Chapter 6 Sea shanties and songs of the plains
Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected with Lord of the Rings, and I am writing this purely for fun, not for profit.
The hardest thing about my water and bedpan duties is not the physical effort. After all, it is not as if I am in any fit state myself to do any of the heavy work. No, it is finding the words to talk to men who have lost legs and will never be able to ride again, or who have lost arms, and will never be able to wield a sword or guide a ploughshare. Sometimes they want to rage against their fate, sometimes they are silent and have lost hope, a small number seem able to find some sort of peace with their injuries. The ones who rage worry me less than the ones who are without hope; the latter, the other helpers tell me, are the ones who do not struggle against fevers and infections, who slip quietly from their mortal chains in the middle of the night. I am not the most patient of women, and the thing I find hardest is to listen, without question, or comment, or advice, to whatever they have to say. If they rage, it is best to try to let it wash over me like the waves of the sea. If they are in despair, there is little I can say to change this (how well I know this lesson; I have studied it all too closely myself). It is only really the odd two or three who seem accepting of their fate with whom I can converse, discussing their plans to make themselves useful despite their injuries; they will be able to sow seeds, or thresh the ears of barley one-handed, they tell me, or weave the wool of the Westfold into fine cloth while seated, one legged, at a loom. But even with these men I fear that in fact what I am listening to is simply the postponement of their anger, grief or despair. They chatter with seeming good cheer because their minds hide the enormity of their situation from them.
So it is with relief that I sit here in the garden with the Lady Lothíriel, snatching a few minutes from our labours. We have a waterskin, yet more coarse bread and a hunk of slightly mouldy cheese. The Lady tells me she has sent letters to Dol Amroth, requesting supplies for Minas Tirith, but that it may be a while before they arrive to replenish the stocks left here after the siege. I find myself liking Lothíriel. So far, we have mostly exchanged polite pleasantries, but once or twice I think I have caught a wicked twinkle in her eye, a twinkle which promises the beginnings of a more entertaining friendship. Certainly, she does not fit my prejudiced picture of a spoilt court beauty, although she is undeniably very beautiful indeed. Her next words make me wonder if she has quietly been assessing me in the same way, with a view to deciding how open she can be. If I have been subject to some sort of test, it would appear that I have passed.
"What a morning. Those poor men. Is it wrong of me, I wonder? Even the blackest moments sometimes send my mind spinning towards a kind of dark humour," she says.
"I think black humour is the only response to such circumstances. Well, other than madness, and that would not serve our patients so well," I reply. "What moment did you have in mind?"
"I have a maiden aunt, who is very strong on the level of decorum to be expected from an unwed noblewoman. She could win prizes for discoursing at length on the subject. Well, an hour or so ago, I found myself tending to a young man, one of your Riders, who is in a very bad way. He has lost his left arm just below the shoulder, and the right was shattered into pieces. The healers tell me that had it not been for the fact that they'd already had to amputate one arm, they would have made no effort to save the other, such was the damage to bone and tendons. Even now, it is by no means clear that he will regain any use in it."
I shudder. The thought of such an outcome tears at my heart. Were I in his situation, I would indeed despair and turn my face to the wall.
"I did not know what to do. For once I felt that I would run, weeping from the room, and almost did. But then he uttered one of the words of Rohirric I have come to recognise: he asked for a bedpan. And suddenly I switched from being on the verge of weeping hysteria to an entirely different sort, for it came to me all of a sudden to wonder what my maiden aunt would make of me having to hold a strange soldier's manhood while he pissed into a pot. Of course, it was not really funny, more the sort of thing that has you laughing because laughter and fear and despair can seem so close together at times like these."
"War certainly has strange effects on one's behaviour," I respond. It comes to me that perhaps I can make her laugh. "I swore in front of your cousin yesterday. I didn't mean to, but I tripped over a bucket in the stables, and out it came. Language one of our Riders would have been proud of."
Lothíriel looks at me, then breaks into a smile. "Oh my. What did he make of that? I love my cousin dearly, but he is a quiet, reserved, scholarly man. I am not sure I have ever heard him swear, which is more, I might add, than I can say for my dear brothers."
