Work Text:
In her later years, Éowyn did not imagine herself with children. Or if she had, it was always safely confined within a thought, an idea — an intangible addition to a family she would choose to create when she wished, or to avoid if she wished...and never immediately into the second year of her marriage.
Indeed, unlike countless women of her age and social position, she would call the second year quite uncomfortably immediate. The War of the Ring had altered her as it had countless others. The darkness and turmoil and death had been thrust upon them all; a prevalent fear of the world falling to ruin, of all the goodness in the land succumbing to evil and shadow. She had carried out her duties; she had led her people to safety and protected her country from devastation.
Éowyn had even rebuilt herself as one of the legends of war. She had achieved a glorious reputation on the battlefield, made even more remarkable due to her sex.
Slayer of the Witch-King, they called her. Victor; Defeater of the monster that no denizen in all of Middle-Earth could conquer.
Certainly, no-one wished to anger her in her own court now. She was no mere Shieldmaiden any longer, but battle hero and Queen. The widespread respect bestowed upon her was unfailingly equal to that of any man’s; a welcome and satisfying change. The people of Rohan were grateful and joyous to be living under her reign; the “Warrior Queen,” they dubbed her. Songs were sung in her name, of her political relations to the King of Gondor and to Gandalf the White Wizard…
All for a horrific price.
Even to this day she would dream of the terrors she had seen, the dear ones she had lost. Her cousin's cold, mangled body decaying in front of her, whilst she could do naught but watch and wait by his bedside in Meduseld…Her uncle's broken, weary, unspeakably proud face as he died beneath her hands again and again — a cruel, wrenching act of nature beyond her control. She could slay supernatural creatures, thus she could spare millions of innocents a terrible fate - but she could not do the same for those she loved.
This was where her failure lay. It tortured her.
Often now, she would avoid sleep to stave off such visions, preferring to sit at the window in her silken robe, restless and yet exhausted, quietly observing the stars or the dancing shadows over the rooftops of Edoras while all others slept.
But then equally as often, she would be coaxed into a blissful torpor from the herbal remedies created for her by her new husband. He would have her imbibe these concoctions faithfully as he read to her gentle children’s tales in the silvery, familiar cadence of his voice.
Occasionally these potions effected a playfulness in her before the fatigue settled in, and a customary pastime between them was to share the reading and the characters. He enjoyed that, she discovered, and possessed quite the flair for drama, projecting and altering his voice to suit each character. The intensity of his love for it was infectious and this soon became an enjoyable pastime; one which frequently resulted in many passionate nights after which no additional spell or tincture was necessary for her slumber.
It was this pattern of theirs — and only one rather forgetful evening — which had inevitably resulted in her current condition.
She sighed, propped lazily against a mountain of pillows on the royal bed; uneasily traced the hard, distended curve of her belly with a finger. Soon after that, she felt the child tumble about sluggishly inside. A queer sensation against her organs, one that she would never reconcile with comfort. Another one of her fingers dug into her side, probing. Again, the child whirled.
The baby was an active one; sensitive to her touch.
Éowyn Queen stared listlessly out the window at the sky, ignoring the subsequent kicks and rolls with which the child insisted upon impressing her.
If she were to think true, she felt…limited.
Trapped.
Again.
As if she were not a great war hero any longer, as if she had not slain the Nazgûl and its rider. Women across the land rejoiced with her impending motherhood — a proper stage of femininity, of nature. An ordinary, common feat of heroism to which they could relate. For how would slaying a mighty beast and a previously unconquerable legendary evil be comparable to the joys and trials of motherhood — another venture far beyond the reach of men?
In some respects, they were right. It was not comparable. Éowyn would rather ride atop her steed into the thick of battle, armed with her rage and adrenaline, flying at the enemy with swift, sure strokes of her blade…than to merely sit and endure a pregnancy.
It was a simple, easy choice in her mind.
