Eowyn undressed herself slowly, distracted and down in spirits. Crying her eyes out was a nightly routine, yet tonight's had some purpose, for the darkness seemed to give her an answer. Leaving with the men of Gondor would not bring her distress, but rather freedom. Or something a liken to it. Her Uncle was slowly growing beyond her reach, her brother and cousin were gone most days of the weeks, and the vile Grima followed her everywhere.
Tears filled her eyes as she considered leaving, despite the freedom it would provide from Grima, for she did love her family, her Uncle especially. It saddened her nearly to madness that he ignored her of late. Moreover, it broke her heart to think that this would be the last she'd see of him. He would most likely never recover from the illness of the mind that plagued him.
And her brother. To leave him. A fresh wave of tears flowed as she considered Eomer, and Theodred, more a brother than a cousin. Moreover, the thought of these strangers taking her away frightened her.
Abruptly then, she rebuked herself and violently wiped her eyes, determined. It was foolish to weep when her dreams were coming true. She'd always known that a man would ride in and take her away from Grima. How ungrateful to waste the opportunity with sentimentality. The women of Rohan had always been realists; strong and stoic in the face of adversity.
Let her go then to the White City and embrace a new life. For there, nobody would ride away to leave her at the mercy of a foul man like Grima. Perhaps her husband would not be affectionate, perhaps she would often be alone, but she'd be free.
In her nightdress now, Eowyn searched through her chest of drawers; picking out pieces of jewelry that she knew flattered her. She must be as feminine and beautiful as she could make herself to appeal to these men, and they would choose her. Which brother, she cared not, and if the afternoon's conversation were any indication, neither did they.
Now she pulled dresses out of her wardrobe and laid them across her bed, pondering which style of hair would most match the cut. She turned to a looking glass and practiced a smile. No, that did not come easily, but it mattered little for most men cared not for a woman's expression but rather the body that adorned it.
Choosing her wardrobe for the coming days took more than an hour until she finally went to sleep, ready for the morrow.
*
"Boromir."
A groan came in response.
"Boromir!"
"Speak again at your peril!" Growled the thing under the covers.
"Very well, then, you sleep while I work to save Gondor!"
Something flew toward Faramir's head, but he did not even need to duck as there was no peril of the object meeting its target. Faramir stalked off, a smile about his lips, and entered the Golden Hall. All was quiet as a tomb. He wandered to the fire and began warming himself.
"You are awake, my lord," a low, slightly surprised voice made him stir.
Faramir stood, "Yes, my lady, the others are still resting." His eyes beheld the lady of Rohan who looked well in a dress Faramir had not seen before, matched with modest jewelry. "I . . . am not certain when they will awaken."
The lady pressed her lips together, creating a thin line, "Not surprising. For them, and I presumed yourself, I have been brewing a remedy."
Faramir replied slowly, "I see." He looked to her. "I alone did not imbibe."
She nodded. "Then I will summon the servants to give you some breakfast and tell my Uncle that you are awake. I am sure he will join you."
"He is better, then?" Faramir asked.
"Somewhat," the lady responded. "He recognizeed your names, or at least your father's, and expressed a wish to see you. Please wait, and he will come presently."
Faramir sat, marveling at the eloquence of the lady following the sparse words she had spoken in previous days. After a few moments, the king arrived on his niece's arm.
Faramir fell to one knee in respect, and they breakfasted. Not much was spoken and Eowyn seemed as puzzled as he about the king's interest in Faramir, distractedly asking of the Steward and insisting that there be a feast in the visitors' honor. After the meal, the king expressed the need to retire. He went away with Eowyn's help, when a venomous voice rebuked her.
"I told you that he needed his rest!" Into view strode Wormtongue who leaned toward Eowyn then froze at the sight of Faramir," . . . and I am pleased, " the voice turned sickly sweet, "that you decided to heed my advice. Your poor Uncle is very ill." Wormtongue nodded his head at Faramir as he led the king away and Eowyn reluctantly followed.
Faramir considered the scene that had just played before him. This Wormtongue indeed had a hold on the house of Theoden, yet he seemed to lose his audacity in the presence of the Gondorians. Or rather, after Boromir's speech of the day before, his foul manner had vanished. Often the malevolent flee like cowards at the sign of even the smallest resistance. Yet what was it in these people of Rohan that forbid them to offer even that?
