Chapter Twenty-Six: Only Time
On the third day since the remaining force of men had marched for the Black Gate Éowyn was nearly back to her full strength. She had regained her color, no longer walked as if on ice shards, and appeared more light-hearted than she had since before they left for Helm's Deep all those weeks ago. Her golden hair shone with exuberance and her blue eyes held the light of the sun in their depths, even more so when Faramir was near, Lothíriel never failed to notice.
After a walk in the gardens to pass the morning, Lothíriel and Éowyn found themselves taking a turn about the seventh level of Minas Tirith. Faramir had joined them for the walk through the foliage and then parted ways to busy himself with the defenses of the city (which Aragorn had left him in charge of), Merry and Pippin tagging along with him. It was the first time the lord had left Éowyn's side of his own choice and Lothíriel teased her lightly, but Éowyn did not respond to the jab. Indeed she was in quite a somber mood, lamenting to her friend that she still felt inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and felt as though she were rotting away because of it.
"I have never heard of anything so far from the truth in my life." Lothíriel told her as they walked the long stone bow that divided most of the city in two. A wild wind whipped at their forms and the sky was overcast with clouds, though not so much from the weather as the blackening from the east. Every day the sky grew darker, the winds cooler, the tension thicker. It was only a matter of time before everything they had fought for thus far would come to culmination.
"But what is to become of me now?" Éowyn asked, a tinge of hopelessness underscoring her tone. "I have defeated the Witch-king, and now what? I will retire to Edoras to perish with the rest of my days."
"Éowyn." Lothíriel stopped and spun to face her friend, her eyes alight."You are hardly giving yourself enough credit. You have defeated one of our greatest enemies, smiting him to his ruin, never to return! You have faced certain death braver than anyone I know and live to tell the tale with your own words!"
"I just feel as though there is more that I can accomplish." Éowyn said, dropping her face to the ground and falling into stride again beside her friend. "I still feel…unfulfilled."
"Oh that is complete rubbish; there is no reason to feel as such." Lothíriel said dismissively, though without her usual bravado. She was happy to focus her thoughts on something other than her depressing self, and she would be damned if Éowyn became as despondent as she felt. This, what she was doing to herself, was not living. And Éowyn deserved the greatest, most brightest of happiness.
"You are a great hero in this war and suffered from a fate that you could not avoid, only to come back fiercer and stronger than before. In fact, I have heard nothing but praise for your deeds."
Éowyn shook her head lightly. "There is something more for me; I just do not know what."
"Do you still long for love?" Lothíriel asked softly, turning her gaze to her friend as they walked. Her throat caught on the word and she had to clear it surreptitiously, fighting the wave of sorrow that threatened to burn her eyes.
"Would I be a fool for answering yes?" Éowyn asked with a pained smile, bringing her eyes to Lothíriel. "Maybe that is what I am missing."
Lothíriel did not respond, did not know how. Her voice had suddenly become numb and she could only stare at her slippered feet as she walked. The tears in her eyes singed at her lids and she bit her lip harshly to stop their fall as her heart beat weakly within the confines of her chest. Love…
"What of you?" Éowyn asked her gently, and her words caused Lothíriel's stomach to twist violently with dread; she was not ready to outwardly broach the subject of her forlorn heart.
"This morbidity is not like you. No, do not deny it," Éowyn said when Lothíriel lifted her head and began to open her mouth to do just that. "It is unnatural to see you in such a constant state of grief."
"I am merely tired."
"Lies." Éowyn said instantly. "Need I remind you that the people of the Mark do not lie, therefore we are not easily deceived?"
"It is not a lie." Lothíriel defended. It is just not the whole truth.
"My brother—"
"I do not want to speak of the Marshal." Lothíriel cut in quickly as they stopped near the end of the stone bow, turning her eyes to Pelennor Fields some thousand feet below her. Osgiliath lay wasted in the distance, the Anduin slithering behind to separate the city of men from the shadows of Minas Morgul. Mount Doom spat angry clouds of blackened fire beyond that, and somewhere out there rode her heart, never again to return to her body.
