The Houses of Healing, Day 3

Last year on Valentine’s, I wrote a poem for my favorite literary character. This year, it is a fanfiction diary entry.

They are so cruel to me. They do not understand that he has consigned me to a terrible fate. He would have me wait in a peaceful, quiet cage, until my arm is healed… and my life is meaningless. Meanwhile, he rides to glory and to his death, and all noble men with him.

Théoden King is dead, and I wish that I had joined him. Indeed, I thought I had. I would not suffer his dishonor at the foul hands of the enemy, and so I rushed into the arms of death. It almost embraced me, yet something held it at bay. They say it was the Lord Aragorn, that he preserved my life with soft words and common herbs. I was surprised to learn that he despised me so, to deny me even the noble death of a shieldmaiden. Instead, I languish here, a prisoner of my own allies while the enemy yet lives, while there is yet honor and glory to be won.

Lord Faramir is the cruelest of all. His grey eyes seemed unmoved though I implored him to let me join the others. He is content to wait in the Houses of Healing while his comrades fight what may be the last battle of the age. And yet…I must be just. There was no cowardice in his contentment. I saw bravery and skill greater even than that of my brother. I have heard from the warden that Lord Faramir’s skill as a captain is great, and his men follow him willingly to any fate. It puzzles me how such courage and quietness can be mixed in a man. He will not let me go fight, yet he had some pity. He has changed my room to one with a window facing east, that I might look toward the battle and toward the return of the army, if any live to return. He bade me come and walk with him in the garden which also faces the east, that we might watch and wait together. Perhaps I shall join him tomorrow, though it will be of little comfort.

I cannot write much more. They say my shield arm will heal, but for now it lies in a sling. My sword arm does not exactly pain me. It could still wield a sword if given the opportunity, but it wearies of the pen.

Eowyn, daughter of Eomund

Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash