Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien. Almost all of the dialogue has been taken directly from The Return of the King, from the chapter 'The Battle of the Pelennor Fields."

Written for the Character POV Challenge in Chaos Chao's Character Cache forum.

Éomund's Daughter

Minas Tirith burns. The smell of fire and death lies heavily upon the air, and all is dark. Windfola shifts uneasily, snorting and pawing at the ground. I stare in horror at the armies that lie between us and the White City. Late is better than never, Éomer is wont to say, but it seems to me that this has proven false, here when its truth is most needed.

Time seems to stand still as I look to my brother and uncle. Éomer's face is grim and hard as stone. Yet still he sits tall in the saddle, undaunted by the sight of Gondor enflamed.

But Théoden appears stricken, and he seems to shrink before my very eyes, as though the foul words of Gríma are once again in his ears. Will he falter here, now, at this last moment?

Then, suddenly, Merry shifts behind me with a gasp. I feel the change as well – a new wind on my face! To the South I see the clouds break, golden sunlight pouring through. A spark of hope kindles in my heart, where there has long been nothing but cold ashes.

But at the same time, a flash as of lightning springs from the city, and a sound like the boom of thunder rolls across the hills. Before I can begin to wonder what this means, Théoden suddenly sits straight and tall, no longer bent by old age or care. Louder than I have ever heard a man shout, he cries:

Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield shall be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!

He seizes a horn from Guthláf, and such a blast he blows upon it that it bursts! In answer, all the horns of the Rohirrim join in song. Let the hosts of Mordor come! Our hearts quail no longer!

We charge toward the City, the King of the Mark ever before us. And the Sun shines forth, chasing away the night and bringing with it a fresh breeze from the Sea. All around me, men burst into song, loud and filled with the joy of battle. I join them, laughing at the terror of our foes as they flee before our wrath.

For a moment it seems as though victory will be ours. Windfola carries both me and Merry faithfully through the battle. I remain close behind my king, slaying many who manage to escape his wrath. I see him slay the leader of the Southrons, and bring down his banner. With the rest of his knights I raise my sword and cheer as our enemy flees before us.

Then, suddenly, night descends upon us. Windfola screams and rears back in terror, throwing both me and Merry. With a cry, Merry curls up on the ground, hiding his face from the winged Shadow. But my thoughts lie only with my uncle and king. I struggle to my feet in time to see Snowmane fall, a dart in his side, and crush Théoden beneath him. "No!" the cry escapes me unbidden, but the foul beast and its rider pay me no heed; their thought is bent on the fallen king. The creature lands on Snowmane, digging its claws into the beautiful stallion's flesh. On top of it sits the Dark Lord's captain, garbed in black with a crown of steel, and a mighty, fell mace.

Tears fall down my face unchecked as I fumble for my sword. Nearby I am dimly aware of Merry struggling against his terror. My own fear is drowned by grief and fear for my uncle. "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!" I cry, rushing forward, holding out a hand as though to halt the creature.

The answering voice of the Black Rider chills my blood, but I refuse to waver before him. "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shriveled mind left naked to the Lidless Eye."

I draw my sword. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may." My knees are shaking, and my heart pounds hard against my chest. I want to flee, but something stronger than my fear bids me stay.

"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!" this Nazgûl says mockingly, utterly sure of his victory.

No living man? In spite of it all, I laugh. "But no living man am I!" I reach up and pull my helmet from my head, tossing it to the ground and letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders. "You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him!" The beast screams at me, but its rider remains silent. Have I caused it doubt? Even so, the fell monster's gaze is piercing and hard. I raise my shield against it, swallowing hard and forcing myself to remain standing, if only for the sake of my lord.

Suddenly, the fell beast of the Nazgûl leaps into the air once more, the hideous wind off its wings almost causing me to choke. Its neck stretches out toward me, but I am not unprepared. With a cry I leap aside, and bring my sword down to cleave its head from its neck. With a choked, gurgling noise, the beast collapses. I leap backward out of its way, trying to quell my rebellious stomach. As it falls, the sun returns again; I feel its warmth on my head, and it gives me strength.

The Lord of the Nazgûl rises out of the ruin of his mount, towering above me. With a scream that nearly shatters my resolve, he swings his mace. I catch it on my shield, but it shatters, and I feel the bone in my arm snap. With a cry, I fall to my knees, my vision fading in and out with the pain. Slowly, I look up, and see the mace raised once more, the Nazgûl towering over me. This is the end. The death I wished for in battle.

Then, suddenly, he stumbles, the mace driving into the ground beside me. "Éowyn! Éowyn!" Merry's voice breaks through the fog of pain, and I realize that this is my chance. If I do not act now, all will be lost. With effort, I pick up my sword, and stagger to my feet, blinking the sweat from my eyes. It takes all of my strength to drive the blade into the space between steel crown and dark shoulders. It shatters, shards flying everywhere. With a cry, I turn my face away as my foe's form collapses. Everything is spinning…spinning... The darkness is closing in around me – Darkness Unescapable. From far away I hear a shrill wail, and then the ground hurtles up to meet me.

Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. Death in battle I sought. Death I have found.