Strangulation

Éowyn entered the Hall with the appearance of composure – though her skirts were still kilted up in one hand to allow her to run.  No one paid her any heed.  Théodred stood before the throne, his hand resting on his sword-hilt, and his appearance dishevelled, as though he had only just dismounted from his horse.  His second in command, Elfhelm stood beside him; Éowyn did not altogether like the young Marshal.  He was too charming for her liking – he gave words a smooth twist that disturbed her – but she knew Théodred had a high opinion of him, and so she had not yet condemned him. 

She edged up the Hall, finding her place behind her Uncle’s throne.  She felt, rather then saw, Grima behind her, but she ignored the itch to shrug his gaze off, and concentrated on the conversation between father and son.  Théodred stared his father down, and Théoden finally said, “You have seen this?”

“Aye Father, not fifteen miles from here.  Éohyrde’s camp has been destroyed but his body is not there.”

Éowyn could not restrain a gasp, “So close to Edoras?”  She blushed and hung her head a little, but what she said was ignored, aside from Elfhelm, who nodded at her to acknowledge her presence.  Théodred continued, “Father there is more.  Éohyrde’s herd – all the black horses, they are gone also.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.  The trail is still warm father – we may be able to catch them if we move quickly.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Yes, Father.  My men need only an hour to prepare themselves, and then we shall chase them till they are found.”

“Go to it then.”

Théodred nodded and bowed to his father and turned to walk from the hall.  Éowyn excused herself and scurried to catch up with him, having to take two strides for every one of his.  He did not notice her, and she had to call his name – by the time he turned they had reached the parapet.  He sighed and signalled that Elfhelm should wait for him, and turned to face her. “What is it Éowyn?”

“I…Théodred take me with you.”

He looked at her once, keenly, and said, “No.  Your place is here.”  Each time she had heard these words before, and those times had been many, she had accepted them coolly, yet now she could not.  “My place is here!  Tell me Théodred am I Shieldmaiden or not?”

“Éowyn…”

“Tell me, for faith I begin to wonder.  My sword hangs on my bedroom wall, it has never tasted blood…”

“Éowyn this is serious!”

“I am serious Théodred.  Tell me, why  did you all train me to be Shieldmaiden if I am never to be tested?  It has been five years since I was named, and I have done nothing.  Is it the duty of all Shieldmaidens to honour the men when they return and wait while they are gone?”

“Aye Éowyn you are the Shieldmaiden, but that does not mean you are ready for war.”

“You yourself said that I am a finer swordsman than most who now ride.  I had driven the sword from your very hand and you tell me I am not ready.”

“NO!  Éowyn you will not go to war, you will not ride with me – you will stay here, is that understood?”

“I understand my Prince.”

He looked at her and she could see that he was sorry, but she was too angered with him to easily forgive.  He started to apologise, but she interrupted, saying, “Say it.”

“What?”

“I am your last resort am I not?  When all the men are dead the Shieldmaiden may fight, but until then I am to be an ornament to your Hall.  Is it not true?”

“Éowyn.”

“I understand Théodred.  I am obviously so useless to all of you, that I may only take my part when there are no others left.  I understand.”

“I have to go.  Forgive me Éowyn.”  She nodded at him, and watched as he walked down the steps.  She drifted over to the corner of the parapet where the flag of Rohan flew.  She felt limp.  She shivered and hugged herself as the wind blew.  She wished she could become one with the harsh winds and rugged plains of Rohan – that she could drift off and be part of her land.  And when she returned, if she ever returned, Meduseld would be as great as once it had been, and Théoden would be healthy.  She fixed her eyes on the sliver of moon that appeared in the sky and wished she could rid herself of this dumb, relentless longing that things be different; that her life would be, as it ought to be.  It did her no good to hold such longings in her heart, to pine over them, and yet she could not give them up, despite her conviction that somehow it would be better if she did not hope for something more.  She wiped a single tear from her cheek, and straightened her spine once again.  Somehow she bit back the urge to scream her frustration aloud – she could not stand it.  She was confined more and more to Meduseld; rarely was she granted time to ride, and always she had to bring a guard with her now.  She was never alone, save when she slept.  Someone always kept company with her – Grima most often of all.  His breath touched her skin, and she felt as though its foulness had sank into her.  Each time his gaze rested on her she could barely restrain the urge to scrub every inch of skin it touched until it was raw, purged of him.