"'The Marshal'?" Éowyn asked in disbelief. "Lothíriel, it has not fallen beneath my notice that—"
"Enough!" Lothíriel cut her off harshly, turning imploring eyes to look at Éowyn. "Please," she softened considerably, her suddenly black look dispersing into one of contrition and earnest. "Please, no more."
Éowyn looked at Lothíriel with wide eyes and Lothíriel could not stand the worry she saw there. She turned away, pulling her gaze back to the fields of battle, unbeknownst of Éowyn's eyes falling to her quivering lips, her trembling hands, taking in her pale visage.
This is not Lothíriel, the strong, bold woman who coaxed her way to Edoras, charmed everyone around her, and fought proudly for her people. This is but a pale shadow of her; she has become someone I no longer know. But why? Éowyn's brow furrowed ever so lightly but she pressed her lips together, knowing there would be no reaching her beloved friend on this day.
On the fourth day of the men's departure Lothíriel found the weather again cool and even darker than before, but still she and Éowyn, accompanied by Faramir, took their morning walk in the gardens outside the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel was quieter than usual, choosing to listen to Faramir and Éowyn's conversation rather than participate.
Tomorrow will be the day they reach the Black Gate. All of this will soon be over.
It seemed strange, that notion. For so long the war had plagued them, had been such a big proponent of their daily lives. The thought that it would all be over in a matter of hours seemed absolutely absurd, and Lothíriel found herself pondering Éowyn's words to her the day before.
I, too, feel unfulfilled. Though I am doomed to stay that way, unlike Éowyn. She glanced up then, to where Faramir was unabashedly coaxing laughter from Éowyn, grinning down at the Lady of Rohan as they walked the stone path through bushes of brightly colored summer blooms. Rows of yellow-blossomed aeglos lined the paths before giving away to the white petals of the alfirin. Tall, golden-barked culumalda and the sturdy trunks of lebethron mottled the area, their branches and leaves snapping and bending in the breeze. Rosebushes of every color peppered the area, lending to the air their sweet aroma.
She does not see what is right in front of her. Lothíriel thought with a soft, sad smile, as they wound their way toward the gate of the sixth level. But she will. And they will make a handsome couple someday.
Suddenly from the gate a pair of mounted soldiers trotted through, and Lothíriel and her small retinue had to stop to allow them to pass. The soldiers ducked their heads in greeting and the nobles returned the gesture, and suddenly Lothíriel gasped in surprise.
Firebreather! She gathered her shirts, her eyes darting to the stables that lay not far from the stone bow that separated the sixth level squarely in the middle, not one hundred paces from where she now stood. She had not thought to search for her beloved companion until now and suddenly meant to do so, her determination fixed.
"Lothíriel! Where are you going?" Faramir called to her as she whisked through the gardens to break free of their pretty yet cloying nature.
"To the stables!"
Her brisk walk turned into a jog, which forfeited to a run as adrenaline and angst coursed through her veins. Oh I hope he is there! The horse was very dear to her yes, but with him came some of the only memories of Éomer she had, and she suddenly wanted desperately to cling to what recollection she had of him while simultaneously vowing to never think of him again.
Please be there!
The odor of horse fodder and the crisp smell of hay filled her nose as she rounded the far side of the stable, out of breath with her skirts bunched in her hands. Her cheeks were mottled with redness as she came to an abrupt halt before a stablehand, who stared wide-eyed at her before hastily dropping into a clumsy bow.
"My la—"
"I am looking for a horse." Lothíriel breathlessly cut the poor fellow off, her hope plain in her too bright eyes. "Tall, all black, with the temper of the devil himself."
The boy's mouth fell open and then closed tightly as he shook his head slowly. Lothíriel grew irritable and snapped, "He is most unruly. Will have been trying to cause as much chaos as capable."
"I'm sorry my lady, I do not recall such a horse having come through here." The boy replied, his face turning pale.
The hope shattered in Lothíriel's eyes and her manner turned shrill and agitated as she demanded, "Fetch me the stablemaster. He will know."
The boy dashed off and Lothíriel trailed after him, looking down the long rows of full stalls. The horses within were resting peacefully or had peeked their heads out at her strident voice, though none of them lingered to look at her. Her eyes, desperate in their longing, darted from one pair of unfamiliar eyes to the next before she took her gaze to the horses tied to posts outside, and then those being run by the soldiers.
