The Writings of Eowyn by eowynofgallifrey
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of LOTR. All quotes in italics are paraphrased from the ‘The Steward and the King’ chapter in the LotR book.
These are the accounts of Eowyn, lady of Rohan who has slain the Witch-King’s steed and felled the Witch-King himself with the help of Master Meriadoc the Hobbit.
Day (of writing) the First:
It is the seventh day since I was waked from my wounded sleep and conditions have not improved. I found this book in the bag I had brought from Rohan, for I left in haste and -not having time to pack- grabbed my old journeying bag that I have not used since childhood. In searching though its jumbled contents I found this hiding at the bottom. I did not recall what it was until I opened it, then I saw accounts of daily events written in my childish hand; they are not dated and grow shorter until stopping altogether.
Anyway, I have decided to write account of my imprisonment (tis not really but it feels quite like it, especially when I could be out fighting the Shadow with Aragor- with others) to break the monotony of my ‘healing’. I tell you I AM healed excluding my left arm, my SWORD ARM, but this is not good enough for the healers because my willingness to die in battle has them worried. I ask you what business is it of theirs, they being doctors of the body and not of the mind, is not every soldier needed in this hour of darkness whether a man or woman is depressed or no? Yes, I am called depressed and the Healers deem that until the sorrow has departed me, I shall remain in these chambers with my west facing window. Yes West! Not north or south where, with craning of my neck I could see east, but west from whence I came as a Rider and a direction I have grown to hate.
It is not as easy to write as I thought it would be because my beloved (did I mention broken?) sword arm is also my writing hand and my letters sprawl all over the pages. I swear I have spilled an ocean of ink trying to write this… I shall begin again tomorrow unless this idleness has gotten to my head and I have flung myself from my window. Not that I would die from the fall, the window is only ten feet from the ground.
Day the Second:
News! I decided that I must leave this room and so I have. It happened in this manner: I asked one of the Healers to bring me other clothes, all I had was the robe I had been given and I thought to wear the garments I came in, but they were covered in Nazgul blood and my own and I decided if I am to go beg some man to let me to go to the Black Gate I must be dressed in normal, bloodless clothing. The woman whom I asked complied, and without question, for I think she fears me slightly as many of those here do. No one has talked to me the whole time I have been here except the Warden of the Healers and the Halfling Meriadoc. But I am getting off track, for I am no storyteller.
I went to the Warden and demanded to speak to whomever is in charge of this White City, in a polite way as I could manage and looked sad and depressed as I could. It worked and he told me that the Steward of Gondor holds the keys to the city while the king is away. It seems he was hurt as well and resides in the same House that I am.
This Steward’s name is Faramir and he was found in the garden surrounding this House.
I had not been out since my injury, nay I have not been allowed and it felt as though Yellow Face (the name I called the sun as a child) was burning every inch of my skin but ’twas good to be somewhere that did not have four walls and a roof. The Lord Faramir was walking on the far side of the garden and I could not see his face because he was looking east (verily I stared that direction also but could see no triumphant conquers or ragged conquered riding toward us.) Then the Warden called his name and he turned round and saw the two of us.
I had readied what I was to say and tis a pity those words never passed my lips. You see then the Lord turned round and I swear by all the Orcs in Mordor- his eyes are precisely like The Lord Aragorn’s. Perhaps he is a relation! I did not ask. The rest of his appearance is too, excepting his height for he is taller, and his hair color, which is raven black.
The Warden, whose presence I had not remembered until now said, “Lord Faramir, this is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan who rode with the king and was wounded, she is not yet healed but is not content and wishes to speak with the Steward of the city.” He departed. The Steward then asked what it is that I desire and I grasped for the words I have been rehearsing all these seven days but they had fled me. Instead I stumbled out “Lord, it is not that the conditions in this House are not the best, but I wished to be released from this House and ride to battle, for I do not desire to be healed but I wished to earn death in battle. But,” I continued, “The the battle goes on and I-,” here I completely lost my nerve realizing that I must look mad and ill besides, with my sickly looking white skin and my hair, as short as some men’s for I had cut it before I rode to aid my disguise.
The Steward however was very kind and replied that he too was prisoner of the Healers and would trust their counsel. “Lady,” he told me, “It is too late to ride to the Black Gate, you and I must endure the torture of waiting.”
“But the Healers,” I faltered and curse me, I was crying now, “Would have me lie abed for a week hence and my window does not look east.”
He laughed but not at me and said, “Ah, east, where all our hopes have gone and where we all look to see if doom and despair shall fall upon us. Lady, I shall have that fixed.”
Finally, good bye accursed window!
The Lord then asked me if I would not ease his worry by walking and speaking with him, if I agree to do this I shall have the liberty to go where I please in this House.
“Do not look to me for comfort,” said I, “For I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle, I do not desire the speech of living men. Why would one as you want the company of Eowyn of Rohan?”
His answer startled me. It began by telling me that I was beautiful (and there I nearly marched out of that garden there and then, if he desires a beautiful companion then let one be sent for in the city, however I am glad I did not), and he said, “I saddens me to see you sorrowing, you shall ease my waiting and I shall ease your sorrow, or at least I shall try. Do you accept?”
Truly, I did not know how to answer this, it was the freedom to walk about set against the companionship of the living. The former won and I made answer, “Yes, Steward, I thank you.” Then I curtsied and nearly ran from the room.
What have I gotten myself into?
Goodbye until morrow.