Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing.
Reviews are welcome. I'd appreciate any kind of honest opinion and criticism, please read carefully.
Disclaimer: Characters, plot, places etc.: not mine.
Year 3019, March: 18in the early morning hours / still dark.
I have let the Warden in the Houses of Healing, where I am presently lying, bring me these materials I request for writing. My left hand and arm, broken by the force of the Witch King, is limp, and not even in a proper sling; but since yesterday afternoon I think – though I cannot remember clearly – that my right arm, poisoned by him, has started to recover and is almost healed, as far as I can perceive. The past three days I have rested long times, and slept for what I thought was days but turned out to be merely hours; now I feel my strength rebuilding, and the urge to run free again.
Rumours I hear that the men will ride to the Eye and challenge him and sacrifice themselves for the Ring–bearer. I can hear the whisperings, but they avoid telling me, as though I should insist on riding with them. And their hearts are true: I would insist; I wish dearly to join the men in their hopeless quest, facing a heroic death. Alas, I know I would not be let, and also I am, though gaining strength slowly day by day, just too weak to hold against those biding me stay here, or even coming up with a scheme as I did before.
It is not that I do not have the time to think – I have more than enough, and seconds pass like centuries. It is not that I cannot think clearly, for when I am awake no vile pictures distract me and I could manage a trick easily; it is because I know my body is too weak, and strained, and I would not want them discover me halfway and send me back like a disobedient child.
Also, the trust I have brought in my former scheme has not been proven: With my faithful Merry, a hobbit worth praise and gratitude, for he has done more than service or friendship requires, I have indeed slain the Witch King, and so rescued my uncle Théoden from an unworthy death, but I have not been as injured as to be lying next to him, no, instead I lie injured, weakened, sick and pitied by many in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, in the kingdom of Gondor, away from home.
I do not blame the Prince Imrahil or Aragorn for saving me. I do not desire death; I desire heroic death. The current state I am in is a burden: it confines me and I cannot fight. I have not given it much thought till now, as I was haunted by darkness and shadow. Most times, I have been sleeping, overcome with memories of my childhood and vivid pictures of looming black silhouettes poisoning and drawing over them; I fear sleep and yet I know I need it for rash recovery.
The women avoid speaking with me, and tell me little; but I can hear what they do and do not say to me, and so in few words they say I do not lie peacefully, but toss and turn, murmuring words in a language unknown to them; with knowing smiles they look at me and indicate that the Healer and King listens.
–I do not remember any terrifying scenes in my dreams, but they are all depressing and incredibly gloomy. I am not always watched over; but my sleep is not as restless as before, so they say.
Perhaps, if the men ride in a few weeks' time, I could be able to summon my strength and join them, but as it stands, I think they will hurry, for there is little time and haste is bidden. There never is time in these days.
And now, while more peaceful in sleep, I am restless when awake; for I cannot stand being idle, even not when recovering: It is vain, and I am bored. Which is why I have requested a stalk and ink and paper. The ink is pale, almost translucent, other than the one which is used at court in Rohan; but on even fairer thin paper it is well visible, shimmering in a light bluish gleam.
I enjoy writing; and though it might deem to some as idle as doing nothing, it occupies me; but my mind still wanders out of this room I cannot leave – the Warden forbids it. But I know he pities me, for on my request even though in the middle of the night he brought the writing supplies.
I know I strain his nerves with my fervent asking when I can be released at last; yes, it is stupid of me. And every time he tells me he was given orders for me to stay for at least ten days, which is from now on more than seven, even eight, for the third day has not really begun.
I can wonder who has given him these orders; for who would dare to order me?
My brother, perhaps, but he understands little of healing and the herb–lore. My heart tells me it was Aragorn, the king, for I have seen him, too, but I push the thought out of my mind; it does not seem appropriate to me.
That was a foolish sentence: am I a foolish girl? I surely do not desire to be called such, as would any other maiden take a liking to that name, but my behaviour, at times, has proved my foolishness. Although Lord Aragorn has never really encouraged me, he has never rejected me clearly. –Of course, looking back, he could not have rejected me without hurting my feelings, and if one does not encourage, as he did, the other should not build hopes upon not being rejected, as I did.
