FROZEN FLOWER

by Soledad

 Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Imogen is mine.

 Series: Part One of my Éowyn-storyline called Shieldmaiden of the Mark.

 Rating: PG 13 for violence and some major angst in later chapters.

 Author’s notes:

Ever wondered what Éowyn was doing in Dunharrow almost ten days long? I did. This is the result – and while it does not contradict any major canon fact, it is completely my own take on things, with the exception of the Prelude, which is a rewrite of the matching scene in “The Two Towers”. But after that, we’ll be on untouched ground.

For a perspective: at the same time, the Battle of Hornburg is fought, Saruman is overthrown by the Ents, Frodo is taken to Henneth Annûn by Faramir, Gandalf reaches Minas Tirith and Aragorn takes the “Path of the Dead”. This story ends on the 9^th of March, the year 3019 in the Third Age of Middle-earth, when Théoden King comes to Dunharrow after the battle in Helm’s Deep.

Imogen Ragnarsdóttir, the wife of Elfhelm, is a fully-developed character from my own fantasy universe, where she had a very similar fate. Though a sideline character only, I’ve grown very fond of her, so I borrowed her from myself, for I thought she would match Éowyn wonderfully. I’ll try not to sue myself. To Aud of the deep eyes see the notes to “Ice Blossom”.

This story – actually this whole series – probably would make more sense if you read the Boromir-series first; or, at least, its second part, “The White Lady of Rohan”. There is described in detail what exactly went on between Éowyn and Boromir some eight months earlier.

PRELUDE: CHOSEN TO RULE 

Now, that Gandalf Greyhame had come to the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and thank to his power the spell Wormtongue had had Théoden King under much too long was broken, and Éomer was freed from prison where he had been thrown at Wormtongue’s evil counsel, the old King of the Mark finally shook off his despair and took on consideration what should be done against his treacherous neighbor, Saruman the White, the once-wise yet still powerful wizard who had turned evil and tried to take from him his lands.

For the son of Thengel was broken no more, in spite of the recent death of his beloved son, Théodred the Brave – which let him heirless, save his sister-son Éomer, whom he loved as if he were his own – and his fingers were eager to grasp a sword-hilt again, and his great heart longed to ride out one more time and fight one last battle ere the weight of his age would take this, too from him.

Gandalf, for his part, tried to persuade the King that he should lead his people to the Hold of Dunharrow in the hills, where they would be safe for awhile, even from the orc-hordes of Saruman, yet Théoden would hear naught of it.

“Nay, Gandalf,” he said proudly. “You do not know your own skill of healing. It shall not be so. I myself will go to war, to fall in the front of the battle if it must be. Thus I shall sleep better.”

“Westu Théoden hál!” cried Éomer, his heart swelling with pride and love for his King and his mother-brother, and his eyes were burning. “It is a joy to see you return into your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!”

And the armed Men of Rohan in their shining mail, who stood near, clashed their weapons, crying, “The Lord of the Mark will ride into battle again! Forth, Eorlingas!”

“But your people must not be both unarmed and shepherdless,” said Gandalf. “Who shall guide them and govern them in your place?”

“I shall take thought for that ere I go,” answered Théoden, yet his mind and his heart were on the upcoming battle already; on the battle that shall be, very likely, his last one. For the battle-heat ran through his veins like liquid fire once more, and suddenly he felt young again, young and powerful, as he had been a long time ago, when he rode out with a song on his lips and with the same fire in his heart.

At this moment in came the doorward of the King, a tall, proud and handsome warrior called Háma, and he knelt and presented to Théoden a long sword in a scabbard clasped with gold and set with green gems.

“Here, lord, is Herugrim, your ancient blade,” he said. “May it gleam in your hand as it had in the times of your youth!”

The King took the sword, and as his fingers curled around its hilt, all his old strength seemed to return to his thin arm at once. He lifted the blade with a sudden, powerful move and swung it shimmering and whistling in the air. Then he gave a great cry – a cry that no-one would have hoped from a man of his age and his weakened state – his voice ringing clear and strong as he chanted in the tongue of Rohan a call to arms.

            Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden

            Dire deeds awake, dark is eastward.

            Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded

            Forth, Éorlingas!

At this, the guards broke out in joyous cries, for Théoden was loved and respected and greatly admired by all, and every one had been deeply troubled when he fell under Wormtongue’s evil spell; and they drew their swords as one man and laid them at his feet.

“Command us!” they said.

