Books, Films, Adaptations & Reader Responses, 7/8
Éowyn: my 2009 Response (to *that scene* in Peter Jackson's film but also sorta to Tolkien) in the form of a fanfic!
As usual for this stack, I have been warned the post is too long for emails to open!1
Fix-it or Responsefic is a sub-genre of fanfiction that is written to “change something about canon the fan writing the fic wasn’t happy with” (Fanlore). “Canon” in fandom means what fandom considers the authoritative source or sources. Fans being fans (meaning human beings being human beings), there can be disagreement (sometimes heated) over what “counts” as canon, especially when there’s a complicated publishing “history” like Tolkien’s which involves posthumous publications by the family/estate. For a brilliantly informed discussion about the canon debate in Tolkien fandom, I can highly recommend Dawn Felagund’s Fandom Voices: Defining Canon and Using Canon in Fanworks.
I consider most if not all of my fics to be “Response Fics”—to a greater or lesser degree.2 My favorite genre to read and write is Alternate Universe (AU) fics which change some canonical element and then explore what happens to the “story” as a result. I also tend to draw what I like best from book and film, considering them equally “canonical” for purposes of my fic (I also write scholarship on the book and film, so ditto there!).
This post consists of excerpts from one of my series, the six-part Roads of Middle-earth, specifically those scenes focusing on Éowyn & Dernhelm in the second part, From Rauros to Isengard.
The AU premise of the fic is that Faramir accompanies Boromir to Rivendell (because of another dream Faramir has, about Boromir’s death from Orc arrows), while Sam stays in the Shire (because he married Rosie years ago). The rest of the story plays out with a slightly different Fellowship over the six parts, not quite following Tolkien’s structure. I’ve recently begun a long-planned sequel to it (started posting May 10, 2024!) which is still very much in progress, Minas Tirith: Into the Fourth Age.
One of the reasons for this fic was a scene in the Extended Edition of The Two Towers that had me cursing aloud on my first viewing: The Infamous Stew Scene.3
And yet, I loved so much of how Éowyn was portrayed through the film (starting with the fantastic job Miranda Otto did) which makes for a multi-layered response (for instance, the next in this series will be a single scene that I think is absolutely brilliant and provides a look at the character that does more than Tolkien ever did while transplanting some dialogue!).
It becomes more complicated once I place Jackson’s film in the context of Tolkien’s novel (and as my previous post notes, I do have *issues* with some of Tolkien’s choices). It’s not just one crummy choice for the Extended Edition (which, according to what my film scholar colleague told me, is not counted as “canon” in the discipline of film studies!), but part of systemic sexisms which pre-date Tolkien’s lifetime and still exist today (though specific manifestations may differ).4
In any case, I had a wonderful time making Éowyn a point of view-character, filling in her backstory and the origins and history of Dernhelm [you don’t think she could have pulled off what she did if she hadn’t trained and practiced before, do you?]) to show the choices she made over the years that led to Dernhelm taking Merry to the Battle of the Pelennor fields where they arguably played one of the most significant roles (outside that of Frodo and Sam) by killing the Witch-King of Angmar! I may have been leaping up and cheering during that scene in the theatre the first time we saw RoTK at a midnight showing in a theatre that held 500 people and was FULL! And if I was, I wasn’t the only one!
Formatting note: the divider lines indicate where I cut out the sections from other characters’ points of view (there some Aragorn/Boromir narrative going on during this part of the story; because the relationship between Boromir and Éowyn is going to be important in the Fourth Age fic, there are some sections from his point of view).
The short line of asterisks indicates a scene break in the same section, not cut text.
Éowyn slid through the kitchen, leaving through the door at the back of the room, one of many that surrounded the Great Hall where Théoden King held court. When he had been capable of holding court. Now, the Hall was dark, and few people attended court. Her uncle sat there all day and most of the night in a stupor attended only by Grima.
Thinking of her uncle's situation made her slam the door, a move she regretted when people working in the courtyard behind the kitchen looked up in surprise. She smiled and hurried past them, telling herself that neither the King nor his counselor would dream of her using this escape.
If they thought of her at all, they thought she was either in her room sewing or weaving or in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of food, the necessary cleaning, or the storage of foodstuffs brought to the King from the countryside around Edoras. And she did do all of that--and more--as the only woman of her rank in her uncle's house.
But sometimes, as today, she had to escape for a while from the cage that love and duty had built around her.
Sliding through the gate of the courtyard and down the path that led to the stables, Éowyn was grateful for the people who made her escape possible. The women who worked in the kitchen had known what she'd been up to since she was a child. They had covered for her when uncle or counselor asked for her. Not that her uncle asked after her anymore, she thought bitterly.
Gratitude for Éomer, Elfhelm and Théodred who had allowed her to join Éomer in the training given males in the Mark when she was growing into womanhood. For some of the other Riders in Elfhelm's éored who were related to or married to the women in the kitchen and who shared their gear with her, trained with her, looked the other way when necessary, and confirmed the story of "Dernhelm" the young man from far in the Eastemnet who had lost his family and come to Edoras to serve the King.
Éowyn entered the stables through the back door. Her horse Windfola was in his box stall, and, hidden in a battered chest at the back, was her gear. Chain mail, helmet, jerkin, leggings, leather surcoat. She shed her housedress, the brown overdress and blue tunic pulled easily off and quickly folded away. Then, ducking away from Windfola's nuzzling, she donned the gear and braided her hair in the style worn by the men, quickly tying the braid off with a leather strap. The helm covered her head, its nose guard and wings shielding down around her face. The gear disguised her well enough to deceive most around her.
