The land was a vast expanse of dry wheat and wilting plants, charcoal trees and sandy ditches. What once were leagues of rolling, green hills and thriving flora was naught but a stark, barren plain. The sun beat down harshly and relentlessly, razing the life from plants, animals and humans alike. Workers lumbered through the field, cutting and collecting whatever wheat was still useable. They moved slowly, almost as if they were struggling against an unseen force that pushed against them.

Éowyn grieved for what had once been a beautiful kingdom. Ever since the defeat of Sauron the lands had fallen prey to one foe they could not battle; nature. The clear skies and bright mornings had been celebrated and hungrily devoured until the people had become drunk on the warmth and began to wearily wish it gone. The sun refused to give way to rain and everything suffered because of it.

She turned from the glaring horizon and walked slowly back into the cool interior of the welcoming hall of Meduseld- her home. She still marvelled at the beauty of the citadel. Some saw it as a cold, aged place where wisps of the past continued to clutch at the walls, but she saw it as timeless. Within these walls were her memories, her childhood. As she passed into the passage that led to her chambers she could almost hear the playful shrieks and bursts of laughter of her and Éomer as children.

Éowyn had grown up inside these walls. She had turned from an awkward, insolent girl into a shieldmaiden, a woman worthy of battle and title. As she pushed open the heavy door to her chambers she wished once again that her parents had been there. She had been too young to understand when her father died, and young enough to be confused and frightened when her mother followed him. She had spent many nights dreaming of the days her mother could have braided her hair for her, or the nights when her father could have returned home weary from riding yet willing to teach her with the blade. Would she be a different person now if her parents hadn't died?

She sat on the edge of her bed, scolding herself for her wishful thoughts. What good did they do? Her spare time shouldn't be spent dreaming of the past or pondering what the future could have held if things were different. Life was no longer darkened by the threatening shadow of Mordor and she wasn't burdened by the harrowing sight of her poisoned uncle as he sat on his throne and ignored his kingdom. The lands were free and thriving, although she still felt dissatisfied and wanting.

Lowering herself onto her bed, Éowyn closed her eyes and smiled as her husband's face appeared. His eyes, so naked in his hope, yet marred by the remnants of despair from his father's dismissal, had comforted her night after night following their marriage. Her hand fell off her stomach and rested on the empty side of their bed, her fingers remembering the smooth hardness of his body.

Éowyn woke with a start some time later, surprised that she had fallen asleep so early in the afternoon. But when she approached her window she saw that the sky had darkened and night was falling. She must have slept for hours. Becoming aware of the insistent thundering beneath her feet she turned and fled from her room, racing towards the entrance hall in a manner her uncle had despaired over while she was still a young woman.

The Riders of Rohan returned home, and Éowyn had not seen her brother for far too long. She slowed to a fast walk as she neared the end of the passage, smoothing out her skirts and pulling on her blonde tresses. She hadn't taken four steps within the hall when the huge doors groaned and parted, revealing Éomer, her brother and King of Rohan.

"Éomer!"

She rushed towards him, flinging herself into his arms. He laughed, a deep, belly laugh, and crushed her to his armour.

"Éowyn," he said. "It is a delight to see you after so long. How have you fared in my absence?"

"I am well, my brother."

"I'm glad," he replied, his eyes twinkling. "Yet I was speaking of my kingdom."

Éowyn shot him a mock glare and swatted his arm. "You care more for your lands than you do of your sister. If you aren't careful I shall have to rid myself of you and take these lands for my own."

Éomer feigned surprise. "But my Lady, I thought you already had."

She laughed, and the noise reverberated off the high ceiling and provided a welcoming song for the weary riders. A feast was prepared for their return, and Éowyn paused when she saw it, shamed that she hadn't thought to help or ensure that it was ready. Since returning to Edoras she had withdrawn to the isolation of her chamber, preferring the serenity and silence of solitude to the constant bustle of the castle. Riding was the only thing that could comfort her, yet Éomer had forbidden her to ride with the company until he deemed her healthy of mind again.

Éowyn knew that she had not been the picture of sanity after it happened. She had become a pale recluse of a woman, refusing food and water and companionship until her brother had arrived in Ithilien to drag her back home and return her to the woman she had once been. Her reputation for being a hard, strong woman had been tainted, for she had heard the whispers that had circulated. They named her the Grey Maiden, but whether it was because of her eyes, her choice of clothing or because her once glowing face and stunningly light hair had faded to colourless she didn't know. It fit, she had decided. Once titled the White Lady of Rohan, she had withered and with it went her name.

"We were more successful this time, sister mine," Éomer continued, unaware of her darkening thoughts. "The orcs are spreading thin over our lands and soon we will cleanse this place of their evil."

"That is good news, Éomer." She sat beside him, watching the food with weary disgust. "How many?"

"Almost a hundred. They are becoming desperate and seeking food further away from the mountains and forests."