Alas, nature inserted itself so impetuously. She felt unnatural, weakened and taken over. Besieged. Invaded. The physical changes to her body were gruesome enough, but no one had warned her of unborn children altering the mother’s mindset. For, sometimes, she felt as if she might go mad. A strange, perverse desire for strife wove itself into her daily routines; Éowyn found herself provoking fights and conjuring tension within her meetings with courtiers, with her subjects…with her husband. She longed for battle and to win something — anything — since her own body was lost in its own surrender. Her nightmares returned in full and as the child grew inside her; it skewed the effectiveness of her nightly potions, rendering them utterly useless.
Lately now, the size of the baby sentenced her to discomfort in every position she managed to arrange herself and hardly anything brought her relief. Massages and ointments had replaced the nighttime mixtures and her husband was always eager to assist her thus, provided she had not been as spiteful to him at the time. Miraculously, he still desired her, perhaps even more fervently than before and it was their congress that granted her a brief respite from her body’s daily complaints.
However, quite recently the baby had grown even larger and it was increasingly difficult for her to warm to carnal delights as she normally would; more stimulation was required than before and often a foreign, sometimes painful awkwardness preceded the pleasure. She only endured it most days because by the end it brought her relief.
Everything seemed a struggle, and her frustration was frequently an underlying simmer, a tangible thing present in her every word and deed.
Yet, the palace Healer and her numerous midwives proclaimed all of it disgustingly normal; the laying-in supplies were kept fresh in the room, just a few feet away, tucked in an elaborate wooden wardrobe, ready for her labor.
Éowyn could not wait for the day when it would be over; when her body would be hers and hers alone once more.
But she knew that when that day came, nothing would be the same. She felt foolish for even momentarily considering that it would be. The baby would be a real creature, alive and hungry and clinging and fragile. Dependent upon her for its life, its development, its health…every minute of every day.
Éowyn refused to dwell on such a daunting task. It seemed that nothing would prepare her for the role of Mother. During her most anxious moments, too-warm and uncomfortable amongst the blankets and furs of their bed, she would blurt her worries and insecurities to Gríma, and on many occasions drove herself to tears and anger, which only bred more frustration within her at her pathetic weakness.
Never before had she been such a wreck. Always, she had maintained a steady demeanor; a regal, cold calm when faced with any horror.
How the world had turned; now she, the Warrior Queen, Slayer of the Witch-King, was a gibbering fool over her lack of readiness to raise a child.
It was laughable.
And Gríma... While he was certainly no saint in this business — no saint at all — he provided some respite for her. He was not the man she would have chosen, but circumstances had a way of confounding and twisting fate, and he was the one whom she had chosen in the end nonetheless.
He had endured much throughout the War as well.
Their relationship seemed an endless, wavering thing; having begun long back into her youth when she was a mere fifteen years old. It was a period when flirtation was a new heady power for her and love a delightful game with which to occupy herself; a comfort with which to cope while separated from her brother and cousin and their schooling of weaponry and the world. Gríma, much older and wiser than she, had comforted her in those trying times, even when the land had been peaceful and war a distant thing. He was the one who guarded her deepest fears, her blackest thoughts, her most treasured and embarrassing secrets. Gríma had volunteered to supplement her limited female studies with his own extensive knowledge; had taught her languages and how to read and write them, philosophy, politics and strategy of cultures all across Middle-Earth. He instigated the start of her lessons in warfare by assigning instructors to her and convincing her father that there was merit in this learning for her, allowing her the rights to become a proper Shieldmaiden of Rohan, a title which the King had been reluctant to bestow upon her at that time.
However, Gríma had revealed that he could be equally as cruel.
Manipulative, possessive; dangerous.
They argued often about her flirtations with others, how Éowyn had danced freely with the triumphant riders of the court, had enjoyed their impressive tales and familiar gestures, her power always having been a heady draught for her. She had never done anything truly wrong; she had never kissed them or loved them as she secretly had Gríma, yet his jealousy and suspicions knew no bounds nonetheless. He saw things and read into much that was not there, or things that she was blind to due to her youth and inexperience.