Saddling and bridling Windfola took even less time than donning her own gear, and she was soon unlatching the door to his stall and leading him out the door. Scenting the air, eager for exercise, he danced beside her, and she slapped his neck affectionately, then swung into the saddle.
She kept him on a tight rein as they trotted down the path that led to the main gate. The children playing around their houses and their mothers would not thank any Rider who was careless inside the walls of Edoras.
Coming to the open gate, guarded by several men, she reined in, seeing a group of Riders coming up the hill, fast. Shading her eyes, standing up in the stirrups, she watched them approach.
She recognized her brother's crest, the white horsetail. And the armour of the man he held in front of him, battered and bloody.
Shocked, she waited for them to come through the gate. Seeing her, Éomer paused briefly.
"Dernhelm, get Éowyn for me, will you? It's Théodred, he's hurt."
Éomer didn't wait for her nod, kicking his horse back into a trot and heading toward Meduseld.
Éowyn turned Windfola back and returned to the stables. She had to get back as quickly as possible.
* * * * * * *
Sitting by Théodred's bed, having done all she could to staunch the bleeding and bandage the shattered flesh, Éowyn held his hand.
She'd had years of experience nursing Riders injured in battle with Orcs, and she was sure her cousin was dying. But she would stay by his side as long as she could. In love and gratitude. For all he had done for her after her parents died, when she was a lonely girl growing up in Meduseld.
Éowyn had learned to ride on horses who had served long and survived to now live in the best pasturage near their home until they died. The Rohirrim took care of their horses, all their horses, neither killing the old ones nor turning them out to starve in the Wild, for the Riders loved their horses as they loved their kin. Man and horse worked hard, all riding to war if necessary. The grief for a fallen steed was like that for a fallen comrade, and those who survived the battles were treated well, supported by all, until they passed into the halls of the ancestors and their bodies buried beneath the green grass of the plains.
One of her most treasured memories was being tossed up on the back of a great dappled steed, grey hair going white in places, with a broad back and gentle gait. Holding onto the coarse hair of the mane tightly at first, she was afraid she would fall. Her mother rode behind her, encouraging the horse to trot gently. That was one of the last times she could remember doing anything with her mother.
Soon after, her father was killed by Orcs. And her mother died when she was seven. She loved her uncle, her mother's brother, whom she grew to realize was the King, and Théodred, her cousin, the tall grave young man who was so gentle to her when she cried for her parents.
But she came to realize that, because his Queen Elfhild had died in childbirth, Théoden tended to treat her as some lowland flower, one that would die in the winds of the mountains unless carefully tended, unlike the native symbelmynë that grew wild. His care for her meant her uncle wanted to restrict her movements as she grew into womanhood, and as King, he could do so.
Éowyn had resisted his care, watching her brother leave for training every morning after breakfast. She followed him out, demanding to go riding, to spend the day outside with him. As she grew taller, the older people whispered about her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, who had came from Gondor and was known as "Steelsheen."5 Only Théodred understood and supported her, pulling her up on his horse in front of her, riding with her every day out to the fields.
As a child, she spent hours each day riding. But as she grew, as her breasts swelled and her menses started, her uncle started to try to restrict her to the kitchen and the bower, to keep her from wearing her brother's hand me downs and take to wearing gowns.
After a season, she had chafed, become impatient. Théodred had found her crying one day, coaxed the reason for her unhappiness out of her, and talked to Elfhelm. They did not wish to directly oppose the King's will, but Théodred helped her create "Dernhelm," a distant young cousin of her father's family in the east Marches. Dernhelm could train with Éomer under Elfhelm and Théodred. Dernhelm had been her only escape, and the tension between her and her uncle had disappeared as he had seen her apparently happily settle into her role.
Nearly a dozen years had passed since then. She could no longer go daily to the fields and the training ground, but she did several times a week. Only hard physical activity, so less demanding emotionally than the work expected of women, gave her the strength to sit calmly in the hall at night, to carry the mead cup to the decaying King, to watch Wormtongue drip his poison into the King's ear.
Now, watching her cousin dying slowly, she wondered in a haze of grief how she would find the strength to continue.
When Boromir came to the Hall the next morning, it was nearly empty. Only a few older men and women sat at the tables. Boromir had slept late this morning, waking to find the others already gone.
After breaking his fast, Boromir asked Háma where the training grounds were. It had been days since Boromir had the chance to practice. He tried not to think of his last practice with Merry and Pippin. Gandalf had assured them that the two young hobbits were safe although he refused to give them more information.
Háma gave him careful directions. Boromir found the training grounds easily and stood a few moments, enjoying the fresh air, watching the men at work. The Rohirrim trained to fight both on horseback and on the ground, with bows and with knives and swords. All the men present were already partnered.
Just as Boromir was getting ready to leave, another man arrived, swinging easily off a great grey horse and dropping its rein. Admirably trained as all Rohan's horses were, the horse stood calmly, hipshot, obviously prepared to wait until his rider needed him.
This man's gear was better than the others there, and a second look told Boromir that this was a youth, not a man full grown. Still, if he was willing to spar, it would be better than nothing.
Boromir nodded a greeting which was returned somewhat shyly he thought.
"I was hoping to practice this morning," Boromir said. "If you are free, would you be willing to work with me?"
The youth nodded. "Certainly, Lord Boromir," he said.
"Call me Boromir. And you are?"
"Dernhelm."
They entered the training ground. After stretching and limbering up, they faced each other, each with a blunted training sword and shield. Boromir began slowly, not certain of Dernhelm's abilities, but he was pleasantly surprised.
Although the young man was not as strong as some, he was quick, focused, and determined. And he had been well trained.
