Chapter XII: In The Gardens
19 March, 3019
The next morning I got up early and slipped through the garden to the wall. It rose above the City; one could see forever, it seemed. As I climbed the stone steps, I looked down at my feet. The steps were engraved with runes I could not read. I felt left out, somehow, to fail to understand the language of this place. But whether one could read them or not, the runes were decorative—they were beautiful.
I reached the top of the wall and was amazed at the view. The centre of the City was the highest point, and I was now at the highest point of that highest point. The Sunrise blazed on level with my gaze. I let down my hair—which Ioreth had taught me to pin up under a scarf in the style of Gondorian women—and the wind caught it.
In my thin chemise and skirt, so evocative of my white gown in Rohan, I might have been standing on the steps of Edoras, watching the flags blow in the wind, looking out over the fields of my beloved country.
But the view was so different; the cold pavement under my feet was smoothly sanded, not roughly hewn rock dug up from a nearby quarry. I felt different, and frightened at the feeling.
Just when the rim of the Sun had cleared the mountains, and the golden sphere stood staring me in the eyes, I felt someone draping a cloak over my shoulders. I recognised Faramir's voice whispering, "You must be freezing, Milady."
I must have heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, but I had been so absorbed in my own thoughts that no conscious recognition of his approach had broken through.
"Thank you, Milord," I said, examining the fabric he had covered me with. It was a deep blue, inset with tiny white stones—diamond or crystal, I knew not and cared not. It evoked the night sky, and the brooch—which I closed myself—was the eight-pointed star I had seen on so many helms and breastplates in Aragorn's company. "It's beautiful," I commented.
"It was my mother's cloak," he said. "Finduilas of Amroth. She passed away many years ago, and it has lain in my father's chamber for a long time. When I saw you up here, I decided I would make a present of it to you… will you accept it, as a token of our friendship?"
"Are we friends, milord?" I asked.
"Perhaps we are not as intimate friends as I would like," he said. "But if we continue in the same House for any amount of time, we soon will. Shall it then be a token of our future friendship?"
"Yes, of course," I agreed. I had nothing against a friendship with this man. He was strong and noble, as I was discovering the closer he came, and when his fingers touched my neck to place the cloak I felt their warmth and gentleness. Were all Gondorians as gentle as he and Aragorn? And yet Faramir of the two was the one I would trust to lift a fallen baby bird off the ground and replace him in his nest, not a feather disturbed. I felt his care and softness in every movement; and yet there was no weakness, which I had always assumed must accompany any display of mildness. I knew he could hold his own in a battle; he could rage against the enemy with the best of them—and yet his motivation was not the urge to murder and slaughter; rather to revenge his loved ones that had fallen under the foe's swords, to prevent any other of his companions from meeting with the same fate.
"I am glad of it," he said. "And if you have looked your fill for the morning on the Eastern horizon, what say you to a meal, and perhaps a time of talking in the gardens?"
My stomach growled loudly, and I blushed at the rudeness. "I am… a little hungry."
He smiled broadly and took my hand. "I thought so. The cooks in the Houses would feed us nothing but broth for the next age, would I permit it, but I have insisted a finer meal be prepared for the White Lady of Rohan and her small attendant, as well as the Lord of the City. Breakfast awaits the three of us, and already Meriadoc of the Shire sits at the table."
I laughed. "From what I have seen of Shire folk, if we delay any longer, we shall arrive to an empty table!"
"And a full Hobbit!" agreed Faramir. "Come, let us go."
He helped me carefully down the steps I had so nimbly climbed only two hours ago, and allowed me to dress more appropriately before meeting them in the small banquet hall prepared for us.
Ioreth was shocked at my attire, and that I had conversed so shamelessly with a man before the entire City with my hair down, in nothing but a chemise and skirt! She hurriedly dressed me in a dark green and blue dress and pinned my hair under the familiar black scarf. "Now you are beautiful," she remarked, as if I were ugly before.
My entrance to the eating hall did not go unnoticed, as I had hoped it would. Faramir and Meriadoc had waited eating for me, and upon my arrival, Meriadoc drew in a breath, as did I.
"Merry!"
"Éowyn!" we exclaimed simultaneously, then laughed.
"You look so well!" I said when there was silence. "The Healers truly did a remarkable work with you! I thought you dead!"
"As I did you, Lady," Merry replied. "But after the fall of the Black Rider"—by which he meant the Black Captain—"I remained conscious, and you did not. One of my kinsfolk found me on the battlefield shortly after you and the King were found and supposed dead, and he took me to the Healers, and then Aragorn healed you and Faramir, and then he healed me."
I frowned. "But if I was supposed dead than how did I get to the Healers?"
"That I can answer, Milady," said Faramir. "The Prince Imrahil was looking at the fallen, and when he saw you among them, he thought he saw your chest rise and fall a little, and to be certain, he placed his shield before your lips. Then it was discovered you were yet alive, and so your brother bore you here, where the Lord Aragorn wrought your healing."
"Yes, Strider," agreed Merry. "That, and a little pipeweed, are the reason I stand before you now, alive and well. And having explained the reason for my continued existence, would it be impolite of me to persist in existing by tucking into the delicious meal our hosts have prepared for us?"
Of course that was a hint to stop talking and begin the meal, and we began to feast.
Afterwards, Merry went to talk to the Warden about looking in the gardens and seeing if anything of the smoking variety could be found there—his stash was running a little low. Faramir and I went out in the garden, I still wearing the cloak with which he had provided me. The sun had risen fully by now, and when Faramir patted the grass he found it dry. "Will you sit here?" he asked. "I find it pleasant in the heat of the day."
