DIE UNBEKANNTE BLUME or THE UNKNOWN FLOWER

Description/Summary:
The Battle of the Pelennor Fields has resulted in many deaths and much loss, including the death of the King of the Mark, Theoden. An anxious Eomer waits restlessly by his sister's side, whilst Aragorn, the unofficial King of Gondor tends to her. The wounded are tended to in the famous Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith by the healer king. Aragorn persuades Eomer to take a breather and have a walk in the grounds to relieve himself of his anxiety. Later, Eowyn wanders the grounds firmly believing that the world of Men is doomed. Romance story.

Author's Note:
This is my first attempt at going near anything from Lord of the Rings. Originally, I never thought I would even dare to come close to LOTR territory in terms of fiction because it is such an elaborate and well thought out plot. Therefore, please be kind, bearing in mind I have not done this before.

Please also note, that I am not following the sequences in the book but those from the MOVIE... cause I can remember that better:P

Legal Disclaimer:
The obvious one is that EVERYTHING that is related to LOTR belongs to JRR Tolkien, including all the well-established characters and the LOTR plot. I do own the fact that some of the characters may not be in canon.

Warning:
- For those of you who have not watched Return of the King – The Lord of the Rings – Special Extended Version yet, I warn you of SPOILERS of NEW/EXTENDED SCENES! You have been warned.
- Movie verse

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Chapter 1: The Price of the Battle

Gimli sighed a deep sigh as he watched the last of the eerie green ghost soldiers disintegrate into nothingness. He had tried dissuading Aragorn from letting the Dimholt traitors go. Those soldiers would be mighty useful. If Gimli had been Isildur's heir, he would have made those ghosts do the dirty work – wipe the Orcs and other foul creatures that crawled under the sun off the face of Middle Earth, once and for all.

The rustling wind picked up the last speck of illuminating green dust, until none remained to be seen: the Dimholt traitors, pardoned for their betrayal, were gone forever.

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It was the end of a great battle, fought bravely by the Rohirrim.

All around him, Éomer could smell death; everywhere he turned, he heard the last breaths of men dying on the field; everywhere he looked, he saw men with their heads spliced open, gaping wounds beginning to putrefy, blood staining almost every helmet. Those who had managed to escape the battle with nothing but a few scratches were walking around, searching for the bodies of their friends.

No one had emerged unscathed. Even Éomer himself, one of the best knights of Rohan, had come out of the battle with a small cut to his upper arm.

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The soldier of Gondor sank back against a pillar on the main street of the fifth level, clutching the left side of her neck. The most incredible thing had happened. They had been fighting the invaders when a host of skeletons had swooped into the citadel, armed with weapons and armour, filling every nook and alleyway, fighting the foul beasts of Mordor. The soldiers of Gondor were untouched by these soldiers – these gifts – sent by the Valar themselves. And the soldiers regained their confidence, helping the sweeping ghost army to rid the city of orcs.

The pain throbbed more violently between her left shoulder and her neck, bringing back memories of her attacker: an Orc with a dark twisted face, and filthy amber eyes. She remembered standing within the throng of fighting, watching as it approached up the slanting street, unsheathing a sword, curved in the shape of a wriggling snake, the sword's glinting blade gleaning with a sickly yellow tinge. It had picked up its pace, suddenly running with increased speed towards her. She ran to meet it, her sword flashing in front of her, thinking "For you, Faramir my love, for you." The evil Orc dodged her impetus, turned sideways, and forced the snake blade through the flesh between her neck and shoulder, before drawing it out, equally as painfully again.

Enraged, she had driven her sword towards its head, but the wound caused dizziness, her footing became unsure. It was then that the valiant soldier nearest to her kicked the Orc from behind, before severing its head with a singing of his sword. And to the relief of every soldier on the stinking street, the ghost army had appeared then, like angels, brandishing weapons into the faces of the bewildered Orcs.

Now the soldier with the agonizing pain in her neck walked unsteadily towards the side pillar, removing her helmet as she dropped to the floor. The Orc had outwitted her. She remembered her courage dissipating as it ran towards her, how she had felt her eyes dilating in fear as the reality of the brute kicked in. She remembered the sinking feeling that perhaps, they were right after all, to try and prevent her from fighting.

"War is not for women," someone had once told her. How very wise. But now, she couldn't recall who it was that had said that. She only knew that she had failed in her headstrong and futile 'quest' to defend Minas Tirith for the sake of Captain Faramir. How wrong she was. She had been courageous when she had prepared for battle. Now a bitterness with herself filled her mind, as she thought about her uselessness, in managing only to slash the one Orc.

Leaning her head back against the sturdy pillar, she rested her arms in her lap between her stomach and drawn up knees. A tear eroded the dirt on her face, coursing down her cheek like the Anduin to the Sea.