The bout went well, lasting longer than Boromir had thought it would. He found himself getting breathless, sweating more than he ought to be. Dernhelm pressed forward, moving more quickly, and Boromir found himself retreating.
Then it happened. Turning to parry a thrust, Boromir was blinded momentarily by the sun and misjudged the distance and angle, allowing Dernhelm to make a solid hit. Unfortunately the hit was on Boromir's left shoulder.
Boromir stepped back, disengaging, pointing his sword down, letting his shield slip out of tingling fingers. The healed wound had all but stopped hurting, but Dernhelm's hit had sent a shock down his arm. The heavy shield pained him. The youth was stronger than he looked.
"My lord?" Dernhelm had stepped back as well, dropping his sword, looking anxious from what Boromir could see of his face behind the old fashioned helm that covered a good deal of it.
"It's nothing," Boromir said. "An old wound. It was a good hit, lad."
Dernhelm smiled, relieved, and stepped forward, retrieving Boromir's shield for him.
"A very good hit indeed."
Boromir turned, seeing Aragorn leaning against the low wall that surrounded the training area. He was smiling, wearing only a loose red shirt and his leggings and was unarmed. Boromir thought that Aragorn looked more at ease than he had in days, another result of Gandalf's return.
"I was lucky," Dernhelm said, handing the shield to Boromir who nodded his thanks.
"Aragorn, this is Dernhelm."
Aragorn said, "Did we meet last night?"
Dernhelm shook his head, looking down at the ground. Boromir thought his obvious awe of Aragorn was appealing.
Aragorn, though, smiled, and said, "I am sure that we spoke last night. In the Hall, after dinner."
Dernhelm said, "No, my lord. Forgive me, I must leave now." Without looking directly at either Boromir or Aragorn, Dernhelm left the training ground. Grasping his horse's rein, he mounted in one smooth motion, and trotted off.
A silence fell over the tables at the front of the Hall, and Boromir looked up to see that the king had risen. A slim young woman, clad in shimmering blue, with blonde hair falling to her waist, came forward bearing a large golden cup.
"Ferthu Théoden hál. Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"
After Théoden drank from the cup, she came to the table where Boromir, along with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, and Éomer were sitting. All rose. She offered the cup to Aragorn.
"Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn," she said.
"Hail Lady of Rohan!" he said as he took the cup and drank from it.
Boromir noted that Aragorn smiled as he looked upon her and the colour that rose in her cheeks as she looked back. He found himself watching her with new attention as she moved around the table, greeting each of the guests by name and offering them the cup.
He vaguely remembered seeing her at the feast last night but had not recognized her then. Éowyn! When he was last in Rohan, he had come to know her after he became involved with Éomer. His memory was of a coltish girl, all legs and arms, often clad in a boy's tunic and leggings, hair carelessly tied back, smudged with dirt and spending her time in the stables. She had resented Éomer's involvement with Boromir, he thought at the time, perhaps because of the loss of their parents, and was too young to hide it.
Now, grown to a stunning beauty, she approached him, last of all, her eyes down, to offer him the cup of wine.
"Hail Boromir son of Denethor."
Boromir took the cup from her hands and sipped after greeting her in return. Her voice seemed cold, her manner distant. When he returned the cup to her, he held it a moment, trying to win some recognition from her.
"Lady Éowyn, I am glad to see you again," Boromir said. "Would you care to join us?"
She did not look up when she replied. "My apologies, Lord Boromir. I have duties elsewhere."
Boromir flushed at the tone of her voice, allowed her to take the cup from him and sat, feeling rebuked.
Éomer said, "Sister, you can spare us a few moments, surely."
She hesitated, then sat next to him on the bench, still looking down.
After moments of silence, several conversations hastily began. Gandalf asked Éomer about his encounters with Saruman's Orcs, and Legolas and Gimli began another round of their debate concerning the relative virtues of axes compared to bows and knives. This topic was of great interest to them at least.
But chill silence seemed to surround Éowyn, sitting across the table from Aragorn and Boromir. He thought she seemed frozen, a far cry from the laughing, vital girl he remembered from a decade ago. Even though she had disliked him, her energy and openness had charmed him. He wondered what had happened to change her.
After what seemed an eternity during which Boromir passed from shame to anger, the king rose and passed down the Hall to the great doors, calling to him the heralds and chiefs. Silence fell over the Hall.
"Behold, tomorrow I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding. 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."
The king and his chiefs left the Hall. In their wake, others began to leave. Gandalf rose and left, closely followed by Legolas and Gimli.
Aragorn spoke quietly, "Lady, what can you tell us of a young man named Dernhelm? We met him earlier today."
Boromir had to stand quickly as Éomer upset his goblet and wine streamed over the table.
Boromir helped Éomer clean up the mess as Éowyn spoke.
"He is a young relative of ours," she said. "From a distant line. He came to Edoras some years ago after losing his parents in an Orc raid. Why do you ask?"
Boromir sat again, wondering at the difference in her when she spoke to Aragorn. Her eyes shone as she looked at him.
Aragorn shrugged, "He seemed to be burdened by an unnamed sorrow," he said to Boromir's confusion.
He had not thought Dernhelm sorrowful. Shy perhaps. But then Aragorn tended to see more than most did.
"I would help him if I could," Aragorn continued.
She smiled. "That is kind of you, my lord. But I think Dernhelm would prefer to be left to deal with his problems on his own. Would you agree, brother?"
"Yes," Éomer said firmly. "He has always refused to live here, to trade on his relationship with us, preferring to go his own way. He is…somewhat older than he looks. He would not wish to be singled out, I think."
"Very well," Aragorn said. "I will do nothing…unless asked."