We sat down, and began talking. He asked me questions about Edoras, and I found myself willing to answer, and tell even more than was asked. I told him of Mother and Théodred and Éomer… even of my father and of Gríma Wormtongue. All the while I talked, all the while I opened my heart and shared my dreams, I was telling myself, You fool! He can read your mind; he knows your history from three words you share; he sees more than you say. Stop talking! But it was impossible to stop the flow.
My love for Aragorn I even shared, hardly able to help myself. I described Aragorn as I had come to know him: strong, yet gentle, proud, yet able to humble himself in times of need. Faramir admitted he had suspected my adulation for him from tones in my voice when we'd spoken of our mutual healer; and now, he said, many things I had said made more sense. As I admitted this, I felt something go from my emotion—some of the burn cooled in confessing my love for this unattainable man: the romance lessened when it ceased to be a secret, printed in invisible letters across my heart.
I still wonder, sometimes, what he thought of this overwhelming flow of information. Was he taken aback by my confidence? Did he see me as a street gossip for so easily sharing my past with him? He certainly gave no indication of either notion; indeed, he encouraged the conversation in subtle ways, keeping quiet commentary when my emotions got the better of my voice, rephrasing more ambiguous statements that he might understand the clearer, and all the while met my gaze with his clear brown eyes.
As the day grew longer, he repaid my confidence by telling me about his father, who had recently died, and his brother, slain by orcs a few months ago. Boromir, he said his name was, and Faramir had looked up to him and loved him dearly. I felt his pain—he was not the only one to lose kin recently.
He was an accomplished listener; I found myself treated to a three-dimensional picture of myself, thanks to his habit of repeating what I had told him from another person's view—my father's, Aragorn's, Éomer's… I found myself understanding other people more than I had before, looking through the eyes he taught me to use. And as I understood them more, my heart hurt less.
Five days after our conversation on the grass, we stood at the top of the wall again. I allowed myself a passing glance North—towards the lush meadows I hadn't seen for what felt like years. But then with a sigh, I turned East.
Hearing my sigh, and catching sight of my searching eyes turned towards the rising Sun, Faramir asked, "What do you look for, Éowyn?" We had a few days previous dropped the formalities of Lord and Lady, choosing to call one another by our given names.
Without turning, I said, "Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? And must he not now come thither? It is seven days since he rode away."
"Seven days," Faramir agreed. "But think not ill of me if I say to you that they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because the fear and doubt of this evil are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."
I looked down at the ground to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks. "Lose what you have found, milord?" I asked shyly. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could not lose." A pause… Faramir was looking at me with the eyes of a lover and not a friend. I, too, had found something I did not wish to lose: a man who loved me as a sister, not a wife. I had found a man willing to accept me as a friend and companion, without the obligation of lover. "But—come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all!"
He stared at me—my voice had taken on a wild tone, as a stormy mood overtook me. "Éowyn?"
"I stand upon some dreadful brink," I said, "And it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet: I wait for some dreadful stroke of doom."
"Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," Faramir murmured.
There was silence—the world was waiting—there was a pause in which something happened.
Something happened.
In a single moment, a wave of light—colour—swept the world. A breeze blew over us, filled with sweetness and newness of life. Trees took on new vivacity; the sky was a brilliant blue. The air smelled fresher; the mantle I was wearing felt warmer and softer.
I did not know our hands had met until Faramir let my hand drop, and then, looking down at it, I saw we had gripped them until white fingerprints marked our skin.
I turned to Faramir, only to discover that he had turned to face me. "What has happened?" I breathed.
"It reminds me of Númenor," he said.
"Of Númenor?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Of the Westerness that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."
I knew what he spoke of, for similar nightmares often haunted my sleep, but I did not see how it related to what lay before us. "Then you think soon Darkness will come? Darkness Unescapable?" I shivered. He must have thought I was cold, for he took off his cloak and put it over my shoulders, over the mantle he had given me.
"No," said Faramir. Somehow, both of us had drawn very, very near to one another without consciously moving a step. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that a great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are tight; and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny." His voice gained an eager and excited note. "Éowyn—Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan—in this hour, I do not believe that any darkness can or will endure."
And then he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. My heart broke—so quickly had I lost this friend, when I had only just found him.
We stared at each other, breathless and confused. The wind heightened; and my scarf, already loosened by the breeze, slipped out of my hair and blew away. The braids of my hair unravelled as if an unseen hand had gently undone them; and as Faramir's hair blew so did mine, combining dark and light. Thus we stood for I don't know how long; lost in thought, lost in each other's eyes.
And then an Eagle was spotted in the Western sky. I had never seen an Eagle, but had heard many tales of these monstrous birds, noble and good, that could converse in as many languages as men. I was astonished at the wingspan, for they were at least a quarter the size of the Black Captain's mount, and he had been of the beast kingdom, not bird.
He flew low over the City, shouting a poem or song in the Gondorian tongue, then again in the Common Tongue, and then in the ancient Gondorian spoken only by greybeards in their towers, that all might hear and understand his message.
Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
For the realm of Sauron is ended forever,
And the dark tower is thrown down
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
For your watch hath not been in vain,
And the Black Gate is broken,
And your King has passed through,
And he is victorious
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West
For you King shall come again,
And he shall dwell among you
All the days of your life
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed
And he shall plant it in the high places
And the City shall be blessed!
Sing, all ye people!
Faramir and I turned to one another, he weeping and I laughed from the now-explained joy in our hearts. Even as we turned, the voices of the City, rejoicing in the tidings of their freedom, rose with the Eagle's.