A/N: Don't you hate how life catches up with you so often? Well, that's what happened to me. I've been attacked by busy-ness in the last few months and haven't had a whole lot of time for fanfiction. I intend to work on this a lot more and get it finished before college starts in the fall (the ending has actually been written! HUZZAH!) This story takes top priority as it is one of my favorites AND, thus far, my longest. There is a segment of dialogue in here taken from the lovely movie Shakespeare In Love. If you have not seen it, you need to. It is one of the best movies ever made. If you have seen it, see if you can spot the lines! As always, please leave me a review to tell me what you thought! Thanks!

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Gríma son of Gálmód loved the darkness. Even if the stars seemed to mock him in his loneliness, the blackness of night protected him, hid him from the world and allowed him to dream of better lives and better places. Darkness was Gríma's home.

Light, therefore, was Gríma's natural enemy, the sun his cruelest attacker; and therefore when its rays spread their questing fingers deep into his tent that morning, slicing across his face and burning at his eyes, he was most displeased.

He had silently prayed to all the Valar that the night would never cease – that somehow he would awaken and find it eternally dark, that he and Éowyn would await the rising of the sun and instead be kept in the safe cocoon of midnight blackness for the rest of their lives. If night remained, then so too would Éowyn.

Alas, night is ever-fleeting, and no prayer of Gríma's could make it otherwise. The sun arose as it had done for centuries before, and Gríma was left to curse the Valar for ignoring his pleas.

He tried at first to shield Éowyn's eyes from the burning light, moving her so that her head rested against his chest, but all too soon she stirred and awoke, squirming away from him and blinking sleepily until at last her eyes opened. Gríma stared at her as she slowly sat up and pushed her golden hair back from her face. "Good morning, my princess," he murmured softly.

She turned to him with a brilliant smile. "Good morning, counsellor," she replied. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Very little," he admitted, reaching up to touch her cheek. "But then, you hardly slept either."

She blushed prettily and looked towards the tent's opening. "The camp is stirring," she noted as the sounds of soldiers rising began to be heard across the grounds. "I should be going."

Gríma's hand clenched tightly around her wrist. "Not yet," he pleaded. "Please, Éowyn, not yet."

She looked at him with a certain degree of sadness. "I have no choice," she told him.

He sat up and cupped her face in her hands. "You have a choice," he said forcefully. "You could stay – with me… if you wished to…"

She removed his hands and stood, walking away from him. She dressed carefully, pondering his words. Finally, she turned to him. Her eyes were steady and certain, and Gríma knew already that she would not tarry any longer. "This is my destiny," she told him firmly. "This is what I have awaited all my life. Would you take that from me, counsellor?"

He sighed and looked away. "Never, my princess," he said sadly. "I cannot deny you this, much as I wish I could. You must do as your heart commands you, and I must obey."

She hesitated slightly. There were so many things to be said in that hesitation… so many words to fill the emptiness between them, so many words to block the hurt of her departure. But none could express what either felt. Instead, Éowyn walked back to him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Do not forget me, counsellor," she commanded. "When this war is ended – when the world has moved on – someone must remember all that occurred here. Write it, tell it, pass it down, so that no one will forget the deeds of the last of the house of Éorl – and the deeds of the White Lady of Rohan."

"I will always remember," he said simply. He paused, then reached up and touched her cheek. "You shall never age for me, nor fade, nor die," he promised.

"Nor you for me," Éowyn replied painfully. She smiled a regretful smile and said, "Write me well."

And with those final words, she was gone.

- - - - - - - - - -

Éowyn moved swiftly through the camp, attempting to remain unseen. Where she was going none could follow her, lest her plan be ruined. She had packed armor that fit her decently but hid her feminine form before she left. One of her servants, the wife of a soldier and a good friend, had carried it for her. At the time Éowyn had expected her desire to bring it was merely a passing fancy, a dream never to be achieved. Now, as she rummaged through the bags that contained her armor, she knew she had brought it with a true purpose.

Would she have gone if Aragorn had not left? Would she have stayed behind or would she have fought beside him?

