Ch. 35 - Glory of battle; Nadir of despair… 

Éowyn awoke with a start and for two blissful seconds she did not remember where she was, then her eyes lighted the soft glint of her mail shirt lying in a crumbled heap by her pallet, discarded for sleep after that first uncomfortable night.  It provided the rude reality of war.  She sat up sighing, throwing her unkempt braid over her shoulder.  It had not been undone since they left Edoras.  She knew it was probably not wise as she brought forth her braid and undid the cloth strip that held her braid firm but it was night and the camp was quiet and she slowly unbraided her hair combing through the loosened portion meditatively.   Merry had left the tent under his Elven cloak.  He had explained the subtle qualities of the cloak given by the Lady Galadriel herself.  Éowyn sat amazed that one only known through myth and song by fireside would be made real by this gift.  He could walk through camp unnoticed.  Éowyn undid the last of the braid and took a brush to her hair.  It felt so good.  Her body was becoming used to the harsh demands of the forced ride but this was needed.  The smallest indulgence in a time of need and sacrifice. They were nearing Minas Tirith, that she knew, but beyond that she was unsure.  She had just begun rebraiding her hair when Merry returned.  

“I have news!” Merry whispered as he allowed the tent flap to fall closed behind him.  

“What is happening?” Éowyn whispered as she quickened her braiding.  “Where have you been?”

“I have been near the King’s tent.  There he and Éomer spoke with a strange squat little man seemingly dressed in leaves and twigs, in as much as I could tell.”

Éowyn paused thoughtfully, “I have had heard tell of the Wose but I never have thought to see one.  But these are days of wonder as well as woe for I never thought to have met a hobbit before either.” She smiled at Merry, “And I am very glad to have met one whom I now call friend.”  Merry paused and Éowyn saw by the small lamp glowing a possible flushing of color from her new friend. “But please continue.” she urged in a gentle whisper.

Merry started again, “This squat man, Buri Ghan Buri was his name I believe, spoke of a route that he could guide the Rohirrim through.”

Éowyn perked up that news.  That gave real hope that they would be able to gain Minas Tirith before it was too late.  “What else did he say?”

“That he would ride with us and if his information did not prove true then he gave permission for King Théoden to kill him!”

“Oh!” Éowyn whispered.

“My thoughts exactly!” Merry agreed. “Oh! And I bumped into Lord Elfhelm…or rather he bumped into me!” Merry added.

Surprised, Éowyn said, “And?”

“We spoke and he told me that King Théoden was warning the various captains to stay in readiness to decamp. The order to move could come suddenly.”  He did not add Elfhelm’s admonishment about protecting Éowyn.  He did not know how Éowyn would react but it was an admonishment that had already taken hold in his heart so he and Elfhelm were kindred in their thinking; she was indeed precious and kind-hearted, but he would never tell her so nor would he admit he would protect her with his life if need be.  

“Well it will all be over soon, my friend.  One way or another.” Éowyn stated with a finality in her voice that broke Merry’s heart.  

He looked upon her in the pale light cast by the small lantern.  One so beautiful even besmirched by the grime of hard travel to war.  He saw the grimness on her face and was moved to speak, “My lady, You are fair and brave and have much to live for…” he paused, “…And many who love you.”

At this Éowyn turned to him and saw earnest love in the young Hobbit’s eyes.  She was mute before such undeserved devotion.

He looked down after his admission. But began again, compelled to continue talking, to make this avowal of himself. , “I know it is too late to turn aside,” he said, letting slip the desolation he felt, “I know there is not much point now in hoping.”  His feelings pouring forth that could no longer be assuaged by lullabies and soft songs in the night,  “If I were a knight of Rohan, capable of great deeds…But I am not. I am a hobbit.  And I know I can’t save Middle Earth.”  Éowyn choked back a sob as Merry continued to make this avowal the night before battle as it seemed.  “I just want to help my friends…Frodo…Sam…Pippin” a small grin lit by lantern light flit across his dirt stained face, “More than anything I just wish I could see them again…”

Éowyn had no words.  There was nothing she could say.  She could only put her arm around the young hobbit and place her head upon his, rocking him gently.  They stayed that way until exhaustion took them both into much needed sleep only to wake to Éomer’s call.  “Prepare to move out!”  Éowyn took down the tent quickly as Merry waited under his cloak to mount Windfola once again.  Éowyn saw as they were mounting and moving once again that a wildman was at Elfhelm’s side guiding his Eored.  She could only assume that a wildman guided each Eored and that Buri Ghan Buri, as Merry had named him, was at Théoden’s side, death a promise should he fail.