Boromir saw that Aragorn addressed his words mostly to Éowyn. Watching them all, Boromir was confused. He had the feeling that more was being communicated than was being said.
Éowyn rose, drawing the formal manner with which she had borne the cup to the king about her as a cloak, and bid them goodnight.
Boromir watched her as she left the Hall, passing silently through the columns to leave through a door that was behind the beautifully carved throne. She was a mystery to him, one that he found he wished to understand.
"Come," Aragorn said. "We had best go to our sleep." He stood, and Boromir hastily followed. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with Éomer.
As he and Aragorn walked to their room, Boromir tried to understand how it was that his life had gotten so much more complicated in ways that had nothing to do with the war.
*******
Éowyn left the Hall through the side door near the throne. As soon as the door was shut, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and began to breathe easily again.
Aragorn had seen the truth behind Dernhelm. She was sure of it. In fact, remembering this morning, she thought he had seen it at the training ground. But he seemed to be promising her that he would not reveal her secret.
Boromir had not seen. She remembered him clearly from ten years ago, and did not think he had changed greatly since then. Both now and during his brief stay at the Golden Hall last summer, he seemed the same. Honest and open, uncomfortable talking to women, or perhaps only to her, but not one to lie or hide his feelings. Had he realized her deception, he would have spoken.
She remembered how he had been so taken with Éomer for a time although that seemed to have passed before he had left to return to Gondor. Even though she had treated him badly during his time with her brother, he had always been honest and kind to her. At thirteen years, all she had seem was a strange man who had stolen her brother's attention from her for a season or two. Now, she saw him with different eyes, watching him with Aragorn.
Éowyn realized she should return to her room. She still had to pack what she would take to Helm's Deep, and it was growing late. But even as she walked, moving through the familiar passages without seeing them, she could not stop thinking of this evening.
From a table across the room, she had watched the two of them sitting side by side, their shoulders touching. One dark, quiet but conveying the sense of great authority hidden for a time. A dark green tunic, a large knife worn casually at his side, an unusual jewel at his throat. Silver and crystal, finely made, gleaming in the torchlit hall, it seemed more a woman's ornament. The other one light to his dark, blond, carrying himself as he always had, as a lord's son, a warrior and leader of warriors, in a red and gold tunic of silk. Two who seemed to be always aware of each other, communicating with a look and a word. She wondered what their relationship was. It seemed closer than battle companions, reminded her of Éomer in his first days with Éothain.
Since her cousin's death a double handful of days ago, Éowyn had drowned in sorrow. Her brother's disagreement with Grima, his imprisonment, her uncle's illness, had been too much to bear. She had roused herself only once, when Wormtongue had approached her, offering his protection in the wake of her brother's disgrace. He was lucky she had not been wearing her knife at that moment.
And now, in a day, all had changed. The uncle and king she remembered from her girlhood, before Grima had arrived, had returned, healed. Like a fresh wind from the West blowing through a dark room, Gandalf and the others had arrived and the Eorlingas would go to war. And more than that, training with Boromir this morning, talking to Aragorn and Boromir this evening, she felt alive in a way that was new to her. Anything seemed possible now. Where before she had seen only one path, a dark one leading into endless night, now many opened before her. She did not think she could sleep this night.
Éowyn opened the door to her room and entered. The rich designs upon the floor, tapestries she had woven on the wall, shone in the light of the lamps. It was a beautiful room. But more than ever, it seemed to shrink in upon her. A cage. The loom sat in the corner of the room, a tapestry half-finished. The elaborately decorated chest contained dresses. The bed was narrow, a maiden's bed, she thought scornfully. She had been alone too long.
She looked around impatiently. She realized that she could go to Helm's Deep tomorrow leaving all in this room behind without a single regret except for the carved horse that sat upon a shelf on the wall, made by Théodred for her fourteenth birthday, and the gold necklace that had been her mother's.
Coming to a sudden decision, she left her room. She met no one as she left the Hall by a little-known back door and hurried to the stables. As always, she felt calmed by the horses, now dozing, unaware of what was going to happen in the morning. Windfola woke and nickered happily at her when she entered, and she stroked his nose, apologizing for not bringing him a treat. Then she went to the chest in the back of the stall and pulled out her gear. This was the most important thing she had to pack.
She would travel to Helm's Deep as Éowyn. But once there, she might choose to take on a different role than sitting with the women and children in the Caves. The time for that was over.
*******
Éowyn stood by Éomer as they watched Gandalf, sitting easily on Shadowfax without any gear, speaking to Théoden in the slanting light of dawn.
"Keep on your way to Helm's Deep, Théoden, for that is your road. But I must leave you for a while. I have an errand elsewhere. Await me at Helm's Deep!"
Moving like the wind made visible, Shadowfax sprang away, a flash of silver against the green of the plains, bearing Gandalf swiftly out of sight.
Éowyn sighed. She loved Windfola, but the sight of Shadowfax always left her unsettled. She had seen him rarely since he spent his days on the plains, roaming among the herds. But his line was honoured, descending from Felaróf, the horse of Eorl the Young, consenting to bear only the King of the Mark or his sons. She had learned the names of all the horses in his line. And although she had seen him only upon three occasions in her girlhood, she had chosen to weave his image into her first tapestry.
"It is time," Éomer said, mounting Firefoot.
Éowyn picked up Windfola's reins. The idea of riding Shadowfax was an idle dream, she told herself. She should focus on what needed to be done this day. Looking around, she saw a woman carrying an infant and trying to keep two others close to her as the march began.
Catching up to the unruly bunch, Éowyn offered the two children the chance to ride Windfola for a while. The offer was accepted eagerly by the boy and girl and gratefully by their mother.