Or, more importantly, would she, at the last moment, choose to remain behind for a man whom she had sworn long ago never to love?

She paused briefly in her occupation. Gríma did not want her to go, would not be riding with them. He would survive her and live to write out her story, but he would forever live in agony without her.

And what of her feelings for him? How had they changed? Long ago she had thought of him only as the Traitor, but he had proved far more complex than such a title implied. He was a puzzle and she was desperate to unravel his mysteries; he had offered her such an opportunity, had given her the chance to spend her lifetime doing so. And she had thrown that chance aside in favor of death or worse. And what for? Honor? Glory? Suicide?

No. Because it is what you were born for.

Because you are a Shieldmaiden.

Because Rohan in its hour of need has cried out, and you have heard the call. Would you truly be a Daughter of the house of Éorl if you did not answer?

Sure again of her decision, her resolve strengthened, she began dressing herself in the armor. She would ride with the Rohirrim, and she would face death, and she would meet it defending the land – the people – the man that she loved.

Yes. She loved him. In some strange, twisted sort of way, she always had. She would never fully forgive him for what he had done, but given time, given all that could have happened, she might have let it go.

But in war, there was no time for love, no room for peace and joy. In war, there was only blood, and death, and endings.

She strapped her sword firmly to her side, stroking its sheath lovingly.

It was her ending she was riding to.

It was her life that no one would ever forget.

- - - - - - - - -

Gríma was alone in his tent when one of Éowyn's servants entered. "Éowyn is leaving," she said unhappily to him. "She was dressed in armor when I saw her. She told me of her plans to leave you in her place." She glared at him threateningly. "I have her permission to remove you if you should betray her trust," she warned.

Gríma's thin lips twitched into a smile. "You need not fear so much," he said. "I will not betray her – not now."

The servant clearly still did not trust him. "She told the few men who were to stay behind of her plan," she continued. "They are not pleased."

"How astonishing," Gríma said sardonically. "Has she gone yet?"

"Soon, my Lord," the servant girl said. She seemed deeply pained by her mistress's departure. "Perhaps we could convince her to stay…"

Gríma sighed and pushed his dark hair from his face. "I have already tried, numerous times, to change her mind," he said, "But her heart is set, and if this is what she wishes… then I shall not hinder her."

The servant studied him closely for a moment. "You truly do love her, don't you?" she said.

"Yes," he said simply. "Whatever the rest of Rohan claims, I do."

The servant seemed somewhat assured by this declaration. "Théoden King wishes to see you before he leaves," she said with a slight bow. "If you told Théoden of Éowyn's plan…"

"I would be betraying her trust," he said firmly, rising and moving to leave the tent. "And I have done that for far too long and with far too dire consequences to ever do it again. Now, I must ask your pardon – as you have said, the King wishes to see me."

The servant bowed more deeply and stepped aside. Gríma swept out of the tent and moved towards the area where all the Rohirrim had gathered.

He had to admit, he was impressed. There were literally thousands of them, on all variety of horses and in all sorts of armor. They were grave and stern, but they did not appear frightened. Gríma knew they were afraid to some degree, but they had clearly resigned themselves to their fate – for Rohan, and for their people.

To have such loyalty… to be willing to die for his country and his people…

Gríma shook his head slightly. He could not imagine such a thing. His only loyalty was to himself, and to Éowyn. For Éowyn, he would gladly die. If she had commanded it he would have ridden with her to battle – but she had ordered him to remain behind. He had other duties here, another life – a life he would live alone, without the woman he loved.

He supposed he had resigned himself to that, just as the soldiers had resigned themselves to their imminent deaths. But the pain, he knew all too well, would never entirely disappear.

"Gríma!"

The former counsellor turned and saw Théoden riding towards him, surrounded by a troop of Éorlingas. Gríma bowed deeply. "I heard that you wished to see me, my liege," he said.

