Adrift

Posted: June 2003
Title: Adrift
Author: do (dolarabee)
Fandom: Tolkien
Type: FCGen
Rating: PG-13 for violence - implied only.
Category: AU, I guess.
Character(s): Éomer
Warning: Character death, but none we don't already know about.
Disclaimer: Mine? As if. Nay, I'm just borrowing this sandbox.
Author's Notes: Sort of an experiment with POV I wanted to try out. Constructive feedback is very welcome; I'm new at this.
Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Éomer feels somewhat disconnected.

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She is soft, you know. Soft and warm.

Here I am on a bloody field, dwelling on the past, on things that will undoubtedly remain there. The world is changing. Tis in my bones. What was will never be again. Even the Sun has forsaken us.

But still, she is soft. Soft and warm.

Senses are a curious thing. I hear. I can still hear the chaos that surrounded me as my éored spread out, driving the Southrons back. The screams, the cries of pain and despair, the clinking of metal against metal, the more subtle whistle of dark arrows flying too close for comfort. My own laboured, excited breath filled my ears also. I can still hear the singing, for the Rohirrim always sing as they slay in battle, in fire.

I see. I see, though I wish I did not have to look at what my eyes show me. Minas Tirith, captive and burning. The terror and madness brought about by the Black Rider. The never-ending stream of foes: Haradrim, Easterlings, Variags, Corsairs.

I smell. Yay, I smell the blood on my hands. Dark, black blood of Orcs, and precious blood of my kinsmen. I smell the sweat on my clothes, the acrid earth, disturbed and drenched with poison of evil. This has been a long siege but I can smell the fear in our adversary, too, for it seems we may have triumphed in this battle.

But at what cost? I taste the bitterness of this win. I taste the tears. Théoden King has fallen this day.

And my sense of touch remains also - or so it seems. The cool wind against my skin. The solid hilt of my sword. I certainly can feel Firefoot under me, an extension of myself, and I of him. The sting of the many grazes and bruises sustained despite my armour. A certain weariness in my limbs.

She is soft, I oft remind myself. Soft and warm. Though my senses tell me of my surroundings, I cannot feel a thing. Numb and frozen are my emotions.

After checking on my men and issuing orders for the wounded and dead alike, after caring for my mount, I find myself sitting down, reclined against a boulder. A short respite, no doubt. The Pelennor Fields are before me and I am attempting to catch my breath. I watch as a temporary camp is set up in the gloom light. Yay, it appears we may have won this one yet.

A shudder runs through me. Éowyn. Sister-daughter to the King. My sister. She, too, has fallen. The surprise blow of this discovery that sent me in a blurred frenzy is fresh in my mind. Why can I not feel now?

My thoughts drift back to my memories. There, I can feel. Not only her touch, her sweet curves under my hands, her wanton undulations beneath me, but real emotions. Amidst the tenderness and eagerness of our encounters, we used to discuss our interests, our dreams. In her company, I could forget my place, my rank, and she hers. We could let go. That was all we expected of each other. Those moments were probably the freest I have ever been. Anger, frustration, sadness, excitement, longing, joy. I really felt them. They were not just words. I found, since riding out to Gondor's aid, that I return to her in my dreams. Whilst I harden to the darkness in the world, she is what keeps me grounded. There were never any promises between us, just a respect of who we were, where we belonged, and a shared need of shedding these skins from time to time.

Guiltily, I realise - and not for the first time - that I do not even have knowledge of her whereabouts; whether or not she managed to flee to Dunharrow with the others. Yet, I have not dispatched anyone to find out.

And as my herald approaches cautiously to inform me that Lord Aragorn and Prince Imrahil wish me to accompany them to the White City, another sense assail me. A sense of loss. Without need of confirmation, I know in my heart that her too were taken from me this day, like my sister, like my King, with everything she was and all she represented.

Soft and warm. I push it from my mind as I push myself back to my feet. I feel the earth beneath my boots and fresh tears on my cheeks, and still that sense of loss, but I have yet to feel a thing.

THE END

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