And the King gave orders that the heralds be sent forth and all who dwelt nigh be summoned; for the last host of Rohan would ride on that very day to face the armies of Isengard. Every man and strong lad able to bear arms was to be ready in the saddle and at the gate ere the second hour from noon.

After that, the King led his guests back into the great house to offer them such refreshments as haste allowed, Already, they heard below them in the town the heralds crying and the war-horns blowing, and the Lady Éowyn, who was waiting upon the King, thought of the sound of another great horn – one that had signaled the departure of Boromir son of Denethor from Edoras almost eight months ago. One that she would hear no more.

No more would the Heir of Gondor return to the Golden Hall of Meduseld, to share songs and wine and old tales with Théodred the Brave, who had been his friend almost as long as Éowyn had been alive. Nor would he be the Heir of Gondor’s throne any more, for Gondor shall have a King now, and the Stewards would be no rulers but the servants of a stranger who shall take their city and their duties and their heritage away. Nor would Éowyn, the shieldmaiden, ride into battle alongside the man who had sworn to free her from her golden cage. For that man was now dead, and could not hold his word that he given her with a solemn oath.

The King and his four guests sat at the board and ate and drank swiftly, for time was short. The others were silent while Théoden questioned Gandalf concerning Saruman’s treachery and the role Gríma Wormtongue, his own counsellor of old, had played in the wizard’s twisted game. And Gandalf told him everything he knew and even some of what he only guessed; and the King’s heart became troubled again hearing of the great strength of Isengard; yet his will remained strong and he did not falter in his readiness any more.

Meanwhile, men came bearing raiment of war from the King’s hoard; and they arranged Aragorn son of Arathorn, future King of Gondor, and Legolas, the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, in shining mail, in which they looked terrible and beautiful like the great warriors of Elves and Men in the Elder Days, though the eyes of Legolas shone even brighter than the polished metal of his hauberk, and there was a strange light in them when he glanced at the Lady Éowyn, as if he had tried to find an answer to a question only he knew; and their companion, the Dwarf, too, was offered some weapons, matching his short and sturdy stature.

Then the King rose and that was the sign for Éowyn to come forward, bearing wine according the old custom of the Rohirrim, which she did with joy; for like everyone, she, too, was happy to see Théoden regaining the strength of his youth.

“Fertu Théoden hál!” she said. “Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee and thy going and coming.”

Théoden drank from the cup, and she then proffered it to the guests: first to Gandalf, then to Aragorn, then to the Elven Prince who kept looking at her with those very bright eyes of his, and finally to the Dwarf, whose great, reddish-brown beard was braided and adorned with small golden rings.

As she stood before Aragorn, she paused suddenly, and her eyes were shining with suppressed tears, for though she had learnt from the tidings she was listening all day long that this man, indeed, was from a very long line of kings and was to become a King himself, and that his claim was just, keenly could she feel the despair and utter loss Boromir must have felt upon meeting the man who was taking him every thing he had lived for.

Aragorn, of course, could not guess her true feelings. He looked down upon her fair face and smiled in that well-meant but infuriatingly patronizing manner the noble guests of her King always used to do; and as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and he knew that she trembled at the touch.

And this infuriated her even more, for she knew that he would think of the very false reason why she was trembling, yet she could not fully conquer her anger and her fear upon the feelings of upcoming doom that had been haunting her for years and not even Wormtongue’s falling in disgrace could cast away completely. For Théodred, her beloved cousin was dead, and so was Aud of the deep eyes, his wife, and the curse of the House of Eorl had taken Boromir, too, and she had no true faith more in the strength of the Men of Rohan, and no hope that they could be victorious against the vast orc-hosts of Saruman.

“Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn!” she said, as the old rite of greeting demanded, carefully keeping her voice even and cool and her face blank.

“Hail Lady of Rohan!” he answered, but his face was now troubled and he did not smile.

And Éowyn caught the worried look of her brother and cursed inwardly like a drunk horse-guard in a lowly inn. Why must men always believe that the only thing troubling a woman’s heart could be the suddenly inflamed love for a man at the first sight? She felt like screaming, and as she moved away to the Elf, she felt again the curious look of those bright eyes searching her face.

When they all had drunk, the King went down the hall to the doors. There the guards awaited him, and heralds stood, and all the lords and chieftains were gathered together that remained in Edoras or dwelt nearby.

