Verse VI

In the twinkle of an eye

Paradises are lost

And another song emerges

Claiming music as its own

She tore the reigns on her horse, and the neighing steed came to an unsteady halt. Wide-eyed and in terror, Eowyn gazed at the scenery before her. The hilltop that she had been climbing, was filled with the dark shades of the haradrim mumakilim, the war-animals that were called by the bloodstained field. The trumpets and horns mingled with the shrieks of the Nazgul to form a sinfony of terror, and she was in the middle of it.

Slowly, the army approached. Eowyn, paralyzed by fear and horror, stood unmoving between the advancing armies. She did not hear, that behind her, Theoden led the Rohirrim in an attack, at last understanding, who it was, that stood there, half up the hill, all on his, or better, her own.

The riders complied like one man, and the river of green and gold once more swarmed, but too late they would come. The single rider, had long since drawn attention.

What catches the gaze of something, that was no longer human? What frail moment can capture a wandering spirit? What defiance is there, in that special moment, right before the light in the eyes of a human being fades?

High up in the screaming winds, that tore on the wings of his beast, the witch king surveyed his army. He saw the orks, reforming behind the mumakilim, saw the Haradrim fearlessly leading an attack. Far down below him, the city of Minas Tirith was burning.

He must be somewhere.

But the one spirit he was looking for, did not show, the time for the final fight not yet come. He turned his gaze to look at the river of green, that was charging uphill, not fearing the strength of his army yet.

And further he turned, to see the lone rider in front of the Rohirrim, a slender figure with shield and sword, a smaller figure in the saddle with him. He turned down to watch the strange occurrence.

And saw.

Saw...

They say one fears what one has abandoned lightly. And maybe this was, what caught his eye. Defiance, fear, but a strength underlying, the bloom of youth and the gift of a courageous heart. He saw a face so young, that it might have belonged to a child, eyes, blue as steel and strong as stone, and yet they were eyes, that had not seen, eyes, that had not truly understood.

Here was one, he understood, that was not cattle, that was not sheep. Here was a kingly blood, and unstained yet. A rare gem.

And he did not destroy, what could be precious.

Come..., he whispered.

She heard the call, like a dead whisper on the wind, and lifted her head to the source of the sound. The sound of it was horror and inspiration, speaking to every bone of her body. She trembled under the might of the witch king's voice, that was beckoning her to shores unseen.

„No." She needed to hear the words spoken aloud, ignoring Merry's confused, fearful words. The world was falling apart around her, and Eowyn did the only thing she could think of. She lifted her sword, tightened her hold on her shield. „You come here", she hissed between clenched teeth, presenting her sword to the black rider in the sky. As the armies from both sides raced to reach the rohirric woman, shieldmaiden and nazgul faced each other in a moment, that threatened to claim eternity at last.

The wingbeast swept down on her with all the might of Mordors breed, and Eowyn screamed, as her sword touched decaying flesh, slicing one claw as the other one claimed her whole.

She felt torn, high up into the winds that swept arond her in a deafening blow. Merry, below her, was screaming, but it felt distant, far away, further even than it really was, as the witch king gained height with every powerful stroke of the beast.

And a whisper, that was her world now, filled her mind to the core.

„Mine..."

It was only when she was high up above city, the battle like an exclusive carpet below her, looking harmless and unreal, that she understood, what was going on.

Terror gripped her as she felt the closeness of the enemy, the sizzeling would her sword had slain, the stench of the wingbeast and the voice of the rider, ever in her ears, ever in her mind. She could see him, feel that he was there, claiming, touching her in a way more intimate than a caress would have done. She felt tainted and sick, her hand only barely gripping her sword. Faintly, she considered hacking off the claw that held her, falling into oblivion, but the voice whispered away that thought in the twinkle of an eye.

„Mine...", it whispered, softly with the fouling adoration of a spirit beyound humanity. „Know you..."

And this he did, and there was not even any room left to scream.

Eternity passed and pushed her beyound when a ray of white passed the mist of her mind and gave the unwanted gift of sudden clarity. She screamed as the spirit withdrew, turning ist attention to other refinements.

The enemy had shown himself...