Boromir sat cross-legged on the ground, his empty bowl in front of him. The night wind whispered through the tall grasses on the plains that stretched around them. They were camped near a small stream which provided fresh water. Reluctantly, Boromir had come to eat daymeal with Éomer and Éowyn. He'd asked Aragorn to accompany him, but his request had been met with a laughing refusal and the claim that he had to stand watch.
However, the meal had not gone as badly as he'd feared it would although most of the credit for that was due Éomer. Either he failed to notice Éowyn's silence or, Boromir was forced to admit, her quietness was her usual manner. Éomer had talked happily of the past throughout much of the simple meal, calling on the other two more for agreement or a missing detail than for conversation.
They sat close to one of the many cooking fires. Around them, others sat or lay, resting for the next stage of the march. As had been true every day, the food was part communal, part individual. Fires were built throughout the huge camp, with everyone who could do so contributing food, while one or two women oversaw each individual cooking pot.
Around the fires, watched by tired adults, children ran shrieking and laughing. Boromir wondered where their energy came from. They had spent the day walking alongside their parents, yet the children still ran and played. The first night, he had struggled with the impulse to order them to silence as he would a company of his men. Only his realization that the size of the train and the necessity to travel during the day made it unlikely that they could travel in secrecy had stopped him.
"Lord Éomer, the King asks you to attend him."
One of the King's guards from Edoras, mail shining in the firelight, bowed. Éomer set his bowl down, rose quickly, and, nodding farewell to Boromir and Éowyn, followed the man off into the dark.
Silence wrapped itself around Boromir. He had not considered he would have to be alone with Éowyn. He was not sure what to say. To give himself time, he reached out and refilled his bowl. The pot was full of the basic thick soup or thin stew that they'd been eating on the road. The first day or so there had been bread, brought from Edoras. Now, every night, water, grain, dried meat, and root vegetables were simmered together until edible. Boromir had noticed a range of results even with such simple foodstuffs.
Earlier, Boromir had not paid much attention to the food. Now, eating a bit more slowly, he was surprised at how good this meal tasted, how different it was from what he'd eaten previously.
"It's very good," he said, looking up from the bowl.
Éowyn smiled at him for the first time that night, the first time in days, he thought, her face and hair shining in the light from the fire. "Thank you," she said.
"You made it?" Boromir spoke without thinking, cursed himself when he saw her face change.
"Yes, Lord Boromir, I did," she said, face flushing enough that he could clearly see her anger even in the uneven light of the flames. "I do not know what is expected of women in the court of Minas Tirith, but in Edoras, there is no great distance between the King's house and the people. My uncle's wife died young. I am the only woman in the House of Éorl of my generation. I oversee his household and work with the women. I have to know how to cook, clean, weave, and sew in order to make sure those jobs are done well, everything from storing food to serving it. I do not say I cook every day, but I have done so, to learn how to do what must be done well. Warriors could hardly fight without clothing, hot food, and someplace to sleep. No woman during these times can spend her life idling about like a courtly decoration."
Boromir clutched his bowl, fighting down his first anger at her assumptions about what he'd meant. In truth, she was not so wrong. But she was not entirely right either. He had no right to reply to her anger without trying to explain. He looked steadily at her.
"My apologies," he said quietly. "I did not mean to imply that you led an idle life. In truth, I know little of the lives of women in Gondor or elsewhere. Our mother died when I was ten. She..." he halted, swallowing.
Boromir rarely spoke of his mother to anyone. When she'd died, he had to care for Faramir, lost and grieving, repulsed by their father who was drowning in his own black wave of grief and had little time for children. Boromir had swallowed his own tears, comforted Faramir, and had thought the time for such grief long past. Now he was surprised by how close he had come to tears.
Éowyn's lips were still parted, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose and tumbling unnoticed over her shoulders and down toward her lap. After Boromir finished speaking, she was quiet a moment, then, pushing her hair back behind her ears, leaned forward. Still flushed, she seemed to finally look at him for the first time.
"I did not know. Forgive me," she said. "My mother died when I was seven, soon after my father was killed fighting Orcs. Éomer and I lived with my uncle and cousin."
Boromir remembered Théodred from his earlier visit, an able commander and heir, a strong warrior in his own right. Silent but not unfriendly. Certainly Boromir had known that Éomer and his sister's parents were dead, but he had not truly thought what that would mean for a girl, alone, until this time.
"I think we can both forgive the other, if there is even need to do so," he said. "I had not thought what your life must have been like then."
Éowyn shrugged a little, twisting her hair around her fingers. "It was not all sorrow," she said slowly, gazing into the fire as if at the past. "My uncle and cousin were kind, my cousin especially, to Éomer and to me. I grieved, certainly, but there was much to do which helped." After a pause, she looked at him again, blue eyes reflecting the dancing light. "And you?"
"Me?"
"What was it like for you and your brother--he's younger, is he not?--after your mother died?"
Boromir thought back as he had not in years to the bare and echoing halls of the Citadel, white stone pure and shining, black columns, huge doors. Servants clad in black robes moving silently about duties. Silence for the most part, echoing through the rooms, that had before seemed filled with light, music, and flowers. Nothing had really changed in the place, he knew, but love had died.
"Lonely," he said, slowly. "Though I did not realize that then. We soon began to learn our duties as pages, then as squires, then warriors, training together. Faramir was only five and, I think…more like our mother than I. And perhaps too young for what our…for what was expected of him. It's so long ago now that it is hard to remember."
Éowyn nodded. "Although sometimes it feels as if it were only yesterday," she said, almost as if speaking to herself.
