When Good People Get Together

The White Lady of Rohan, now the White Lady of Ithilien, with her golden hair, bloodless lips and her skin pale even against the stark white sheets, looked like a picture, almost if she had arranged it just so. Perhaps she had. For all her wild ways, his sister was not above her small vanities. Éomer sat down on the bench beside her bed, and reached for her hand. It was all so close to the image that still haunted his dreams, and yet not at all: there were hints of pink in her cheeks and laughter on her lips, and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Her hand twitched almost imperceptibly when he took it, but he had already known she was pretending. He had, after all, seen her do it many times before, after bouts of nightly mischief in Aldburg, and later, when they were not so little anymore, when feigning sleep seemed preferable to discussing the cause of another restless night. She had never managed to fool him.

"We have to stop meeting like this. Éowyn."

The smile widened, but she did not open her eyes. "You took your time getting here. Faramir was certain you would come galloping up in the middle of the night," she murmured.

"That was my first impulse," he admitted. "Erchirion managed to dissuade me."

"Impressive. Then again, Imrahil's offspring never fails to surprise." At last she opened her eyes, and to his relief they were tired but alight with joy. She turned to him and studied his face. "You look well, brother. Tall."

"I've always been tall."

"I remember you shorter." Another smile. The shrew loved teasing him; she always had.

"You look awful," he said, which earned him a glare. "A fair and glamorous awful," he clarified.

"Well, I would like to see how you would look after pushing a horseshoe out your nostril. That is much what childbirth is like, in case you were curious."

Éomer hastened to change the direction of the conversation. "Your husband showed me some of the house. It is as beautiful as you wrote in your letters, Éowyn. I find it hard to believe there was just a ruin here a year ago."

"I am still marveling we managed to get so much done in such a short time," said Éowyn.

Éomer looked around the room, taking in the sparse wooden furniture, the walls stained in muted pastels and the colourful tiles on the floor. So different from the imposing opulence of Minas Tirith, and the sombre grandeur of the Meduseld, and yet it seemed to suit the surroundings, and, more importantly, his sister. The air was warm, and soft forest sounds drifted in through the open window: the scurrying and buzzing of insects, the call of a lone cuckoo bird. "Very serene," he praised. "It seems we are days away from Minas Tirith."

"Not so far at all. You can see the Citadel from the guard tower, on a clear day," said Éowyn.

"Keeping an eye on the enemy, hm? In case they decide to undertake a side-saddle crusade?"

"Ha ha." Her face tightened for a moment, and she turned to rearrange her pillows so that they were supporting her back.

"Are you still in pain?"

"Some. I am mostly tired."

"I don't like it," he muttered, more to himself.

"Neither did I," said Éowyn with an impish grin. "But the results are spectacular."

A soft knock on the door announced the presence of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, a man with far too many impressive titles and feats to his name to be carrying a tray of fruits, bread, butter and iced sangaree, although he obviously did not think so.

"I hope I do not intrude. I thought you both could do with some refreshments."

"Oh yes, thank you," his sister struggled to sit up a little. "Please, Faramir, stay and join us."

Éomer shifted in his seat. "You had the forethought to bring three glasses anyway," he said a little tersely. He had not quite forgiven Faramir for bending to his sister's wishes and not sending out a messenger to find him at the first signs of trouble.

Faramir pulled out a small wooden table and set out his bounty, pouring the sangaree over the ice, and slicing the oranges with a little silver knife. The smell of citrus mingled with fresh-baked bread and Éomer felt himself relenting.

"I had the same sent down to your riders," said Faramir. "They decided to raise the encampment near the riverbank instead of beside the barracks. I suppose it was hard to resist the temptation of the water."

Éomer gave an assent; it would have been his choice as well, even if it were a less convenient distance to the manor house.

"I also sent down casks of ale and water, and some other necessary supplies in case you were short after the journey. All are of course welcome to take their dinner in the Hall with us. My Rangers do so too."

"We thank you." It was customary in Rohan, but Éomer had not been sure about the practice in Gondor.

"We were able to find a space in our stables for all the horses that are not needed at the camp. It is a little inconvenient and cramped, and we are building larger stables just outside the eastern walls, but it is not safe at the moment. My men discovered orc tracks just a mile from there, no more than a week old."

Éomer nearly choked on his sangaree. "Orcs!"

"Yes," Faramir offered him a plate of cakes and oranges, which Éomer took without thinking, still reeling from the news. "There is no need for alarm, though. This was the first sighting in months, and there has been no mischief since the spring. We believe they are just crossing the forests to flee south, although for what purpose we cannot be certain. Still, best to post some extra guards for the next few nights."