“Behold! I go forth and it seems like to be my last riding,” said Théoden, yet there was fire in his eyes and fierce joy. “I have no child. Théodred my son is slain. I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir. If neither of us return, then choose a new Lord as you will. But to some one I must now entrust my people that I leave behind to rule. Which of you will stay?”

No man spoke. Nor could have the King hoped that any one would. The Rohirrim were warriors, born and bred for the fight – none of them would lay down his sword of his own free will.

Nor would I, if I ever were asked, Éowyn thought in bitter wrath, cursing the cruel twist of fate that let her born in a woman’s body. What good does it do for me, being a shieldmaiden and having a better aim than most men of Rohan when my King would not even consider bringing me along with him into battle?

“Is there none whom you would name?” the King asked again. “In whom do my people trust?”

“In the House of Eorl,” Háma, the ever-faithful answered without a heartbeat of hesitation.

“But Éomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay,” said the King; “and he is the last of that House.”

At these words Éowyn felt what little in her heart was still alive to freeze to ice in-between two heartbeats. The last of Eorl’s House! Éomer! What, then, was she, daughter of Éomund, grand-daughter of Thengel King of Rohan, some service-woman of the palace? Or else some pawn that could be handled over to a useful ally should the need emerge?

She was, fortunately, too thunderstruck to even turn away and run from this twice-cursed place, as she, no doubt, would have done otherwise.

“I said not Éomer,” answered Háma; then, with a glance at the very pale Éowyn, whose eyes gleamed like a naked blade, he added, “And he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be the lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.”

Théoden looked at the daughter of his beloved sister with fondness, but also with doubt. Éowyn raised her head defiantly, her jaw set firmly. How would any one, even the King, dare to question her skills to fulfill such an easy task? Was she not the daughter of Kings and a shieldmaiden? Had it to be Háma, of all people, be his name blessed till the end of time, to reminded the King that there was, indeed, another healthy sprig on the moldy old tree of Eorl’s House?

Théoden clearly saw the hurt and the cold fury burning in Éowyn’s ice-blue eyes and gave in with a sigh.

“It shall be so,” he said. “Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Éowyn shall lead them!”

Then the King sat upon a seat before his doors, and Éowyn knelt before him and received from him a sword and a fair corslet.

“Farewell, sister-daughter,” Théoden said. “Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall. But in Dunharrow the people may long defend themselves, and if the battle go ill, thither will come all who escape.”

“Speak not so!” she answered through clenched teeth; how could the King summon up his own doom with such lightly-spoken words? “A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return.”

And she shot a warning look at Aragorn who stood nearby. As the future King of Gondor, this man had the right to demand allegiance from Rohan; yet should Théoden or Éomer suffer any ill because of him, Éowyn was ready to make him pay for it.

“The King shall come again,” the soft voice of the Elven Prince said beside her. “Fear not. Not West but East does our doom await us.” And, lowering his voice even more, he added. “I shall require a moment of your time, Lady. For I have a message to deliver to you.”

And he reached out a long, pale hand, and on his palm the time-darkened silver clasp of her grandmother lay. The one with the White Tree of Gondor she gave Boromir upon his departure.

The King now went down the stair to muster his host, with Gandalf beside him. The others followed, save Legolas, who longed to speak to the Lady Éowyn right now, for he feared that later he would not have the chance to do thus. They spoke in hushed tones in the shadow at the great hall, and though Gandalf gave clear signs of impatience down there, the Elf took his time to say every thing he had been asked to say, not caring for the wizard’s dismay.

Then he, too, run down the stairs lightly, joining the others. Aragorn shot him an angry glare, then, as they passed through the gate, he looked back, wondering what the Elf might have told the White Lady of Rohan, who stood alone before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun.

And Legolas, casting a parting glance at her cold and beautiful and grim face, finally understood the admiration and respect Boromir had felt for this brave woman, and that the two of them could have, indeed, forged a strong bond between them, even without love, if fate had been less cruel to the son of Denethor. For Boromir was a man of honour above all else, and a born warrior, who would have given everything to save his city – for one short, horrible moment even his own soul; and that short moment was his downfall.

What now might become of Éowyn of Rohan, Legolas could only guess, but the far-seeing wisdom of his mother that sometimes emerged in his own heart told him that she was chosen for far greater deeds than to defend the people left behind in Dunharrow and to wait for the men to return from the battlefield – and that she was strong enough to face her destiny, no matter what the men of her family might believe.

