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Title: Song of Eowyn I: The Shieldmaiden (#64)
Author: delle
Chapters: 1

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: First segment in a proposed 4 part story. Eowyn, just before the beginning of TTT
Published: 01 Jun 2003
Updated: 02 Jun 2003
Warnings: will be NC-17 in later chapters
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: Eowyn;Aragorn


Chapter 1 - Song of Eowyn I: The Shieldmaiden

Disclaimers: “Lord Of The Rings” and all its characters belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Wingnut Films and Peter Jackson. This piece of fiction is meant to inspire interest in the book and movies and in no way is intended as an encroachment on their rights.

While the movies are my primary canon, I have also drawn on book canon; in places the book canon supersedes the movie. This story is also more graphic in descriptions than either the original books or movies. There are chapters of a sexual nature; if you’re underage or it’s illegal where you live, please don’t read this story.


For Grace, John and Samuel, who dragged me kicking and screaming into a Lord of the Rings obsession.



Song of Eówyn I: The Shieldmaiden



Sing, you men of the Mark
Sing of Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel
Forget not his son Théodred, fallen in battle to the forces of the Dark
Sing of Eomer, sister-son to Theoden Ednew
Third Marshal of the Mark
And of Éowyn, Lady of Rohan
Shield-maiden of the Rohirrim
With a skill at the sword and a pride to match any man


They had ridden away, leaving her behind.

Again.

She stood before the doors of Meduseld, the Golden Hall of her ancestors, the empty stirrup cup in her cold hands, watching the last spurts of dust from their passage stain the horizon. She had grown up with them: Éomer her brother and Théodred, son of her uncle-king. They had been taught together, learned to ride and train horses together, practiced their swordplay together. Until she grew breasts while they sprouted the whiskers that proclaimed them Men of Rohan; then she was left behind.

Before her uncle-king had withered and ailed, it was not such a bad fate, to remain at Edoras. She was the shield-maiden, the King’s Regent and Théoden King had taken that responsibility seriously. She had been taught strategy and diplomacy and was well prepared to manage the affairs of Rohan in the absence of the men of the House of Eorl.

Ere the arrival of Grima, called Wormtongue and the subsequent slow decline of her uncle-king’s mind and body. It was by the decree of Théoden King – through Grima – that she no longer stood at the king’s side as he met with emissaries to Rohan. Grima stood in her place. Slowly emissaries became unwelcome in Edoras.

Éowyn found her life, her activities, slowly constrained. Grima had missed his calling, she thought bitterly, as the wind rose and her formal white skirts billowed about her legs, he should have been a horse-breaker, not Counselor to Théoden-King. Certainly he was adept at tightening the lead, restricting her movements into smaller and smaller circles. She wrapped her arms around herself. I’ll be ready for a bit and bridle soon.

“Lady?” A young house-page had approached; lost in thought, Éowyn had not heard his step. “The Lord Grima desires you to come to the King’s presence.”

“Yes, yes,” Éowyn responded absently. “I’ll be right there.” The child remained at her side. “Is there more to the message?”

“No, Lady. The Lord Grima instructed me I should accompany you to Théoden King.”

She bit back a scream of frustration, smoothed a small smile on her face. “I assure you I am perfectly able to find my way in my own hall to my own uncle. I will be right behind you. Go now.” The child frowned, uncertain; she shooed him off with an impatient wave of her hand.

So, Grima demanded her presence; another jerk of the lead rope. Defiant, she lifted her skirts and ran for the stables.

It was only a matter of moments to saddle and bridle her horse. Even as she swung in the saddle, the Captain of the Guard approached and lifted a hand to her reins.

“Release me, Hama,” she commanded.

“Lady, it is the King’s order that you not ride out unattended.”

“Grima’s order, you mean.”

“I heard it from the King’s own lips, Lady.”

“I would not go against my uncle-King’s commands. I will wait while you saddle your mount.”

Hama bowed, signaled to two other men and hurried into the stable; still another guard raised a hand to Windfola’s reins. Éowyn fixed him with a steely glare. “I said I would wait. Do you doubt the word of the Lady of Rohan?”

“Lady, we have been commanded,” the guard replied, his head dipping in apology.

“And I will not be treated like a unruly child,” she snapped. “I have given my word. That is sufficient for your orders.” She pulled at the reins; irritated, Windfola tossed his head and jerked free of the restraining hand on his bridle. It was only a matter of moments before Hama and his riders emerged from the stables. She kicked Windfola harder than necessary, leaned in and gave the horse his head. He clattered down the cobbled streets of Edoras and galloped on the wide plains outside the gates.

She rode fast and hard, with no particular destination but to feel the wind in her hair and the rhythm of the horse beneath her. Hama and the guards respected her privacy; staying close enough for protection, they remained far enough away for her to pretend she was young and free, her uncle was healthy and powerful and she had no greater responsibility than to be back at Meduseld for the evening meal.

