The Fall

Éowyn counted out the rings and gave them to each of the maids.  It had been an idea of her Uncle’s to grant each servant of their house a copper ring as a mark of their loyalty, but she could not understand it.  She stood and said, “My Uncle asked me to give each of you one of these rings to show that he has marked that each of you have kept faith with him, and to pledge that he will keep faith with each of you.  He thanks you.”  They curtsied as one and she watched as they filtered away from her.  It had been a tedious task, taking months of organisation.  She had had to count each servant of the King, even those who had retired, or who served him in far parts of the Mark and then find a blacksmith who would forge the rings.  Grima had claimed it was intended to build loyalty among the folk of Meduseld, and elsewhere, but as far as she could tell it had the exact opposite effect.  The servants felt as though they had been marked for the orcs to find – and she could not blame them when so many who served Théoden had disappeared.  Éohyrde’s body had been found after a two-week search, and the tortures and mutilations visited upon him had made all affeared.

After Théodred had brought Éohyrde’s body back Éowyn had woken every night for a month from nightmares of her father’s own mutilated body.  She held the screams behind her teeth and had woken with tears streaming down her face, but she would not cry out, she willed her hands into fists against any sound.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.  That had been a year before and she ought not dwell on it now.  She was so tired; her eyes were dry with it.

Her throat felt as though it was lined with thistledown and she gulped a mouthful of water.  Meduseld was temporarily deserted and she thought she might risk a brief visit to the stables.  She had not ridden Windfola in three weeks and feared the mare was growing restless.

As she stepped through the doors a twig broke beneath her foot and the tall Rider within turned to look at her.  He bowed courteously and Éowyn could almost feel the blush staining her cheeks.  It was Elfhelm, and he smiled, saying, “This is a pleasure I did not expect Lady Éowyn; I was told you would be occupied all day.”

“Then it is well for us both that I am not Marshal Elfhelm.”

He looked at her as though considering something and then said, “Have you a free hour this day Lady Éowyn?”  Her hands twisting together in her skirt she said, “I suppose I might have an hour.  Might I enquire as to why?”

“There is something I wish to show you.  Unless the Lady Éowyn is unwilling to risk her virtue and reputation with so dastardly a rogue as myself.”  Éowyn looked at him, her pride piqued, and she said, “I fear no man’s slanderous words Marshal Elfhelm.”

He laughed, “Of course Lady Éowyn; I would do well to remember that.”

She wanted to smile at him, but her lips wouldn’t move.  He grinned and said, “Well, saddle up then.  Unless you want me to do it for you?”  She lifted the heavy saddle into her arms and felt something in her spirit lift as Windfola whinnied at her approach.

They followed the Snowbourn River for five leagues.  Éowyn quizzed Elfhelm as to where they were going but he wouldn’t tell her.  Normally such reticence would have driven her to distraction but today it did not anger her.  Elfhelm did not need her to speak or be silent or indeed do anything other than sit with him and talk if she had a wish to.  He did not mind even when she rode away from him, whooping with delight at the speed and strength of Windfola beneath her.  Elfhelm only grinned and raced with her.

When they reached their destination he called her – she approached and road beside him.  “What is this place?” she asked as he walked towards her, having dismounted while she looked around.  He reached a hand up to her and said, “My father showed it to me when I was young.  I used to play here as a lad.”  His face was distractingly close as he spoke and one hand still lay flat on her back from when he had helped her off her horse.

They stood beside a set of bends in the river.  Steep hills cut off any view of the plains.  The white water bubbled and gurgled as it rushed through the rapid bends.  Éowyn smiled at him and ran to look at the river.  She gazed at it for a moment and then bent to pull off her shoes and stockings.  He looked at her and smiled saying, “What are you doing?” 

She looked back at him over her shoulder and said, “I’m going to paddle.  Avert your eyes.”  His gaze resting on the white skin of her ankles he said, “Must I?”  She stared him down and he said, “Of course,” and turned around.

Gathering her skirts in one hand above her knee, she stepped into the river, exclaiming, “Oh!  It’s cold!” as the water swirled around her feet.  From the calves down she was solid ice but she had to bite back a scream of joy.  The wind fanned her hair out around her shoulders and the clouds above were dark and threatening; the grass seemed deeply green and she could see it stirred by the wind on the far off hills.  She laughed suddenly and started a wild dance in the river.  Stones bit at her feet and the water splashed her knees but she could only feel joy; she was free of them, of the eyes and whispers of those who always watched her.

Elfhelm yelled, “What are you doing back there?” and she ceased her movements unchastened.  She made her way out of the water and dried her legs with moss.  She sat down and arranged her dress so that it covered all of her except her toes as she said, “You can turn around now.” 