When he left me, he kissed my hand, but I perceive now it must have been a farewell, one telling me to hope: to anticipate a reunion in friendship and respect in better days, not to bestow further feelings on his person. I cannot recall the kiss clearly; the memory is not swallowed by the shadow, but at that point I was not prepared, and a kiss on the hand is extremely brief. All I can remember is the pain of realisation at his words: a shock, for I should never be his queen – a dream I often dreamt and wished for I my naïveté.
Oddly, being here, I do not hate this place for have been deprived of it in my imagination. It is beautiful and charming; and I, Dernhelm, thought while riding upon the field that the White City of Gondor was indeed handsome and with right be called White City. I did not have very much time to think about the city when I was involved in the fighting, of course. Nevertheless, my first impression of Gondor's capital brought forth wonder, admiration and joy in the exhilaration of battle.
But now I think Minas Tirith will always remind me of the encounter with the Witch King on the Fields of Pelennor. For this shall always haunt me in dark hours – and the happy hours may stay scarce: How long will there be such? This one battle is won, and the Witch King extinguished, but the Dark Lord does not rely on one servant only; the forces of Mordor are brooding and the Eye will conjure up new strength. If we give it little time to bring up new soldiers, there may be a chance, but no one knows how many creatures already guard the lands of Mordor. Still, we have to attack as soon as possible – I hope for the men they part soon and fight to die; for they are forced to, and they will. But for my sake, I wish they waited.
The Lord of Gondor will ride with them. I am torn between a yearning for his presence and yet when he appeared in this room and I knew it, I secretly wished he would go; for I saw he does care for me: As a warrior, as a shieldmaiden, as the niece of the now dead king of Rohan, as the sister of the future king of Rohan, as a strong-willed woman. But he does not love me, he does not care for me as a lover, and I notice now what I have not before, so I would rather have him stay away so not to destroy my illusions.
However, I cannot forever hang on to these dreams; if I do not destroy them, they shall destroy me when the time comes. It is a hopeless situation, a time full of sorrow and grief, so these memories would, perhaps, help me. But I do not want to be helped in this way! Losing myself in these dreams when the end of this age is drawing near is cowardly and faint-hearted; and that I am not, have I not proven such? In my heart, I will let the men ride without me: to a glorious victory, or peril and the end of the world which will turn into a dark place, the reign of Sauron, the Eye embodied. And either way I shall envy them: but I can make the best of staying here, and I will. This is what my pride tells me.
If the time comes, and the dark force has not been conquered, this city will be the threshold to the world's regime and the White City of Gondor, Minas Tirith, will not fall without a slightest meaning, but shall withstand the Dark Lord with all the forces it can gather, so it will not be said we gave up without any kind of resistance.
And when the men are gone and my days of rest over, I shall start practising again; and I shall teach everyone still dwelling here how to wield a sword. Those wounded who stay here too, soldiers and warriors there are, surely, these are my hope. With their help, and they with mine: We shall build up a miniature army that will fight the legions when our last hope fails, and we shall give our lives and will fight for all that matters; for there is no hope, and this is my dream.
I know we shall have to give up – I should not think this, but it is truth…
We will fight to the end – our end. I see myself already – oh, I should stop. Even recent dreams stay dreams, and I should face reality: I lie in bed, I – listen.
Yes, I am right. Listen. News. The sun rises – I cannot see it really, but even though I do not look toward the east, the sky is slowly lightening, the sun rises, and I hear horns and trumpets. Yes, I can hear them: The men ride. In my kingdom it may be a proverb, but this time the proverb comes true: They ride to ruin and the world's ending. But not to mine – yet. I thought it would be more shocking… but perhaps it is, though I feel numb, as if someone had let all my blood out of my body. But I will have my chance. It is definitely egoistical, selfish, disgusting and absolutely revolting of me to hope for it… is it only a game?
The horns sound. The trumpets blare. Rohan rides forth. Rohan rides without me, Éowyn. Rohan rides without Dernhelm, faithful forever to his king. The king is dead. The king is dead. Is a new king appointed? Éomer, my brother, would it be. Dernhelm would be ever faithful to his king.
I am disappointed. I shiver. I am cold. I am worn out and tired: I must sleep.
They have ridden. They are gone.