Chapter 11: Love is in the Air
"I should wear the blue gown if I were you," Emelin suggests. "Goes with your eyes."
"My eyes are grey. They're boring."
"Really? They look blue in this light."
And with that, the matter is settled. Choices are easier, Éowyn finds out, when someone else chooses for her.
After a light dinner, Éowyn sits down to let Emelin work on her hair. For a good while the maid endevours to build a blonde tower, as tall as it will go, and then adds a tortoiseshell comb for structural support. Quite tasteful the comb is, inset with a large beryl, and cunningly crafted into shapes that catch and multiply the lamplight. A cursory look might mistake it for a coronet. It belongs to Emelin's daughter-in-law; Éowyn has gleaned that the woman doesn't exactly know that it's not in its drawer.
The looking-glass doesn't make her totally happy. The gown retains its miraculous fit; but now her neck looks too long and bare, jutting upwards out of the exposed shoulders. It seems to her that her head will topple to the floor unless she stands perfectly still.
"I should have got some jewellery," she says, vainly trying to arrange a few strands of hair left loose. "A necklace, or—"
"Not to worry, m'lady. All the adornment you're gonna need tonight nature has already given to you. You just let me do these laces…"
"Ouch! That's too tight!"
"Nonsense. There ain't never tight enough to showcase what you got. How d'you think I caught me two husbands?" Emelin's hands are busy making sure every bit fits its pre-ordained place. "The slippers feel right?"
"Yes." Éowyn hitches the hem of her gown to take a final look at the kidskin slippers. She can feel her toes curling and mounting on top of each other, but not a sigh of protest will she utter. I have had them endure worse for less reward. "These are yours? You have small feet!"
"Had. I was 'bout your size when I was your age. Don't you tell that to the Prince, though."
Music is coming up the stairs. A band has arrived up the river in the morning, bound for Minas Tirith and the Queen's Ball; and they have eagerly seized the chance to earn a few extra castars. 'The Knights of Lebennin,' they call themselves; but their only weapons are maracas, bongos and zithers, and with them they fill the place with soft cadences.
The horseshoe-shaped stairs lead down into the Great Hall itself. The principle behind this arrangement is that any people staying in the chambers abovestairs will be of enough consequence to need not to be announced at the door: the riffraff will gawk unbidden upon their descent. Eowyn moves down stiffly from step to carpeted step, constantly seeking balance on the bannister. She's trying hard to keep her hairdo as vertical and wobble-free as possible, while at the same time struggling to not step on her own toes. The poor light is not helping matters. The new chandelier hasn't yet been hung. A couple rows of standing candelabra throw a wavering ruddy-golden light along the hall, from the stairs to the raised chair at the far end where the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien sits to preside over ceremonies.
The Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, however, is not now upon his hight seat. He is waiting for her in his best fineries at the foot of the stairs.
And when his eyes rise to her, he is overcome.
"Whoa," he seems to say. Of course, Éowyn knows, that is not the case. She just thinks she heard that. Lords and princes don't go whoa.
Oh, gods. He is actually gawking. But no grin or chortle, no sign of giddiness at all, she allows to alter her demeanor. She focuses her attention in remaining queenly, proud, and gawk-worthy.
Negotiating the stairs demands all her concentration, and once or twice she needs to look down at her feet lest she stumbles. And when she does so, she sees the choice of raiment has been the right one. In the muted candlelight the gown is the colour of an early sunset, and its clouds of lace glow as pale gold.
"My lady Éowyn." Faramir takes her hand, bewilderment still set upon his face. "You look like… Like the sky itself has come down to pay me a visit. I am moved by such beauty as now graces my hall."
"You lie," she lies. She knows he meant it. At any rate, she knows she wants him to have meant it. However, it won't do to show that. "You are very polite to say so."
"There's more to my words than mere politeness," he insists, regaining something of his princely aplomb. "I bear witness to the truth. If the Lady of the Sun were to lay eyes on you, she would blanch with envy and refuse to rise in the morning."
Yes. That. Don't stop it. Keep it coming, please.
She lowers her eyes timidly. "You are too kind, my lord."
