Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from them.

Shieldmaiden: A Token Symbol

"You will make some man a fine wife," says my uncle as I aid him to the throne. Once seated, he pats my hand fondly with his withered flesh, blind to the arrow he has launched. Its blow, swift and sure, pierces my pride and I flush with frustration.

Is it my fate to be chattel to one who shall regard me as naught more than a pleasing face with which to impress his people?

"I wish to be more than a wife," I whisper softly, not realising my words have carried to his ears.

"Do not fear: you shall," he responds in his feeble voice. I lift my head and find clouded eyes trained upon my face. "You shall be the honoured mother of many fine sons; mighty warriors and leaders all, like their forefathers before them! Of this I have no doubt."

He smiles benignly, believing he has soothed my fears, and I turn my face from his gaze, fighting not to cry out in anger.

I am more than the sum of my womanhood!

Ire swells within me as my very existence is reduced to little more than a provider of sons. I draw my hand carefully from his and rise, avoiding the gaze of his poisonous counsellor, whose dark eyes I can feel sweeping insolently over my form. Anger boils to rage at the insult; fingers that would sooner curl into fists and lash out at my tormentor must content themselves with the gathering of skirts as I prepare to leave. With an obedient smile and curtsey, I depart the Hall with haste lest I disappoint my king with both my vociferous objections to the fate he would wish for me, and the violence I would gladly mete out to the odious Wormtongue.

"… the honoured mother of many fine sons …"

The words ring in my ears as I exit the Hall and pass the guards seated on their stone chairs; I walk to the edge of the paved terrace and look out across the great wall where the River Snowbourn flows around the northern side of Edoras. A wintry Sun reflects off the ribbon of water, and the Snowbourn sparkles like a giant, winding prism in response; rays of coloured lights dancing like flashing jewels across its surface. Yet I can take no pleasure from the sight. My senses are yet consumed by my uncle's words.

Would I be as honoured were I to produce naught but daughters? I wonder, unable to fight the frustration which threatens to stifle me. Would I wish even to produce daughters, knowing that life held no more for them than dutiful service first to their fathers, then their husbands? For such is the lot of women in Rohan - even those of royal blood. Naught more is expected of us than obedience and fertility - as long as said fertility produces a male heir.

No! I would wish for more for daughters of my flesh! I would not have them condemned to the existence of a cosseted brood mare; though even then they would be less than that, for even the mares of these lands see glory in war! There is no distinction in sex among horses when men require swift hooves to see them into battle. Only those mares who are quickening with foal are kept from the conflicts which trouble Rohan, lest their precious cargo perish with them.

Oh, but life of a horse seems to me to be preferable to that of a woman! They enjoy a freedom to which the likes of I can but dream of.

How I envy them!

Privileged my life may seem to many, daughter of the court that I am; yet a cage remains a cage, regardless of how golden it may be. Do they not see this? I am no more free to choose my course in life than the lowliest servant of the lowliest lord.

If I were but a man I would be free to make my own destiny! Farming the land, grooming in the stables, taking up arms in the service of my king; whatever I wished - though for me the choice would be clear. No farmer am I, and no groomsman either …

What would I not give to be able to ride across the grassy plains with my brethren; to feel the wind on my face and the rush of anticipation when the Enemy is in sight! To hear the ring of steel as I unsheathe my blade and join my comrades-in-arms in the traditional Rohirric war cry which terrifies all our foes!

What do silks or jewels mean to me when there is renown to be found in battle?

Alas that that will ever be denied me! No renown shall I find here; the histories of our people rarely concern themselves with women. Nay, Rohan's minstrels sing of warriors and deeds of great might, not of mothers and daughters.

Yet perhaps for me there is a ray of hope? A shaft of light to warm the icy despair which suffocates my spirit, just as the Sun warms the icy surface of the Snowbourn yonder? For am I not a Shieldmaiden of Rohan? Have I not been taught the arts of war, that I may defend my people should the need arise? Do I not wield a blade as well as any man? Have I not been trained to deal death to the Enemy as my brother and cousin have before me?

The hope which this once brought me soon fades as I realise I may only ever utilise such arts when all else has failed: when the warriors of Rohan are so decimated in battle that the Enemy sweeps unchallenged toward my home, with relentless fury, in a bid to destroy all that our forefathers have wrought, and to wipe the last traces of Eorl's people from the face of Arda. What good shall my skill with a sword be then, when I stand before a dark army as the last, and least, of Rohan's warriors? One Shieldmaiden's solitary stand will not still the strike of a thousand blades, no matter how skilled she may be!

Shieldmaiden indeed! I shall be no more than a token to the damned! A final symbol of Rohan's defiance to be toppled and crushed before the women and children are finally put to death.

But perhaps in that I may take at least some paltry comfort. For as unequal as I am to my brother warriors in life, I too shall perish beneath the blade of my foes as easily they; and thus, in death, we shall at last be equal ...

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Author's Note: Previously posted on ff dot net under alternate pen-name.