He sighed, only half-listening to Gimli, whose mind was on the upcoming battle already, grumbling about the unnerving custom of Men wasting their time with long speeches ere they finally rode out, while they joined the waiting host of Rohan. There they met Éomer, who made a peace offer to the Dwarf about the beauty of ladies they had met, and they spoke and jested briefly.

And then came Gandalf, clad entirely in white, mounting Shadowfax, the prince of all horses in the Mark, snowy hair flying free in the wind and white robes dazzling in the sun.

“Behold the White Rider!” cried Aragorn, and the Riders of Rohan took up the words.

“Our King and the White Rider!” they shouted. “Forth, Eorlingas!”

And with that great battle cry, the last host of Rohan rode thundering into the West.

Far over the plain Éowyn saw the glitter of their spears as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house. She glared after them as long as a spark remained to see. Then she turned around and went back into the shadows of the Great Hall.

She had preparations to make.

But first, she had to grieve.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End note:

Technically, this would be my second Éowyn story, but since the first one, “Ice Blossom”, happens timely between this prelude and the upcoming Chapter One, I decided to change their order. As you probably noticed, I messed up the facts a little, compared to how they were originally described in “The Two Towers”. This is still no AU, though. Should rather be the way how Éowyn saw the same events... whether she was right or not. Oh, and we are talking of book!Éowyn here, very different from the movie version, both in looks and in personality.

FROZEN FLOWER

by Soledad

Disclaimer and rating as in the Prelude

Author’s notes:

This chapter deals mostly with Éowyn’s journey with the people of Edoras to Dunharrow. Therefore, the description of that grim place was taken from ’The Return of the King’, with slight modifications and interwoven with Éowyn’s inner thoughts.

There is also mentioned the shieldmaidens of the East and their fate. Now, since I have no idea which traditions Tolkien was following when he made a shieldmaiden out of Éowyn, what you can see here is practically my understanding of the whole institution. I’ve created it for my original stories, so let’s assume that it works for the Easterlings as well – whereby it’s not said that it would be the same thing for the shieldmaidens of Rohan!!

 I was told repeatedly that people hated Éowyn because she thinks like a man. I happen to disagree with this opinion, though it would not be surprising if she did. It’s said that she was bred among men of war, all the women of her family dying when she was but a small child. Still, I believe that she thinks as one of the Rohirrim – regardless if male or female –, who love to fight and place personal and family honour above all else.

 So much said to her defence, and now on with the story!

 CHAPTER ONE: SISTERS IN ARMS

 When we finally reached our goal, the Dunharrow, I was bone-weary. Not from the riding itself – could I have ridden away, swiftly, on my own speed, I would have come to Dunharrow at the following sunset. Yet I hade to take care for the people of Edoras: women and children mostly, for only those of the men stayed behind who were no longer able to wield a sword… and the wounded. So we went by slow paths in the hills; and it was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes – hard, and above all else, long.

Everyone was very tired, for though we had ridden slowly, we had also ridden with only very little rest. Hour after hour for nearly three weary days we had jogged up and down, over passes and through long dales, and across many streams; and the urgency in my heart to ride on and leave the slow behind grew with every passing hour.

I knew that feeling all too well: it was the battle-heat of the shieldmaidens that consumes from within if it cannot be given free release and its thirst quenched in the blood of the enemy. Few of us had inherited this horrible thirst from the early, barbaric days of our people, and it only awakes in times of great peril, as a gift to be able to defend the ones who are entrusted our care… yet its fire burns us slowly to death if naught else is given it to burn.

But I could not ride out to battle. I had people to care for and a fortress to defend, should the need arise. And though I did not wish our people more peril to come. Secretly I hoped for it, to relieve the wrath inside me ere it tore me apart.1

The third day was waning. In the last rays of the sun we cast long pointed shadows that went on before us. Darkness had already crept beneath the murmuring fir-woods that clothed the steep mountainsides. We rode now slowly at the end of the day, for the old and the little children were exhausted and the carts could barely hold even that limited speed.

Presently, that path turned round a huge bare shoulder of rock and plunged into the gloom of soft-sighing trees. Down, down we went in a long winding file, and once again I felt my chest tighten and remembered how much I hated to be here, captured between these narrow dales. I felt like a trapped animal again, as if the mountain sides were closing up on me, and I wondered briefly how I could have lived between the stone walls of Mundburg, had Boromir lived to fulfil his oath.

