A THOUSAND FLAWS & MORE

CHAPTER IV.

The riding party followed the spiralling path down the different levels of Minas Tirith. By the time they made it to the bottommost level, it had been a few hours since they had taken off. Between civilians, market stalls and houses half-destroyed, they had not risked riding at a pace faster than a trot. But now they had reached the front entrance, with two on-duty guards on either side of the broken gate. When the guards saw who approached, a company consisting of a foreign king, esteemed princes and the Steward, they instantly stood to attention, their heavy uniforms clanking at the joints. The various royal figures were flanked on all sides by loyal soldiers, some in the familiar gunmetal grey shade that the guards themselves donned, some in much more striking silver and blue armour, and many more in forest green capes and weathered brown leather.

As soon as they had escaped the fortress, and were out on the wide plains of the Pelennor, Éowyn was the first to break away, urging her horse into a full-speed run. Éomer was quick to follow, and each man behind him let their horses take the rein. It was like a tidal wave at the mouth of Minas Tirith, each soldier starting slow, before they had enough space to speed up and shoot out into different directions.

There was no feeling in the world which could compare to the wind whistling in numb ears, the lull of the rhythmic hoof beats and the power of speed and strength emanating from Firefoot. Éomer was almost back home, riding atop of his faithful steed in the infinite grasslands of the Riddermark. But looking around him, he knew he was far from home. Instead, he was riding through a field of bad memories and taunting reminders of bloodshed and death. The grass was patchy and scorched black in some places from the unforgotten battle. Debris that had been overlooked and uncollected still peppered the floor – fractured shards of armour, a clump of torn-out horse mane, the soiled red cloth off a dead Haradrim's back.

There was a bad smell in the air, almost of rotting flesh, as if he was back on the battlefield, a spear in one hand, and his other clutching onto Firefoot's reins for dear life. But he shook the pungent stench out of his imagination.

The weight of dark thoughts suddenly pervading his mind and digging up fresh memories was not only Éomer's burden at that moment. Looking to his right and left, he could see the pale faces of men he had fought with, barely containing the grief through trained expressions. They were all riding through a graveyard.

Through his peripheral, he could see the familiar head of blonde, braided hair turn her horse slightly, splitting off from their party. He turned to follow quickly, instantly knowing where she would go. He was saddened to see that she remembered the exact spot where their Uncle died and where she had faced off with the great Witch-king.

Éowyn had dismounted and had fallen to the hard ground on her knees. As Éomer approached slowly on foot, he could see that his sister's head was bowed and eyes scrunched closed, jaw tensed. Her tears were held at bay.

"People call me brave all the time, for facing off with the Witch-king." Éowyn's quiet muttering almost didn't reach Éomer's ears over the whistling of the wind. "But I don't feel brave. I didn't feel brave then, and I still don't feel brave now. In fact, I hadn't felt more scared in my life."

Éomer's heart broke a little at hearing the vulnerability in his sister's words. "I am so sorry I didn't protect you." He knelt down next to her and cradled her head against his armoured chest. "It is my fault that you had to experience that."

"No. I wanted to be here. I wanted to prove that I could do it, that I could be a warrior too. I wanted to, for once, not be on the sidelines, watching as the people I love rode off for battle. I wanted to be the one to avenge Uncle. There wasn't anything you could have done to stop me."

There was a silence, before Éowyn spoke again, with a short, cynical laugh. "See, I didn't even feel brave for saying those words. All that this wretched field brings up is an overwhelming, crushing sense of fear, as if I'm still fighting for those around me."

Éomer understood completely. "Maybe we shouldn't have come here. So long as the ground is still charred, this place is cursed."

Éowyn gently laid her palm flat against the dry, yellow grass, just where their Uncle had passed. "It is a little cathartic though, is it not." She smiled sadly up at her brother, before getting up and remounting Windfola. The rest of the company had ridden over to the foot of the surrounding mountains, where freshwater streams ran from the icy peaks overhead. Éomer and Éowyn quickly rode to catch up.

As the horses were allowed a rest and a drink, Faramir had sought Éowyn out through the throngs of soldiers milling about, conversing in hushed, respectful tones, as if at a funeral.

"This ride here has only made me want to return Théoden's body back home all the sooner," Éowyn muttered, instinctively wrapping an arm around her fiancé's waist and burying her head in his chest. Fararmir, in return, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder, offering his silent support. They walked together like this for a while, breaking away from the others. Faramir then let go of Eowyn, and stood in front of her at a distance.

"My cousins have informed me about what you did to Lothíriel earlier today... riding up to her and taunting her with Windfola." His voice was still soft, but it held an accusatory undertone to it now.

Éowyn frowned but straightened her back. "Yes. And what of it?"

Faramir frowned in turn and crossed his arms over his chest. "Éowyn…" He drew her eyes back to him with a level, settled stare. It wasn't filled with anger, but she could see and hear his disappointment. "You could have seriously hurt Lothíriel."

Éowyn tilted her head and rolled her eyes. "It would never have come to that. Windfola is my horse, and I know how to control him."

