she was to succumb to the bitter evil housed in Mordor that had plagued Middle Earth since Morgoth had first employed the lands for his wickedness. It was dishonorable, it was insane; she could not, she would not, relent.
It was I who killed the Witchking. I have faced this evil before, and I will defeat it!
Grasping the sword with two hands, she moved at him in a brilliant execution of sure thrusts. Her sword moved so fast that all she saw was a blur of silver, but she knew what she was doing. The orc could not react quickly enough to her blows, and instead raised his blade before himself in some sort of protection; she drove her sword into his chest, but it bounced off his armor as if nothing had perturbed it. He howled in range, and retaliated with strong blows.
His advantage was size and strength; hers was wits and training. This was in no way a far fight, but she employed her quick thinking to duck and avoid his blows. She could almost sense where he would attempt next, and his frustration escalated as her fear plummeted. She agilely leaped from several clumsily placed strikes. The intensity increased with every blow; the air whistled and the ground shook. Her heart and breath, ragged with exhilaration, matched his heavy gulps of air.
The climax of the battle came, and soon one was to lose. Eowyn acted too late to avoid one of his blows; it hit her shoulder, and pain ripped through her body. She screamed in agony, but took the opportunity to drive her sword into the orc's shoulder, where his skin was not protected by a makeshift iron plate. Her aim was true; the orc also howled in pain, and she pulled her sword out in triumph. She turned and ran, her sword dripping dark black blood onto the ground. Sheathing her sword as she ran, she held her shoulder in her hand. It felt as if it had been driven in two, and it was the same arm the Witchking had broken. She felt as if she had never felt such physical pain in her life, but she ran with determination and speed, though her lungs felt as if they might concave, and she felt as if she might collapse.
Luthien came into view, and she saw Eldarion at the horse's feet, his eyes closed as if he had just fallen asleep. She reached the horse in seconds, and she roused Eldarion anxiously. Picking him up with her good arm, she pushed him onto the horse and quickly mounted Luthien. She pulled the reins backward and looked across the field, where she saw black figures rushing towards her across the grass.
The sun was lowering into the west, and it burned her eyes in orange brilliance. She felt the heat on her face, and tears smarted from her eyes, her heart was wrought in two; her shoulder throbbed in pain but it was nothing to match the sudden agony she felt in her throat. Eldarion sat before her, and tears cascaded freely from his eyes, but she refused to cry. She reared Luthien, took one last look, and turned away, her eyes on the southeast, towards Rohan. Her heels dug into Luthien's flanks and the horse began to gallop over the hill. Eowyn fled, into the darkening sky.
And it was Eldarion who pried her back into consciousness; his desperate wailing registered in her mind, and with it she hearkened to reason, to duty. To protect the young prince, the boy that would be king. She had a sword, sheathed in her belt, and she knew how to use it. And use it she would, for her country, for her king. A promise of valor echoed in her ears; this was how she had felt all those years ago. Despite the time that had withered her, she felt the young, restless shieldmaiden of Rohan draw her sword, and stand before the orc in superiority, in a thrilling readiness for battle, readiness for death and renown. This time she was fighting for something different. As much as she felt obligated to defend Eldarion, she fought to see Theodwyn again, her flesh and blood, and her husband, and the King. If she died, she would never see them again. The boy cowering at her feet only reminded her of this. And so she stood tall, poised, her sharp blade in her one good hand.
"Run, Eldarion," she whispered. "Run to Luthien, and wait for me."
The boy did not object. In alternate circumstances, she would have been overjoyed for the boy's compliance; but now she stood before her enemy as her heart pounded in steady beats, her eyes boring into the orc's. His eyes did not flicker to the running Eldarion, but remained on her in an attempt to boast his superior size and armor, and how he would be the one to prevail. He was met by a steady determination; her light eyes shone clear against his dark shadow, defiant, she prepared herself for him to strike and knew victory was to be at her hand.
With a howl he charged at her; her body tensed as she reached up to parry the blow. The impact sent a shock through her body, and she staggered backwards. Pain shot up her arm, and she looked up at the attacker, who still had the smug smile upon his gruesome face. This was nothing like fighting at Minas Tirith with light foils and graceful, rule-abiding thrusts and parries; this was a fight for her life, and for Eldarion's. To lose this battle would be at a great cost. Her confidence disappeared in the single blow; the shadow over her was one of fear, and now she was at a loss of what to do. Doom was imminent...Arwen had died, and so would she...defeated after a single stroke, she stared up, dumbfounded.
Eowyn.
Something brought her hope before her eyes again; the call of her uncle, of Theoden...she had faced a similar, greater evil, and now she was to succumb to the bitter evil housed in Mordor that had plagued Middle Earth since Morgoth had first employed the lands for his wickedness. It was dishonorable, it was insane; she could not, she would not, relent.
It was I who killed the Witchking. I have faced this evil before, and I will defeat it!
Grasping the sword with two hands, she moved at him in a brilliant execution of sure thrusts. Her sword moved so fast that all she saw was a blur of silver, but she knew what she was doing. The orc could not react quickly enough to her blows, and instead raised his blade before himself in some sort of protection; she drove her sword into his chest, but it bounced off his armor as if nothing had perturbed it. He howled in range, and retaliated with strong blows.
His advantage was size and strength; hers was wits and training. This was in no way a far fight, but she employed her quick thinking to duck and avoid his blows. She could almost sense where he would attempt next, and his frustration escalated as her fear plummeted. She agilely leaped from several clumsily placed strikes. The intensity increased with every blow; the air whistled and the ground shook. Her heart and breath, ragged with exhilaration, matched his heavy gulps of air.
The climax of the battle came, and soon one was to lose. Eowyn acted too late to avoid one of his blows; it hit her shoulder, and pain ripped through her body. She screamed in agony, but took the opportunity to drive her sword into the orc's shoulder, where his skin was not protected by a makeshift iron plate. Her aim was true; the orc also howled in pain, and she pulled her sword out in triumph. She turned and ran, her sword dripping dark black blood onto the ground. Sheathing her sword as she ran, she held her shoulder in her hand. It felt as if it had been driven in two, and it was the same arm the Witchking had broken. She felt as if she had never felt such physical pain in her life, but she ran with determination and speed, though her lungs felt as if they might concave, and she felt as if she might collapse.
Luthien came into view, and she saw Eldarion at the horse's feet, his eyes closed as if he had just fallen asleep. She reached the horse in seconds, and she roused Eldarion anxiously. Picking him up with her good arm, she pushed him onto the horse and quickly mounted Luthien. She pulled the reins backward and looked across the field, where she saw black figures rushing towards her across the grass.
The sun was lowering into the west, and it burned her eyes in orange brilliance. She felt the heat on her face, and tears smarted from her eyes, her heart was wrought in two; her shoulder throbbed in pain but it was nothing to match the sudden agony she felt in her throat. Eldarion sat before her, and tears cascaded freely from his eyes, but she refused to cry. She reared Luthien, took one last look, and turned away, her eyes on the southeast, towards Rohan. Her heels dug into Luthien's flanks and the horse began to gallop over the hill. Eowyn fled, into the darkening sky.