He came and sat beside her, saying, “Shall you ever tell me what it was you were doing?”  She shook her head, “Not while the wind blows still in Rohan.” 

He laughed, shaking his head, “You stab me to the heart my lady.”

She rolled her eyes at his foolishness and said, “It is beautiful here – I thank you for showing it to me.”  His smile was gentle as he took one of her hands and said, “It is a fit setting for you Lady Éowyn.” 

She hardly dared to meet his eyes and after a moment he leaned over and brushed his mouth against hers.  She held herself completely still as his lips moved; it was overwhelming, the slight scratch of his beard against her skin, the heat, the scent of him and his body so close to hers.  Eventually she had to pull away from him.  He looked at her keenly and said, “Forgive me Lady Éowyn.  I hope you are not wroth with me.”

She met his eyes and said, “I am not angry, it is just…I have never been.”  Her voice trailed off and his eyes lit up with shock and he said, “With such a fine set of lips as those?” as he caressed her lower lip with his thumb. 

She stared at him mesmerised and he kissed her brow.  She smiled at him, regretful, and said, “You must think me dreadfully foolish.”

“Not at all!  I am simply surprised that I am the first to have stolen a kiss from the fair Lady of Rohan.”

She looked at her hands and said, “You are not the first to try.”  He lifted her face by the chin and she saw in his eyes the sharpness that made him a leader of men.  “Grima Wormtongue.”  It wasn’t a question.  She nodded and saw his eyes darken with anger.  She touched his arm and said, “It is nothing to rage over – he did not succeed.”

“But something must be done Lady Éowyn.  He cannot remain at Edoras after such an insult – unless you desired his advances?”

“I did not; I do not.  But Elfhelm, I told my Uncle and he did not believe me.  Were you to say anything Grima would have you destroyed.  Already he traduces you in Meduseld.”

“Why?”

“For you pursuit of me and…I do not know his game but surely you have seen that no Marshal has a fair name with my Uncle – even Éomer must tread carefully now.”

“But Lady Éowyn?”

“No Marshal Elfhelm.”

He fell silent and Éowyn sighed.  She felt old and weary.  A soft bed and a life of long, quiet sleep were all she longed for now.  She bent her head, wishing with all her heart that death would come upon Grima, hopefully in an ungentle shape, and then she might have a moment, just one moment, which he would not taint.  He had corrupted every instant of her life it seemed, and she could not escape him for all her struggles.  She felt like a wild hawk that had been caged and then bid, “Sing,” when all she wanted was to ride upon the winds.

Elfhelm cocked his head suddenly and she followed his gaze but could perceive nothing.  He stood, his hand resting on his sword hilt.  He looked at her and said, “I think I heard something.  Take my knife and if I am not returned soon ride for Edoras as fast as you may.  I am sorry – I should not have brought you here.  I thought it was safe.”  He pressed his knife into her hand and kissed her swiftly on the cheek, then quickly moved over the hill.

Éowyn pulled on her stockings and shoes as fast as possible, cursing the cold that had made her all  thumbs.  She caught both horse’s bridles in her hand and waited, shifting from foot to foot.  The wind whistled around her, and she felt very small and very alone on the vast plains.  She was starting to feel nervous when Elfhelm reappeared over the crest of the hill.  He came to her quickly but quietly and spoke in a low voice, “There is a party of orcs moving east – I think they make for Dunharrow.  We must ride for Edoras, and swiftly.  Ride ahead of me.  I do not think they heard me, but it is as well to be careful.”  He helped her on to her horse with a lack of ceremony, saying, “I will be right behind you but keep the knife, I would not take risks.”  He slapped Windfola and Éowyn bent low over her mare, urging her to speed. 

They reached Edoras as swiftly as anyone could, and as they dismounted Éowyn said, “I shall take him to the stables if you wish; I know you would want to find Théodred as soon as possible.”  He looked at her and nodded, “Thank you.”  She handed him back her knife and he smiled at her.  He squeezed her shoulder with his hand before setting off for Meduseld.  She bent her steps to the stables – she knew she would not be allowed to ride with them; again.

They had all left.  Meduseld was dark and she was alone again.  She stood outside, staring at the Moon for many minutes.  She shivered as the wind picked at her dress and hugged herself; nothing was easy anymore, and she wondered if it had ever been.  Had she been merely blind when she had seen good in Meduseld and Rohan – wilfully failing to acknowledge the corruption that simmered beneath their calm exteriors?  She felt so jaded, so tired of everything she did; each and every thing she did seemed foul and meaningless to her now. 

Finally she made her way inside and sought Grima’s room.  He had requested that she join him, and though it was against her most urgent wishes, she would attempt to do so with at least the appearance of grace.  She knocked on his door, and entered.