Pondering these things, Faramir returned to his quarters and again attempted to wake his brother, this time rudely tearing off the bed covers.
A stream of curses and a punch to the jaw was Faramir's reward, which he took in stride, as he bade his brother hearken to him for he had seen the king.
Tears filled her eyes as she considered leaving, despite the freedom it would provide from Grima, for she did love her family, her Uncle especially. It saddened her nearly to madness that he ignored her of late. Moreover, it broke her heart to think that this would be the last she'd see of him. He would most likely never recover from the illness of the mind that plagued him.
And her brother. To leave him. A fresh wave of tears flowed as she considered Eomer, and Theodred, more a brother than a cousin. Moreover, the thought of these strangers taking her away frightened her.
Abruptly then, she rebuked herself and violently wiped her eyes, determined. It was foolish to weep when her dreams were coming true. She'd always known that a man would ride in and take her away from Grima. How ungrateful to waste the opportunity with sentimentality. The women of Rohan had always been realists; strong and stoic in the face of adversity.
Let her go then to the White City and embrace a new life. For there, nobody would ride away to leave her at the mercy of a foul man like Grima. Perhaps her husband would not be affectionate, perhaps she would often be alone, but she'd be free.
In her nightdress now, Eowyn searched through her chest of drawers; picking out pieces of jewelry that she knew flattered her. She must be as feminine and beautiful as she could make herself to appeal to these men, and they would choose her. Which brother, she cared not, and if the afternoon's conversation were any indication, neither did they.
Now she pulled dresses out of her wardrobe and laid them across her bed, pondering which style of hair would most match the cut. She turned to a looking glass and practiced a smile. No, that did not come easily, but it mattered little for most men cared not for a woman's expression but rather the body that adorned it.
Choosing her wardrobe for the coming days took more than an hour until she finally went to sleep, ready for the morrow.
*
"Boromir."
A groan came in response.
"Boromir!"
"Speak again at your peril!" Growled the thing under the covers.
"Very well, then, you sleep while I work to save Gondor!"
Something flew toward Faramir's head, but he did not even need to duck as there was no peril of the object meeting its target. Faramir stalked off, a smile about his lips, and entered the Golden Hall. All was quiet as a tomb. He wandered to the fire and began warming himself.
"You are awake, my lord," a low, slightly surprised voice made him stir.
Faramir stood, "Yes, my lady, the others are still resting." His eyes beheld the lady of Rohan who looked well in a dress Faramir had not seen before, matched with modest jewelry. "I . . . am not certain when they will awaken."
The lady pressed her lips together, creating a thin line, "Not surprising. For them, and I presumed yourself, I have been brewing a remedy."
Faramir replied slowly, "I see." He looked to her. "I alone did not imbibe."
She nodded. "Then I will summon the servants to give you some breakfast and tell my Uncle that you are awake. I am sure he will join you."
"He is better, then?" Faramir asked.
"Somewhat," the lady responded. "He recognizeed your names, or at least your father's, and expressed a wish to see you. Please wait, and he will come presently."
Faramir sat, marveling at the eloquence of the lady following the sparse words she had spoken in previous days. After a few moments, the king arrived on his niece's arm.
Faramir fell to one knee in respect, and they breakfasted. Not much was spoken and Eowyn seemed as puzzled as he about the king's interest in Faramir, distractedly asking of the Steward and insisting that there be a feast in the visitors' honor. After the meal, the king expressed the need to retire. He went away with Eowyn's help, when a venomous voice rebuked her.
"I told you that he needed his rest!" Into view strode Wormtongue who leaned toward Eowyn then froze at the sight of Faramir," . . . and I am pleased, " the voice turned sickly sweet, "that you decided to heed my advice. Your poor Uncle is very ill." Wormtongue nodded his head at Faramir as he led the king away and Eowyn reluctantly followed.
Faramir considered the scene that had just played before him. This Wormtongue indeed had a hold on the house of Theoden, yet he seemed to lose his audacity in the presence of the Gondorians. Or rather, after Boromir's speech of the day before, his foul manner had vanished. Often the malevolent flee like cowards at the sign of even the smallest resistance. Yet what was it in these people of Rohan that forbid them to offer even that?
Pondering these things, Faramir returned to his quarters and again attempted to wake his brother, this time rudely tearing off the bed covers.
A stream of curses and a punch to the jaw was Faramir's reward, which he took in stride, as he bade his brother hearken to him for he had seen the king.