Éowyn didn't need to try hard to recall what facing down orcs was like. The sheer terror she felt in the first moment they turned their eye on her; the boneless fear as they sneered and shrieked at her; the empty hatred the filled her as her sword sliced through them. It was etched into her memory and would remain there, as it would for every man or woman who had fought such evil. It was the worst thing she had ever done- yet she craved to do it again. She wanted the fear, the rush of power, and she needed the feeling of freedom fighting gave her.

"And we find new Riders every day now," Éomer said, devouring his food with raw hunger. "Sixteen young men willing to ride with the Riddermark have returned with us."

Éowyn cast her gaze across the men, picking them out easily. They ate in silence, nervously avoiding anyone's gaze, holding themselves straight in a false pretence of formality. She pitied their anxiety, yet envied their future. They would feel the bone-deep weariness of riding far and hard, the grating chafe of the saddle and armour, the short sting of the wind on their cheeks. She glanced toward the heavy doors, becoming desperate for air as the walls and ceiling pressed down on her.

"Most of them seem able and praiseworthy. There may be a few who cannot keep up…"

She listened to her brother speak, but half of her was beyond reach. All she could see was men shoving food into their mouths, bodies bumping and brushing against each other, armour and weapons scattered around the walls and beside chairs… She needed to get out. It was too much, too soon. She should have stayed within the safety of her chambers, stayed where she was alone and there were no reminders of what she had once done and would never do again…

A rider wandered past her, and Éowyn's prior discomfort faded away. Breathing became difficult, and she no longer cared where she was and how thick the walls were. The dark-haired man kept striding past and she followed him with her eyes, her mouth parting slightly to call out to him. A rough hand lightly rested on her arm and she crashed back to herself with a start. Glancing downward she saw Éomer's hand holding her, and she didn't know whether to thank him for keeping her here or scream at him for stopping her believe. It could have been him, returned to her after so many months…

"It is not him, Éowyn," he murmured.

She knew. Oh, she had known since that morning the battalion had returned and he had not. She had known since Aragorn himself had crept into their room and woken her with wet and sorrowful eyes. She had known since Arwen had wept openly and declared the White City and Ithilien in a state of mourning. It did not matter how surreal it seemed. It had all been real, and she had treated it like a dream. She shook her head. She did not want to think of him.

"I know," she whispered. Éowyn stood and swept from the hall, again standing on the precipice beside the stone steps and looking upon all of Rohan.

The air had been unusually fresh and warm the morning she became a widow. The sheets tangled around her sticky legs and clung to her body, and when Aragorn had shaken her awake she had thought it was Faramir, returned after defending their borders from a rumour. But it hadn't been a "rumour", as they had thought. It had been a small army of orcs, foolishly attempting a raid.

Faramir has fallen.

His eyes had sought hers, yet his words didn't penetrate the morning haze of her mind. Fallen? She frowned with worry, imagining him lying in the healing house as healers rushed around his broken body. She couldn't bear to see his beautiful face scarred and bloody.

Éowyn? He is gone. I am sorry.

Gone? She couldn't understand his words, and it had been so frustrating. He kept talking and she struggled to understand why he was gone and where he had gone.

And then Arwen had appeared, draped in black and weeping openly, and she had finally grasped the true meaning of Aragorn's words.

Faramir, her husband and lover, was dead.

Éowyn's gaze swept across the plains, scorched but still possessing a stark beauty. How could she ever believe that Ithilien was lovelier than her homeland? It did not bear comparison. Yet as she asked this of herself, Éowyn heard a wild sob tear from her lips. It had been more beautiful, she knew, because she had someone to share it with. Someone she had called her own. Her beloved. His face leapt into her mind, and she unconsciously reached out to stroke his cheek. She froze when her hand fell through empty air, and suddenly the night sky become more stifling than the confines of the hall. Éowyn crumbled to her knees beneath the heavy darkness, and sometime later became vaguely aware of strong arms gathering her and lifting her off the ground.

She didn't look at Éomer as he placed her on her bed, and she didn't move when the door clicked shut behind him. He gave orders that she not be disturbed and his voice carried through the thick door separating Lady Éowyn of Rohan from the world. She laid silently and still, the rise and fall of her chest the only sign that she lived. The soothing rhythm of her breathing lulled her into a light doze, and soon sheer exhaustion drove her deeper into slumber.

Why do you cry, Grey Maiden?

Éowyn knew that voice. Opening her eyes, she found herself in small clearing, one which was familiar. She sank to her knees in the soft grass, smiling because she knew this place. This was a safe haven, while her mother despaired and her house was filled with tears and hushed silences. A bird hopped towards her, wounded by a thorn through its wing. She reached out to help it but the bird grasped the thorn in its beak and pulled. With a quick precautionary flutter, the bird released its wings and flew away. She watched it go, and waited for the feeling of envy to assail her. It didn't come.