His office was a tiny closet, lit by a flickering fire, and stubby candles.  He sat behind a desk, barely rising as she entered.  He was glaring at her, and he said, “I thought you understood what kind of man the Marshal Elfhelm is, Lady Éowyn.”

“It is not your business to choose my company Hala Grima.  Why did you wish to see me?”

“Since your escapade today, my lord Théoden has requested that I communicate his displeasure to you.  Furthermore, due to the danger in which you were placed this day, he has ordered that you are to be restricted to Edoras until these dark times pass.”

“What?”

“I know it may cost you some pangs Lady Éowyn but you must treat your life with greater care.  After all we cannot allow the Lady of Rohan to wander defenceless on the plains.”

“I am not defenceless.  I am a Shieldmaiden.”

“Indeed, Lady Éowyn.  However I must ask that you comply with your Uncle’s request – I do not wish to see you in danger – and the King suffers much worry on you account whenever you leave the city.”

“But not even to ride?  My Uncle could not be so cruel as to ask that of me.”

“It is not cruelty but love Lady Éowyn.  You are too valuable to all of us, to be risked in the open.”

“But I can defend myself!”

“Of course you can, Lady Éowyn.”

She wanted to leap across the table and rip at his face – and she could barely contain a shriek at the thought of being confined to the city permanently.  She would not be able to bear it; she would be caged away from the wind and the plains, and she would wither like a poorly transplanted flower.  Oh she would die; she could not stand it.  She would not.

The poor light bounced off something on Grima’s desk with a golden sheen, and she stepped forward, touching it lightly with a finger.  It was her Uncle’s chalice.  She picked it up and stared at him accusingly, “How come you to have this?”

“I found it, Lady Éowyn.”

“Found it where?  It has been going missing often for years now – where did you find it?”

“That is not your concern.”

“Know you ought of the cause of my Uncle’s decline Hala Grima?”

He came to stand in front of his desk and said, “Nay Lady Éowyn, for I know little of leech craft.  All I know is that some die upon the first thrust, some by a thousand little deaths and some feel nothing all their lives and die of the lack.”  He moved closer to her as he spoke until she could feel his breath come and go on her face.  She was sickened – she could see the grease in his hair, smell the ale he must have drunk.  Somehow a question slipped from her lips, “Which would you prefer?”

He lifted an eyebrow and said, “All I can tell you Lady Éowyn is that I would always choose a glut over a fast – and I am a man to get my desire.”  He sniffed at her hair, and her hand scrabbled desperately for the handle of the door.  His body was all but pressed to hers, and he whispered in her ear, “You’ve felt it haven’t you?  The wyrd stalking you – sometimes just behind you, sometimes on your shoulder?  It’s coming for you Lady Éowyn, it’s coming, and it will make you his whether you like it or no.”  She opened the door and stepped back from him.  She held herself stiff, as if neither his breath nor his words had touched her, and said, “Good evening, Hala Grima.”

She walked away slowly until she heard his door closing, and then she ran, dashing into her room and seeking the privy.  She vomited for she knew now exactly what it was he wanted.  A thousand little deaths.  She sobbed into her hand; what would he do to get it?  He wanted her, and now she was to be caged in this decaying city until he got his desire.  That was his policy; she saw it all to clearly.  And Théoden, Théoden had spoken with Grima’s desires, had granted him the means to achieve them. 

She must say nothing, tell no one, for if she did they would be endangered.  She wiped her mouth and returned to her room.  She knelt in front of her room, and clasped her hands, thinking, “Mother, Father lend me your strength now most of all,” but she felt no flicker to signify that they might have heard her plea.  She was all alone now, and she wished that she might die, for at least then it would be over.

She might die.  Éowyn shied away at this thought but it stayed in her mind however much she tried to ignore it.  She could die – it would be better than being Grima’s…mistress.  Anything would be better than such a foul fate.  Death might not be so foul as she had always thought.  She would be free – no cage would bind her. 

She sat up straight as she realised how dangerous such thoughts were.  How low had she fallen that such  was her choice of escape?  Oh Éomer could not help her now, nor Théodred, nor Elfhelm.  She had sunk so low that they could never find her – for none saw the depths in which she wallowed.

She dried her eyes.  Grima should not have her yet.  If a mistress was what he wanted then he would have to try harder before she would fall to him, of that she was sure.  No cage was unbreakable, and if she had to force the bars apart herself then she would do so.  She was the Lady of Rohan, and she would not succumb so easily.  He would find that he had made himself a most implacable opponent, she thought as she straightened her shoulders.  She reached for her book of maps and stared at the cover – she had shed his blood once, if necessary she would do so again.

Author’s Note

The key to the conversation between Éowyn and Grima is the idea of ‘the little death’, which is a synonym for orgasm.