"Actually, he laughed most heartily. It helped to set us at ease with one another." And I tell her of the horribly stilted conversation we had in the garden about Alcarin's poetry. Lothíriel laughs at this.
"That sounds just like Fara. I swear, books are as real to him as people. Thank heavens you could talk to him about Ecthelion. He would have been at a complete loss, else, for I am not sure he is particularly practised in the art of winning a lady's favour with light hearted chatter. Again, unlike my dear brothers."
"Ah, your brothers are perhaps like mine, who shows an exceptionally keen interest in our sex." Oh no, I should not have said that. If she is keen on Éomer, she will hardly wish to hear of his tendencies to wench his way from East to Westfold. Fortunately, Lothíriel does not seem in the slightest bit fazed.
"Precisely. Well, the younger two at any rate. Elphir is respectably married. But Amrothos and Erchirion have quite an eye for the ladies. Fara, on the other hand, seems really quite shy." She gives me a sidelong look, and I reflect that, perhaps because of her young age, it is simply that Faramir has not thought it appropriate to talk to her about such things. Then it strikes me all of a sudden that it is perhaps odd that he should talk to me. But then, I suppose, in the dark hours of the night, sharing what might be considered the camaraderie of fellow warriors, it is easier to talk of such things than it would be had I been presented to him at a court ball, both of us dressed in the ridiculous finery demanded at such occasions. It also strikes me that perhaps it might prove a little complicated trying to explain the circumstances of my late night conversation to Lothíriel, that, in fact, the situation might be open to misinterpretation. No sooner have I framed this thought than Lothíriel confirms my suspicions.
"Fara seems quite taken with you," she says, with a tone of faux-innocence which does not fool me for a minute.
"No, it is simply friendship," I say, quickly. "He and I were both wounded in the same battle. I think we view each other more as brothers-in-arms than anything else." For a moment I wonder if attack is the best form of defence, and whether I should tease her about my brother, but then I decide it is safest to move the conversation away from romance entirely.
"Tell me about Dol Amroth," I say. "I have never seen the sea."
So Lothíriel tells me about her home, about sweeping golden beaches and towering granite cliffs, water stretching to the horizon, azure under the sun and steely grey beneath the clouds of winter, close cropped green turf set with tiny flowers, seals so fat and placid on the shore and so sleek and graceful in the waters, swooping gulls and diving black cormorants, dolphins frolicking through the wakes of boats out of the sheer joy of being alive. In return I tell her of the galloping horses of my homeland, of sweeping plains, waves not of water but of green grass swaying in the wind, distant white-capped mountains, rushing mountain streams shaded by rowan trees with their bright red berries.
I am hit by a wave of homesickness as I talk of my homeland.
"You miss it," says Lothíriel: it is a statement, not a question.
"Very much. I feel rooted in the earth there, in the horses, the fields of barley, the flocks which graze on the foothills of the mountains. Even in the wooden carvings of our halls, which are to us more than just pretty ornaments. They connect us to the harvest and the souls of our animals, the cycle of the seasons and the protection of the Valar."
"For my part, I cannot imagine what it would be to live far from the sea," Lothíriel replies. Then her expression turns sad. "But I suppose at some stage that may well be my fate. My father is a reasonable man; he will not arrange my marriage without consulting me. But at some point I suppose it will be my lot to enter into a political union, and who knows where that may take me."
I look across at Lothíriel, shocked at what she has just said. "Surely that does not happen any longer. I can see that happening hundreds of years ago, but now?" I am at a loss for words.
"I am probably the most politically well-connected woman of marriageable age in Gondor. Yes, I think that is precisely what will happen. But I have been brought up to that idea, and am adjusted to it. And it is not as bad now as it was a few weeks ago; my uncle might well have sought to overrule my feelings, whatever petitions my father might have made on my behalf. But Fara would not do that to me," she says with a smile. But then her face becomes grave. "But, oh, to be able to marry as one wanted. A year ago, even six months, that would have seemed of no importance. But now..."
"But now?" I ask, thinking back to what Faramir told me.
