Chapter Five
Éowyn kept to the back of the line as Théoden's army rode for Edoras. None guessed the White Lady rode amongst them as she went disguised as a Rider in full battle gear. Although weighed down by mail and shield, she never felt freer. Gone at last were the shackles of long skirts and slippers, symbols of her thralldom.
She had only a moment's pause when the holbytla rode by on Stybba. Her heart skipped a moment and it seemed the Halfling pierced her disguise, but it was not so. She was just another Rider in a host of many to his eye.
At noon, they came to Edoras though the gloom above had been deepening ever since dawn. The foul mirk flowed from the east and weighed heavy on the heart. The men whispered the end was nigh, that day would ne'er dawn again, and well did she believe it.
Éowyn looked on as her uncle dismissed Meriadoc from his service. She was too far away to catch the words but she could well guess their import as the Halfling went away unhappily. Taking pity upon him, she moved to his side and whispered. "Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say."
Merry looked up, recognition in his eyes. Éowyn held her breath then realized he but took her for the anonymous warrior he had noticed riding out of Dunharrow.
"You wish to ride with the King of the Mark; I see it in your eyes."
"I do," said Merry. "All my friends ride to war; I would not be left behind."
"Then you shall ride with me. I will hide you 'neath my cloak until we are far afield. Come!"
"You have my thanks indeed, Sir, though I do not know your name," said Merry.
"Truly?" Éowyn replied softly. "Then call me Dernhelm."
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For four days, the companies of the Rohirrim rode hard and Éowyn and Merry rode amongst them undetected. As soon as they had ridden out of Edoras Éowyn attached herself to the éored commanded by Elfhelm for he was Ælfeorh's son and more like to keep his silence should her disguise slip, at least if Ælfeorh will had ought to say about it.
Finally, they were less than a day's ride from the walls of Minas Tirith. Éowyn all but fell from the saddle when the host halted; she had thought herself fit, a good rider and hardened to the saddle, but four days of hard riding in heavy mail forced her to remember she was a woman after all.
She spent the day getting as much rest as possible for this was the last push before the battle. Soon, they rode in sooth to war and it seemed more than likely to her that she would not survive it.
She kept to herself but gathered what news she could. The King met now with the headman of the Woses, the Wildmen of the Druadan Forest. She had spied him as he was escorted to the King's tent and would have dared another glimpse but decided it too risky.
The call to ride came soon enough and it was back in the saddle for her and Meriadoc as they took their place in the long files of Riders as they passed over the thickly wooded ridges. By late afternoon, they made camp in the thickets of the Stonewain Valley.
Éowyn tried to sleep but found it impossible. In just a few hours, they would ride and there would be no stopping for now they were come to it at last. Far away and almost straight ahead, a red glow appeared under the black sky; against it, loomed the sides of a great mountain.
Teeth chattering, she shuddered in her blanket though the air was not cold. She clutched her mother's brooch for strength and courage as she lay there watching that far off blood-glow. She no longer guessed what the morrow would bring, she but prayed to have the courage to face it.
Briefly, she wondered where Aragorn was and how his company faired; were they already lost to the dead? She fervently prayed it was not so. She thought back on Legolas' words, brave though they were at the time she doubted she would ever see him again—any of them for that matter.
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Night lay thick, made deeper still by the Enemy's mirk. On either side of the road, the host of Rohan moved silently. Éowyn experienced near relief when the summons to ride came. She found she functioned better as long as she kept moving.
The King rode in the midst of the leading company with Éomer and the men of his household about him. Stealthily Éowyn detached herself from Elfhelm's éored and crept steadily forward until she was riding just rear of the King's guard. As she passed, she thought she saw Elflhelm bow his head to her. Merry glanced up but she shook her head in caution.
There came a check as the outriders returned to report to the king. Éowyn pressed forwardas close as she dared to catch the tidings.
"The Mundberg is aflame and the field is full of foes, but all seem occupied with the assault."
