The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Weight of Loss

The soft light of dawn barely reached into the dim hall, the air heavy with grief and the stench of death. Éowyn knelt at her uncle's feet, her hands wrapped around his limp, cold fingers. She could hardly recognize him—the once mighty and proud Théoden, King of Rohan, now reduced to this hollow shell, his eyes clouded with madness, his spirit twisted and broken by Saruman's poison. His face was pale, lined with the weight of a sorrow that had long since drowned out any semblance of the man he once was.

"My lord, your son... he is dead. My lord?" Her voice cracked as she tried to reach him, to stir something within him. But Théoden's gaze remained vacant, staring straight ahead, lost in whatever darkness had claimed him. "Uncle?" she whispered, her tone desperate now, pleading. "Will you not go to him? Will you do nothing?"

Tears slipped down Éowyn's face as she looked into the eyes of her king, her uncle, searching for some sign of the man she had once known. But he was gone, lost to her as surely as Théodred now lay lost in death.

A choked sob escaped her as she turned her gaze away, unable to bear the sight any longer. The stone-cold walls of Meduseld pressed in on her, suffocating her with their silence, their indifference. She had never felt so alone.

In the next room, Éowyn knelt again, this time beside the bed of her fallen cousin, Théodred. His face, so familiar, so beloved, was now still and grey, the warmth of life already leaving him. She pressed her lips to his cold hand, lingering there, as if hoping her love could call him back from the halls of his ancestors.

Her tears fell freely now, silent but endless, like a river that had finally broken through its dam. Théodred had been like a brother to her, a protector, and now, he too was gone, leaving her to navigate the darkness of their uncle's madness alone.

She kissed his hand one last time, a silent farewell, when a movement in the doorway caught her eye. She stiffened immediately, recognizing the figure who had come to intrude upon her grief.

Gríma Wormtongue stood in the shadow of the door, his pale face half-hidden by the darkness. His thin lips twisted into a mockery of sympathy as he stepped closer, his presence filling the room with a sickening sense of unease.

"Oh, he must have died sometime in the night," Gríma said, his voice dripping with false sorrow. "What a tragedy for the king to lose his only son and heir."

Éowyn's blood boiled at his words, at the pretense of care from the very man whose poisonous words had seeped into her uncle's mind, corrupting him. She felt his hand rest on her shoulder, the touch so cold and invasive it made her skin crawl.

"I understand his passing is hard to accept," Gríma continued, his voice low and oily. "Especially now that your brother has deserted you."

Éowyn's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding with both fury and fear. She sprang to her feet, throwing off his hand as if it had burned her.

"Leave me alone, snake!" she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "Éomer has done no such thing! He's only gone because of your wickedness!"

Gríma's smile widened, his dark eyes gleaming with twisted pleasure as he stepped closer, his thin fingers reaching out toward her again. "Oh, but you are alone," he murmured, his voice slithering through the air like a serpent. "Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness, in bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink? The walls of your bower closing in about you... like a hutch to trammel some wild thing in."

His hand reached for her face, his fingers brushing her cheek before trailing down to her throat. Éowyn's body trembled, not with fear, but with the urge to strike him down where he stood. His words were venom, sinking deep into her soul, but she would not let them take root.

"So fair, so cold," he whispered, leaning in closer, "like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill."

Éowyn's breath came in short, sharp bursts, her fists clenched at her sides. She met his gaze with unflinching steel, the heat of her anger burning away the frost of his words.

"Your words are poison!" she snapped, her voice fierce. "Be gone, you wicked man, before I make you regret it."

For a moment, Gríma lingered, his eyes searching hers, as if daring her to act on her threat. But then, with a sneer, he stepped back, his hand dropping to his side.

"As you wish," he said, his voice once again smooth, yet dripping with malice. "But do not forget, lady... the walls are closing in. And soon, you may find there is no one left to save you."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Éowyn standing alone, her heart racing, her body shaking with the effort of holding herself together.

She could not break—not now. Not yet.

The sun had risen higher now, casting long shadows across the hall. Éowyn's heart was heavy as she helped prepare her cousin's body for the funeral, her hands moving mechanically through the motions, her mind numb with grief. The women of the city had gathered, whispering prayers and condolences, but Éowyn barely heard a word they said.

As she stood, wrapping a dark cloak around her shoulders, she felt a gentle hand on her arm. She turned to see Éothain's wife, Aemeth, a quiet woman with kind eyes and a calming presence. The woman had always been regarded as a healer, though her talents went beyond simple remedies. She had studied under one of the old shamans of Rohan before Gríma's influence had seen all the old ways exiled from the city.

"My lady," the woman said softly, her voice soothing, "I am so sorry for your loss."

Éowyn nodded absently, her eyes distant as she looked toward the body of Théodred. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice flat.

The woman hesitated for a moment, then continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I have been reading the tea leaves, my lady."

Éowyn's brow furrowed, her eyes flicking to the woman in confusion. "The tea leaves?" she repeated, barely paying attention.

"Yes," the woman nodded, her eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "They speak of a maiden from the fires, one who will come to guide us to safety. The signs are clear."

Éowyn blinked, her grief-clouded mind struggling to make sense of the words. "A maiden... from the fires?"

The woman nodded again, her voice growing more urgent. "Yes, and the men will return soon. Your brother, Éomer, and the Riders—they will join us again. All is not lost, my lady. There is still hope."

Éowyn shook her head, brushing the woman's words aside. She had no time for omens and prophecies, not now. Not with her world crumbling around her.

"I appreciate your kindness," Éowyn said, her voice strained as she pulled away. "But I must see to my cousin's funeral."

The woman watched her for a moment, her expression filled with concern, but she did not press further. "Of course, my lady. May Bema guide you."

Éowyn offered a stiff nod, barely hearing the words, before turning and making her way toward the hall. The funeral procession awaited, and she had no more time for the whims of fate.

She had work to do. She had a kingdom to protect, even if she had to do it alone.

The people of Edoras gathered solemnly outside the Golden Hall as Théodred's body was carried through the streets. Éowyn walked beside him, her eyes dry now, though her heart still ached with every step.

She looked to the horizon, her thoughts wandering to Éomer, her brother, banished and alone. She could only hope he was safe, that he would return to them before it was too late.

But deep down, she knew she could not rely on hope alone. The days ahead would be dark, and if they were to survive, she would need to find the strength within herself to lead.

As the wind swept through the city, carrying with it the whispers of the past and the promises of the future, Éowyn steeled herself for what was to come.

The time for mourning would pass. Soon, she would need to fight.