Part 13

“I believe you have something of mine,” said the Warrior King.

His demeanour had suddenly changed—he was standing tall now, confident, grotesque in his bristling armour—and his voice was like the whistle of the wind across the plains of Rohan.

Eowyn tried to put both hands to her sword—tried to lift it, tried to strike—but the desire, the need, to feel the ring, and to be sure that it was safe, was far too strong.

She stood before the creature that had once been a man, and she was powerless.

...

“Run, Master Sighard,” cried Legolas.

The elves had hemmed in their opponents like pieces on a gaming board, briefly opening a safe path through the gatehouse. Sighard, carrying Ayleth over his shoulder, charged out into the moonlit night. Haldir, at a signal from Legolas, followed.

Legolas, holding off all four warriors, retreated towards the doorway. “Come, melmenya,” he shouted. “Come now!”

...

Eowyn heard his words and, in her mind’s eye, she saw herself moving—running to him, and grasping his hand, and leaping through the archway at his side.

And in her vision the ring fell from her bosom, and rolled across the stone floor—rolled far, far away—and her heart broke at the thought of never seeing it again.

...

Legolas, standing in the doorway, shouted, “Go, Haldir!”

Then he plunged back into the gatehouse.