fic: Freedonia (LotR; Eowyn; AU; pg)
Freedonia
Lord of the Rings; Eowyn; AU; pg; 535 words
There is peace in Middle-earth now, the Peace of Eowyn, Queen of Rohan.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. I posted a rough version of this a very long time ago, but I've done a little polishing since then. For the West Wing title project.
~*~
Freedonia
She sits upon a golden throne on the dais. Her two consorts flank her, a step below.
Her people come from far and wide this day, to lay their petitions at her feet, and she hears them. She is sparing of her mercy, but for the women of Rohan she doles it out, remembering what it was like to be one of them, kept caged and useless on the hearth while the men rode out to war.
They bring her their cares and woes, their complaints and their triumphs, and she savors them all. She is proud of what she has wrought.
There is peace in Middle-earth now, the Peace of Eowyn, Queen of Rohan. Through her alliance with Faramir, Steward of Gondor, she rules all of Gondor and Arnor, as well as the Mark. With Eomer at her left hand and Faramir at her right, who would gainsay her?
A young girl stands before them now, dressed in breeches and a rough homespun shirt, her straw-colored hair caught up in tails. The girl's parents stand beside her, and the father says, "'Tis unnatural, is what it is, that a girl should take on so. She demands--a girl-child of twelve summers--demands to be trained as a soldier." His lip curls in scorn. "Whoever heard of such a thing? May as well teach her to fly, for all the use it will do her."
Eowyn smiles, and a chill fills the golden hall of Meduseld. The men of the Mark are hardheaded and slow to learn. Her peace has been bought with their blood. They are still chafing at the bit, and she has not spared them the whip or the spurs.
"She shall be trained with my own guard," Eowyn says, "much as I trained at her age." She gestures with three delicate white fingers, and the gold ring upon her right hand gleams in the light of the hall. The girl is led away by one of the door wardens, into her new life as a soldier of Rohan, in the service of the Queen.
The father cringes. The folly of his words is suddenly borne in upon him, and he has nowhere to turn now.
Eowyn smiles and the men shiver. Those closest to her know the penalty a man pays for disobedience, for disrespect. For merely being a man, if the mood takes her.
A different set of guards leads him to a different doom, leaving his wife standing alone in the middle of the hall. Eowyn glides down the shallow steps and gently takes the woman's hand.
"He'll be returned to you in a few days," the Queen says, and her voice is cold as frost and soft as snow. "He'll be more...manageable when it's done."
The woman makes no attempt to conceal her anguish, crumpling to her knees in tears. Trembling, she presses her forehead to Eowyn's cool, white fingers, and Eowyn is glad she can make this woman's life easier.
She is proud of what she has made Rohan, made the world. The woman at her feet struggles to rise and scurries away, still weeping. Eowyn returns to her seat upon the dais and waits for the next supplicant.
End
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
Lord of the Rings; Eowyn; AU; pg; 535 words
There is peace in Middle-earth now, the Peace of Eowyn, Queen of Rohan.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. I posted a rough version of this a very long time ago, but I've done a little polishing since then. For the West Wing title project.
~*~
Freedonia
She sits upon a golden throne on the dais. Her two consorts flank her, a step below.
Her people come from far and wide this day, to lay their petitions at her feet, and she hears them. She is sparing of her mercy, but for the women of Rohan she doles it out, remembering what it was like to be one of them, kept caged and useless on the hearth while the men rode out to war.
They bring her their cares and woes, their complaints and their triumphs, and she savors them all. She is proud of what she has wrought.
There is peace in Middle-earth now, the Peace of Eowyn, Queen of Rohan. Through her alliance with Faramir, Steward of Gondor, she rules all of Gondor and Arnor, as well as the Mark. With Eomer at her left hand and Faramir at her right, who would gainsay her?
A young girl stands before them now, dressed in breeches and a rough homespun shirt, her straw-colored hair caught up in tails. The girl's parents stand beside her, and the father says, "'Tis unnatural, is what it is, that a girl should take on so. She demands--a girl-child of twelve summers--demands to be trained as a soldier." His lip curls in scorn. "Whoever heard of such a thing? May as well teach her to fly, for all the use it will do her."
Eowyn smiles, and a chill fills the golden hall of Meduseld. The men of the Mark are hardheaded and slow to learn. Her peace has been bought with their blood. They are still chafing at the bit, and she has not spared them the whip or the spurs.
"She shall be trained with my own guard," Eowyn says, "much as I trained at her age." She gestures with three delicate white fingers, and the gold ring upon her right hand gleams in the light of the hall. The girl is led away by one of the door wardens, into her new life as a soldier of Rohan, in the service of the Queen.
The father cringes. The folly of his words is suddenly borne in upon him, and he has nowhere to turn now.
Eowyn smiles and the men shiver. Those closest to her know the penalty a man pays for disobedience, for disrespect. For merely being a man, if the mood takes her.
A different set of guards leads him to a different doom, leaving his wife standing alone in the middle of the hall. Eowyn glides down the shallow steps and gently takes the woman's hand.
"He'll be returned to you in a few days," the Queen says, and her voice is cold as frost and soft as snow. "He'll be more...manageable when it's done."
The woman makes no attempt to conceal her anguish, crumpling to her knees in tears. Trembling, she presses her forehead to Eowyn's cool, white fingers, and Eowyn is glad she can make this woman's life easier.
She is proud of what she has made Rohan, made the world. The woman at her feet struggles to rise and scurries away, still weeping. Eowyn returns to her seat upon the dais and waits for the next supplicant.
End
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~