Éowyn saw that they were traveling through a narrow portion of the forest which made her a little nervous but she trusted her uncle implicitly.  If he deemed the Woseman trustworthy, then his belief caused her to have no doubt.  They had to pick their way over tree roots that had grown over the forgotten road.  At times Éowyn had to dismount and guide Windfolda through the thickest portions, telling Merry to lay as flat as he could against Windfola’s back, covering himself with his elven cloak.  It was slow-going but at least they still had a bit of concealment before the last dash.

They rode through the night under the cover of forest and made the plain that lay between them and the Rammas Echor with a bare two hours before dawn or as far as they could tell in this unnatural and pervasive gloom.  They passed along the road that skirted Mt. Mindolluin. Yet for all the unnatural pall Éowyn could see afar to the south a red glow which she could only determine was Minas Tirith as it burned through the night.

The King’s own rode in the front of the column and Elfhelm’s Eored was first among the rest.  Éowyn began to maneuver nearer to the King’s host before the battle began in the front of the Eored of Elfhelm. So close was she that she could hear Théoden’s exhortation.

“Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own forever.  Oaths ye have taken: now fulfil them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!” Her uncle’s words lit Éowyn’s blood.  Gone was the doubt and sorrow.  She was meant for this moment.  She felt a charge run through her and those surrounding.   “Éomer, my son you have the leading of the first Eored!  Elfhelm!  You take the right when we pass the wall.”  Éowyn thrilled to hear Théoden call Éomer, “my son.” It was only fitting though a pang of regret hit her that Théodred was not there taking his rightful place at his father’s hand.  The thought urged her onwards to commit acts of valor in his name.

A hard ride of a league to the ruin of the Rammas Echor.  Éowyn kept as close as she dare to the king as Elfhelm pulled off right.  Grimbold’s Eored crossed over to the east to position themselves to Théoden’s left.  There she caught sight of Háláf and Aethelred and the others in her Eored.  She drew breath in surprise and was glad they were not looking in her direction.  The results could have been disastrous. She quickly whispered through a choked throat, “Béma protect you, my boys!”  She tightened her arm around Merry and said in a low voice, “Whatever happens, Stay close to me!  I will protect you.”

“Aye, My Lady!”  he whispered back as he looked upon the burning city as they silently advanced, unchallenged.   They stopped and Merry sitting in front of Éowyn could see Théoden pause as the whole host looked upon the devastation that lay upon the field beyond the ruined walls of the Rammas and how the lower levels of the White City blazed.  He thought he saw Théoden shrink as he gazed upon the ruin of battle.  All seemed lost.  And at that moment a flash struck across the city and a boom reverberated.  In an instant everything changed, the wind was in his face and he saw the king draw his sword.  The Rohirrim had arrived, and outcome unknown, they would make their presence felt. 

Éowyn watched as Théoden King, sword drawn, rode the first line tapping every sword as he shouted in clarion call,  

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!

spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,

a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!

Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!

Death!”

The armies of Rohirrim responded as one voice, “Death!” 

With that he seized a great horn from Guthláf his banner-bearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that the sound burst seemed to fill the sky. And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.

Éowyn saw the vanguard move out with her uncle leading the charge and Éomer, his white horse mane upon his helm streaming behind him.  It was a beautiful sight for a bare few seconds as the Rohirrim charged after their king who would not be surpassed.  After that everything happened so fast. 

Crashing into the orc line was jarring but by that time the fervor of battle descended and she heard singing and realised it was her own voice joining in the others as they slew orc upon orc.  She managed to keep her seat somehow and even more amazing, Merry was still in front battling as much as his vantage point would allow.  Éowyn tried to keep the king in her sights.