Another outrider spoke up. "The wind turns. There comes a breath out of the south with a sea tang to it. Above the mirk you will find the dawn when you pass the wall."
"These are good tidings indeed!" Théoden said and turned so all who stood near could hear. "Now comes the hour, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foe and fire are before you, home and hearth behind. Oaths ye have taken. Now fulfill them all!"
The leading company rode off and Éowyn spurred her mount. Behind her Meriadoc loosened his hold on her waist as he readied his sword in its sheath.
Swiftly the horses devoured the league to where the outer walls stood. Wild cries broke out and there was a brief clash of arms ahead. There were few orcs on the walls and they were easily driven off.
The King halted again before the ruin of the north-gate of the Rammas and Éowyn kept close by him. Ten miles ahead could be seen a great burning and before them stretched a wide dark plain.
Silentlythe host moved forward onto the field, rising steadily like a tide. Soon the King led them eastward to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields; still no foe challenged them, still Théoden gave no signal. Breath rasped harshly as Éowyn's chest constricted and her palms grew slick with dread. Tightly she clenched her jaw to still her chattering teeth.
The reek of burning was in the air along with the very shadow of death. The King sat upon Snowmane and for a moment seemed cowed by what lay before them.
Then suddenly she felt it, a change in the air. Lifting her face, Éowyn caught it again—wind! Light glimmered far off; to the south clouds rolled up and drifted away, revealing the morning behind them.
Just at that moment came a bright flash as of lightening followed by a great boom. Éowyn had no idea what was happening but at that moment, Théoden King rose in his stirrups and cried aloud:
"Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
a sword-day, a red day, 'ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!"
Guthláf, Banner-bearer sounded his great horn. Crying, "Rohan!" Théoden spurred Snowmane on.
"Hold fast to me, Master Meriadoc!" Éowyn cried over the chorus of answering horns. Merry responded by tightening his left arm as his right drew his sword.
Adrenaline slammed into Éowyn, igniting her blood like pitch-soaked kindling. She hauled back on her reins as her mount reared. Crying, "Rohan! Rohan!" she hurtled into battle.
Her throat burned as her voice was lost in the battle cry of the Rohirrim. Tirelessly her arm rose and fell. Black blood splashed and soon it covered her.
She was no longer conscious of her actions as battle frenzy consumed her. She was a mindless automaton, fueled by hate and despair. She knew not how many times her sword dealt death, nor if the Halfling managed to keep his seat behind her.
Swiftly she won through the orc lines and somehow managed to keep hard by Théoden as he raced his mount towards the chieftain of the Southrons. Now Éowyn found herself hewing mortal men, no different than the Rohirrim save their skin was darker and they sided with Mordor. No matter, a foe was a foe!
A glancing blow struck her thigh drawing off her attention. On the ground, a boy raced to her raising his scimitar. Mindlessly her sword came down, catching him in the gap of his armor between neck and shoulder. Blood sprayed and the boy fell dead.
Éowyn froze. For the space of a second nothing else existed except the boy—he couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve summers—his blood, the same red as hers, soaking into the earth. What was he doing here? Why was he not home, safe? Did he have mother, father, sister, brothers?
Something shattered within her and the battle lust drained away leaving her hollow and empty. She had just slain a child whose only crime was to believe in the opposite cause.
Éowyn wrenched her gaze away. All about her was carnage. Glancing down she saw she and her horse covered in gore. The metallic taste of it even in her mouth as the boy's blood had splattered across her face as she leaned down for the deathblow. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? Where was the valor and glory in such slaughter?
As Éowyn sat dazed, staring down at the fallen youth, she was heedless to the Halfling's urgent cries; heedless of the great shadow descending, blotting out the sun; heedless of the screams of horses as they reared in terror, casting their riders from the saddle to lie groveling upon the ground; heedless of Snowmane roaring with terror and pain as he took an arrow and crashed to his side, crushing Théoden beneath him.