"My lady?" A middle-aged man sporting an eye-patch and heavily bandaged stump of an arm appeared, a quizzical look to his features. "May I help you with something?"
"Are you the stablemaster?" she asked tartly and the man nodded, so she continued. "I am looking for a horse about nineteen hands, all black with a long mane and tail and a wild temperament. He will have been knocking about your stalls, instigating the other horses into a riot. He does not like to be kept inside and eats apples as if they are the last meal he will ever have."
The stable master frowned deeply, though he seemed to think for a few moments before shaking his head slowly. "No my lady; I can recall no such beast."
Pain lacerated her already bloodless heart. "Where are the excess mounts kept?"
"There are none my lady; those that were good enough were used to ride out to the Black Gate. Those that are left behind have been injured and need to recover before being ridden again."
"What about a grey mare?" Éowyn had appeared with Faramir standing behind her, and Lothíriel looked over to see her own eyes brimming with hope. "She would be of mild temperament and light in color, with a black sock on her right foreleg and a dark muzzle."
The stable master slowly shook his head. "I am sorry my lady; there is no such horse here."
Lothíriel wilted, her eyes turning to the ground. She thanked the stablemaster and moved off to depart, Faramir and Éowyn falling in her wake. The two exchanged a pained look of bleakness, far more distraught by the notion that Lothíriel was distancing herself more and more each day than that of a missing horse.
Lothíriel begged her leave of Faramir and Éowyn, complaining of a headache. Éowyn pulled Faramir to a halt and the two watched her depart back to the King's House, their eyes full of blatant concern.
"She worries me." Faramir said to Éowyn, turning his eyes down to the lady. Her unbroken arm lie tucked against his own, her body warm in its closeness to his, helping to stave off the cold of the day.
"I do not know what has become of her." Éowyn said slowly. Although I do have an inkling…
"It is strange to see her as such; usually Lothíriel does not know when to keep her mouth shut." Faramir joked, though his musings did little to rouse a response from Éowyn. The Lady had dipped her head, was watching her feet place themselves one before the other as they continued on their path from the stables.
I do not know what my idiot brother has done this time, Éowyn thought to herself. But surely it is not irreversible?
"Who is Firebreather?" Faramir asked as the wind whipped at their frames.
"Lothíriel's warhorse she grew to care for in her time away from her father." Éowyn smiled up at Faramir in pleasant memory. "The most willful beast I have ever met, but she could tame him with a single look."
Faramir smiled down at her and Éowyn felt her heart do a funny little flutter before stopping, and then jumping to start once more. "It sounds much like the charm she holds over most." He started to lead the way back to the King's House but Éowyn instead steered him toward the fifth level gate.
"I tire of being inside. Let us take a take a turn about the city. I haven't been to see the townspeople like I should." Éowyn said, lifting her broken limb to use her fingers to brush an errant lock of hair from her eyes. The weather had been most temperamental lately, bone-chillingly cold at night and outrageously hot during the day, with winds that stirred up choking storms of dust. Today, she feared, would be a day that most would spend indoors, but the high walls of the city would keep them protected from the worst of the anger of Mother Nature.
"Is that something you do often?" Faramir asked, his own dark hair flitting about his head in a most unruly manner. When a bit of wayward straw got stuck in his locks and scraped across a cheek Éowyn giggled, reaching forth to rid him of the burdensome stalk.
"I try, yes." Éowyn replied, settling back into place beside him as they walked over the threshold of the fifth-level gate. "The people of Edoras are as close to me as my own blood kin."
"I'm sure they cherish you as such as well; it would be hard not to, for you are most enchanting." Faramir responded, stirring a blush to stain her pale cheeks.
"Please, my lord, do not waste your compliments on me." Please do. "My brother has informed me numerous times that I am overly frivolous and a horrible nag."
The statement roused a snort from Faramir. "Then your brother is a fool."
Éowyn gasped playfully, swatting lightly at his arm. "I shall tell him you said that."
"And elicit a fight to defend your honor? I welcome it, if it would win me your affections." Faramir said with a roguish smile, his grey eyes twinkling devilishly. "See, what you do to me! I am the lover, not the fighter; you would need Boromir for that."