Upon one careless night following a Yuletide festival, a night that both alarmed and thrilled her, she witnessed the sheer magnitude of his anger, his fear, his frightening tenderness and alarming desperation for her to stay. Nothing else had worked, nothing she assured or whispered soothingly to him had he truly heard. In her frustration to reach him, borne of absently imagining that their marriage was only inevitable one day, Éowyn had allowed herself to become his very own that evening.
Yet, once she had awakened beside him the following morning, body sore and nether regions burning with terrible fire; once she had opened her eyes to his gaunt, sleeping face, her blood and his seed on the sheets beneath her, staining her skin…some instinct, some animal sense of doom urged her to flee from him. To avoid him thereafter.
Something had not been right.
She would not yield to him the days and weeks following; he had been joyful during those first days afterward, and briefly she had regretted her decision, but the feeling of repulsion remained beneath her remorse and she had urged herself to obey it. Her continual avoidance bred his confusion and quiet anger, yet he too obeyed her wishes, for she refused to speak to him. He was not left with any choice that would not cause severe harm to her, or ultimately to himself and his position at court.
It was about two or three months following that she had realized she had been with child — for her womanly bleedings were still very new and quite erratic, and she had not thought to take the dearth of her cycle as anything but normalcy for the time.
The shocking revelation came to her in the form of sharp, stabbing spasms during one night — far more painful than any of her monthlies — and her body’s eventual discharge of a minuscule, blood-slimed creature that might have been alive and healthy in some other life. Only one of her closest maids knew and aided with the covert disposal of the tiny frog-like child and its afterbirth, the secret washing of the blankets and sheets…
Éowyn had gone to court four days afterward, having pretended her absence was due to her normal womanly pains come late; no one else the wiser to the momentous terrors she had undergone during those sleepless nights.
Thus, the years passed; she became colder, Gríma resentful, bitter and morose. To this day she had not quite determined what it was that repulsed her about him that first morning. He was nothing attractive or too pleasant, but she had known that, and appreciated him all the same. She suspected her feelings were a delayed fear made manifest; a fear of what love entailed, of what it meant to be a wife. His wife.
Éowyn did not want that life.
Without personal fulfillment and glory, she did not want marriage at all; not when she was so young, not when she still felt so unprepared — despite what she had shared with him. Gríma would have controlled her, kept her to himself — would have smothered her with affection, and even at that tender age, Éowyn suspected she had known that intuitively. She had realized she had not been strong enough to equally combat him.
She was aware that his later betrayal of Rohan was largely due to his unrequited feelings for her. That, and his having no love for a country that seemed to continually be at odds with him; at odds with his dark foreigness. Éowyn should have been as outraged as the rest of Rohan at his faithlessness. But while Gríma was certainly not excused for any of his actions, she could not pretend she was ignorant to the seeds of his treachery.
Frowning to herself, she recalled her own perspective, acknowledged that she could have behaved better, could have at least attempted to explain to him her withdrawal. He might have understood, but he also might have twisted her young mind to his own anyway. Everything had been a risk with him. She was too attached for her own good. It was for the best that she had distanced herself, removed herself from him.
And yet, on that fateful day, when her father had cast him out, exposed him, nearly killed him…she could not just do nothing. Gathering her wits, her bravery, her control, Éowyn had ridden after his traitorous hide, with the aim of dragging him back herself, heedless to his threats or struggles. It had finally been time for him to be punished; and his penance was to be forced to redeem his mistakes.
Éowyn Queen smiled to herself at the thought, burying her sudden relish into the silk pillow she lay against. How the tables had turned! Gríma had been locked up, his chief visitors consisting of King Théoden's messengers to question him for information.
She had known that he would escape rather than face further humiliation and coldness. Escape or to secretly — poisonously — wait to strike, as was his way. As he had done before. As was his nature, the serpent would adapt to his situation and in doing so his method was to repeat his actions over and over again…and that needed to change.
So, late at night, she would visit him twice weekly, speaking to him softly through the thick iron bars while he hungrily absorbed her presence. Determined to be his tamer, she was careful not to encourage him, but neither did Éowyn reject him any longer. If he misbehaved, if he struck out at her, so would she strike back and most importantly, she would always return to him when he was filled with desperate repentance.