"But what if? What if your hand had slipped on the reins? What if Windfola took your command the wrong way? It is fair to say Lothíriel would be severely hurt and you would have a lot to explain to her father and brothers."

"Faramir, it was a practical joke. Haven't you ever played a joke on anyone?!"

Her tone was getting loud enough to draw attention to them from the other soldiers. Faramir took Éowyn's arm gently and led her away, but as soon as they were sufficiently far enough, she snatched back her arm.

"Éowyn, what you did was reckless and irresponsible."

Éowyn clenched her jaw tightly. This seemed like it would turn out to be the biggest fight the couple had yet had, and Faramir, by the miraculous ability of being patient and seemingly all-knowing, had not even raised his voice. She, on the other hand, felt her irritation rising, and having just come from the exact spot where her uncle had fallen, and feeling the crushing weight of being back here, did nothing to help the circumstances either.

"I cannot handle this right now," she furiously muttered. Before things could really escalate to a full-fledged argument, Éowyn walked away, furious at the gall of her fiancé to pick a fight over Lothíriel of all things.

"Éowyn, we're not done talking yet," Faramir called out to her back. She was walking towards her horse, which had been contentedly resting in the shade. Once Windfola saw his master approach, heavy-footed and arms stiffly swinging at her sides, the horse was at attention, padding the ground, ready to move.

"I am finished talking," she called back angrily behind her shoulder, her pace never slowing.

"Éowyn!" he futilely called out once again. The conversations emitting from the soldiers and guards had all stopped, and they looked just as guilty as if they had been caught listening in when they weren't supposed to.

Éowyn swung her leg up onto her horse, her saddle forgotten about after she had taken it off to let Windfola rest earlier. It didn't faze her to ride bareback – she even preferred it. Without any other acknowledgement to anyone around her, she tangled her hands in Windfola's mane and kicked the horse into action, signalling at her steed to ride fast.

Faramir followed the blazing path of his fiancée with dejected eyes. Just as he was about to grab his own horse to follow after her, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him from moving any further.

"Let her go for now, my friend." It was Éomer behind him, offering his well-meaning advice. "Éowyn likes to ride off her frustrations."

Faramir sighed in defeat, rubbing furiously at his eyes. "What do you think of this whole situation?" he asked, knowing that Éomer had seen the scene firsthand. "You understand my concern, do you not?"

Éomer frowned, reluctant to go against his sister on this. He had almost always tried to stick up for her, and his small nod in agreement almost felt like a betrayal. He couldn't deny it to Faramir though; what his sister did earlier to the Lady Lothíriel was petty and dangerous, and what's more, it reflected badly on the whole of Rohan. After all, Éomer knew all too well how some Gondorians felt towards his own people – he didn't want to sour their relations further.

"Will you please talk to her?" Faramir pleaded. "You seem like the only one who can get through to her."

A slight inclination of his head was all Faramir needed as confirmation. Éomer patted his friend's arm twice before grabbing his horse, intending to follow after Éowyn, who had been riding around the plains in loops and circles with no clear direction.

When Éomer reached Éowyn, he could see that she was clearly distressed. Her horse, as a result, acutely felt his rider's agitation and was throwing its head back and forth as it trotted around aimlessly.

Éomer dismounted Firefoot a few feet away and walked slowly up to Windfola. Éowyn was deep in thought, the middle of her brow creased deeply; she barely even heard anyone approach, until she heard her brother's soft, hushed tones, trying to calm down Windfola, at first from a safe distance, before gradually moving forward as Windfola slowed to a halt. Éomer was a familiar and trusted presence for Windfola, and his gentle strokes along the horse's neck calmed it down considerably.

Éomer lifted Éowyn up and off the horse by her waist before she could even protest.

"Did Faramir send you? Because if he did, you can tell him that I will not apologise to him, or to Lothíriel!"

Éomer was close to almost laughing at his sister's crabbiness and her uncompromising tones, but he tamed it until it was just a small, nostalgic smile, being reminded of when they were children, before the war made everyone serious and dispassionate.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I come in peace."

"So he did send you!"

All Éomer could do in response was shrug his shoulders guiltily.

"Well you can turn around immediately and go back! I will not continue this conversation." To top off her melodramatic stubbornness, Éowyn crossed her arms over her chest and turned away slightly, her ears straining back, waiting to hear her brother climb back onto Firefoot and trot away. But to her frustration, all she heard was laughter; at first, it started muffled and suppressed, but as she whipped around in mortification, Éomer was doubled over with laughter.

"Éomer!" she admonished urgently. "Have you gone mad?!"

At her tone, Éomer couldn't help but to laugh even more. "Oh sister," he eventually said between bursts of chuckles. He wiped away the tears beneath his eyes. "I cannot tell you how good it is to have you back."

Éowyn still didn't understand and felt her irritation rise at being laughed at so thoroughly. "What are you talking about? I thought you were here to scold me about Lothíriel too." Even saying her name caused a scowl to grace Éowyn's features.

"Lothíriel? Oh I would thank her a thousand times over for bringing my sister back to me. It has truly been too long since I have seen you so intensely unyielding. A resolute mountain battling the Rohan winds, is how mother used to describe it."