He loved his city, spoke about it as if it was rather a lover than a thing to defend – he would never live anywhere else. Well, fate solved that quarrel ere it could have arised – but of what a high price! Gondor has lost his Captain-general, the Lord Steward has lost his Heir, and I – I had lost the last man who could have become a friend and an ally in my struggles.

When at last we came to the bottom of the gorge, we found that evening had fallen in the deep places. The sun was gone. Twilight lay upon the waterfalls. A shadowy prison it was, though a beautiful one. I already felt restless, as always, when forced to come here.

All day far below us a leaping stream had run down from the high pass behind, cleaving its narrow way between pine-clad walls; and now through a stony gate it flowed out and passed into a wider vale. We followed it, and suddenly Harrowdale lay before us, loud with the noise of waters in the evening.

There the white Snowbourn, joined by the lesser streams, went rushing and fuming on the stones, down to Edoras and the green hills and the plains. Away to the right at the head of the great dale the mighty Starkhorn loomed up above its was buttresses swathed in cloud; but its jagged peak, clothed in everlasting snow, gleamed far above the world, blue-shadowed upon the East, red-stained by the sunset in the West.

A skyless world it is, in which the eye, through dim gulfs of shadowy air sees only ever-mounting slopes, great walls of stone behind great walls, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist – not a place for living Men to dwell upon, unless they are from the Kin of the Dunlendings, who were born from those very stone like Dwarves and had been here already before us, yes, ere even the people of Westernesse built Mundburg upon the Great River.

For a moment I sat motionless in the saddle of Windfola, my cherished steed, who should have been far away in the battle at the Fords, instead climbing mountain paths like a dwarf pony, listening to the noise of water, the whisper of dark trees, the crack of stone – and the vast, waiting silence that brooded behind all sounds. I never loved mountains, and every time I was forced to come her, I was borne down by their insupportable weight. For these mountains hated us, who had taken the land of their people of old – and I could feel their hatred. I almost could touch it with my hands.

Five hundred summers seem like eternity for a folk as young as ours; yet for the mountains, it is but a fleeting moment, like the wink of an eye. They remember – and they love and hate like all living things do. For these mountains are very much alive, even if most people cannot feel their slow heartbeat below their rocky skin. The Dunlendings and their ancestors are the ones who always belonged here and always will – we are naught but intruders. A nuisance.

Someone – one of the younger women, who escorted the carts on horseback and carried spears and swords to defend their families – rode up next to me, and I shook off my bad feelings for a moment.

“Harrowdale, at least!” I said. “Our journey is almost at an end. Let us not tarry here, for the people are weary. They need a roof above their heads, even if ’tis but a tent, so that they can rest at least.”

The woman – Enyd was her name, I remembered, for she belonged to the court and we met in Meduseld rather often – nodded and rode away, to guide the people downwards. I waited for a moment, collecting my strength to face this place once again, then began to descend, slowly, carefully, for through Windfola had steady feet, they were not used to such paths.

The paths out of the narrow gorge fell steeply. Only a glimpse, as through a tall window, could be seen of the great valley in the glooming below. A single small light could be seen twinkling by the river – a watchfire, mayhap, or a torch. By Eorl’s name, how I loathed this place!

In the deepening dusk I finally came down into the valley, followed by the long line of the people of Edoras. Here the Snowbourn flowed near to the western walls of the dale, and soon the path led us to a ford where the shallow water murmured loudly on the stones.

The ford was guarded. As we approached, many men sprang up out f the shadow of the rock; and they all knew me and cried with glad voices:

“Éowyn! The Lady Steelsheen2 of Eorl’s House has arrived!”

Then one of them blew a long call on a horn. It echoed in the valley. Other horns answered it, and lights shone out across the river. And Dúnhere, chieftain of the folk of Harrowdale, rode to the ford to meet us, and while the people of Edoras began to cross the waters, we spoke briefly.

Now, most people, even the Gondorrim, who should know better, like to believe that all Eorlingas are tall, gold-haired and blue-eyed. Certainly most of us are, but not all, for we had mingled with other races of Men, and many of us bear their marks on our faces.

Dúnhere was one of those, his mother being from the folk of the Dunlendings: a war orphan, found alone and starving in one of the hiding places of their warriors, and brought up among our people. Therefore Dúnhere was shorter than most of our Men, with a broad and heavy body, a square face and wavy, reddish-brown hair. Many of his folk in Harrowdale bore similar traits, and he was even respected by the Dunlendings, for his ancestry and his great skills both as a warrior and as a born ruler.