"Maybe I have had a glimpse of what it might be to marry a man of one's own choosing." She falls silent. I wonder whether to quiz her further, but feel that I do not know her well enough. Even as I think this, it seems foolish not to be able to talk to her of my own brother. But I do not know whether she would welcome the invitation to such confidences. Instead, I let the silence between us stretch out, to see what will come of it. Eventually, she talks again.
"What of you? What are the marriage customs in your land?"
"Very uncomplicated," I say with a smile. "Though most of our population now live in fixed settlements, it is not so long since we were a nomadic people, following our horse herds and flocks of sheep where the grazing took them. We have no great time for ceremony. Traditionally, a man married a woman by wrapping her in his cloak; if their families and friends witnessed them together the next morning, they became husband and wife. It is perhaps a bit more complicated for me, as a close kinswoman of the king. I would be expected to have a formal betrothal in front of the people of Edoras, then a simple wedding ceremony. But my husband would still wrap me in his cloak."
"How marvellous it would be to be free of the weight of ancient ceremony. I dread my marriage night. It is the thought of the expectation of hanging the bloodied sheets out of the window the next morning. I have heard tell of young women who went to their marriage bed pure and untouched, yet for some unknown reason, left no mark on lying with a man for the first time, and were ostracised and cast into dishonour as a result."
It is probably as well that Lothíriel knows no Rohirric (and has not as acute an ear for languages as her cousin), for this moves me to a string of obscenities. Eventually I manage to return to the common tongue. "Béma, and you call us barbarians!"
Lothíriel seems surprised by the force of my outburst. "So, coming to one's marriage bed a maiden is of no importance in your land?" she asks, sounding puzzled.
"Certainly, a woman of high standing would be expected to be a maiden. But, in times of war, a young woman may lie with her sweetheart in good faith, expecting to be married, then lose him to an orc raid. Or worse, she may be despoiled in an enemy raid. Who in all conscience could hold such a thing against her?" As I say this, I realise that I am echoing the words Faramir uttered last night. I comfort myself with the fact that there is at least one high-born Lord of Gondor who is not a barbarian, and smile inwardly. I add, "I hope too that if a young girl made a fool of herself over a boy who did not then marry her, she would not be judged too harshly. I cannot imagine any man worth the having would complain about her past. Though perhaps the rules are looser when there are no rights of property inheritance riding on the issue."
"I think you are right. I cannot but help think of your herds of horses. You and I are fine blood mares, and must only be covered by the right stallions."
My eyes open wide at this. It is by far the most outspoken thing Lothíriel has said, and frighteningly cynical.
"I think my lot is not as bad as yours. I will get to choose my husband. And no bloody sheets will ever fly from my window. That is, if we live through the current darkness. Time enough to turn our thoughts to fripperies should the outcome prove so fortunate." I do not add the thought that it seems to me unlikely. Perhaps I am even more cynical than my companion.
Our conversation is ended by the arrival of Ioreth, one of the healer's assistants, an elderly, bustling, but highly competent woman. She shoos Lothíriel back to work, and equally peremptorily dismisses me to my chamber for an afternoon nap.
"You are far from healed, my Lady. You must rest." Suitably chastened, and feeling like a small child, I do as I am bid. It turns out to be a welcome relief, for I am very tired from repeated nights of disturbed sleep. I lie on my bed, and it is not long before I drift off.
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Sainted Lady of the Harvest, what tricks and vapours of the mind am I now subjected to? At least this dream has involved no horrors, no bloodied corpses on the battlefield, no groping hands. But it is still strange beyond measure. My conversation with Lothíriel has been woven into the oddest of fancies. I trace through the details, wondering whether there is any lesson to be drawn.
In this dream, I woke from the deepest of slumbers, dreamless and safe, to the crashing of the door being kicked in. Éomer burst through it, followed closely by Éothain and Aragorn. I watched in astonishment as my brother tried to draw his sword. Éothain gripped his right arm and prevented him, Aragorn held his shoulder and restrained him from advancing further into the room. It seemed to take their combined strength to hold him back, such was the strength of his fury.
"Béma, I'll have his balls on a platter," my brother roared.