The first wave of assault saw the orcs scatter, most fleeing toward the river.  Théoden sought new foes and his knights banded about him. Éowyn among them but not too close.  The battle was not yet won though.  Haradrim joined the battle, but the northmen’s fury was the greater and Théoden slew their leader himself, throwing the Haradrim battle standard to the ground to be trampled upon by Rohirrim horse.

She had lost sight of her uncle for a harrowing few moments but then saw him exultant after slaying the chief Southron, his golden shield shining. He exhorted, “To me, To me!  Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness.  At the height of glory, a scream ripped through the battlefield, harrowing both men and beast.  She looked up and the horrific sight that greeted her eyes froze her blood.  A fell beast of black skin slithering and claws extended lowered upon her uncle's position on the battlefield. The fact of the slithering beast ridden by an ominous black void cloaked shook her reality and unfroze her blood.  All scattered in a fevered frenzy.  Those of the king’s riders who did not flee were upon horses that could no longer be controlled even by the most experienced of rider so great was their horror.  Windfola, valiant stallion that he was, bucked in fear of the foul winged beast and the cloaked void that the eye could not fix upon and both Éowyn and Merry were unseated.  Éowyn gained her feet only to see Snowmane panic as the black horror descended, black dart impaling the beautiful animal’s light flank and tragically Théoden was trapped underneath so much poundage of frightened and injured horse.  Éowyn shouted “No!” but her words seemed mute to her ears, not rising above the confused and chaotic din of the ongoing battle.

She ran forth as all others were fleeing.  She would never abandon her uncle to any fate, least of all this one.  She placed herself between her uncle and the beast with the unclean presence riding atop; a steel crown perched upon where his head should have been, but there was nothing save two red eyes whose purpose was to shred souls and minds.  She looked upon her uncle helpless under the slain Snowmane; her heart cried out in abject pain that seemingly blunted the mesmeric effect this foul presence used to such chilling effect.  She looked into the void under the black cloak and felt her mind scream, “Run! Save yourself!”  but instead she said in a full voice, “I will kill you, If you touch him!”

A cold voice answered, “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 be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

A voice inside Éowyn’s head screamed, “Run! Save yourself.  He is dead. Spare yourself!” “NO!” She shouted to the voice in as much to anyone.  She drew her sword and declared, “That may be but I will hinder you if I can!”  

At that the fell beast's neck curled and tried to take a bite out of Éowyn.  She dodged just barely away from the blackened teeth as the mouth snapped shut.  She turned and brought down with all her force a sword stroke almost severing the neck.  She quickly dislodged the blade amid a spray of black blood and brought down again, this time completely decapitating the foul creature.   “Now you’ve done it! You have really seriously angered it.” her mind said in an incongruously calm and detached voice.  Éowyn watched as the foul fiend calmly dismounted his slain mount and straightened himself.   She stood, breathing heavily, trying hard to master her fear, that inner voice no longer calm trying as it may urging her to escape as those red eyes penetrated her very soul.  Sword in one hand and a mace whose size defied imagination, the presence attacked.

Merry who had also been unseated had taken a few moments longer to recover himself and was at first stunned as he watched Éowyn evade swings from the mace of what by description and by feel had to be the Witch King of Angmar.  The cold voice spoke contemptuously,  “Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!” As he swung the mace he connected with Éowyn’s shield in a glancing blow which was strong enough however to shatter it into pieces as she twisted away.  

Merry then heard the most incongruous sound… a short laugh.  Éowyn had laughed then her voice strong as steel, “‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.” Éowyn removed her helm and cast it aside, “You stand between me and my lord and kin. For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

Those words ignited Merry’s courage.  He could not allow so valiant and beautiful a lady to stand alone against this foul dwimmerlaik; he would fight and most likely die by her side.  He could do no less for his lady.   Sword in hand he crawled up from behind.  He was thankfully not more than a few feet behind the Witch King who had seized Éowyn by the neck, choking her. Merry got up on knees wasting no time and stabbed the Witch King in the leg with his blade of Westernesse. It penetrated as only this blade could. The foul presence howled and dropped Éowyn. Then a pain like Merry had never known could exist, ripped up his arm and he could move no longer.

