The Dying Sun
This is piece was inspired by Arwen's Song
With a sigh, you turn away
with a deepening heart, no words to say
You will find that the world has changed forever
The trees now turn from green to gold
and the sun is now fading
I wish I could hold you
The Dying Sun
He stalked the field, looking among the dead for his Rohirrim, his
kinsmen and friends. Wherever he found them, he checked for life…and
finding none, he bowed his head in prayer for their souls to find their
reward in whatever life should come after this one.
Around him, dying Orcs and men alike spilled their life’s blood on the
blackened grasses of the fields of Pelennor. The sky remained dark with
the poison of Mordor; for though this day belonged to men, the Dark
Lord was not vanquished…merely diminished. He knew that more death was
yet to come.
From the corner of his eye, a blinding whiteness appeared. He turned to follow it, and what he saw filled his heart with dread.
Snowmane lay there, dying, his soul fighting the earth-bound body to
escape. Across his rear flank lay a cloak of green and gold…a cloak
Eomer knew too well. He stepped over bodies and broken weapons, until
he stood beside the animal; kneeling, he pushed aside the soiled cloak
to reveal the face of one he loved.
Theoden’s face was stained with dirt and blood, his eyes open and
staring sightlessly at the polluted sky. Eomer’s breath heaved in his
chest, and the tears stung his eyes as he gently closed the eyes that
had looked upon him so many times with such love and pride. Leaning
down, he kissed his uncle’s brow and laid his own cheek against the
cold skin of his king. As he did so, a huge sigh escaped the Meara, and
glancing up, Eomer fancied that he could see the spirit of this lord of
the horses finally free and running towards the horizon.
After some moments, he forced himself to stand again. Not more than six
feet from him lay the decapitated body of the winged drake that had
carried the Lord of the Nazgul. A foul stench emitted from the carcass,
and Eomer turned away from the sight, cursing Sauron’s name and the
name of Angmar, slayer of his kin.
“My Lord!” A voice called to him, and wiping away his tears, he started towards it.
Then stopped. A shattered shield bearing the crest of the Horse Lords
lay at his feet, a blackened sword beside it. His eyes followed its
path to it’s wielder.
No. No! It could not be!
Blood filled his head, its roar deafening him, red rage swirling within him.
A desperate wail of pure grief rent the air…his own.
Eomer dropped to the ground and gathered her up, rocking back and forth, his tears splitting tracks in the blood on her face.
From many feet away, Aragorn turned to the sound; and the sight stopped his breath. Eowyn. He started to run.
Gandalf closed his eyes and murmured words of the Valar, his prayer
reaching to where few others could climb. Upon Tanquietil, Manwe heard
him, and looking to his brother Mandos, he nodded. To their servant,
they sent their reply, and Gandalf bowed his head in obeisance to the
words of his masters.
Aragorn reached Eomer’s side, and laying his hand across Eowyn’s chest,
felt no signs of life. He looked up at Gandalf, who looked towards the
citadel, and then placed his hand on Eomer’s shoulder, infusing him
with hope. Together, Eomer and Aragorn lifted Eowyn from the ground,
and wrapping her in his own elven cloak, Aragorn led the way into Minas
Tirith, his city, to the Houses of Healing.
Eowyn was laid on a marble bier, and at Aragorn’s bidding, a steaming
basin of water and athelas was brought. He soaked a cloth in the brew,
and gently began to bathe her forehead and wounded arms and throat with
the liquid. Eomer crouched beside his sister, barely breathing, his
lips moving silently in desperate prayer. Finished, Aragorn cupped
Eowyn’s cheek with the hand that bore the Ring of Barahir, and
summoning all his skill, willed life to come into her once again.
In the eternity that followed, there came a shallow breath. Then another.
Eowyn opened her eyes and looked upon light once more. Tears of joy
streaming down his face, Eomer took both her hands in his own and held
them to his lips, as if his own breath could fill her and make her
And for many years afterwards, when the time of peace was upon them,
and Rohan once again a country at rest, Eomer could swear that at the
moment life returned to Eowyn, that the dying sun’s rays broke through
the darkness and despair and gave hope to those who had none.