A rustling came from the trees to her left, and oddly she wasn't frightened. A fawn stumbled into the opening, and promptly fell to the ground. She rushed over to help it but before she could it righted itself, and was soon walking, albeit a little awkwardly, on its own. She watched as it left her alone once more.

Then she was standing, and the most majestic horse she had ever laid eyes on galloped through the trees towards her. Its white coat was gleamed with sweat, its mane and tail whipping behind as a banner. It was not often Éowyn forgot a horse, and the Lord of all horses had not eased from her mind. Shadowfax slowed and danced around the end of the clearing, and she stood in awe of his beauty. She wanted to reach out, to stroke his gentle neck and press her palms against his soft back. He continued to pace, to paw at the ground, and she dared not move for fear of scaring him away.

Suddenly, Shadowfax whirled and fled back into the forest, and she cried out. "No! Don't leave!"

"Will you bring him back here, to confinement, or let him go to the freedom he deserves?"

Éowyn startled and stepped back, wondering how she had not heard him arrive.

"How are you here?" she asked breathlessly, forgetting herself.

"I am here because I choose to be," he replied with a smile. "Yet you are here because I summoned you."

"Why?" she whispered, clasping her hands in front of her. She glanced wilfully over her shoulder where the magnificent horse had disappeared.

"Shadowfax does not stay because he knows there is more for him."

"More?"

"He can have the world if he pleases. This clearing holds no importance for him."

Éowyn lowered her head. "It does for me."

"It holds the past, Éowyn, and that is all. Why do you not seek your future?"

"I have none."

"You hold in your palm what you have always sought, and you do not grasp it because of guilt."

Éowyn felt the tears prick her eyes. What had she always sought? The answer came unbidden. Freedom. A chance to fight. Power. It had always been her dream, her longing. Back in Ithilien, it was hers if she chose. She could have the freedom to do as she pleased, a chance to fight back the remaining darkness in this world, the power to lead her people into a better future. But it wasn't hers to take. It was his.

"Faramir is gone, and the mantle passes to you. Grasp it child, before use and old age accept you, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire."

"But Gandalf…"

He was gone.

Your fingers may remember your strength if they held your sword.

Éowyn opened her eyes, and bolted upright. She was back in her chamber, alone except for the biting coldness that pricked her skin. She stood and walked quickly to the window, gazing at the crimson pathway the rising sun created in the sky. Standing still until the sun had reached its summit, she watched Rohan come alive with the dawning of a new day. She crossed the room and fell to her knees beside her bed. Reaching beneath the mattress, she searched blindly until her fingers wrapped around something hard and cool. She pulled it out and held it up it the pale light. As Éowyn held her sword, she remembered her fierce desire to fight alongside her King. She recalled her desire to escape her cage.

It had filled every waking moment, and had permeated Éowyn's very soul. The desire to follow her men into battle, the want to save her people, the need to feel the relief of freedom. The desperation haunted her, shadowed her steps and seeped into her sleep and dreams. She hated the anguished emptiness that assaulted her as she watched the men she loved leave her alone, abhorred the way she felt dirty when that snake Wormtongue lurked behind her. She had wanted the loneliness to disappear, but it was forced upon her time and time again.

She held the blade out in front of her, and thought of the first time she felt hope for herself. The day a man, an elf, a dwarf, and a wizard entered their walls. In Aragorn she saw her chance for escape, yet it wasn't to be. He looked on her with no more than pity, and the man she deemed to be her saviour crushed all her hopes. She was a shield maiden, and as such her responsibility was with her people. Éowyn didn't want it, and the selfishness of her thoughts drove her deeper into despair. It seemed that life was determined to keep her locked away.

Éowyn had fought hard and risked everything to overcome the cage that loomed above her. And now, she willing allowed the bars to hold her back. She had stepped back into the cage she had so desperately evaded. All because she could no longer share it with him. All because she foolishly held onto the hope that he would once more drag her from the depths of despair and make her whole again. All because he was gone, and she would have to do this on her own.

Falling back into old habits, she swung her sword around her head and stabbed into the air. Moving around the room with an unforgotten grace, Éowyn danced with her sword, imagining herself back on the fields of Pelennor. Her muscles protested against the exertion but she was too engrossed, too riveted by the knowledge that she could still fight. This was still possible. This future was still possible. She ceased her movements, her chest heaving and her breath coming out in pants. The sword stayed firm in her grip, though, as she thoughtfully stared at its gleaming blade.

Faramir had made her want to give it up. He had made her see that glory did not promise happiness, and she had only wanted to find contentment. He gave that to her, and when she was with him the sword no longer held any meaning. But he was gone now, and she could no longer find that happiness within his love for her.

From now on, she would fight as she had always dreamed. She would fight beside her Prince. Even if he were but a memory.