"There are orcs yet in Gondor! And so close to Emyn Arnen."

"Why, yes," said Faramir, sounding a little surprised at his horror. "We are after all but a two days' ride from Minas Morgul, which used to be their stronghold."

"And you knew this when you decided to build a house here of all places?"

"Elessar did not assign me to Ithilien for some early retirement. Your sister and I have taken it to task to cleanse these lands…"

"Hold on," spoke Éomer with menacing emphasis. "My little sister is actually involved in this scheme of yours?"

"Why yes", said Faramir again, unshaken or oblivious to the threat behind the words. "We laid the plans together during the summer at Edoras. Our archers are the finest in Middle-Earth, but Éowyn introduced some techniques for shooting from horseback that have proved invaluable. The shortbow used by your people, for example, with the strange curve, has incredible speed and reach for a weapon so light and easy to wield. Of course, the increased tension on the string means it is less suited for covert attacks, but we are no longer so reliant on the element of surprise…"

Éomer had stopped listening. The man was so wordy, one had to wonder it did not drive Éowyn mad sometimes. His eyes sought out his sister's instead, and the guilt was written all over her face. Good. "You never mentioned this in any of your letters. With your talk of gardening."

"I knew you would react this way."

"How should I react?" Éomer lashed out. "You said you were done with this sort of thing."

"I never said that."

"You certainly implied it."

"I said I was done seeking glory at all costs. That is not the same as never touching a sword again."

"I distinctly remember you promise that you will no longer put yourself in deliberate danger."

"And I am not! This is so like you, Éomer! Grumbling and kicking up a fuss while there is absolutely no need. Emyn Arnen is as secure as any place can be and Faramir's Rangers, who far outnumber any orc party we have managed to intercept so far, are on constant guard."

"If I had known 'riding' meant 'riding out into battle'… Éowyn, are you insane?"

"Don't exaggerate. I only rode with Faramir once, and I was not even perfectly sure I was with child then."

"You were not perfectly sure?" Éomer thundered. "No wonder the babe decided to come early. It must have been in constant terror for his life in there. Clever boy. If only it had the wit to turn as well there might still be some hope for you all."

When Faramir spoke up, it was with infuriating calm: "Actually, breech births happen for no reason anyone can discern. It has nothing to do with a baby's wits, or lack thereof. Although breech births have been associated with …"

"Faramir, this is not the time for lectures, and Éomer, stop blustering" came his sister's sharp voice. "You knew very well I was not going to waste my talents…" Talents, ha! One lucky stroke at a legendary enemy and they thought they were Béma's gift to warfare. "… and that Gondor has as many challenges ahead of it as the Mark. Neither of us can help that you have apparently been living in a state of denial since midwinter."

"Éowyn, there are many other ways to serve your country. Safer ways."

He saw his own stubborn determination reflected back at him in his sister's expression. "You have always been a hypocrite, Éomer. Anyway, I have already said I will not ride needlessly into battle. All I do is provide Faramir with some assistance in the training of his men."

"That is all you do?"

"That is mostly all I do," said Éowyn after a moment's pause.

"You… " She-devil? Headstrong, intractable mule? Same old bloody Éowyn? He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture, took a deep breath and reined his temper under control. "Fine. I can recognise a lost cause when I see one. Faramir, she is your problem and I wish you the best of luck. Meanwhile, you better make sure that the next of your brood knows how to find his way out!"

Faramir started murmuring something under his breath, but with one hiss from Éowyn he ceased and cast a contrite look around the room.

"Speaking of the brood, where is he? When can I meet my nephew?" His nephew. His sister-son. Technically, little Elboron was his heir as well as Faramir's.

"Lothíriel has him out in the rose garden," said Faramir, sitting down on the bed beside Éowyn.

"Lothíriel?"

"Yes."

"Princess Lothíriel?"

"Do we know another Lothíriel?"

Éomer furrowed his brow. "Are you sure that is safe?"

"Ha! My cousin may not be much of a warrior, but I have no trouble entrusting her with my son in my own grounds."

"Hm." The problem with men such as Faramir is that they always saw the good in people and were therefore entirely too trusting.

"I expect they will be back any minute, but I can have a servant fetch them if you wish," said Faramir.

"Don't trouble yourself. I am sure I can find her myself." He made to get up. "Actually, I think I shall go see her now."

Éowyn looked at him with interest. "Her, huh? You seem very eager, brother."

He realised his slip and pondered its implications. Was he eager to see Lothíriel? Perhaps. Curious, certainly. After what Erchirion had said yesterday, Éomer was intrigued to witness for himself what had become of the Princess of Dol Amroth. "Apparently, she is holding my nephew hostage."

