The storm hangs like a breath drawn in but not yet let out. Underneath, the evening hovers like a clenched fist, squeezing the last slivers of daylight into the gathering dark.
As the gale is let loose and floods the grove Éowyn throws the torch. There is a cackling of flames and the man at the end of the rope is engaged in a merry dance.
Éowyn leans back into the hood of the wind and closes her eyes; until she hears the rope snap and its burden fall.
The fire that devoured Wormtongue's body after the hanging still burns at the foot of the valley.
A clamour of metal in the distance...like snatches of discordant music...
Éomer looks at Éowyn; retreated into her hair, the euphoria of the killing gone.
The stained smock over her dress is ripped at the front and the red material underneath pushes through the tear in deep creases.
What will they do to her?
He bites through the skin of his lip.
A ringing cadence of voices...carried forward by the dull drum-beat of boot-soles...
The wind tugs at the ends of Éowyn's loosening hair-band.
Éomer eases the hair-band out, kisses his sister's forehead tenderly...and loops it.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.