Dare I think he smiles like that only at me? Éowyn thought as the two fell into a comfortable silence, their gait slow but pleasant. Indeed I have not known him long…
But he never leaves my side for long. Surely one would not spend this much time with someone who they thought little of?
She chanced a secret glance up at Faramir and her heart did that funny little maneuver it always did when they met gazes; it paused and then started in a frenzy, its beats hurried and irregular. She cast her eyes away at being caught and blushed a deeper red, clearing her throat to rid herself of the cumbersome lump of embarrassment that resided there.
"I would have your eyes upon me," Faramir said softly down to her, his body brushing against her own as they walked. "I quite enjoy your gaze."
Well. What was a highborn lady to say to that?
Now I know what Lothíriel felt like all those times, Éowyn thought to herself. Completely and utterly tongue-tied.
"Tell me, my lady, what would you be doing right now if not for all of this?" Faramir inquired lightly, waving his broken arm. "The war, the constant fighting, this damnable weather?"
Éowyn giggled, happy for the humor of the carefree captain. He made her forget many of her sorrows. "On this day?"
"This very moment." Faramir's eyes sparkled as he looked down at her. "Would you be seeing to the noon meal? Sitting before a hearth stitching with other ladies? Perhaps mending some of your brother's clothing?"
"On the contrary," Éowyn remarked with a raised brow. "I like to spend my mornings with the soldiers, running through their daybreak drills, before meeting with my late uncle Théoden to have petitioner's court; it is on Wednesdays only, that is. After the noon meal I would take my mare Windfola for a ride, sometimes with my brother, before seeing to the evening meal.
"Although my stitching is better than Lothíriel's, it is hardly good enough to mend clothes. I do not have my own hand of ladies to attend to me at Edoras; I much prefer the company of the townsfolk anyway. Sometimes I help the healer with births or the wounded, or help the mothers with their children." Her smile was radiant as she shrugged carelessly. "It all depends on the day. And that it what I look forward to most; the unknown. What each new day can bring."
Faramir merely looked at her for a few moments, his head slightly tilted to one side and a slight upturn to his full lips. Éowyn could not ascertain the look he exuded and grew tireless under his gaze, suddenly very unsure of her appearance. Did he stare at her such because she had something on her face? Perhaps some of her breakfast?
Why would Lothíriel not tell me!
"What about you, my lord?"
Faramir started, as if broken from some secret reverie, before heaving a mighty sigh and taking his eyes from her. Éowyn found herself suddenly cold without his mirthful eyes and a shiver stole through her, enticing her to wrap her cloak about her shoulders a bit more tightly.
"Trying to please my father in some newfangled way." he said, a note of bitterness in his tone.
Éowyn did not push for an explanation, seeming as how the subject was a sore one; she had heard the tales of Denethor's inclination for his eldest. Instead she let the silence between the two fall once more and Faramir indeed spoke after a time, seeming slightly contrite.
"It is not as if I did not like doing so," he explained slowly, carefully. "But my father was very hard to gratify."
"My uncle could be like that at times." Éowyn sympathized.
Faramir paused for a moment before saying softly, sadly, "He favored Boromir more than I."
Éowyn gazed up at him, wordlessly prompting him to continue.
"It happened right after my mother died, though I was very small at the time. Boromir was the firstborn and my father grew very detached of us, though Boromir and I remained close. He was very brave and daring, and fought fearlessly, proudly, and valiantly to defend Osgiliath and Minas Tirith time and time again." Faramir smiled, though it was a lifeless one. "I was revered as being more intellectually strong than physically, and had to go to great lengths to prove myself. My father often commented that my gentle nature and love for a lively tune and a rapturous story would not win me much in battle."
"But there is nothing wrong with that," Éowyn said in earnest. "It is simply what made you different from your brother."
"My father did not see it as such." Faramir replied, and Éowyn noted that the trace of sadness she detected threatened to overtake him then.
"Then your father was a fool," Éowyn said vehemently, taking Faramir's words. The statement drew a smile from him, a true one, and so she continued. "For I think you more brave than any man I have ever met." And she meant it! All he had done for his country, his father, spoke volumes of courage. "There are few who would canter toward the face of death, proudly and swiftly, over and over again."
