Not a freewrite

[dragonlady7]

Akin to freewrites is the writing of things that just won't leave you alone otherwise. I am sometimes siezed by an idea that is not something I have time for, but won't leave me alone othwerise. Usually I have an essay due or am working, and a little tickle strikes me. These are usually ideas for a scene or story of fiction, something unrelated to what I'm working on, something unmarketable.
This is the case here. Over the Christmas holiday I watched the Two Towers extended DVD, and re-read the novel again. (As is evidenced by my postings on Tolkien and allegory.) (I say 'reread again' despite its redundancy because this is in the hundreds of times I've read parts of the book now.) I am a sad, obsessed, fanatic. I read these books when i was young, before I started writing my first novel, and they have shaped me in wholly odd ways.
Now, fanfiction is usually sad and lame. It's not marketable, it's something that professional writers never admit to, and usually it's written by people with whom I have little in common. (Sometimes, however, it's fabulous, so don't flame me.)
However. Sometimes something simply seizes your imagination and won't let it go.
This is a divine opportunity to work on your writing skills. That's my excuse, anyway. I got my start in fanfiction when i was too young to know any better, and it's served me well so far I think, although I switched over to my own stuff about a decade ago.
So, I present to you something written while I should have been working, and it's the better for that. I've not titled it-- it's a little piece about Eowyn of Rohan, and actually does describe a wordless scene in the movie. Her cousin Theodred, the king's son, has just died, and her brother Eomer is banished; her uncle the King is under the sway of a wicked advisor, and Eowyn realizes that she is alone in a failing kingdom.
Note: I have *not* tried to adhere to Tolkien's style. He told everything he needed to in his books in his style. My material is resolutely outside the books, and it would be inappropriate to pretend otherwise.

She ran to the front door of the hall and burst out upon the wide porch, feeling that she would fly apart. She paced like an animal in a cage, her guts twisted with the feeling that her grief was closing in on her. She had to escape. She turned her face to the wind helplessly, the tears from her cheeks spattering with a glitter as they blew with the veiled sun catching them. She was alone. Alone. It wasn't her own inability to fend for herself she feared; her body was strong and so was her will. But with the departure of the men she loved, she no longer had an outlet. She was now just a woman, a noble woman, too noble to flee, too proud to stay. She couldn't go to her brother, although she had considered it for a moment; the moment had been lost when she had stayed to keep vigil over Theodred. Now it would be unseemly for her to depart, to leave the king devoid of relatives to care for him. But Theoden was not himself; once he had loved her, and had allowed her to perform her duties with a measure of pride. Staying for his sake was hopeless. Eventually Wormtongue would break her spirit the way he'd broken Theoden's, and she too would succumb to the poison in his voice.
She was doomed to stay and witness the downfall of Rohan. The once-proud house of her ancestors was doomed now, any that were young and vital and honest dead or banished. Eomer had taken most of the young noblemen with him when he had gone. He had not been allowed to speak to anyone but one of the guards had done his messaging for him and the noblemen and their entourage had simply slipped away when Wormtongue wasn't looking. It chilled Eowyn to think that the rest of Rohan knew as well as she did that with Theodred's death and Eomer's banishment all hope for Rohan was gone.
He hadn't sent a messenger to her. She had stood on the wide porch of Meduseld and watched him ride away, his big bay cantering in an unhurried but determined pace escorted by guards. He had never turned back to look at her but she knew he had known she was there.
And here she stayed, to take part in the overthrow of the people of Eorl. She thought back on the figures of history whose stories she had learned as a child. Would any of them have stood for this? Perhaps she should hearken back to the earlier days, the wild days of the North, when they were a landless people and fey-- barbarians, even. Maybe she should slay herself like a proud queen of old. Set a fire in Theodred's bedchamber and lock Theoden and Grima in the house, and burn Meduseld down so it would no longer stand as a mockery of the pride and beauty that was.

The banner beside her abruptly tore from its fastenings and Eowyn started, her hand reaching out for it in a reflex, but it was whipped up by the wind and in a strange eddy, flew high above the city and down toward the gate. As her gaze followed the path of its flight, she caught sight of three riders coming toward the gate. The guards noticed them too and she heard one of them shout something. The eyes of the others went to the glimmering silvery horse, an eye-catching vision of grace and speed even at this distance, but Eowyn turned her eyes to the great bay gelding. Eomer.
It wasn't Eomer. The man was slender and dark-haired and long-legged, and wasn't wearing armor unless it were concealed mail. And the horse, while obviously a Rohan horse, had white feet. Eomer's horse had no white. The breath went from Eowyn in a little sigh, and she turned and went back into the house, disinterested in the travelers.