when the shadow falls | for laurenande
Jun. 1st, 2025 06:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanThey were few enough when they fled, for many remained. Many - not only warriors, but farmers and artisans and fishermen, old men and youths and women - would sooner die on their own ground, standing hopelessly against the oncoming tide, than be cut down as they fled.
Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.
She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.
And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.
That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.
Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.
But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.
They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.
It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.
It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.
On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...
Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.
And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...
But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.
If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.
She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.
Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.
She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.
And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.
That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.
Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.
But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.
They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.
It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.
It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.
On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...
Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.
And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...
But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.
If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.
She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.