I was glad to see him alive and well, for it meant that no evil had found its way to the Harrowdale yet – but even more was I glad to see the tall, grey-eyed, auburn-haired woman riding on his side, in her shining mail shirt; though I saw that her shield-arm was resting in a sling. Probably broken, for her eyes were feverish with pain. Still, I was glad to see her, for I knew that she was there in the battle of the Fords of Isen, and I feared that she might be among the many who were slain alongside Théodred.

“Imogen!” I cried out in relief. “How glad my eyes are to see you! How is Elfhelm faring?”

“Still at the Fords,” she answered in her deep, somewhat rough voice. “The battle is not yet over, and we cannot foresee how it ends. Yet I have heard that Théoden King rode out with the last host of Rohan. Is that true? Is he freed from Wormtongue’s spell for good?”

“’Tis true and he has been healed,” I answered, “and I would be glad to tell you all about it – both of you – as much as I wish to hear tidings of the battle and of Théodred’s death. But let us get our people to the safety of Dunharrow first.”

They agreed, and Dúnhere and a few of his men helped us to gather the weary people and lead them on. The road now led eastward. Straight across the valley, which was at that point little more than half a mile in width. Flats and meads of rough grass, grey now in the falling night, lay all about, but in front of the far side of the valley a frowning wall could be seen: a last outlier of the greet roots of the Starkhorn, cloven by the river in ages past.

Finally, we came up under the looming cliff on the eastern side of the valley; and there suddenly the path began to climb, and I started shivering, for I knew that we reached the place I dreaded most, ever since I set foot into the Harrowdale as a child.

We were on the ancient road, a great work of Men’s hands in years beyond even the reach of song. Upwards it wound, coining like a snake, boring its way across the sheer slope of rock. Steep as a stair, it looped backwards and forwards as it climbed. Up it horses could walk; and wains could be slowly hauled; but no enemy could come this way, except out of the air, if it was defended from above.

Which was the very reason why we brought our people here.

At each turn of the road there were great standing stones that had been carved in the likeness of Men, huge and clumsy-limbed, squatting cross-legged, with their stumpy arms folded on fat bellies. Some in the wearing of the years had lost all features, save the dark holes of their eyes that still stared sadly at the passers-by.

I still can remember the first time I came here, after the death of my parents, sitting before Théodred on his great horse, safe in his strong arms. Barely seven summers had I seen back then, and the sight of those still stones filled me with a dread that had not lessened ever since. I know not why they still cause me such fear, for no power is left in them, or so ’tis said, and the Riders of the Mark heed them little and call them old Púkel-men and laugh about them. And yet, every time I have to take this road, I shake with fear and disgust, and they haunt my dreams for days, even after I have left.

Imogen, who rode alongside me, was not the least frightened, of course. Her own people descended from the Men who made this ancient road, after all, so she came into her own here, much more than I did – and living in the shadow of Dol Guldur takes one the fear of dead things.

I watched her fair but hard face, that spoke of much suffering, in spite of her youth and beauty, and I could not help but admire her, more than any other woman I had ever met and fought with – more than even Aud of the deep eyes, Théodred’s fair and valiant wife, who followed him to death by sheer willpower only.3

I loved and admired Aud, brave daughter of Erkenbrand, who was like a mother to me during the lonely years of my youth, spent among men of war. Yet with Imogen, I felt the strong bond of sisterhood I had never felt before – a bond that goes further even than the oath of shieldmaidens that binds us all together.

Whenever I see Imogen Ragnarsdóttir, the valiant, strong-willed wife of Elfhelm, I feel deeply ashamed for my never-ending inner wailing about my own fate. For trying my recent years in Edoras might have been, naught were my trials compared with the harsh life of this brave woman. And still, there is some likeness between the fates of the both of us.

Imogen comes from the East, where her father, Ragnar the Smith, is Master of the Deep Furnaces Under the Mountain – first warlord of the chieftains of the Easterlings of Rhûn, but no King – not yet, at least. So he was to bind his fellow chieftains to his throne by any means necessary – including letting them bed his daughters.

Life is harsh for the women of the East. They wed at a very tender age, almost as children, and their husbands keep many other women aside their wives: concubines, who could not find a husband, for the men fell in great numbers in war against the Orcs, against the other tribes and against the kingdoms of Elves and Men they try to plunder every time the need grows too great.