As soon as she was released Éowyn held her sword with both arms and thrust her sword into the void where the red eyes tried to command her but such was her fury and her desire to protect her uncle that she twisted the blade into the nothingness.  She withdrew it and the blade dropped from her lifeless hand.  She fell unto her backside all energy spent as she watched almost uncomprehendingly the void become a mass of twisted metal and then drop to the ground.  A cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of this world.

She sobbed in swirling emotions, horror, relief, exhaustion.  Then one thought seared her soul.  Her uncle lay close.  Deplete of energy she crawled over to her uncle beneath Snowmane, tears and sweat in her eyes almost blinding her. “Uncle!” She cried. “Uncle!  You must yet live!  I am here.  I am here to save you!” She begged, tears falling unreservedly.  

“Éowyn!” Théoden looked upon his daughter, “My daughter!  Béma be praised that I can see you one last time…Forgive me!” 

“There is nothing to forgive.  I must free you.  You will live!”  Éowyn began to futilely push at Snowmane’s dead body.  Tears mingled with sobs as she could not move Théoden’s beloved horse from atop his master.

“It is over, my daughter.  My body is broken.  You must let me go!” Théoden whispered.

Éowyn shook her head furiously, “No! No! I have got to save you!”

“You already have, the day you and your brother came to me!  Let me go!  I go to my forefathers in whose company I shall now not be ashamed.” His eyes cleared of pain, “I would see you smile one last time.”

Éowyn’s heart was breaking but she could not deny her beloved uncle this last thing.  She smiled for all the memories they had; for the life he had given her.  She kissed his forehead and her uncle was no more.  At that her heart severed and she let out a keening cry and collapsed sobbing, feeling utterly bereft.  She had nothing left. She sat up and tried to lift her sword to find death on the battlefield but through utter exhaustion even this was denied.  She collapsed and knew nothing more.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Éomer saw the fell beast descend on his uncle, but he had been half way across the battlefield when it happened. He rushed to aid his uncle though logic said he could not reach him in time, but his heart did not obey; he would be by his uncle’s side to whatever end.  He saw Snowmane first and then his uncle, lifeless under his beloved horse and grief began to fill his veins.  Bereft though he was, death in battle was, if not looked for, at least a grievous but accepted fact. Men die in battle.

Then he saw the last thing he thought he would see on this bloody field. Something he was in no way prepared for.  His sister.  A desolation so virulent sundered his heart and he fell to his knees clasping Éowyn’s silent and bloodied form.  He howled his grief at this unimaginable horror and could only utter one broken word, “How?”  The knights of the King’s own surrounded him.  All were horrified upon the sight of this portion of the battlefield. Horrified that such a small patch of earth could contain so much tragedy.  All were mute in the face of Éomer’s towering desolation and grief. 

The unthinkable lay in his arms. This is why they fight to keep their beloved safe from all harm. Not to lay amid the chaos and gore of battle; not to have a beautiful soul besmirched in orc blood. Éomer mastered his grief in as much as he could. The Rohirrim stood leaderless and borne into him by first his father and then his uncle were duty and honor; he was born to lead.   He looked up and saw himself surrounded by his uncle’s knights.  He took a deep breath to calm his raging soul and strove to  proceed as his uncle would have.

“Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,

meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,

women then shall weep. War now calls us!”

Yet he himself wept as he spoke. ‘Let his knights remain here,’ he said; ‘and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it! And my sister–” Éomer’s voice broke. Uncomprehending misery poured from his heart, “Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this?” After this rage won out over all else. Éomer exhorted, “Death, death, death! Death take us all!”  He commanded the Rohirrim to mount once again and bring swift death to those who opposed them. All followed but there was no longer song; There was only death in their hearts.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A/N:  I know that it is Ghan Buri Ghan, but Merry, fraught, tired and overhearing something unlike anything he was familiar with could either have hear or remember something incorrectly.  In times of stress we often rely on familiarity to help us sort out what we receive or are experiencing and how we remember things.  When we process unfamiliar things in these situations mistakes are often made.