The Halls of Her Fathers
By Eowyn
The Hornburg, June 16
After the battle of Helm's Deep, the Hornburg
became a makeshift healer's house, with those hurt in the battle
resting upon piles of straw lining the walls on either side of
the many halls, corridors and chambers of the stone fortress.
The stifled air was heavy and filled with the buzzing of flies,
the sounds of men milling about and tending to the ordering of
the fortress, and the shrill cries and anguished moans of wounded.
For those unlucky enough to be among those lying upon the straw,
the activity in the Berg blends together in a murky sea as the
men struggle with the pain that grips at their mind. Those cursed
with the Shadow float in and out of dark nightmares of unbelievable
terror or the slow, spirit-quenching dreams of despair. The noises
of the fortress undulate in clarity, their own cries joining the
rest of the din, as surroundings fade from sharp and clear to
dim and misty. Those who are conscious direct all thought upon
the act of merely bearing their pain and waiting for each agonizing
minute to pass, while those who were given sleeping draughts slumber
restlessly, their dreams scattered and troubled.
Eowyn had spent the weary hours since she was brought in off the
field lying upon the straw, not getting up unless need called.
One of the healer's assistants, a lad of about twelve years, had
brought her a set of crutches to use. He also returned her cloaks,
for which she was very grateful, for their hoods would conceal
the features of her face. When someone came by with water, she
drank greedily, then fell back upon the straw, weak from pain
and loss of blood. Indeed, she was spent, her exhaustion caused
by the battle, her wounds, the shadows which plagued her mind
and the sleeping draughts which she had been given.
In the early morning hours of the day before, the wounded man
lying beside her had died, his last breaths coming in wheezing
gasps. His body had been reverently taken away, but Eowyn barely
comprehended the man's presence when he was alive nor his passage
from the circles of the world.
Eowyn's body was wracked with pain, great physical pain and exhaustion,
but her mind was tormented with a different type of anguish, intense
sadness, grief and shame. Upon her shadow lay heavy, and she could
not discern which was the shadow of the Nazgul and which was the
shadow of her own mind. Over and over again, she saw the events
of Pelennor and experienced anew the battle, her capture and enchantment,
and subsequent thraldom.
Many times, she had dreamed that she had died and gone to the
halls of her fathers. It was a pleasant summer night, the warm
air stirred by a soft breeze from the west. Before her was a great
hall, the biggest and finest she had ever seen, akin to, yet far
more grand than Medusled. The thatched roof of the hall was made
of pure golden straw which glittered in the light of the infinite
stars, and its sides were made of fine wood gilded with golden
scrollwork, jewels and carvings of horses. Amber light from torches
and chandeliers of wrought iron poured from the windows, and the
sounds of joyous reveling and merrymaking wafted through the air.
Inside, the spirits of the dead were singing songs of glorious
battles and daring deeds of bravery, of good mead and good life,
and of horses galloping across fair fields of green. Sitting around
a large rectangular table were the greats of her people, Eorl
the Young, who rode from the north to come to the aid of Gondor;
Fram son of Frumgar, who slew Scatha the Worm, the great dragon
of the Grey Mountains, many other great warriors and men and women
of valor. At other large tables were seated lesser men of the
Eorlingas, riders, noblemen and peasants.
However, when Eowyn had passed through the elaborately carved
doors, all quieted their voices and shifted their gaze to the
shieldmaiden. No more thought was paid to the feast and making
merry, and stern, grim figures stared at her, expressing their
disapproval in wordless scorn. She searched their faces, her eyes
pleading and desperate, yet she found no mercy, no pity, for she
was a traitor. Most of all, she felt the anger and disappointment
of her uncle, father and cousin, the guilt and shame crushing
down on her like an immense weight. She hung her head in disgrace,
the reception of her own kinsmen more withering even than the
fires of the Dark Lord.
Eowyn slowly walked away from them and retreated into the murky
shadows along the edges of the great hall. The moment she left,
the nightly celebration of the dead Eorlingas continued. Tears
stung her eyes and she blinked hard, causing them to cascade down
her cheeks in little rivulets. A soft voice interrupted her despairing
thoughts. "My lady...?"
Someone spoke to her! She thought she would spend all eternity
in silence, every dead Eorling glaring at her when her foul presence
crept out of the shadows. Shocked, she looked up and through her
tears, she saw the figure of a man, clad in dark robes. But how
- how did he slither into the halls of the slain? Their eyes caught,
and she saw empathy and compassion beneath those heavy lids, for
indeed, they were both of the same kind. "My heart grieves
to see your own kinsmen shun you, my lady, but I am no stranger
to their scorn." The darkly clad man sighs heavily. "What
strange twist of fate is this, that the once-beloved White Lady
must now dwell in shadows with he who is called Wormtongue!"
His brow furrowed with concern and a look of hurt came over his
face. "But why that Tower, my lady?" he asked quietly.
"Why the Dark Tower? Why not Orthnac?" He studied her
face, saddened that Eowyn had betrayed Rohan for Barad-dur and
had loved the Witch-King of Angmar, instead of him. Saruman may
have been a cruel and demanding master, but at least he was better
than the Dark Lord.
Eowyn burst into convulsing sobs which shook her body. "Oh,
Grima!" she wailed mournfully, feeling utterly wretched and
loathsome. Two traitors were they, having betrayed their country
by each serving their different Tower in their living moments.
The shieldmaiden's eyes fluttered open, her face wet with tears.
She was back in the Hornburg, lying on a pile of straw, but still,
the memories of her dream haunted her, heightening her despair.
Was she really a traitor, an evil woman who betrayed her own people?
She did not know anymore.
True, her mind had been brought out of its cage of spells and
sorcery, but to what had she returned? Gondor had fallen, her
land was ravaged. She felt she had betrayed Theoden whom she had
tried so hard to save and she was now a disgrace to her kin. She
had abandoned the duties which had been assigned to her so she
could fight as a man, which in the end seemed to prove folly.
She had tried so hard to defy Angmar by singlehandedly charging
into a group of orcs, but what good had it done? It proved nothing,
but that she had made a rash decision and was now paying for it.
And the West was slowly but surely driving the forces of Mordor
out of the Mark, while she lay wounded! What use did she have?
What use had she ever had?
Suddenly Eowyn saw the figure of a young boy hovering over her.
She gasped and twitched, old fear seizing her. "Sir?"
the boy looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here is
some water and bread for you." Eowyn relaxed, and the boy
handed her a waterskin and a small, slightly crusty chunk of bread.
"Thank you," she answered gruffly, not really feeling
like eating, but not wanting to hurt the child's feelings either.
She took a few tiny bites, chewing painfully, and nodded to the
boy as he went to aid the next among the wounded.
Later, after taking a draught of watered-down wine and valerium,
the shieldmaiden drifted off into another restless slumber filled
with grim dreams of darkness, sorrow, grief and guilt. The hood
pulled low over her head partially concealed the tears that squeezed
out of closed eyelids as she slept, washing away some of the dirt
and grime upon her face.