"Hm. I suppose we can bend the rules just this once," said Faramir, with a wink at Éowyn.

"There are rules?"

"Just a few," said Faramir. "This is ah, a rather recent rule we were forced to introduce. Well, not a rule per se. We simply discourage Lothíriel and her suitors from meeting in the rose garden."

It took a moment to process the sentence. "Lothíriel has suitors?"

Éowyn tapped her glass impatiently. "Of course she has suitors, brother. She has just come of age, is extremely well connected and her father has promised a dowry that matches the worth of the entire Eastfold."

"I see. And you fear indiscretions?" Remembering Lothíriel's naïve flirtatious ways, he thought it would probably be in her family's best interest to keep her firmly under lock and key until her wedding day, but he had found Imrahil was remarkably permissive with all his children.

"Not indiscretions," said Faramir with a smile. "My cousin so far has kept all pretenders well under control. However, some of the more romantic souls got into the habit of picking flowers to adorn her hair. Because of her name, of course. Lothíriel. Flower-garlanded maiden."

Éomer felt himself sink back into his seat, and leaned against the cushions, horrified. "I hope you are jesting."

"Not in the least," his sister's tone was clipped. "Faramir thought it was charming, and I was prepared to close my eyes to these Gondorian excesses, until some weeks ago they discovered our êlmeril. Steorra rōses," she translated in Rohirric.

"They are a rare, beautiful bloom of a soft grey," clarified Faramir. "Legolas brought them from Eryn Lasgalen. They only bloom every three years."

Éowyn nodded. "Anyway, it was agreed that the roses matched her eyes, and thus all ended up in Lothíriel's hair within less than a week."

"That's awful," said Éomer, in an attempt at sobriety.

"Yes. Éowyn thought so too."

"That is probably the single most horrible thing I have heard since we were told an army of ten thousand orcs was marching on Helm's Deep."

Faramir piled up their plates with an exaggerated sigh. "It has to be said: the Rohirrim are a great people, but they understand nothing of courtly love. When I was wooing Éowyn, all she kept asking me was to speak plain language."

"And rightly so," said Éomer with some satisfaction. "Such niceties would be highly improper until after the official betrothal; and by that time you will find them wholly unnecessary."

"That sounds very convenient," said Faramir, with a small smile.

"Certainly. All wooing needs involve is a simple yes/no question, and perhaps a well-phrased compliment or two to create the ideal circumstances."

"My brother, of course, is an expert on these matters," demurred Éowyn.

Faramir nodded gravely. "He would have been a great ally during those early days. He could at least have warned me the Rohirrim only bring flowers to their dead."

"Oh yes, I remember that. I thought the Healers had given up on me after all, and simply forgotten to inform me of my impending doom."

Éomer grinned to himself imagining his sister's exasperation at Faramir's fanciful and pointless attempts at seduction. Then he noticed a sly smile on his sister's face, and a twinkle in Faramir's eye, and he suddenly wondered if Faramir had not managed to woo Éowyn after all, and perhaps in much plainer language than was proper. Every word and look that passed between them betrayed such a deep and easy connection… and that baby had come awfully soon.

He put the thought out his mind; some questions best remained unasked.

He took Éowyn's empty glass from her at her behest and placed it back on the table, while she wove her fingers through Faramir's. He could read the signs and resolved to give the couple some privacy. It cost him, though. His sister had been right. He missed her dreadfully. And seeing her here now brought home to him that he was no longer her first confidant, no longer the one who knew most of her secrets, and in a strange and twisted way he felt a little jealous. Overjoyed for the pair of them, but jealous nonetheless. There had been some tensions between the new husband and wife during their first winter together, and at one point he had half-expected Éowyn to come riding up in the dead of night, declaring Gondor silly and returning to Edoras for good. During a particularly long and lonely day he had even hoped for it. Mentally he added it to his list of moral failings.

"I will go find my nephew," he said, getting to his feet. "It is getting cooler, and it seems too fine a day not to explore the gardens. And I promise there will no wooing. Especially not of that sort," he said before he shut the door behind him.


Author's Notes: Sangaree is a mediaeval version of sangria, which seemed a suitable drink for my very Mediterranean Gondor. Back in the day, people would collect and cut ice from mountains and frozen lakes and keep it underground in specially designed and well-insulated icehouses. Definitely a luxury product, though, but we all know Faramir is generous and might well share with his men on occasion. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, especially also anthi35 and LazyJellyBean. I always love reading all your comments. And yes, I am being a reunion-tease, but I hope you enjoyed Éowyn and Faramir, and now the pieces are set and up next…