From his despicable, shameful origins he had climbed — with ragged, beaten, scrawny, ugly, beautiful fingers — to respectable prosperity and status before they had even met.
He could do so again.
Éowyn knew him, better than the Snake knew himself. Consistently, she had witnessed him shed his skin, remake himself anew. His strength was that of resilience, of endurance, of patience; the strength of insects. The silent, hidden kind that one only acquired in darkness. Eventually, he had proven himself to be of use to Rohan, and was released to his former Councillor's Chambers, although he had been watched carefully, his every move known to a member of the court. He had traveled with them to Helm's Deep — plastered, of course, to Éowyn's side. She had not minded, as long as he made no nuisance of himself, for it was good to speak with a changing man, one whom might have been lost to them all. Gríma was making an effort and so she rewarded him, appropriately.
All the while, her growing attraction to Lord Aragorn did not make this transformation seamless, as she had rightly feared. Gríma was prone to weakness and his jealousy was too near and too great a force to be shut up forever. The admiration she harbored for the Ranger had not yet grown into an overwhelming thing, but it was a taste of possibility, a great hope for something more…and yet, having an attuned eye and the advantage of knowing her for years, Gríma had quickly sensed her developing infatuation for a man who was not him.
Once inside the Great Fortress, within her assigned chambers; immediately they had sought each other out, exchanged heated words. She was quite forlorn upon news of the ranger's rumored death after the Wargs' attacks on the road, when their parties had split to preserve the civilians and sent out the warriors to fight the beasts. Gríma had railed her with angry accusations, repetitions of old arguments — to which she hurled back her own barbs and retorts, furious with his overbearing paranoia and her own strange reactions to it.
It had been then that he took the liberty of taking her lips for what felt like the first time, escaping her careful, cool control so simply…
So easily.
It had been many years since she had last enjoyed his kisses, the touch of his hands upon her body…it was nostalgia and horror all at once. It was kissing the stinking lips of her mother’s corpse one last time, stealing for herself a lock of brittle hair to preserve forever. It was confessing that she was the one who had forgotten to tend her brother's wounded bird, unwittingly letting it die slowly in its cage, starving and alone…it was her agonizing virgin’s blood on the sheets, her unready womb; the terrifying mess of flesh and fluid she had birthed in that endless night. It was the delicious clash of blades and hot spiced cider and musty scrolls and the cold bite of the mountain snow…
But she would not relent.
Gríma was still too dangerous at the time. It had still been too soon. She had removed herself again, gently, claiming there were other concerns to deal with; a battle about to brew, women and children to manage, men to encourage and fortify for the end. Their past and possible future had to wait. Having been mollified by her embrace, Gríma obeyed her wishes, although Éowyn knew he would wait and strike her again. They bade their time, he had continued to hold to his promise, still trying to change for the better, trying to impress her, to please her.
But fate always did have a strange way of challenging its subjects.
Days afterward, the man whom she had thought dead — Lord Aragorn — had miraculously returned to them all, dirtied and wounded but good-natured and alive. Again, her feelings for him had flooded her, and she was hard-pressed to restrain herself, barely remembering his residual ties to his Elven woman; barely remembering Gríma's reborn insecurity…She had felt herself a rope; Aragorn coaxing irresistibly from one end, Gríma yanking and tugging with all his might at the other…
The Battle of Helm's Deep was long, dark and wet. Full of blood and sweat, inky black and muddy, nearly endless.
There was smoke, rain, fire, horror…and pain.
The helpless ones huddled together inside the cliffside caverns, the women whispering sweet, hopeful lies or whimpering in despair; the children either too quiet or crying. Éowyn aided them all with other brave volunteers, unable to quell her anxiety, secretly grateful that Gríma had remained with her, had provided his healing talents to those who were sick and injured. He did not shy away from infections, wounds and bodily ugliness. She had watched him sew a man’s slashed abdomen together, his silvery words calm and soothing whilst the needle and catgut repeatedly pierced the flesh. In the next minute he had attended another’s gouged eye, cauterized a torn limb and following all of that, he created a remedy for a family’s spreading dysentery. It was these practical and methodical set of days of his that encouraged her, that earned him her respect; for she could hardly bear medicinal gore.