A voice interrupted her reverie; “My lady.”  She turned, “Oh, Marshal Elfhelm, excuse me.”

“There is nothing to excuse my lady.  Will you walk with me?”

“Should you not be with Théodred?”

“My éored arrived fresh this morning – I give them this hour to rest up before the ride.”

Éowyn looked at him as he walked beside her.  He was a tall man, and broad, though not so broad as Éomer.  She guessed him to be about ten years older than her, though it was hard to tell.  He had an air of controlled energy about him, and yet his eyes were uncommonly shrewd.  She felt herself reacting to him strongly but could not name her reaction, not precisely.  He smiled at her, and she realised suddenly that she was being charmed – and she didn’t entirely dislike it.  Still she was the Lady of Rohan and so she smiled at him in return. 

They walked the parapet and as they came to the end he turned and said, “My lady, if you will forgive me, you should not be angry with your cousin.”

“What?”

“I could not help but overhear your conversation, and my lady you ought to understand – it is in our nature to wish to protect a beautiful woman.”

She gaped at him, and he took her hand, and kissed it – his finger caressing her palm in a fashion so forward that she nearly gasped.  He grinned at her, and she forgot to be offended as he walked away.  Somehow she gathered herself and re-entered the Hall, and Grima glided towards her.  Dread clenched in her stomach – could he not let her have even this moment, must he steal it from her?  For an instant she had forgot all that lay upon her shoulders and now he would gift it to her once again.

“I saw you were enjoying some moments conversation with the Marshal Elfhelm.”

“I was; he is a very charming man.”

“So I have heard it said lady Éowyn.  Indeed I believe many ladies in Rohan have held such a belief.”

She did not want to ask his meaning, but knew that as the night followed day, she must.  “Of what are you speaking?”

“I have heard it rumoured that the Marshal Elfhelm is, forgive my vulgarity lady Éowyn, fond of wenching and swiving.”

She shivered, but only said, “No such rumour has reached my ears Hala Grima.”

”Has it not lady Éowyn?  Perhaps that is because your brother, and even, the Prince, have been named as his companions in such scandalous activities.”

“But rumour is lying jade Hala Grima.”

“Of course Lady Éowyn, forgive me for distracting you with such useless information.  I simply wished to preserve you from any attachment to such a man; however, as always, I bow to your judgement.  I am sure you many duties to attend to, for our lord Théoden will be downcast with both his son and sister-son away at war.  It shall be your task to soothe his restless hours.”

Éowyn curtsied and said nothing, her nails gouging into the soft skin of her palms, but he was not finished.  “It is fortunate that King Théoden has as dedicated a nurse as you Lady Éowyn.  Many court ladies would wile the hours away with indolent pleasure; it pleases my heart to see you so intent on fulfilling your every duty.”

She wanted to hit him; she wanted to wipe his gloating smile from his ugly face, but she could not.  Shaking inside her skirts with suppressed rage Éowyn turned her back on him, and made her way to her room.  Once inside she tried to relax but she could not – she could not stand this room, this hall.  The walls pressed in about her, suffocating her, and even those who loved her most were determined to press her further inside, to keep from her lungs even the few breaths of fresh air she was still able to breathe.  She strained her arms against the post of her bed as hard as she could, only stopping when the bed had lifted onto two legs.  Stifling the urge to roar and rend her dress, she reached for the sword that hung upon her wall.  But even that gave her little relief – she could no longer practise outside, with the wind fingering her hair and the sky above her, for fear that she might be captured where she stood, five feet from the gates of Edoras. 

After half an hour she left the room, and returned to her post as nurse to her Uncle.

Glossary

Éohyrde = horse shepherd.