I shifted in the bed, and realised there was an arm round my waist. A naked arm, round my naked waist. And pressed against my back, a warm solid chest. The realisation hit me – I was with a man, and we were covered with a cloak. Not the dark green cloak of a rider, but a dark grey cloak, bearing the moon and stars of Ithilien. Twisting my head, I came face-to-face with Faramir, who looked equally startled and confused by the situation.
By this time Éothain had Éomer in a tight embrace, holding his arms against his side. Éomer still struggled, and uttered fearsome oaths, calling down the vengeance of the gods on the vile despoiler before him. Aragorn looked over at the bed, his face a picture of quiet amusement. Then he uttered the Rohirric words he must have learned while serving my grandfather.
"I see you, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, wrapped in Lord Faramir's cloak. I wish you every joy."
I try to shake the sleep from my head, and rub my eyes. What has got into me? I think of evenings with the women of the Golden hall, sewing and weaving, while the old crones discussed the meanings of dreams. Some held that we dream of our greatest desire, others that we dream of that which we fear. Neither seems to me a likely explanation. I feel more inclined to put the whole thing down to the lingering confusion of mind which accompanies my weakened physical state. At least, that is the only explanation I will countenance.
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To clear my head, I go out to the city walls. A chill wind blows from the east, and I pull the blue cloak around me. It is one that Ioreth gave to me when I first ventured out of bed. But the fabric is thin and worn, and the piercing east wind cuts through it. I shiver.
"My Lady, you are cold." I turn, and there is Faramir behind me. He signals to the servant attending to him, and after a short conversation, the latter turns and descends the stairs. Faramir unfastens his own cloak and passes it to me, draping it around my shoulders. He has no idea why this gesture should cause my cheeks to burn, and I cannot meet his eye. There is a long silence.
"I have asked my servant to fetch a warmer cloak for you, so you need not wear mine if it makes you feel uncomfortable. I am sorry, Éowyn, I did not mean to offend you."
"You have not offended me. I am just tired, and your kind gesture overwhelms me." This sounds unconvincing to my ear, and I am not in the least sure Faramir accepts it as an explanation for the stiffness of my manner. The awkwardness is assuaged only slightly by the return of the servant, bearing a bundle of cloth. Faramir shakes it loose. It is a beautiful cloak, the colour of the evening sky, set with gems about the collar and hem in the shape of stars. I am struck dumb. Faramir takes in my expression, seeming to realise that I am trying to frame the words to refuse this gift. He tries to lighten the mood.
"Will you not swap cloaks with me, my Lady? For I fear that this one will not suit me."
"It is too generous a gift. I cannot..."
"Nay, please my Lady... Éowyn. It will lie unused in a chest else. It seems pointless for it to grace a dark wooden box while you shiver in that flimsy garment." He gestures to the thin cloak I have left draped over the wall. I nod reluctantly, and unclasp his cloak, and silently, we swap the cloaks.
Wrapped up against the chill east wind, we stand side-by-side in silence, looking out over the Pelennor fields towards the Ephel Duath and the dark lands beyond. Eventually, I shift uncomfortably, tired by standing for so long. Faramir suggests we go back into the garden and sit for a while.
The sun has started to dip in the west , and we sit once more on the stone bench near the fountain. It turns out both of us have brought books with us, so we sit in companionable silence in what remains of the daylight, reading. He has, yet again, got the better choice: a treatise on statesmanship. I have a book Lothíriel handed to me earlier, one of her favourites. It is a volume of Sindarin poetry (annotated with a translation into Westron, thank heavens, for though my tutor made me tackle Sindarin, I always struggled with it). I snort in disgust at the sentiments expressed in the particular verse I am reading.
"Listen to this bit: 'When you are very old, sitting in the candlelight by the fire, spinning and sewing, say to yourself, in a voice full of wonder, Mardil of Lossarnach sang of me when I was young and beautiful.' Pah, fancy reducing a woman's whole life to her having been pretty enough to engage the passing fancy of some empty-headed fop at some point in her youth."