Once the battle had ended, the injured and sick mostly attended to, graves dug and men buried, all had trudged wearily to Rohan, to their cities and their homes. Éowyn carried out her duties and paid calls to every house willing to accept her counsel and condolences, aiding the families of Edoras in any way she could before returning to the Hall of Meduseld herself, utterly exhausted.
Gríma had been waiting for her there, skulking in the shifting shadows beyond the torches’ light. She had said nothing, but merely went to him, rested her head upon his shoulder and wept. With him, in dire times like this, she knew she could betray her weaknesses, because he knew them before she did and did not seem to think less of her for them. Nothing else had happened; she had not been nearly secure enough to initiate anything more, but for that evening, he became a friend to her once again.
Suddenly, Éowyn was jolted from her memories, having been kicked from within. Startled, she pressed a hand to her belly, hard. Sometimes, when the child was positioned just so, she could feel against her fingers the outline of its leg and foot along the edge of her womb; could see the little limb stretching her skin, testing its boundaries.
Smoothing her gown along her middle, she watched the surface shift and bubble slightly from the activity inside.
Occasionally, she would allow that — along with the continual fear she felt — there was a underlying fascination, especially for moments of this kind. To consider the idea and proof that her body could become a home for another being…she hardly knew what to make of it. Even though it was something so common, to be with child was a process beyond belief. Was it truly a baby or a parasite inside her? Did it think? Did it dream? Was there some ability to communicate with it as Elves sometimes could?
Éowyn chided herself, feeling foolish. What did it matter? The child was alive, and would come all too soon one day in the near future. Healers informed her that she must quell her emotions, to remain serene so as not to upset the position of the baby. Supposing they knew of what they spoke, such advice had been heeded — it was what led Éowyn to lie comfortably in bed the entire day, feeling utterly helpless and wanting to be left alone. For some inexplicable reason, she felt increasingly queer as of late. Not at all like herself — not even how she had been for most of her pregnancy — and the feeling persisted throughout this week. All had avoided her mercurial wrath, including her husband. Gríma's attentions were now purely annoying, his kisses repulsive and his wounded looks even more ridiculous to her. Often, she wanted to laugh at his skulking moods, longed to be cruel to him. There was even one truly horrible moment when she wondered why she had agreed to marry him at all…
Her reasoning was sound; she realized vaguely that it was she who was ridiculous, that the baby was making her so, and yet she did not care. That morning, she had awakened in such a foul mood, and had gotten so unspeakably angry at nothing, that there was nothing for it but to shut herself up and find some semblance of tranquility somehow — alone. If she had to be a mother in the end, then she would attempt to lessen the complications for herself. The situation was truly outside her control in any case. She would be strong. She would cope.
Daydreaming had helped; recalling memories and analyzing them in full seemed to restore some sense of security she had not felt in months. This was good; it had been rare that she acquired long, steady moments to herself for reflection. Her company was always shared by others nowadays; the court, her guards, the servants, the people of Rohan, any guests of the Hall from distant lands…and now Gríma. Once they had married, she continually shared a private quarters with him, a bed with him, and any time she might have otherwise had for herself — time she had been used to having for herself — with him.
It was...taxing, despite how much she cared for him.
Éomer was not ruling alongside her as her Brother-King; he had stayed with King Elessar in Gondor after the War of the Ring, and Edoras was left a weakened shell of a city, a project left to someone either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.
Éowyn was inclined to think herself the latter, now.