The street was now largely empty compared to its bustling nature a day before. The few soldiers who had been lucky enough to survive the attack were now wandering around to find the commander Mithrandir, to ask him what they would be doing next.

"Now, now, lad, there's no need for tears…"

Her eyes flickered open for a brief moment, and she saw her protector removing his helmet, to examine her wound more closely. She judged him to be between 30 to 40 years old, from the number of lines on his face.

"A lad like you shouldn't be fighting," he muttered under his breath. "Young… much too young to see these horrors, and to be scarred by such foul creatures."

Her body ached, but she smiled at the irony of what the soldier had said. She breathed in sharply, eyes opening wide, when he ran his fingers lightly over her wound. Slowly, she felt the poison working in her body. Her breathing grew faster in her struggle to breathe, and then, her eyes admitted defeat, squeezing shut in her pain.

"Lad… lad!"

Slowly, slowly, the deep voice of her rescuer grew quieter until it had faded out completely, and her world had turned into a black vacuum.

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Aragorn stepped lightly between the corpses, surveying the damage of the battle. He scanned the field frequently for any fallen survivors, stopping sometimes to check the pulse of an already dead man. Gimli and Legolas were also by his side. For once, they had stopped bickering about how many Orcs and Haradrim they had each killed, saddened by the numbers of the dead around them. It was very hard to feel anything positive in the company of the dying men, and Aragorn's heart sank, wondering how on earth they would get all the dead buried, how they would get all the wounded safely within the White City to be healed, and above all, he wondered how they were supposed to defend the Countries of the West with so few men. He was sure that there would have been as many losses and casualties within the city as on the battlefield.

So much death, so much suffering, all for one common cause. Frodo's cause: thousands of lives being extinguished for the one chance to destroy the forces of evil. One chance. And weighed up against all the odds, this chance was very, very small.

Aragorn hoped that the plan they had set out on would succeed, otherwise he would cry in despair.

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Éomer spotted something strange poking out of the trampled yellow grass. It was a mace, a ridiculously large mace, made with sixteen sharp points – certainly not a weapon of the Rohirrim. It was too ugly, too spiky, not at all elegant. The people of Rohan preferred using swords, spears and bows.

He walked closer, intrigued by what he saw and as he approached, he inspected the ground for his uncle, Théoden King.

"NOOOOOOO!" he cried in great anguish as he discovered the slender frame of his sister's body lying on the ground. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. Anger and frustration first, at how his sister had disobeyed both his and their uncle's orders, which were to stay at Edoras for the people. Secondly, he felt a sense of pride for this sister who had fought as good as a man's war. And grief. Grief that he might never see her happy smile again. He regretted their last words together, back at Dunharrow, where they had argued coldly about the Halfling's right to fight.

"To the smithy," Éowyn said, chuckling. "Go!"

The Halfling ran off in excitement, happy that someone was taking him seriously.

Éomer heard his sister laughing to herself.

"You should not encourage him," he said, turning to face her from his sitting position. He chewed his morsel of bread hungrily, eager to get down as much food as possible. He doubted that he would get a chance to eat fully again, until after the inevitable battle near Minas Tirith.

"And you should not doubt him," she had replied. He could detect the coldness and the hurt in her voice.

"I do not doubt the courage in his heart," he had said, drawing laughter from Gamling. "Just the reach of his arm."

"Why should he not fight for his friends? For the people he loves? He has as much cause as you," she retorted.

His suspicions were correct – ever had Éowyn desired to be renowned for battle. Her footsteps turned back to the tent. He stood up and faced her.

"You know as little of war as that Hobbit," he said, walking closer to her.

"When the horrors of war take hold, and he hears the screams of men dying around him, do you think he would stand and fight?"

His sister looked at him, her mouth set.

"He would flee, and he would be right to do so. War is the province of men, Éowyn…" He put a hand on her shoulder, seeing her eyes twitching slightly, then turned away.

Éomer remembered that the next day, Éowyn had been courteous as ever, but frostier towards him than usual. Their parting had not been good… reflecting back on it now, he could understand her passionate defense for the Halfling… sort of… her could see now that all she had ever wanted to do was to fight in a battle, to be a mighty warrior. And now, she had had her chance… and it had cost her her life.

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Gandalf placed his hand calmingly onto the shoulder of the sobbing Rohan Marshal. His heart was heavy, and he was growing wearier with each minute. He had not yet told Aragorn of the passing of Denethor, nor of the niggling in his heart that strongly said that he had certainly sent Frodo to his death. He did not know how they would react to his heart's news, and exhaustion was beginning to overtake him – as of that moment, they had only fought a tiny portion of Mordor's armies. The enemy was continually regrouping, and would not stop until they had destroyed the World of Men.