"There is no being too kind to you. And I must renew my request that you call me Faramir."
"I will, in that case. Faramir." A brightness grows in his eyes in response to her smile.
"Will you honour me with this dance, Éowyn?"
This dance and every dance ever.
"Well… It'd be a pity to let such lovely music go undanced to, wouldn't it?"
The centre of the hall feels miles away. Every step hurts, and not just in her feet. But at length they both stand on a carpet that has been set on the floor to cover something, she's no longer sure what.
He bows deep, reaches gently to her, and the dancing commences. Éowyn shivers. Her hands are on his shoulders, his hands are on her waist, and the world spins around them. Nothing else matters as long as she can find herself in the reflection of those intense, charming, grey eyes.
"Is your face healing?," he asks suddenly.
"My face? Oh! This." She makes to touch her cheek, but Faramir's body gets in the way. "Yes. I'm fine. Thank you."
"I should have gone mad with grief and rage if any misfortune had befallen you. Such a failure of my protection that was! Even such slight injury as you got upsets my heart."
No! There are so much better things for you heart to do.
"It's not your fault—"
"Oh, but it is. I have redoubled the guard at gates and walls. No other intruder will sneak in unremarked. You will be as safe here as in your own home."
You don't know Éomer.
She tries to make light of the matter and change the subject, but Faramir won't let it go. He keeps describing how he'd feel and what he'd do if anything were to happen to her. For a moment Éowyn wishes he didn't talk about himself so much.
"We don't even know what that… that devil wanted here," he says.
"That's in the past now."
And with that, unthinkingly, she lays her head on his chest. Only moments later she realises it. It's not something she meant to do; yet it feels now as something right to have done. His arms wrap about her, protective and snug.
No new words are uttered. The music has grown sweeter and mellower in the minstrel's gallery, and a swarthy singer croons with raspy voice:
Love is in the air tonight.
You're so radiant, you're so bright
I'm defenceless; yes, defenceless,
I give up without a fight.
Love so tender, love so sweet
I have known since we did meet,
I surrender; yes, surrender,
lay my weapons at your feet.
He feels so… So… So solid. She can hear his breathing. And his heartbeat; he does have a hearbeat. A warmth is actually radiating off his body.
So solid, and so alive.
"My lady," she hears his whispering. "Éowyn…"
"Faramir," she mutters in return. "My lord."
"Éowyn, I… There's something I would like to ask you."
In a manner as collected and cool as she can manage, she says: "Yes?"
"Well… Would you… Maybe…"
"Yes? What is it?"
"Unless you prefer to do something else, or have other plans. It's fine if you do."
"Yes, but what is it?" She bites her tongue upon noticing her voice's shrill edge.
"Would you… I…" The dancing stops. She sees him gulp and breathe heavily, as if to calm himself. And calmer he sounds when he says: "I would be most honoured if you accepted to accompany me to the Queen's Midsummer Ball."
Yes! Score!
"It will be my pleasure to accompany you, my… Faramir."
"My Faramir sounds lovely."
Nothing is left to be said. Nothing, at least, that needs to be said with words. The dancing resumes, slow, leisurely, flowing from one step to the next. Before any of them knows how or why it happened, they are both in each other's arms.
Yes. This is what it should feel like. There's no burning fire here, no blaze that threatens to consume the world, yet it feels… It feels right. No razing inferno, but a hearth. A hearth that warms and brings comfort rather than devour.
A while passes before she comes to realise the band has left. Yet music seems to linger still about the place, in her heart if not in her ears. Shadows tremble large upon the walls, two forms fused together, indivisible.
The absence of prying eyes seem to embolden the Prince. His hands are tentatively trespassing boundaries that no Prince's hands ought to trespass. Each of his fingers is a scout reconnoitering the terrain, uncertainly probing how far they can advance before raising the alarm; but no alarm is raised, for the trespassing is welcome.
"Éowyn…" Her name is the last thing she hears, soft and sultry as the murmured invocation of an amorous spirit, before their lips meet.
To think I was about to give my life to a wraith, she thinks.
And then, as a dam suddenly breached, further memories come rushing to her that open a gaping void in her soul.