"Dernhelm!" Merry cried from somewhere off to the left. He had managed to keep his seat until the shadow came and Éowyn's horse reared. "The King has fallen!" he cried, struggling to crawl forward though blinded by abject terror.
Éowyn dragged her eyes from the dead youth and lo, it was sooth. Snowmane lay screaming in his death throes, Théoden King trapped beneath him.
"Uncle!" she croaked as tears rolled down her cheeks. Grief blocked all fear as she kneed her mount, blind to the sight of the Halfling crawling forward.
Grief and despair lay hold of her in a relentless grip. Théoden King was fallen! All was lost—lost! The darkness filled her lungs and mind. She was nothing—nay, worse than nothing; she had become a slayer of children. By action and deed, she had become more monstrous than any minion of the Enemy. Furthermore, she had failed to protect her King—her uncle—one who had loved her as a father.
Raising her eyes from Théoden's broken body she beheld the source of the shadow; a great winged beast, stinking of the most fetid pits of Morder crouched; evil exuding from it like a miasma. Upon its back sat a black shrouded figure, huge and menacing. A crown of steel he wore but no face there was between rim and mantle save twin orbs of flame. The Lord of the Nazgûl, sat gloating, a great black mace in his mailed fist.
"Begone, Demon Lord. You'll find no sport here!" she cried.
"Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!"
"Do what you will; but you must first pass me."
"You dare hinder me? Fool! No living man may hinder me!"
Éowyn threw back her head and laughed, a ringing sound clear as a sword clearing the sheath. "Fool! I am no man! I am Éowyn, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and one precious to me. Begone, for living or dead I will kill you if you touch him!"
Merry opened his eyes in amazement at the sound of Éowyn's voice. A few feet before him loomed the Lord of the Nazgûl, a little to the left stood Dernhelm—no, Éowyn! She had lost her helm and her hair spilled bright down her back. Fearless and fell were her eyes as she raised sword and shield.
It was Éowyn, his eyes had not been cheated! Pity moved him and his courage stirred at the brave sight of her defying the darkness. She should not die alone, unaided—not if he could do anything about it.
Slowly the Hobbit crawled forward unheeded. At that moment, the beast leaped into the air and fell upon Éowyn, striking out with beak and claw.
Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan, stood her ground. Raising her sword in a mighty blow, she hewed the beast's head from its outstretched neck. She leaped back as the wreckage of the creature crashed to the ground. With its passing came the sunrise and her heart lifted.
A fell shriek rent the air, cleaving Éowyn's heart in twain. Raising her eyes, she beheld the Lord of the Nazgûl advancing upon her. Reflexively she brought her shield up as the Witch-king's mace fell.
Blinding pain ripped through her as her shield shattered and her arm broke. As she fell to her knees, the Black Rider towered over her for the final blow.
Time crawled by, or so it seemed, and all Éowyn's world became twin orbs of flame and a black mace descending upon her slowly, ever so slowly.
'So it comes to this,' was all she could think. Peace stole across her and she deemed it a fair end. It was meet that she die this way, swatted like a fly by an enemy so absolute in its evil; no valor, no glory, no renown for a child-slayer and failure. Yes, it was fair.
Time came jolting back into its normal course and the Witch-king stumbled forward with a cry. The mace went wide, driving harmlessly into the ground.
"Éowyn! Éowyn!" Merry cried.
She struggled to her feet, stumbled over to the Lord of the Nazgûl, and beheld a wonder. The Halfling's sword protruded from the back of the Ringwraith's knee. With the last of her strength, she drove her sword through the empty space between crown and shoulders, putting out those orbs of flame forever.
Her sword shattered and she felt the shock of it in every bone of her body. Pitching forward, she fell upon her fallen foe only to connect with hard earth. A shrill wail, devoid of all life pierced the air, and Éowyn knew no more.
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End of Part Two: To Be Continued.
From "The Return of the King", J.R.R. Tolkien