Fever

There were so few.  Most lay dead on the rocks outside.  Éowyn walked through the hall of Helm’s Deep, trying to keep despair at bay.  They were supposed to have won – but how could it be called victory when children, who ought to have been only playing at soldiers, had lost their lives?

She had spent the night in the caves, leading the women through the long, dark vigil while the battle raged outside.  She had comforted, cajoled and ordered them in to some kind of equanimity.  Somehow she had bottled up the terrible fear that had possessed her – storing it inside herself.  All she had wanted to do was scream and beat against the locked door with her fists, yet in some way she found the spirit to lead the women in hope, though she knew that their children were being slaughtered outside the door.  She wondered what kind of alchemy it was that allowed her to give hope to others when she had none herself.  Throughout the night she had plucked at her sleeves – her only respite from the burden of courage placed upon her. 

She came to an unattended bed, and sat.  She was no healer, but she would do something for those that had been injured, even if it was only speaking a few comforting, meaningless words.  She looked down at the child – he couldn’t possibly be more than twelve.  It was Haleth, Hama’s son.  His face had a terrible translucence to it.  She grasped his hand – he had no mother, for she, like his father, was dead.

This was not the first bed she had sat beside this morning.  She had spoken to the dying – telling them they would be remembered, they were loved, they were brave.  She had not shed a tear, and she wondered at it.  They were gone and she would mourn them, but she could not find it in herself to weep.

Leaning against this child’s bed, she allowed herself one deep breath, no more.  If she gave she would collapse, and though her body ached for sleep and her mind for oblivion she could not give in to those desires, not yet – how could she seek sleep and peace when children still suffered in the Keep?  She stroked Haleth’s face, and tried to speak to him.  He was so beautiful this child, his eyes calm even in death.  For he was dying, she could tell, she could hear it in each laboured breath, see it in the way his eyes seemed to look through her rather than at her.  Words seemed beyond her.

She did not know how long she sat with him.  She kept a hand on his cheek – she told him what a brave man he was.  She told him he would have a place by the fire in the halls of their fathers, though she hardly knew if that was true.  She told him the people of Rohan would remember him forever.  She breathed with him, and then... beats of silence…

A hand touched her shoulder, “He is dead my lady.”   She looked at his child’s face – so smooth.  He had not even begun to grow a beard yet.  She could tell that he did not yet have the voice of a man.  It was Aragorn’s voice that sought her but she could not answer him, she could not look away, “My lady?”  Haleth had died for her, how could she just leave him there, alone, cold?

Suddenly a voice she had thought never to hear again, called out, “Éowyn!”   She jumped from her stupor, and turned, and looking beyond Aragorn she saw her brother, Éomer.  She sprang from her seat and ran to him.  He embraced her, and suddenly she felt glad and safe.  Nothing could be bad when her older brother was there.  She looked up into his face, which was graced with a rare wide smile.  Éomer’s smile seemed to shower her with his love, and she wondered anew how she had survived without him.

Somehow she found her voice, “I did not think you would return”.  He gave her a piercing look and said, “You ought not let Gríma’s lies poison your thoughts sister.” Looking at her white face he said, “What were you doing during the battle – beating the door down to get out?”

She looked into his eyes, warm and expressive, and wondered how he could not read her weakness in her face.  It seemed to her that it was writ large there for all to see, it must be.  A wave of tiredness hit her as she tried to speak, and she started to sink under it, drowning in her own exhaustion.  She felt Éomer catch her, and carry her to a chair, and started to remonstrate him. “Éomer, do not do this, there is still work to be done – go give help to those who need it.”  She felt shamed – she was uninjured and her brother was spending time on her while men died around them.

“You have done it again sister.  Is it so much to ask that you not work yourself to a standstill?  For once, my dear sister, you will do as I order you.”  In a tone she recognised as one he used when one of his Rider’s was uncooperative, “You will rest, and then you will eat, and then you will rest further.  You shall not sicken from neglect.” 

She acquiesced, but now that she was without a task she could not hold her feelings down.  The faces of all the men, and children she had watched die sped before her, and she started to cry for them, for all the loss, for herself and her breaking heart.  At first she made no sound, but soon her weeping grew in intensity, until she started to sob, taking in great gasps of air.

Éomer was speaking quietly with Aragorn and the elf, but it was the dwarf who heard her cries, and came beside her, asking “My lady?”  Gimli, who was gruff and yet kind – reminding her of an old friend of Théodred’s, who had helped her learn the blade.  At Gimli’s question, Éomer turned.

Éowyn felt her brother’s arms lock around her, and wept harder.  Some part of her realised that she was very close to hysteria, but that did nothing to aid her faltering self-restraint.  She babbled into his shoulder, “It’s been so hard, with you gone… and Théodred… and the waiting… all alone in the dark.”  Éomer stroked her shoulders, and made soothing noises, but somehow she knew that he didn’t understand.

Her brother, with his expressive eyes and his deep voice and his lack of subtlety - she loved him more than anything on this earth.  He would fight forever to protect her, but he did not understand.  He couldn’t understand – he had never been one to sit, inactive.  He could not see how much she hated herself, for always letting others fight for her.  How it seemed to rend her spirit from her body to watch as all of Rohan fought – for her – and she stayed, bound by his very love for her, when she could be fighting for them.  And yet as she loved him, she must bear it with at least the appearance of gratitude.

She felt a hand on her chin, forcing her head up.  Aragorn was close to her – his hand remained under her chin, warming her skin.  He spoke, “Look into my eyes, Éowyn”.  It was like her brother’s tone– she knew to obey that voice.  Slowly she grew calmer as she looked into his deep blue eyes.  She had a focus; something to distract her from… everything.  Her sobs ceased, and her breathing returned to normal.  His eyes looked, almost familiar, somehow, but… whatever it was, it would not come to her.

She was calm now.  She stood, blushing, but was saved the rigours of an explanation as a messenger came to call her to her Uncle.  She curtsied, but as she walked away Aragorn caught her arm.  He stood the required distance away from her, but his hand warmed her cold skin through her dress.  She wondered if this man knew what heat he possessed, what fire he gave to her.  She dared not guess what it was she felt for him, for fear that she would discover a depth of feeling she could not even imagine.  She could not even think what to call it.

He looked her in the eyes, and spoke softly, “Do not be ashamed.  You have nothing to be ashamed of.”   She could give no answer, but merely looked at him in gratitude.  How did he know her so well?  How could he see her so clearly?  This stranger, with the deep eyes and voice, the strong hands and broad shoulders, how could he guess her feelings so accurately, when her uncle and brother barely suspected the storms she carried within?

When she had thought him dead, she had felt as if another piece of her heart would break.  Another good man dead – dead before she even knew what she felt for him.  Not that it mattered, she had reminded herself sternly.  His heart was already spoken for – she could tell.  Though the woman might be gone to the Undying Lands, his heart still lay with her.

But Éowyn could feel herself slipping, into what she did not know.  Aragorn was a man already bound, and her heart could not contain another wound.  The well she carried within her would overflow, after years of being kept down, and she would be unable to resist.  And he was binding her to him, not intentionally, but with every kind word, every piercingly glance she felt herself sinking.  She did not know how much further she could sink without harm.