"I have a task for you, as you are remaining behind," Théoden told him. "I want you to assist Éowyn as she rules. You have much political experience, and in the days before Saruman held sway over you, you were a good advisor. You can help her." He paused briefly. "I have not seen Éowyn today," he said concernedly. "Do you know where she is?"

"She needed to be away, my King," Gríma said. "This war causes her deep grief, and your departure pains her more deeply than you know. She went for a walk earlier in the day, just as the sun was rising. She will return later."

Théoden seemed to accept the explanation. "Bid her farewell from me," Théoden said. "And care for her, Gríma. She will need all her strength to her rule our people."

Gríma bowed again and said, "I will do as you have ordered, my King."

Théoden nodded shortly and then urged his horse forward. Éomer paused his horse by Gríma and said quietly, "Where is Éowyn really, Gríma?"

Gríma was not in the least bit surprised that Éomer had not accepted his explanation for her disappearance. "You doubt my story?" he questioned.

"Don't play games with me, Gríma!" he snapped. "If she rides with us she faces death. She only imagines the glory of battle, but she has never been there when the men are lying wounded on the battlefield – while they scream for death, for mercy, for anything to ease their pain. She has never seen the blood and gore spread everywhere. She knows nothing of battle – only the rosy visions of what she wishes it to be. Now tell me truly, counsellor, does she ride with us or does she remain behind?"

Gríma met Éomer's eyes. "And what, Éomer, will you do if I tell that she rides with you?" he asked softly. "Will you find her amongst six thousand men? And even should you discover her, do you really think you will dissuade her? By the time you find her you will have gone to far for her to turn back."

"You are saying that she will ride with us?" Éomer demanded.

Gríma turned away. "As I said before, Éowyn felt that she needed to leave the camp. The desire to ride with you was heavy upon her. She is gone. You will not see her again."

"Do not speak in riddles to me!" Éomer snarled. "Tell me where she is!"

Gríma glanced over his shoulder. "I know not," he said firmly. "She is gone. She has left the camp. Whither to, I do not know, and hence cannot tell you." Éomer opened his mouth to protest this answer, but Gríma turned away again and called, "Farewell, Lord Éomer. May you survive this battle and return victorious. Rohan shall be in sore need of you."

"You know we ride to death," Éomer said darkly.

"Then may you die an honorable and glorious death," Gríma tossed back over his shoulder. Before Éomer could reply, Gríma seemed to melt into the shadows and disappear into the crowd.

- - - - - - - - - -

Armor was very hot and uncomfortable.

Éowyn was not altogether surprised by this, but it was undeniably the most prominent thing on her mind as she sat amongst her fellow riders, awaiting the call to depart. Her horse was stomping anxiously at the ground, snorting beneath her. Her helmet made her head hot, but it guarded her face from view. The men around her were jesting with her, assuming that she was a very young boy as she had no trace of a beard on her face. She took their good-humored jabs with a small smile and a tiny blush, but another part of her mind was already focused on battle.

That was when she noticed Merry, the hobbit, speaking to her uncle.

He was dressed in full armor, astride his small hobbit-sized pony. Théoden was speaking to him calmly but firmly, and Merry looked upset.

He won't let him ride! Éowyn realized. He won't let him go with us!

Sympathy overtook all of Éowyn's other emotions. Poor Merry, she thought. I understand how you must feel…

A horn echoed loudly across the campgrounds. Éowyn stiffened in her saddle, excitement and terror pumping through her in equal amounts. "DEATH!" the soldiers about her shouted, rattling their spears above their heads.

"DEATH!" screamed those who would remain behind.

"DEATH!" Éowyn cried, her voice rising amongst all the others raised in triumph.

Her horse leapt forward as the others did, and her heart pounded loudly into her throat. They were going towards the final battle. They were going to fight.

Éowyn's horse was moving rapidly enough that she almost didn't notice the small forlorn figure of Merry until she had passed him. Almost without thinking, her hand swept down, caught his armor, and pulled him into her saddle. "Ride with me," she whispered in his ear.

A sudden smile broke across his face. "My Lady!" he whispered back.

And no other words needed to be said, save one:

"DEATH!"