Boromir closed his eyes, trying not to let the pain he felt show. Perhaps it did, but he could not afford this weakness.
They sat in silence a while long while around them people arranged bedding and settled down to sleep for as much of the night as they could.
Boromir stood, walked around the fire, and knelt besides Éowyn, taking her hand. Startled, she looked at him, eyes wide, silent. He kissed her hand, held it a moment. "I am glad we had this chance to talk, Lady." he said. "I had thought you were angry at me because of what happened when I was last in Rohan. But tonight gives me hope that is no longer true."
She shook her head. "I have never been angry at you, Lord Boromir."
Boromir smiled, relieved, then bid her good night. He rose and returned to where his bedding was waiting for him. Aragorn would call him when the watch changed.
He did not see how Éowyn watched him as he left her.
The last day of the march, Boromir kept to himself. The clouds above had thickened, a cold wind blowing from the East. He was reluctant to talk to anyone, feeling as if danger from within and without was too close. The others around him seemed to share this feeling, and the large train moved as quickly as they could to Helm's Deep. If all went well, they would arrive there sometime the next day. And then things would become simpler, Boromir thought, if more dangerous.
*******
Éowyn shifted the basket she had slung over her shoulder and paused to catch her breath. Before her, Helm's Deep loomed high and dark as a thundercloud in the morning light. Around her, people of Edoras greeted the sight with glad cries, glad to see safety within reach at last. The stronghold, long a refuge of the people of the Mark, showed signs of recent repair. Smoke rose over the Deeping Wall hinting that some had already gained refuge. Éowyn hoped that the mother of Éothain and Alfreda was there.
The last night or two had been long, the howling of wargs heard from afar and the lights of burning villages seen on the horizon. But the journey from Edoras had passed without incident. They were safe, or soon would be, inside the stout walls.
Slowly, Éowyn began walking down the hill. She told herself that her fears were groundless. But when she passed through the gate, she could not help shivering at the chill she felt in the shadows.
Crowds of people, old and ill sitting patiently against the walls, children running and crying, mounds of supplies piled carelessly, some likely to spoil, met her eyes when she had climbed the steps to the Keep. Her uncle and brother, the lords Aragorn and Boromir, and the other men, went inside immediately to plan how best to defend the Keep. Éowyn twisted her hair into a knot to keep it out of her face and started trying to organize the people and food as best she could.
Later that night, tired and aching but unable to stay in the Caves, Éowyn slipped into one of the back storerooms. Earlier, she had left the basket that contained her gear hidden amongst those filled with potatoes. Stripping off her clothes, she braided her hair and donned Dernhelm's clothing, armour, and weapons by feel in the dark.
She left the storeroom for the corridors, dimly lit by torches. As she was turning a corner, she nearly ran into a tall figure who cursed, then caught her before she fell.
"All should be on the walls or in the court, man! What are you doing here?"
Éowyn tensed as she recognized Éomer's voice. He stepped to one side, and cursed again when he saw her face in the light of the nearest torch.
"Éowyn!"
"Dernhelm, brother," she said.
"What are you doing? You should be in the Caves! Return at once. This is no time for playing."
At these words from her brother, Éowyn let loose the reins she had long kept on her temper. Stepping forward, she placed both hands on his chest and shoved, exulting in the noise when his armoured back hit the stone wall.
"I loved Théodred as much or more than you. And his was not the only funeral in recent days. How many have died? I will not sit in a cage and make bandages when I can fight."
Éomer opened his mouth to speak, but Éowyn did not stop, her rage burning her exhaustion away. "You cannot order me, Lord Éomer! But if you wish, go to the King and tell him what I have done, what you know I have done, these past years. I have not been playing. If he orders me to retreat to the Caves, I will obey. But think on this. I have had more weapons training than all the village men and boys who now stand against Saruman's hordes. But even if I had not, how much more dangerous is it for me to be fighting Orcs armed with a sword than to be sitting in a dress in the Caves waiting for the Orcs to break in?"
Éomer flushed, red mottling his cheeks. "They will not defeat us," he said, hotly in turn.
"I have heard the scouts' reports. I know what comes against us," Éowyn said. "Choose, brother."
Silence filled the hallway as Éowyn waited, hands clenched. Finally, Éomer bowed his head and stepped away, gesturing for her to go ahead of him down the hallway that led to the courtyard.
Éowyn waited until he looked up, kissed him on the cheek. And Dernhelm went out to join the defense of Helm's Deep.
*******
Boromir was standing on the Deeping Wall, watching the courtyard below. He was still amazed that Elves had come to Helm's Deep. Such a thing had not been heard of in this age. It was as Aragorn had said, that all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth must join to defeat the Nameless Enemy.
As he turned to watch the archers who were joining the Rohirrim on the battlements, Boromir blinked. He could not believe what he thought he was seeing. It had to be the darkness. He squinted, trying to see in the uncertain light of the cloud-shadowed Moon. The air around him bore the feel of approaching rain.
Aragorn soon returned from overseeing the formation of the fighters in the courtyard and stood next to Boromir, elbows on the battlements. Boromir turned to look out over the valley as well.
Far down the valley, they could see the thickly clustered lights of torches carried by Saruman's army approaching. The scouts coming in late that afternoon had reported that the combined Uruk-hai and Men amounted to an astounding force, some ten thousand strong they estimated.
But for now, Boromir was consumed by what he thought he had seen. He looked around, noting that most of the warriors around them were Rohirrim, although Legolas and Gimli were also close.
"Aragorn," he began, unsure of what to say.
Aragorn looked at him, head tilted.
"The Elven warriors," Boromir started. "Are they…I thought I saw…but it cannot be."
