Good-Bye
By: Rai
Rated: G
Author's Note: Next instalment for the Tales from the Hall of Fire. This time, we're going to be looking at Éowyn, Éomer's sister, in a tale absolutely bursting with angst; hence this tissue warning.
I noticed that my short stories are growing shorter each time. But really, this could not have been expanded any further, lest it ruins the beauty and simplicity of its telling, or compromises it.
Hopefully the emotions within will make up for its lack of words.
This idea came to me when listening to Lee Soo Young's Good-bye and so was named after itThough I clarify, this is not a song fic. This tale was merely inspired by its haunting melody.
Once again, as with all my short stories, this is heavily based on the books. I have written it in a fashion that I hope accommodates everyone, even those merely familiar with the story and the relationship.
Spoilers: Spoilers from Return of the King, mostly on the Éowyn/Aragorn relationship, so The Passing of the Grey Company and The House of Healing are what is mostly spoiled here. Beware and read at your own risk.
Disclaimer: I am not the owner or creator of Middle-earth, nor am I the owner of any of the characters mentioned thus. This is just a fanfiction writer trying to tell a story that popped into my head and flowed onto the computer one day. Grammatical errors are my own as are spelling errors.
Synopsis: Her plea for glory denied and her love forsaken, Éowyn stands in the darkness of her thoughts as she watches the Lord Aragorn ride down to the Dimholt Road, her heart torn asunder by her harsh reality.
"I beg thee!"
Éowyn could feel the tears fall from her eyes, could feel the emotions welling up from within her forsaken soul as she wept silently. She refused to look up at the men, those tall and proud Rangers of the North, men of valour, renown and strength. They had everything she sought, they were everything she wished to become, and yet to be denied the honour of being allowed to see if she herself could win such prominence, to rise up to such greatness as them, left a bitter and frozen void within.
On her knees she stood before them, looking only at the ground beneath her, her long golden tresses falling over her eyes, veiling her pale, white face from the others. And for that she was glad, for she did not wish for them to see her shame; shame at her weakness, at the emotions she had inadvertently exposed to them. That she had exposed to him.
She recalled the day when she first beheld the Lord Aragorn, Isildur's Heir, in the Halls of Meduseld in Edoras. He was a tall and proud man, like that of her brother Éomer, and yet different from him. Aragorn was a man worn and weary with the many cares of the world, but still he seemed to exude a calm and reassuring presence. And she was able to see that behind his quiet strength, was the sensitivity and gentleness of one who had known great pain and had much understanding.
He was a man of great deeds and even greater hope and glory, a King among Men.
And she loved him.
But as she sat there, her breathing quick as she held back the sob that threatened to escape, she could only think that she could not suffer to leave his side. She refused to be left behind again, to tend to the very young and old, nothing more than a servant, a woman caged, forced to do the bidding of others, and never the biddings of her own heart.
All she wanted was a single chance to prove her worth; to him, to herself and to Rohan.
Aragorn stood there a moment like a man who was struck in the heart, and to Legolas and Gimli who were nearby, it seemed that Aragorn was about to grant the White Lady of Rohan her heart's desire, for great was the pain and pity in his eyes as he looked upon her, for she was a woman proud and fair, and yet frozen by her own pain and self-contempt. To see her throw herself so desperately before him, begging him to free her from the chains that held her to her perceived prison, wretched at his consciousness.
And when at last he spoke to her softly, only Legolas' keen elvish ears were able to detect the strain that Aragorn's emotions played on his voice.
"Nay lady," he said, and taking her by the hand he raised her.
Her grey eyes stared at him stricken as she was drawn to her feet by Aragorn's gently pull on her hand, grief and anguish clawing at her very soul. He had denied her again; he had refused her freedom. Anger and despair raced through her thoughts, questioning why he would deny one who would follow him anywhere, to the Paths of the Dead themselves, one who was so wholly devoted to him, to his company. She thought him to understand her pains. She thought him to know that maiden though she was she was as strong as any man of Rohan.
She thought him to know.
At length she saw in his eyes a light unlike any she had ever noticed in their grey depths, for they were bright, and full of great sympathy.
And she realized.
Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore as they followed him in silence.
But Éowyn stood still as a figure carven in stone, her hands clenched at her sides, and she watched them until they passed into the shadows under the black Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, in which was the Door of the Dead. She watched them ride off in the heavy silence of the early morn, and dark and terrible thoughts were all that spoke to her.
He did not feel the same. He had denied her his heart. And though she had given to him many tokens of her love, he accepted them only out of kindness and pity.
Pity… all she ever received from him was his pity…
He did not love her.
She gasped, as her emotions gained control over her being and she wept, tears falling fast and indiscriminately from her cold grey eyes. But she did not brush the tears aside, letting them fall from her face onto the cold dark ground beneath her feet as she kept her hands clenched at her sides, her arms straight and rigid as she trembled beneath her sobs.
And she stood there awhile, like a white flower, still standing so straight and proud, shapely as a lily. But inside her spirit was as cold as ice, stricken, soon to fall and die.
What warmth and light she had been given had been taken away from her, and her world seemed all the darker than before. Darkness was the only thing before her, behind her and with her. She stood in a void, an empty abyss, with nowhere to go, no one to reach to, for she was alone. And all was utterly black.
She was alone.
She cursed her fate. That she was born in the body of a woman, never allowed to seek glory, and doomed to wait upon others, her part more ignoble than the chair they sat in or the bowls they ate from. What use was it to have spirit, courage, intelligence when it comes to no use, when she cannot be allowed to use it? What use was it to live when all that you deem good in the world is denied to you – first honour and now love?