"My lady, I daresay my father is rolling in his grave." But the quirk of his lips, the light in his eyes proved to her that Faramir was not offended, indeed found great levity in her words.
"Then let him." Éowyn felt no shame, because she wholly believed in her heart that Faramir embodied all that was true and valiant in any soldier, and then some. However she softened her tone and gazed up at him with genuine adoration as she said, "He would be proud to see you standing here now."
They did not slow in their stroll, but neither could take their eyes from one another. Éowyn felt her heart pounding, was sure that Faramir could hear it, but for the life of her she could not tear her eyes from his! She was enraptured, and she realized then and there that she was spiraling and could not help it.
She was lost for this man.
I do not mind though, she thought as Faramir gave her a smile to make up for the day's lack of sunlight. If I have his light to guide me.
Later that evening, as they all sat about the hearth and dined on a simple meal of fowl and greens, Lothíriel sat with her untouched plate before the hearth as the others around her talked quietly with the howling of the wind as their backdrop. It rattled the tall, oak doors of the King's House and shook the shutters on their hinges, however Lothíriel was too lost in her own world of nothingness to notice.
"Tomorrow they will reach the Black Gate." Merry remarked, holding his pipe with one hand as he wiggled back to sit comfortably in the high-backed chair, which was entirely too big for him.
"I wish it were easier for them to send word, so we knew of their standing." Éowyn replied, her eyes lost to the dancing flames of the fire. "This unknowing is driving me mad."
"Aye, I concur." Merry sighed heavily, puffing smoke as he spoke.
"At least you are a beautiful madwoman." Faramir quipped, and both Merry and Pippin groaned and rolled their eyes.
"Really Faramir."
"Laying it on a little thick, don't you think?"
Éowyn laughed and blushed prettily while Lothíriel smiled softly, glancing down at her untouched meal. She lifted a single tomato to her mouth and bit into it, but the taste did not sit well with her and she went back to studiously ignoring the fare.
"Tell me: what will you do when the war is over and we are not encumbered by the threat of imminent destruction?" Pippin asked the small group, and Merry snorted his laughter while Faramir and Éowyn exchanged a simple look of amusement.
Faramir pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, thinking hard for his answer. It was Merry who first answered with, "Well I know where you and I will be."
"The Green Dragon!"
A round of laughter ensued before Éowyn said, "I guess I will be much where we are now, except with my brother in Edoras, talking of the events of the day, preparing for Théoden's passing, but most of all enjoying the peace and tranquility of the land."
"I will probably be camped beneath the stars somewhere in Ithilien." Faramir remarked, scratching his beard. "Maybe night patrolling Emyn Arnen, or stopping by Osgiliath before returning home from riding the fields. I would like to see it restored."
"The Green Dragon has some of the finest brew around." Merry replied wistfully. "When we return home I am going to drink for days; I almost forget the taste of it."
"Aye; this Gondorian wine is almost unpalatable." Pippin made a face, his goblet indeed untouched.
"Your days sound like they will be nothing but somber; do you do naught for fun?" Éowyn asked Faramir, who shrugged carelessly.
"Well I ran drills with my soldiers in the morning." At Éowyn's disparaging look Faramir amended, "It is not so much different from you, my lady! But when the time allows me, I like to read in the evenings."
"Ach!"
"Reading!"
Éowyn giggled at the hobbits' antics, her eyes sparkling. "And besides drinking, for you two?"
"Stealing turnips and mushrooms from Farmer Maggot's crop."
"I look forward to tending the ponies of the Shire." Merry mentioned nonchalantly.
"Boring," Pippin intoned, causing Faramir to laugh. "What with you dilly-daddling over your maps and such."
"Dilly-daddling!" Merry sat upright and glared at Pippin. "I've worked hard on those!"
"Think you are some fine mapmaker?" Pippin howled with laughter.
"Better I spare my time on that than being a common thief!"
"Ho! Don't act as though you haven't accompanied me a time or two into Farmer Maggot's field!"
"I think map-making is a fine hobby indeed." Éowyn interjected, though her laughter was barely suppressed.
"What of you, Lady Lothíriel?" Pippin asked as Merry settled back into his chair, his pipe at his lips.
"Hm?" Lothíriel glanced up from the fire, her eyes unfocused.