"What?" Aragorn asked.
"Women!" Boromir said, trying to keep his voice down. "There are women in their ranks, are there not?"
"Naturally," Aragorn said.
Boromir had been sure that Aragorn would deny what seemed to be a completely unnatural situation. That it was simply the finely drawn features and flowing hair of the Elves in the uneven light that had mislead Boromir.
"Naturally?"
Aragorn turned to face him, still leaning at his ease against the wall of the battlements. "Of course. In these perilous times, all Elves train for war. The force that Haldir brought to help with our defense is made up of volunteers from Rivendell and Lothlórien. It is not surprising that some of them are women."
"Does the Lady Arwen--" Boromir could not finish the sentence. As he remembered the slim figure in the shimmering white dress, shining with an unearthly power, and tried to imagine her wielding sword or bow, he felt as he had once when he was on a sortie near the Ephel Dúath and had felt the tremors of the ground beneath his feet as Orodruin belched forth fire and ash that could be seen for days.
Smiling, Aragorn nodded. "She does. She considered joining our training sessions with the Hobbits, but we thought that her presence would be too distracting. For some."
Boromir said nothing. "Distracting" would not have been the word he would have chosen for such a sight. He found himself wishing he could have seen it nonetheless.
Aragorn continued, gesturing toward the approaching forces. "And do the Men of Gondor know that many of the Orcs who fight for Sauron are females? Even less than Elves do the Orcs distinguish between male and female. I do not know of Saruman's forces, for the Uruk-hai he sent against us seem a new breed."
"No," Boromir said. "We did not know that."
"Lord Aragorn!"
Éomer joined them. "Théoden King would like to speak with you briefly before the battle begins."
Aragorn nodded then, after Éomer had left, turned to speak to Boromir. "And here is one more thing to think on, my friend," he said softly. "This afternoon we armed not only the men of the villages, but lads, boys as young as twelve. Standing with us against the enemy are farmers and stable boys with no training in the weapons they hold. They are brave, I doubt not. And will die to defend this Keep. Yet there are women in the Caves who are as strong or stronger than those boys. And none of you thought of arming them."
Boromir stood and watched Aragorn leave, moving easily through the ranks of men and elves on the battlements to join Théoden where he and the men of his Guard stood, high above the Gate, to oversee the defense of Helm's Deep. It was true. Scattered among them indeed were boys not much older than Boromir had been when his mother had died. But he still rebelled against the idea of a woman fighting.
Turning to face the force that would soon be assaulting Helm's Deep, feeling the first sting of rain against his face, Boromir tried not to think of what would happen in the Caves if the enemy did break through the Deeping Wall and take the Keep.
As often happened, once the fighting began, Boromir lost all sense of time. He focused entirely on the present of the fight. The clashing of swords and shrieking of wounded surrounded him, the noise a solid wall. Boromir fought steadily, more concerned with holding the ground they had than moving forward. They needed to defend the entrance to the Caves at all cost. Moving forward would only put their smaller force at risk.
*******
An Orc leaped forward to engage him. Blocking the oncoming sword with his shield, Boromir thrust, killing the Orc in one blow. Bracing himself, Boromir pulled back to free his sword, but it caught in the Orc's armour. Trapped for a moment, Boromir saw the dripping sword coming at his head, realized he could not block this blow.
At the last moment, another sword hit the first, knocking it aside, then sliding forward to kill the Orc. Boromir concentrated on retrieving his sword, found himself breathing again, and braced to keep fighting. He could spare neither energy or concentration to thank the man who'd saved his life.
But this had proved to be the last sortie. Above the walls, the sky lightened. A ringing blast sounded from the hills outside. The Orcs remaining inside the wall hesitated, then withdrew.
Defenders on the battlements above cheered, shouting "Erkenbrand!"
Boromir paused, wary, unable to believe that another attempt to breach the Caves would not be made. Beside him, a slim figure stood, silent, watching the gaping hole in the wall through which so many Orcs had poured. Boromir was sure the man beside him was the one who'd killed the Orc earlier. Behind them, the others who'd survived also stood and watched. Around them, far too many of the men and elves lay dead on the wet ground.
"Who is Erkenbrand," Boromir asked, not really expecting an answer.
"The Lord of the Westfold," said the man next to him.
Surprised, Boromir looked down to see Dernhelm, braids damp with dark Orc blood, shield dented.
"Rumour said he was dead, his men driven back from the Fords of Isen," Dernhelm continued, setting his shield down and sheathing his sword. "Apparently rumour lied."
Boromir nodded, roughly wiping his sword on his surcoat before sheathing it. There would be time later to clean everything. Apparently they were not going to die.
Around them, defenders of Helm's Deep began to pour through the gaping holes in wall and gate, shouting. Distantly, Boromir heard Gandalf's name being called by many.
"Shall we go see what is happening?" Boromir asked.
Dernhelm nodded and began to lead, picking his way over the piles of dead bodies, Orcs, Men and Elves, all dead.
As they neared the stair that led to the walkway along the top, Dernhelm tripped on one of the bodies and fell forward onto it, landing on his hands and knees.
Leaning down to give him a hand up, Boromir found himself steadying the young man as he vomited. When he finished, Dernhelm pulled away, standing, wiping his mouth and looking away.
Boromir held out his water bottle which had a few swallows of water left. Flushed, mumbling an apology, Dernhelm took it, rinsed his mouth and face.
"Your first battle?" Boromir asked after the youth had a moment to recover.
Dernhelm nodded head still turned away.
"I did the same thing," Boromir said. They began climbing the stairs. "Most of us do. It was you, wasn't it, who saved my life."