Eventually Wildfola ran himself out. He stood on the crest of a low hill, blowing noisily. Éowyn found herself breathing heavily too; both from the exertion of the gallop and from the exhilaration of reclaimed freedom. She laid her head on her horse’s sweaty neck and watched the sun lower to the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of rose and orange, tinged with deep azure. Behind her she heard the stamping of the men’s horses, anxious for their stalls and their dinner. Reluctantly she turned Windfola’s head for home.

There would be penalties for this freedom, however fleeting, however illusory. Her ceremonial dress was sweaty and dusty, smelling of horse and the plains of Rohan. She determined to clean it herself, to pay the penance for a few moment’s grace rather than add to the burden of her maidservants. She stabled her horse, rubbed him down and treated him to a scoop of extra oats as recompense for her earlier bad temper.

She was self-honest enough to admit she was delaying her inevitable confrontation with Grima Wormtongue. Giving Windfola an extra pat and kiss on the nose, she resigned herself to the inevitable and mounted the stairs to the Golden Hall. Before entering the massive carved doors, she shook out her skirts, brushed back her tangled mass of hair and raised her head proudly. The attending soldiers opened the heavy doors at her nod.

At the end of the long hall, Théoden King, son of Thengel, slumped on the throne of his elders. His face was hoary and waxen, long furrows of wrinkles surrounding the opaque eyes that were once so piercingly blue, like her own. Like the mother she barely remembered. His hair had gone completely gray and hung lankly about his face. He sagged to the right side, where the pale face of Grima Wormtongue hovered ever present at his ear, whispering, always whispering.

Stiffening her back, Éowyn walked the long hall to the foot of the dais, her eyes fixed on the elderly face before her. How had he become so old, so fast? She dropped a deep courtesy and waited for the King’s command to rise.

Instead, she heard the unctuous tones of Grima. “Your Majesty, your niece Éowyn has deigned to make an appearance in your hall.”

Éowyn kept her head down, in respect to the king. “I was summoned to your presence, Sire. I am here; what do you desire of your Éowyn?”

“She lies,” snapped Grima. “She was called by the King hours ago and she did not come.”

Protocol or not, Éowyn stood upright and met his dark eyes defiantly. “I do not lie. I am the Lady of Rohan; my honor is my own and will not be judged by the likes of Grima Wormtongue. The King did not summon me; Grima called me here. And I will come or not come, as I chose, when Grima Wormtongue calls.”

“She rode out, with few guards for her protection, Lord,” Grima turned back to the drooping King. “She needs to be restrained, for her own security, for the honor of the Kingdom. Can we risk the capture of the Lady of Rohan by the invading outsiders? You must decree, my Lord, that she is not to go forth without your express permission.”

The earth heaved beneath her feet. “Not my horse! My Lord, I beg you, do not take this small freedom from me.” She dropped to her knees before the King, laid her head on his feet. “Please, my uncle, please, do not rein me in so.”

“Grima.” Her uncle’s voice was no more than a sighing breath.

“It is for her own protection, my King.” Triumph rang in Grima’s tone, a cruel, sadistic pleasure at her distress.

“My Lord, my uncle, the blood of the Rohirrim runs in my veins, even as it runs in yours. I need the air, I need the freedom of riding my horse over the plains of our land.” She lifted her head, heedless of the tears than trickled down her cheeks as she extended her hands to him. “The scent of the grasses, the feel of the leather reins in your hands, the rhythm of the steed under your thighs… remember you these things, my Lord? It is not the impulsive action of a thoughtless girl, it is life’s blood to those of Rohan.”

“You must… heed Grima.”

She felt the victory swell out of the Wormtongue as he bent over her, his face nearly cheek to cheek with hers, his hot breath caressing her cheek; his hands splayed on her shoulders. “Come, my Lady, you have heard the decree of the King. You will, I know, be ever-obedient to your liege.”

His hands were over-warm; she could feel the heat scalding her skin through the heavy fabric of her gown. His touch left her stone-cold, frozen in disgust and dread. She rose swiftly, shrugging the clutching fingers from her shoulders as she did and stood again at the foot of the throne. “As your Majesty speaks, so does your dutiful niece obey. Do I have the King’s permission to leave?” The rheumy blue eyes slid over her, hardly focusing. The aged head gave the slightest nod and she curtsied deeply before turning around and retracing her steps to the outer doors.

She stepped to the edge of the courtyard, overlooking the stairs and the streets of Edoras below. Above her the sky had darkened to coal black, sprinkled with the faint light of the early stars. The bit was in her mouth, a bitter and rancid taste, the reins tight on her neck, holding her close to the building, prohibiting her from walking further away. She stood for a long, long time, staring out at the empty hills to the north, letting the cold winds dry the tear tracks on her cheeks. He would not attempt the saddle; no, not yet. His goal would be to break her spirit ere he attempted to lay the leather on her back.

And for the first time, she trembled; and struggled with the sudden surge of fear that she would not be strong enough to throw him off.
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