Oh, gods. I did give him something just as valuable.
Never had a syllable struggled so hard to go past Éowyn's throat. In the end, however, it comes out, strained and sorrowful:
"No."
"No?" Faramir sounds surprised and hurt.
"Not tonight. Please." The words are hard to pronounce, like a language learned badly, for they run counter to everything she desires. "You and I…"
"Oh. Of course…" His hands depart her out-of-bounds districts and then her person altogether. Music has now definitely died away. He steps back, visibly embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
No. It's me who's sorry. She feels lonely, desolate, and cold. She seeks comfort in his eyes, but he awkwardly turns his gaze away. Please, look at me. The shadows on the wall, now sundered, have acquired the chill, foggy quality of phantoms out of a bad dream. A dream she feels she'll never awake from unless she can bask again in his stare.
"Have I offended you?," he asks, his voice barely audible.
"I… Uh… I think I'd better retire to my bedchamber. It's been a long day."
"Ye… Yes. Of course. Uh… Good night, Éowyn."
"Good night, my lord." Her heart breaks as she sees him standing there, the injured expression of a beaten puppy upon her countenance; and she averts her eyes to spare her soul such crushing spectacle. The stairs feel horribly high, and its ascent as long as hard as climbing a mountain. And nothing Éowyn can conceive of is as empty as her chamber.
Straight she goes to a nacre chest on the bedstand, before even thinking of freeing her toes from the slippers; and from its hiding place under a mound of trinkets she pulls out a small tear-shaped object.
A silk ribbon fastens the velvet pouch to the glass vial, and the red gloom conceals something more precious that gold, for it is hope for the future in liquid form. Slowly, as from a great distance away, the words of the dwarf come to her.
Just pour a few drops in his wine and he's yours forever.
She repeats them to herself. She mouths them silently, feeling their taste. Yours forever. Sweet they are, yet they leave a bitter tang of doubt. Do they mean yours forever in spite of anything? Yours forever, no matter what you do or what he learns? Is there a love-philtre in Middle-earth strong enough for that?
And then upon a diverging thought she stumbles, a thought haunting and disturbing. What if fate brought this potion to her, not to chase chimeras of lavish gowns and princely weddings, but to follow her appointed path? To bind her to him who will not readily be bound, and reach her true destiny?
Éowyn's eyes grow misty contemplating the forking road ahead, and a single tear hangs from the ledge of her eyelashes. What to do when duty points a way and the heart a different one?
A man of the Riddermark does his duty, Éomer would say. That is the first and the last thing for him.
But then again, she isn't a man…
The doorknob turning and the door opening intrude into her agony. Quickly she hides the vial whence she took it and lowers the lid of the chest.
"May I come in, m'lady?," Emelin asks, standing on the doorway.
"Come on in. I just… I was just getting ready for bed."
"Yes." The maid is quieter than her usual self, more demure than Éowyn has known her so far. "But before I help you with your prep'rations… I have a message from m'lord, Prince Faramir."
"A message from the Prince? What is it?"
"The Prince wants to know… With your 'scuses, as he dun mean to seem insistent or nuthin'… But he wants to know if you have changed your mind 'bout comin' with him to the Queen's Ball."
"I… I don't know."
"M'lord looked very mortified. I dun think he'll sleep soundly tonight 'less I carry him your answer. If you catch my meanin'."
"Is he?" Éowyn is beset by a distressing sensation in her belly, as of having butterflies in her stomach, if butterflies had teeth. Can I let my hesitancy anguish a good man? Isn't this my duty as well?
Inadvertently her hand alights on top of the nacre chest as she stands firm and resolute.
"Tell Prince Faramir I will be pleased to go with him to the Ball."
Emelin makes no answer, but a light seems to be kindled in her face. A motherly smile bends her features, and before leaving she winks.
Éowyn's hand neither leaves the chest nor opens it again. She can feel the vial inside as an ember burning against the chill of a careless, loveless existence. As the door is closed, she gives voice to the idea that has been fluttering inside her.
"There is only one duty," she says to the empty room, "and that duty is to follow the heart."