A pause, and then Dernhelm said, "Yes."
"That was well done," Boromir said. "I would hope you would remember that from this day. Do not dwell on what happened after."
They reached the top of the battlements and fell silent, seeing in the green valley beyond the forest, ranks of trees filling the mouth of the valley and spreading to the feet of the hills beyond. The shining figure of the White Rider and the hosts of Rohirrim poured down from the hills, and, caught in this trap, the hosts of Saruman wailed.
Boromir stood watching. At another time, he might have gone forth to join the last harrying of the Orcs. But now, tired and aching, he stood beside Dernhelm and watched the victorious meeting of forces in the light of a fair morning.
I thought this was going to be the final entry in the series, but it turns out there’s one, and probably two, more that need to be written. One will be about a scene created almostly entire for Jackson’s film which I think is fantastic; the other will be about how certain stereotypes about Tolkien, and about readers, are still affecting scholarship on the characters in The Lord of the Rings.
I started writing Lord of the Rings (Book and Film) fanfic in 2003, the vast majority of which went straight into my LiveJournal, and in some of the communities formed around fic choices. I remember what life was like before The Archive of Our Own (AO3); I knew several of the people involved in creating that space which happened in the wake of the anger caused by some of the attempts to commercialize fanfiction (not for the fans themselves, you understand, but for the sites, and most of these attempts were by men who often assumed that the only people writing fanfic were . . . men!). I have in recent years been uploading some of my works (some completed, mostly WIP) to AO3. And somewhere during that time, I left LiveJournal (after it was sold to the Russian corporation) for Dreamwidth. My pseud/username on all of them has always been Ithiliana (may have gotten a tattoo of it for my 50th birthday—a friend of a friend transliterated it into the Beleriand dialect of Sindarin Elvish!
Nor am I alone in my response. An excellent essay published in 2022 by Alice Rose Dodds focuses on “undermining moments" in the film:
Dodds, Alice Rose. “LOTR: Éowyn’s Most Undermining Moments.” Game Rants, 2 Apr. 2022, https://gamerant.com/lotr-eowyn-undermining-moments/. Archive version at: https://archive.ph/wip/Zq2bX.
OTOH, neither Alice nor I had as strong a response as this poor fan, posting in 2014, on a Message Board (film|boards) which ends a 1500 word rant with this conclusion:
I simply cannot see the movies in the same light anymore. It all comes back to questions about the stew. I've played the scene in slow-motion, reverse, and set it on endless loop to try to gauge the characters' reactions to make some light of this scene and its ramifications on the plot and characters, and still, nothing. Only more questions which the rest of the movie stalwartly refuses to answer.
Some of us have major FEELS about Jackson’s scene, but that’s part of fandom (in my experience!).
Another set of responses I found interesting (at times!) are from a thread on Reddit which started with the basic question of why show Éowyn as a bad cook. The OP did not rant about it—the tone is neutral/questioning, but I find it interesting how a number of responses are that as a noble (or “princess), of course she couldn’t cook. (Be warned—a number of responses on both threads are insulting/trolling/obnoxious). I had not read either of these threads before; I found them when I did a search for the clip from the film using her name + bad cook search terms.
So, yeah, I’m still collecting links for my HolyFuckJDVance post: I believe as a childless cat lady who is also a [childless] teacher who is also a postmenopausal woman (THREE FOR THREE SO FAR JDV, YOU ASSHOLD), I have a unique perspective to offer!
IMNSHO, some people don’t pay enough attention to the story of Morwen of Lossarnach (called “Steelsheen” by the Rohirrim) who married King Thengel, i.e. Theoden’s MUM! There are lots and lots of female characters who are briefly mentioned throughout Tolkien’s Legendariuim, many only in the Appendices and not always named. They are never developed which leaves room for other people to do just that:
Viars, Karen and Coker, Cait. "Constructing Lothiriel: Rewriting and Rescuing the Women of Middle-Earth From the Margins," Mythlore, vol. 33, no. 2, article 6, 2015, https://dc.swosu.edu/mythlore/vol33/iss2/6
If you don’t read the Appendices, there’s no way to know about Morwen (well, nowadays there are all the excellent fan resources, wikis, etc. but those didn’t exist back in 1965!): she’s briefly referenced twice in Appendix A, “The Kings of the Mark,” first in the “Second Line” (lineage) of kings as the sixteenth King’s wife, and in the “Third Line,” in a direct comparison with Éowyn: “Éomer was like his fathers before him; but Éowyn was slender and tall, with a grace and pride that came to her out of the South from Morwen of Lossarnach, whom the Rohirrim had called Steelsheen” (1070). There’s another interesting fact Éowyn post-war of the Ring detailed in the Appendices that will play a major part in my Fourth Age fic *rubs hands gleefully.*
I have another AU (a WIP) that focuses on Boromir and Éowyn’s daughter, Morwen, in an AU storyverse in which Aragorn took the Ring to save the Fellowship from the Orcs: White Flower and White Tree. That one was even more fun because as a someone who grew up with horses, I was always kinda irritated that only the Kings of the Mark and their sons got to ride the mearas (Appendix A, “The House of Eorl, p. 1065). I mean, sure the stallions, maybe OK, all hanging out with the dudes, but what about the mares? They, like the Entwives, could make their own choices, having free will as sentient beings, and why wouldn’t they be as likely to prefer bonding with one of the daughters of the line of the kings?
I've read fanfic for some years now, mostly in paper zines, and have looked at some online things mostly through friends' computers for years, too, but this story of yours makes me want to dive in now that I have my first new computer! This is well-written, and well thought out. Can't wait to see more, Robin!