Faramir gives me a broad grin, then says, "But it's the language. One can forgive Mardil for being an empty-headed fop for the beauty of his language." And, looking at the fountain rather than at me, he starts to recite. Until I met Legolas, I had never met a native speaker of Sindarin. But I quickly realise that Faramir's grasp of the language must be very good indeed, way beyond the limited knowledge I gained years ago. Then I remember that the high-born in Gondor do speak a form of Elvish as their native tongue. The words flow from his lips with a lilting melody to them, like music. I find that these words do indeed have the power to melt hearts. I shut my eyes and let the music of his voice flow over me, saddened when Faramir reaches the end of the poem. I take a sidelong look at him; he is still staring ahead, but I sense that he knows I am watching him.
Again, I am intrigued by his love of learning. I honestly believe that he does not say these things to impress the listener. He says them simply because he is fascinated. Sometimes his intelligence is set to the task of making lightning quick leaps between different subjects, connecting them in ways no one else has seen before. At other times, he seems just to exult in playing with ideas, like the dolphins Lothíriel described to me, playing in the waves, or like horses, running free across the open grasslands of my home. But he never displays his learning like a trophy, seeking admiration. It is simply part of him. I am drawn back from my musings by his voice.
"You're still right about the content," he says. "Lothí always says it makes her want to kick him, or would if he hadn't died centuries ago. But there are some poems where the language and sentiment seem perfectly in tune." He begins to recite again, and at first I cannot place the sounds at all. Sonorous syllables, varying in tone and length, somehow filling the space with a beauty all of their own. I realise it is Quenya, a language even the Elves themselves now think of as ancient. He stops, and I look at him quizzically. This time, he meets my gaze.
"It's a poem about Beren and Luthien, less well known than the Lay of Leithian, but I think I prefer it. The poet imagines the mortal Beren trying to explain to Luthien, the immortal, what love means to a Man, tied to a fleeting existence upon the earth. 'Suns may rise and set: We, having shone with a brief light must sleep one endless night. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred...'" His grey eyes fix on mine, a faint, unreadable smile playing across his lips.
Suddenly I realise that in his quiet, scholarly, bookish way, Faramir is trying to flirt with me. Trying and succeeding, for just as suddenly I realise that I am enjoying this. The thought both startles and amuses me. Who would have thought a barbarian shieldmaiden from the far north could be wooed with ancient poetry whispered to her amid the flowers of a courtly garden? I feel myself smile back at him, and sense a blush rising in my cheeks. Do I encourage him, or do I fall back on our easy comradeship? If we let ourselves take this new path, will it be the end of the friendship that has come to mean so much to me? I am saved from the decision by a familiar voice, cutting through the tension that has sprung up between us.
"Cousin, my father's factor in Dol Amroth has sent the ledgers detailing the provisions and stores we have laid by." Lothíriel interrupts us. "Can you spare some time in your study? We can assess how much can safely be spared from the Princedom and sent to Minas Tirith. We need to feed the people here, but not at the expense of starving those back in my home."
"Of course, Lothíriel." Faramir stands up, then turns to me. "Fare you well, my Lady Éowyn. I shall see you again soon, if you will." And, catching me completely by surprise, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my skin.
I watch as he and Lothíriel walk down the path, side-by-side. The skin on the back of my hand still seems to tingle, as if he has left the imprint of his lips there. And I can feel his hands on my shoulders as he placed the cloak around me, and hear his voice in my head, murmuring poetry. I sit on the bench, remembering and wondering, until the garden becomes quite dark and the chill night air drives me back inside to my chamber.
Author's note: The custom of marriage by cloak-wrapping is Zees Muse's wonderful creation, and first appears in her story Rider of the Mark.
I have stolen the poetry (of course). Here are the originals.
Quand vous serez bien vielle, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant,
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.
Ronsard, Sonnets pour Hélène
soles occidere et redire possunt;
nobis, cum semel occidit breuis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum...
Catullus, poem V.
Thank you again for your kind reviews. And thank you to Motherpoppins and the guest reviewer, who I can't PM – your comments are much appreciated.
Things will go rather non-canon in the next chapter, just so you know what to expect.