Yet they have to breed, for the tribes need children, many children, in order to survive under the shadow of Mordor, whose overlord they serve with clenched teeth and under heavy curses. What else could they do, when their master, who dwells in Dol Guldur, has such a great power over their hearts and over their meagre lands that could barely feed them?

The Easterlings dwell in deep caves under the mountains of Rhovanion and under the western outlines of the Ash Mountains, for that is the only way to be safe from the Orcs and other foul creatures of Mordor – or, at least, as safe as it ever can be. The men often leave their dwellings, to go into battle under the command of Dol Guldur’s captain, a dwimmerlaik they call Khamúl4, but the women (and their daughters) never leave the poor safety of the caves, never feel the kiss of sunlight on their faces, and fade away from the dreaded dry fever and die at a young age. ’Tis a wonder, and shows their great strength and resilience more than aught, that they still can bear children at all.

And if their husband is killed in battle – moreso when he was a chieftain or some other dignity – the women, wives and concubines and daughters alike – are slain and laid to grave with him and his belongings, to serve him even beyond his death. Only the male children are sent to their next kin to grow up with their cousins5.

The only way for a woman to escape this fate is to become a shieldmaiden. Shieldmaidens of the East are an ancient and secret bound, very different from us of the North. Their lives are led by strict rules and if one trespasses (or becomes ill), the others kill her, slowly and painfully, to set an example for further generations. They are not allowed to wed or to bear children, for their only duty and purpose is to fight. And to bed whom their fathers or chieftains tell them to bed, in order to strengthen their family’s or tribe’s position.

Yet sometimes the bonds of a shieldmaiden are cut, without her being asked about it, when the need arises to wed her to an important ally – or to an enemy who has a claim for heavy weregild against their father.

Which is the very thing that happened to Imogen.

For Elfhelm had been sent as Théoden King’s messenger to Ragnar the Smith, some four years ago, ere Dol Guldur forced the Easterlings to fall over the Mark once again. Yet the men of Ingolf Ragnarsson6, the hot-headed young warrior captain of Rhovanion, captured him on his way there, and brought him in shackles to Nimwarkinh, where Ragnar, self-proclaimed Prince of Rhûn dwells in his deep halls over the mountains, and had him thrown into the Black Cavern – the deepest dungeon under his father’s halls, filled with murky water and foul creatures.

Such a breach of custom and hospitality is unheard of among Easterlings, and Elfhelm would have had the right to demand Ingolf’s head on a plate as weregild. Yet Ragnar the Smith could not have his Heir killed (for his other sons, though he had made his very guard out of them, were born to his concubines, not to any of his deceased wives, so they could not follow him on the throne), so according to their customs, he offered his only remaining daughter instead.

Elfhelm could not refuse, for it would have caused the fall of Ragnar and his whole family – failing to pay the proper weregild could do that to a chieftain, and Ragnar had no treasures left to pay his debt otherwise. Yet during that fateful night he learnt that Imogen was very ill, having caught the dry fewer (or Fade, as they call it in Rhûn), that slow but deadly sickness that kills most women of the East. Her only chance to live was to be freed from the caves and brought somewhere where she could live in sunlight and free breeze.

And Elfhelm took a liking to her and asked Ragnar the Smith to give her to him as his wife, in order to strengthen the peace between the Mark and the East. And so Imogen was cut from her bond with the shieldmaidens and came to the East-mark with Elfhelm, where she was healed, thank to the healers who came from Gondor to Elfhelm’s request. But she kept wielding her sword, unless the Men of the Mark rode out to fight her own people.

She had been the only woman fighting to keep the Fords of Isen, for Théodred asked Aud to remain in Edoras and help keeping the King’s halls safe; but Elfhelm could never refuse Imogen when she wanted to go into battle with him; and though I often wished that I, too, could ride out with them, I was glad that at least she was there and could tell me how my beloved cousin was slain.

But now was not the time for tales of that battle yet. First we had to bring the people of Edoras to safety, set up camp and have them rest and eat. Then, after every one has been settled, we could talk.

Then, we could grieve.

We already climbed some hundreds of feet above the valley, but still far from below we could dimly see the winding line of our people, crossing the ford with the help of the guards back there and filing along the read towards the camp Dúnhere’s folk had prepared for them. Many from the Harrowdale were waiting to help them get settled and to offer food after our tiresome journey.

I was deeply touched from this hospitality.

“You are more than gracious, Lord Dúnhere, you and all your people,” I said to the chieftain, seeing the kindness the folk of Harrowdale offered our refugees. “We all our in your debt.”