At least with a marriage to her Councillor, she could depend fully upon his loyalty — for he no doubt knew that to damage Rohan again was to forever lose her and whatever children they possessed. She made certain he understood that. It was a good, powerful threat that would help him direct his life for the better. Many still distrusted him, but he gained more supporters with every passing month due to his efforts to rebuild their country. That was why it was agreed that she would be Queen, but he would not be King. He would be part of the Old Council, and that was all. She decreed it. And he would not be her only advisor. Thankfully, he had been contented with that…
Breathing deeply, focusing on the quietness of the room, the faint cry of crows outside, Éowyn sat up, went over to the window panes and pressed her forehead against the cold glass, willing the child to drop, to be ready.
She wanted it out.
Her eyes moistened against her will, as the idea drew out memories black and poisonous, as if from a festered wound. Upon her discovery of this pregnancy, Éowyn had been shocked to her core. Gríma had been the one to confront her about her absent bleedings, noticing that she had not stained her gown or their sheets for weeks. She had been too busy with her duties to notice something was amiss in a bodily function she neither liked nor cared about, and thus the suspicion was checked, and the resounding news confirmed. It happened so quickly; one morning she felt somewhat normal, as was her state of mind — anyone’s state of mind — after the War, and then in the next few hours, she was to be a mother.
Without her knowledge, without her consent…beyond her control.
He had been exhilarated.
She had not.
The news had spread like wildfire; Rohan would again have an heir, one with the ancient royal blood of Eorl in its veins. Of course there was a noticeable group who met the news with disgust or disdain, but loyalties seemed torn between their misgivings and the knowledge that the situation could have been much worse. Even those who accepted Gríma had hoped the joining of Rohan's oldest bloodline to that of a common Dunlending would precede an eventual peace between the two peoples. Such a mindset was new for them, but the end to the War of the Ring had birthed an optimism for new bonds between men. It was a new hope for the land, and a new conversing topic to spread to others in travels.
Éowyn had borne it all, had put on a mask — a thing that had become easier for her — of joy, of happiness, but she had been troubled, uncertain. Gríma knew it, she could see it in his face as he observed her carefully, yet he did not approach the subject until one drizzly afternoon. He had barged into their bedchamber, holding a book aloft, one of herbs and medical remedies, marked to a page illustrating potions that facilitated miscarriages — with her favorite hair ribbon.
He had been immeasurably calm, but his eyes had been alight with fire and blue veins pulsed dangerously in his forehead. Relentlessly, her own Councillor had cornered her, wrenched an explanation from her: that she was afraid, that she wished for escape routes, that she felt trapped — forced into yet another prison — and that he had promised to let her be free, to be of her own mind and will when they had married…
She remembered him listening, jaw clenched, blue irises shifting to and fro at nothing in particular, not even looking at her. He had not spoken one word after that, merely set the book down and left her, once she had finished her piece. She had not known precisely what to do about it; indeed, after their altercation, the sheer oddity of his abrupt, silent exit unnerved her more than anything else. Éowyn remembered his not speaking to her for weeks, except for words required of him whilst on duty. He had avoided her company, their rooms, and instead relocated himself to his study, the library and a guest chamber...
It was that dark period that she felt what he must have felt during the War. Isolation; loneliness...a sickening, dreadful anticipation of reconciliation...
Jolting her, the baby tumbled again in her womb. Éowyn grimaced, felt nauseated from it.
Well. Reconciled they had, indeed. Here she was. Rohan would get its heir.
The window-pane fogged with her breath, her heat reacting with its coldness. One of her fingers drew childish shapes in it.
Enough. Enough complaints, enough of this wretched reminiscing, she told herself harshly. Nothing good came after too much of it. This was too much. She could not think of those months after. She would not. They were past; they were gone.
Now, her responsibilities were new. They were different. She was Queen Éowyn, Slayer of the Witch-King, Protector and Patroness of Rohan. Any child of hers would be proud to call themselves such.
Her eyes slid to the shelf over the cabinets that held her birthing linens, scanned over the titles of each book nestled upon it. They reminded her of birds huddling together, their colored feathers and spines all in order. Mostly medicinal tomes. One in particular held a familiar blue strip of satin betwixt its pages.
Éowyn longed to burn in fire.
She reached for it.