What now was there worth living for?
"Aragorn, my lord Aragorn," she cried out quietly into the grey dawn, though he was too far to hear, nearly out of sight. "Long have I watched you, ever since you crossed the threshold of Meduseld so to save Théoden King, whom I loved as though a father, from the poisons of Wormtongue. And I thought you noble and strong. Long have I watched you, long have you dwelt in my thoughts. In you I thought I found a love unmatched, one that few mortals are allowed to experience or see. And I was glad to have been given the honour of knowing the exhilaration that set my heart aflame, full of desire whenever I beheld you. I thought it to be you who would free me from what traps me, you who would melt the winter of my soul, fill the emptiness of my being, and show to me the sun and the light. And at last I can find happiness without scorn or sadness.
"But alas my lord! Though I loved you deeper than words can tell, it was but a one-sided affair." And she closed her eyes, tears still falling freely from them as she let her sobs take hold of her voice, and she cried until she felt she could cry no more. And then she cried some more, for her heart was torn asunder, as if it was wrenched from her breast, leaving nothing. At length she opened her eyes again and noted that she could no longer see the distant grey figures of Aragorn's company. They were lost from view.
She turned, tears falling fast, and in her failing sight, she stumbled and fell onto the ground beneath her. But she did not immediately rise. She laid there on the grass, broken, her cries muffled by the arm that she laid over it. "My lord Aragorn," she gasped quietly as she looked up at the coming dawn and the rising sun, but its light appeared cold to her, "why have you forsaken me? Why was I denied your heart? Why do you refuse to free me from my bonds? Certainly you of all people, a King of Men, should have been able to. And yet you could not, or refused to do me the honour."
She turned her eyes away, as she clenched her fists, slamming them into the soft, well trodden dirt beneath her. "Why must you keep me caged?" she cried out angrily.
She pushed herself to her feet, wavering slightly as she continued to stumble as one that is blind to her lodgings. She collapsed again at the threshold, her hands keeping her on her feet as they clung to the doorframe as one who held on to nothing else, her quiet weeps the only sound to be heard.
She stared ahead inside, peering emptily at the empty chairs and tables, tables she must ready for the coming of her brother and uncle, meals she prepare, rooms she must ready. And she could not help but feel a cold fire flare in her soul, hatred for what she beheld burning within her.
She would not allow her fate to be so tied to this world, a world of chores, subservience and bitter duty. She refused her to live that fate, to merely exist and then grow old, a loathsome dotard, barely able to care for herself, a mean thing that crawls on the earth.
She was a shieldmaiden of Rohan. Her hands were ungentle. She can fight. She was strong. She was valiant. And she was eager.
She will fight.
She will find the glory she sought. Or the brave death that she desires. What does it matter if she meets her doom, for there was nothing she had to lose, and for all she knew and foresaw, nothing to gain.
She wiped her eyes, willing herself to stop her tears, and she hardened her soul and forced her anguish from her mind. For no longer did she have a heart, for it had been taken away from her.
And as she gained her feet so to stand all the taller and prouder, and colder than before, she swore to herself that never again, would she weep for any man.
She turned to gaze at the forsaken path that the man she had loved, the one she had lost, had passed down and away, never again to be seen in this world, alive or dead. And she spoke to the ghosts that stood there still in her mind.
"Good-bye," she whispered. A lone tear slid down her left cheek, but she was quick to wipe it away as she turned to stare at the rising sunrise of a new day. But she noticed not the hues of brightness and warmth it radiated, nor did she receive any hope of the renewed morning.
She only saw it as one less day to live, one day more before the end of Middle-earth as she knew it. But she did not need to wait for the Shadow to take her.
It already had reign over her existence.
It was one more day in which she must live in the bitter cold winter of her soul.
"Good-bye," she repeated again, more clearly, more powerfully this time, as she drew away inside, closing the door behind her.
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"Aragorn?"
Legolas peered cautiously at his friend from where he rode just behind him, worry written on his features, for he saw the distress that Aragorn had been made to endure when they had departed from the White Lady of Rohan. The elf saw also the despair on the lady's face at his refusal for her plea, and the grief-stricken expression that graced her fair face left an image in his mind that was not quick to fade.
"Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned," the ranger whispered hoarsely, staring back at the elf with haunted eyes, and Legolas was taken aback at how deeply their sorrowful parting with Éowyn tore into Aragorn's soul. For the many long years he had known his friend, he had never seen anything touch so deeply in his heart as this.
Gimli sighed from his seat in the saddle behind Legolas, and he stared back in the direction of the camp which had fallen from view. "I don't know who to be more worried about," he said gruffly. "Us or the Lady Éowyn. Did you not note the look upon her face when you denied her, Aragorn? It was the look of one who had lost all hope in life."
"There is neither flower nor lady west of the Mountains so lovely, yet so sorrowful," said Legolas sadly as he shook his fair elven head.
Aragorn remained silent, but the burden of sorrow and pity for her weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he sagged in his seat for awhile, until Legolas and Gimli began to grow alarmed that their friend was falling into despair himself. But after some time, Aragorn shook his head, brushing aside those rogue locks of his shoulder length, brown hair from his face and straightened his shoulders, so that he sat straight and tall, once again the proud man he was.
For on the Dimholt road, there can be no weakness.
He turned to stare in the direction of the camp as they passed between the lines of ancient stones and so came to the Dimholt. And Legolas only was able to hear the soft, sorrowful words that Aragorn whispered to the wind.
"Good-bye…"