He smiled at me, as he used to do when I was but a child and came visiting him and his family with the King, and his eyes were soft.

“At times of peril we must hold together. Little does it matter where we dwell in peace – or what blood in our veins flows. We are Eorlingas, of birth or of choice, and the only thing that matters is to keep our people safe. Or would you have come to the dale of horrors if your duty had not demanded from you to come?”

I glared at him in utter shock, and he laughed: a deep, rich laughter, very much like the King’s in his youth – or my father’s whom I barely remembered.

“Do you believe I had not seen how much you loathe to come here? The mere sight of the Dwimorberg makes you sick.  When you were a child, you avoided even to look at it and hid in Théodred’s tent.”

“You did that?” asked Imogen in disbelief. “Why? Nothing that dwells there has any power left.”

“Oh, but that is where you are wrong, Imogen Ragnarsdóttir,” answered Dúnhere gravely. “This is but your second visit here, and you know not the horrid tale behind these mountains. Look there!”

He held on his great steed, for we came to a sharp brink, and the climbing road passed into a cutting between walls of rock, and so went up a short slope and out on to a wide upland.

“This is the Fírienfeld, as we call it,” said Dúnhere to Imogen, pointing at the green mountain-field of grass and heath, high above the deep-delved courses of the Snowbourn, laid upon the lap of the great mountains behind: the Starkhorn southwards, and northwards the saw-toothed mass of the Irensaga. “And the grim black wall, rising out of steep slopes of sombre pines is the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain. Later, when we have the time, I shall tell you its tale.”

With all my willpower I forced myself to look where he pointed – where, dividing the upland into two, there marched a double line of unshaped standing stones, that dwindled into the dusk and vanished in the trees. Those who dared to follow that road – and there had been only very few of them ever since our people left the North and came to the Mark – came soon to the black Dimholt under Dwimorberg, and the menace of the pillar of stone, and the yawning shadow of the Forbidden Door.

Once, when I was not even born yet, in the foolishness of his youth Théodred took the risk upon himself and went as far as the Dark Door. Yet when he saw it gaping before him like the mouth of night, fear flowing from it like grey vapour, he came to his senses and fled backwards.

Never saw I my valiant cousin shiver with fear, save the rare occasions when he spoke about that day. Even six and twenty years later, he would shake with the sheer horror of those memories. How would I not be afraid of such a thing that made even Théodred the Brave shake?

“Such is the dark Dunharrow, the work of long forgotten Men,” Dúnhere added. “Their name is lost and no song or legend remembers it, save a few tell tales of the North I have heard from the Rangers of Eriador who come here at times.”

“For what purpose had they made this place?” asked Imogen. “Was it a town or a secret temple, or a tomb of kings maybe?”

“No-one could say after such long a time,” Dúnhere shrugged. “Here they laboured in the Dark Years, before ever a ship came to the western shores or Mundburg was built; and now they had vanished, and only the old Púkel-men are left, still sitting at the turnings of the road.”

I stared at the lines of marching stones: they were worn and black; some were leaning, some were fallen, some cracked or broken; they looked like rows of old and hungry teeth. Naught could have forced me to follow them into the darkness beyond, and more than ever I admired the bravery of Théodred, who went as far as the Forbidden Door, wishing to return the bones of Baldor, son of Brego, to lay him to rest among his forefathers. And though he failed at last, this was a valiant deed, one born of respect for his sires, and all admired him for it greatly.

“There still are legends about these Men among the Rangers of the North?” asked Imogen in surprise. “Not even my people do remember them any more, and we are said to be their descendants.”

“Just tall tales, naught else,” said Dúnhere, “but I shall gladly tell you them, lady, if you wish – tomorrow. Tonight, you should rest, at first. My people will watch your sleep, so be in peace.”

And so we went to our lodgings and lay to rest. Yet my dreams were haunted, as always when I had to stay in Dunharrow: with grey shapes of the Restless Dead who dwell under the Haunted Mountain; and with the darkness of a great, winged shadow, approaching swiftly from the South, and faintly and from far away I heard a shriek that froze the blood in my veins, even in my sleep.

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End notes:

Imogen’s people are the descendants of the once-feared Wainriders of Rhovanion and dwell under the mountains at Lake Rhûn. Ragnar the Smith is considered the Prince of Rhun among his own people, but his grip over the lesser chieftains is not tight enough to break free from Dol Guldur and turn against Sauron.

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