At the mention of their mother, Éowyn's expression reluctantly softened, until she too was almost smiling. "I have always been stubborn, you know that, brother."

"Perhaps, but the war changed you, my dear Éowyn. It changed us all, but it would always break my heart seeing you so defeated in those days with the Worm around. To see you now, so spirited and impassioned, even if it is because of a silly, petty strife–"

The smile wiped off of Éowyn's face immediately, and a dark shadow passed over her eyes again. Éomer knew he had put his foot in it and gulped heavily. The time for humour had ended.

"Silly? Petty?" she hissed. "Do not dare to trivialise my detestation of that infernal chit of a woman. She is the embodiment of everything that is wrong and flawed with the race of Men. Her vanity, her self-entitlement, her ignorance…"

Éomer's brow creased together in concern. He had always wondered how Lothíriel had wronged Éowyn for his sister to act so uncharacteristically, but now it seemed less like a personal vendetta.

"Whilst everyone was fighting to survive during the war, sacrificing everything just to keep their homes and families safe, constantly fearing for what tomorrow would bring… she was kept safe and blind in her untouched castle in a city unaffected by the hardships of war. And now, whilst we struggle with the nightmares of what we have endured and what we have yet to endure in the aftermath… the most she has to fear are horses."

"I see…" was all Éomer could say in the moment. And he did see. He understood a bit more now why Éowyn had been acting up where it concerned the Princess of Dol Amroth. Éowyn had always tried to fight for what she knew was right; in a way, hating Lothíriel was almost a default for Éowyn when Lothíriel represented every social injustice and inequitable outcome that Éowyn strove so hard to oppose.

"In a way," Éowyn continued, a bitter smile turning up the corner of her lips, "she has everything. She is simple-minded, naïve and privileged, but that is all anyone wants in a world so filled with terror and chaos. That is why I will not apologise to Lothíriel and will continue to defend my actions. She has everything and will continue to have everything. She has no need of my apology, and I have no intentions of giving her more."

"So that is what this was all about…" Éomer finally said quietly. "She is vain, whilst you are not. She is inexperienced, whilst you have fought pivotal battles and made heroic sacrifices. She is privileged and arrogant, whilst you are humble. I have never heard a bigger lie than 'opposites attract'."

"The way you say it, brother, makes it sound as if I am intentionally trying to compare my virtues to her flaws, which is not the case. It is just that people like her aggravate me to no end! They are stuck in a past where everything was brighter and simpler."

There really was no use in trying to convince her of anything anymore. Éowyn had her opinions, so modern and valiant as they were, and not even the fragile balance between newly-formed allies, or her upcoming nuptials to Lothíriel's cousin, would shake Éowyn into thinking any differently. "There is no helping it. Nothing I will say shall change your mind and so there is no use forcing you to repent. All I can ask of you, however, is that those taunting games of yours should stop."

Éowyn shrugged noncommittally. "All good things must come to an end. They were fun whilst they lasted, I suppose…" Éowyn grinned up at Éomer mischievously, to which he couldn't help but return, reminding him of their reckless pranks as children. An unacknowledged and unspoken truce was settled between the two siblings, as they walked back to their horses, ready to ride back to the rest of the party.

"I am not entirely sure whether Faramir will be pleased I brought you back to him or furious that you still refuse to apologise."

"Oh Faramir is never furious. He simply simmers gently, like a patient pot on a mild and tender fire," Éowyn teased. "But that makes it all the easier to break the news to him."

"Even so, I will not be there when you do. Being involved in a lover's tiff is not something I would kindly do again. And I doubt the soldiers would very much like to overhear an argument between the two of you again either…"

"Was it really that bad?" Éowyn cringed in thought of having lost her temper so conspicuously in front of esteemed soldiers, as well as the Princes of Dol Amroth.

"Bad enough that they will know now, if they did not know before, not to mess with you," Éomer said lightly, winking at his beloved sister. He was glad they were back to this rapport, having missed it whilst he was in exile and even before that, when the Worm was introduced to court.

As they rode back to the riding party, everything seemed back to normal with the soldiers, but Faramir was stood waiting for them. Éomer saw his sister go to him immediately to apologise for her behaviour. He wasn't sure how Éowyn and Lothíriel would work out their differences now if the former refused to apologise and he doubted the latter would dare broach the subject first. But Éomer was sure that both he and Faramir agreed that some sort of accord would have to be reached before Éowyn's wedding if the two women were ever going to acknowledge each other as family.

Thank you for all the reviews so far! Love hearing back and I always try and act on constructive criticism.
I've got to admit though, there's a few vengeful spirits in some of you who hope that Lothíriel will exact revenge on Éowyn! Who knows, maybe Lothíriel is the vengeful type too?

I definitely feel like Éowyn thinks that Lothíriel is like the Kardashian/Jenner of Middle Earth; you know, her existence is a bit useless and insubstantial and maybe her life is a bit of lie, but she's still so popular and rich... maybe that makes Éowyn the Blac Chyna or the Amber Rose in comparison...
ANYWAY, I shan't ruin the story more by comparing it to popular media...

Reviews are, as always, welcome!