"What will you do when this war is over and we claim victory?" For they would; they had to. The thought of the Age of the Orc…it was inconceivable. Every one of them, down to the last drop of blood in their veins, believed with their whole being that they would win this war. However, there was no slight amount of uncomfortable shifting, or uneasy glances to the floor.
She sighed, turning her eyes back to the hearth. "Naught worth speaking of."
"Oh come now!" Pippin pressed. "Do not be so sullen; we shared, it is your turn."
"I suppose I will go back to my duties helping my brother's wife run the castle, and in the evenings listen to my father and brothers recount their days as they sit before the hearth with their wine. I always loved to listen to their feats, big or small. They were so much more important than mine." Her tone was flat, listless in its character.
"That is not true!" Merry exclaimed. "You're a princess!"
"Yes, fourth in line for the throne and treated as a pretty trinket rather than an intelligent human being."
"Cousin, that is far from true." Faramir rumbled, his brow furrowed. "Your fathers and brothers love you very much, dote on you in excess."
"Lothíriel, do not be so somber. We only wanted to lighten the mood." Éowyn said gently, extending a hand to lie on her friend's.
"I am not good company then." Lothíriel rose, her plate discarded. "Good night."
With wide eyes the hobbits watched Lothíriel disembark, and Faramir and Éowyn exchanged a look of fine agitation.
"What a sour mood she's been in."
"It is not the Lothíriel we have come to know." Pippin remarked at Merry's own comment, drawing a nod from his companion.
"She has gone through much as of late." Éowyn said with a sigh, her eyes turning to Lothíriel's plate.
If only she would let me be there for her as she has for me.
On the fifth day hell came to reside on earth.
Lothíriel and Éowyn did not take their usual walk around the gardens; the sky had grown too black and the wind too cold. Instead they took to the Tower of Echthelion with Faramir, watching from one of the windows as Mount Doom spit out angry black smoke more so than it ever had. Merry and Pippin were somber even, so against their carefree and boisterous nature, going between pacing the long space before the vacant dais and peering through the doors to the mountains in the distance.
The people of the city were sparse in their movements that day and watched from their own homes as fire licked the sky and the earth rumbled its aggravation in response. The sun did not make an appearance from behind her sheltering clouds and the birds that once peppered the gardens to lend their mirth were silent and absent. Even the flowers and foliage seemed lackluster, the blooms drooping to hide from the evil that threatened to encapsulate them all.
Today we will know for certain.
Lothíriel stood from her perch in the window to walk the width of the tower, the white stone floor echoing her restless feet. Her borrowed skirts swished and swirled with her movements as her fingers twisted themselves into a knot and she worried her bottom lip. Éowyn watched from the open doors of the tower with Faramir standing guard next to her, his arm laced with her own in their silent vigilance.
Servants stood in muted watchfulness from the shadows of the large, high-ceiled throne room, not even daring to whisper among themselves. They felt the unease in the air as much as saw it, and they too watched from windows and doorways the mountains in the east.
Yet everyone was still utterly and completely astonished when Mount Doom imploded.
Lothíriel and Éowyn rushed from the tower in unison, pushing up against the balustrade that separated the building from the common ground of the seventh level. White-knuckled and breathless they stared, wide eyes riveted to the cloud of pluming black smoke and shooting streaks of angry, red flame that suddenly obscured the sky.
Faramir came to stand beside Éowyn, with Merry and Pippin on the opposite side of Lothíriel, each and every one of them absolutely speechless.
This could only mean one thing.
"Frodo." Merry whispered, his eyes bright with tears.
"Frodo!" Pippin shouted happily, slamming a fist into the air as he jumped from one foot to another and then turned to grab Merry. They hugged and shouted, and beside them Lothíriel closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the war finally lifted from her shoulders.
"That is it then." Faramir's voice was soft, yet the pride within was obvious. "We have won."
"Truly?" Éowyn whispered, turning her eyes to him as Lothíriel did the same, hoping against hope, wishing against faith that this truly was the end. "Do you even dare to think?"
"I know in my heart." Faramir told her with a smile, his eyes flickering to Lothíriel. "The fall of Sauron has come to fruition all thanks to one, small hobbit."