Some Foreign Field

Éowyn had expected to feel fear when she looked upon her first battle; she had expected to have to fight against her every instinct to flee.  In Meduseld she had heard old warriors describe their first battles and on one point they had all agreed – the first blood was an experience like no other.  It marked men for the rest of their lives, and how they withstood that first trial was the surest test of their character.

But she was not afraid.  She looked upon that great mass and felt only coldness.  Her mind had sharpened to an icy point – her only desire was to slay as many as she might before she fell.  “Let me do my part with honour,” she thought, “Let the Shieldmaiden’s blade at last taste the blood of her enemies, and then let me go to the Halls of my fathers.  Let me be free.”

It seemed to her that she had spent all her life searching for liberty – and yet it was never to be found where she sought.  Always it was just beyond the horizon, mocking her, for she could feel its nearness – it sang beneath her skin.  And when she had finally given up her hope of freedom it had come to her – it had slept in her hall and broken bread with her, and she had thought it within her grasp.

Now it was gone.  He had left her on a grey morning, with nothing but his pity and an entreaty to stay.  Like all the others, he bid her to content herself with the bars of her cage – to stay safe within her bower even when her kin, the very dearest of her heart, were slaughtered on the fields of battle.  Yet he would never take such a course, he would feel it to be a stain upon his honour – as would all the men she respected.  Yet they never allowed that she might have a care for her honour – that she would feel the weight of those who died in her place.

She lifted her sword and rode with the King’s éored.  Fierce pride ran through her veins, and she lifted her voice and sang with the Riders.  No longer was she a creature skulking in darkness behind the King’s throne, as good to Rohan as a painted statue.  Now she had found her place; she lifted her sword and played the part she had waited so long to fulfil.  How could she not feel pride in that?  All had doubted the strength of her arm, the speed of her thrust, but now they should have their answer.

She looked for her Uncle.  She would die in his defence – she would at last succeed in defending him from those who would prey upon him.  And so she rode beside him, and she sang with him, and she slew all that came close to him.  Her blade was black with the blood of her foes and for an instant her heart was light with joy to see it.

Théoden felled the Black Serpent and for a moment Éowyn revelled in his triumph.  But then darkness came and fell about them like it was their doom.  The Dark Rider came and Éowyn remembered Boromir of Gondor’s words, and felt a madness of fear pass through her; but she had known fear for many years, and had held her place beside Théoden King through it all.  In this final, dark place, she would not leave him.  She could not leave her Uncle to such a fate – to die in such darkness – she could never abandon one she loved to their doom.

Windfola raged across the fields of the Pellenor, breaking an obedience of ten years to her mistress, but Éowyn paid the mare no mind.  Slowly she sought to stand between her Uncle and the Rider.  Yet when she came closer she looked upon the beast and saw that it was no beast, but the wyrd that had haunted a thousand nightmares.  A wyrd.

Still she stiffened her spine and whispered a petition, “Father, Mother lend my swordarm your strength; bend my steps to your halls if it be your will.”  And she felt a new resolve her heart – if this was to be her end then she would meet it as befitted a daughter of kings.  She heard her voice speak words her mind had not formed “Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!  Leave the dead in peace!”  She could only remember one other occasion when her voice had spoken before her mind, and wanted to laugh, glad that she would not die forsworn; she would fulfil the oath of her nemnan-dogor.

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!  Or he will not slay thee in thy turn.  He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Éowyn knew that she ought to have trembled, she ought to have begged for his mercy – but she would not so humble herself as to beg a second time, and her knees were locked rigid, and, perhaps in a fey mood,  drawing her sword she said,, “Do what you will; but I will hinder it if I may.”

“Hinder me?  Thou fool.  No living man may hinder me!”

And then she laughed, for how could she restrain her mirth, bitter though it may be?  “But no living man am I!  You look upon a woman.  Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.  You stand between me and my lord and kin.  Begone, if you be not deathless!  For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

The great black creature he rode upon shrieked at her, but she did not faint in fear, and when at last it attacked her, she dealt it such a blow that its very head rolled from its shoulders.  But the wyrd was not slain, and stood, and for the first time Éowyn felt fear.  She would not falter however, and so she stood and did battle with the Nazgûl King.  When at last he dealt his blow, and she fell to her knees before him, she fancied that she heard singing, and smiled to think that soon she would have rest. 

Her race was not yet run however, and when he fell before her, crying out in pain, and the young hobbit called her name, she called up her last strength.  Struggling to lift herself aloft, she clove the neck of her foe.  As she fell to the ground, she heard a shrill cry such as a wyrd would make upon receiving a deathblow, and she smiled to think that at least she had accomplished that much.

Éomer stared at his sister’s face.  Two days it had been since the battle of the Pellenor, and still her face was pale and still.  Éowyn did not get sick – he could not understand why she did not fare better.  It cut his heart to see her, so small upon the bed, so forlorn.  He wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, but he did not know how to fight the melancholy that rested on her.

She was still sleepy but she shifted in her bed, and sat up.  He grinned at her, for he had not seen her awake since Aragorn had healed her.  She took a deep breath and said, “What is that scent?”

He was confused and said, “What do you mean?”

“That scent.  It’s familiar.  I’ve smelt it before.”

“Aragorn used a herb, athelas, to heal you.  Is that what you mean?”

Éowyn’s face tightened at this mention of Aragorn, and Éomer instantly regretted it, but she only said, “No, I don’t think so, maybe…that’s not what I mean though.  It’s…” she screwed up her face in concentration, “It’s kingsfoil.  That’s it.  Mama used to grow it – her mother brought it from Lossarnach.  Do you remember?”

“Is that what brought you back?”

“I hardly know.  I remember darkness, and voices swearing that all was lost, that Rohan had fallen, and you with them, and then that smell, and light, and your voice.  But that’s all.  It comes back to me in dreams sometimes.  I won’t lose you, will I, Éomer?”

“Éowyn, the war is not yet done.  We ride for the gates of Mordor tomorrow.”

“What?  Why would you ride against the Dark Lord Éomer?  You have no hope of victory.”

“There is still hope sister – a small hope, a fool’s hope – but we may not ride to ruin.”

She looked at him, her eyes blazing in a wasted face, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding herself up, and demanded, “Take me with you.”

“No Éowyn.  You cannot go to battle.”

“Why not?  Surely I have accounted for myself as well as any other, brother?”

“You are not strong enough Éowyn, not to ride into battle.  Aragorn says…”

“I know what he says brother, but I tell you, I will not stay here.  Do not ask it of me – I cannot bear it.”

“Éowyn you must stay abed – you are not yet healed.  If you ride out to battle you will surely die.”

“Well then so be it Éomer!  I won’t be like Mama, I won’t!  I would rather die ahorse, on the field of battle, than decline in this prison.  Please – I don’t want to die of grieving Éomer.”

“Hush Éowyn.”

He stroked her hair, and gradually soothed her into sleep, concealing his own distress.  Finally when she seemed to be sleeping calmly, her face smooth and peaceful, he stepped outside the room, wiping at his eyes.  He was pulled up short by the sight of Aragorn, but the older man said nothing, and after a moment Éomer sat beside him.  “I suppose you heard that.”

“Yes.”

“She has not awoken to forgetfulness.”

Aragorn’s silence somehow induced Éomer to speak further, and he said, “I would not have you think that I blame you at all.  Even she does not.  Do you know the story of our mother?”

“But little of it.”

“When our father died she just faded away.  She loved him very much, and she could not live without him.  She drifted off – and in the last days Éowyn had to sit with her.  A woman must be seen off by her female kin, and Éowyn is the last woman of Eorl’s house left.   When our father died, Éowyn saw his body - it had been mutilated by orcs, and she would not speak for nearly a year afterwards.  She sat beside my mother for four days and she never said a word – she could not.”

Éomer sighed and swiped at a tear that had trickled down his cheek, saying, “And when Théoden brought us to Edoras, every night she would sneak into my room to make sure I had blown out my candle as Éomund taught us.  And then she would climb into my bed and sleep there – but before she slept I would hear her weeping quietly between the blankets.  And she would never say a word.”

He looked at Aragorn, ashamed to share such memories, but Elendil’s heir merely laid a hand upon Éomer’s shoulder, and somehow Éomer found the strength to speak further.  “And even later, when she started to speak again, there was always a shadow in her eyes.  It has never left her.  All I ever wanted, all I ever fought for, was her happiness.  I wanted to see her without the shadow, but it was never enough.  Éowyn wanted to make the world better – she wanted it to be right – and I do not think any of us could ever do that for her.  Except for you – and you would not.”

Aragorn looked at him sharply, but Éomer was not angry, save with himself.  She should not have come to such a pass – she should never have been allowed to fester in such bitterness and sorrow.  It had been before his eyes all this time, and he had been blind to it, thinking that so long as her body was whole, her heart would be happy.  He shook his head, “I am a fool.”

“Éomer my friend none of this is of your making.”

“Perhaps not – but she came to me Aragorn.  Less than a year ago she came to Aldburg begging me not to send her back to Edoras, and when she would not say what it was that ailed her, I let it go, and bid her take up her place in the Golden Hall.  She wept, and I sent her back there.”

He heard a low cry come from Éowyn’s room, and stood to go and comfort her when Aragorn said, “Let me.  I shall not wake her, I promise.”  It was weak of him, but Éomer let him have his way.  He sank back down into his chair, exhaustion sweeping through his body.  He could hear Éowyn’s pleading voice calling out from some nightmare, and Aragorn’s deeper one, soothing her back to sweet sleep. 

Soon Aragorn returned, his face heavy with grief, but he said only, “She bears many weights your sister.”  Éomer sighed, and would have spoken further, when the Warden of the houses approached them, bowing to Aragorn, saying, “My lord, my lord Steward wishes to meet with you briefly, if it is not too much of an inconvenience.”

Aragorn stretched his stiff limbs and said, “Of course.  Tell him I shall come in a moment.”  The Warden left and Aragorn fixed Éomer with a beady eye, “I know lord Éomer that you wish to do nothing more than keep vigil at your sister’s door, but I must insist that you get some sleep this night.  You ride for battle in the morning.”

Éomer laughed aloud, wondering at himself, saying, “Never did I think to hear my sister speaking with your mouth Lord Aragorn – but it does give me hope.” 

Aragorn smiled and said, “There is always hope Éomer, my brother.  I must visit another now who needs my counsel, but do I have your word that you will rest?”

“Aye.”

After Aragorn left, Éomer briefly entered his sister’s room.  Éowyn slept peacefully, one hand cushioning her head, and Éomer bent and kissed her brow.  He smiled down at her and whispered, “Did you hear that sister?  There is always hope,” before he left to seek sleep himself.

Author’s Note

The title is a shameless reference to the Rupert Brooke sonnet “The Soldier”, written during the First World War.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.