XV

He arrived in the early evening, and I went out to greet him, and looked him over as he saw to his horse. It had been a warm day for riding; he had rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt at the top, and his face was a little flushed. He was wearing black, which I had never thought suited him best, since it tended to heighten the shadows that would fall under his eyes when he was worried or fatigued. Still, he seemed at first glance as boyish as ever, and his hair was a little longer than I remembered but, when I looked a little closer, I thought I caught some grey. I could not recall now whether that was new or if had been there before, and I wondered to myself when exactly it was that I had stopped looking at this man, my husband, and the father of my children. I saw then too that there was something in the way he was carrying himself, a slight weariness beyond that which would be caused by the exertion of his journey, and which made him seem a little older. At my approach he looked up and his eyes fell on me, and I saw it again, that enforced maturity that had always been in his look, most evident when I had first met him, and which had departed somewhat when first we were married. It seemed to me now that it had settled even more deeply upon him. Had I done this to him, or had he done it to himself? Perhaps, it came to me all of a sudden, we had done it together.

We stood and looked at each other in complete silence. Then I gave him a small smile and that seemed to encourage him. After a few moments, he spoke, hesitantly.

'It is so very lovely to see you again. Are you well? You look very well...' His voice faded.

'I am well, thank you. How was your journey?'

He gave a tired smile. 'Somewhat longer than I am used to these days, I admit. I should ride more.'

'Well, I would always agree with that sentiment!' I replied. 'Will you come inside?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Is your brother within?'

'My brother seems to have disappeared. But, fear not! Between us, your cousin and I have the King well under control.'

'Then, by your leave and under your protection, my lady, I shall come inside.'

The Queen of Rohan was waiting to greet him, and she embraced him warmly. 'Hello Thiri,' he said, returning the hug and kissing her cheek. 'How are you?'

'I am well, cousin,' she said. 'How are you, you idiot?' She pressed his hand.

'Becoming adept at handling insults,' he said with a wry smile.

She took his arm. 'You look tired,' she said. 'I think you should rest a while and join us later for dinner.' And she steered him inside and away from me. I went to see the children to bed, and did not see him again until we ate.

It was a subdued meal, and my brother was still nowhere to be seen. My husband still looked very tired, although he asked question after question as I spoke about the children and smiled as I talked, and laughed softly to hear that Elboron had been riding, judging it a fine idea. Lothíriel spoke about Edoras and he listened closely, his eyes moving with great warmth about her face, quietly satisfying himself that she was happy. I asked him in turn a little about Minas Tirith, and he gave me news of the King and Queen and their daughters, to whom he was plainly very attached, told me a few dry stories about court which made me snort, and spoke a little about his work. He said nothing about what else he had been doing with himself during all this time. Reading, I imagined. Someone should have put him on a horse.

When we had finished, Lothíriel asked if he wanted to go to bed, but he bit at his lip for a moment before looking at me to answer.

'With your permission, my lady, I would very much like to look in on the children. I imagine they will be sleeping by now, and I shall of course wait until the morning if you prefer...'

'Of course,' I said. Lothíriel shot me a quick, questioning look, to see if I wished her to accompany us, but I shook my head. I did not feel afraid in his company; not at the moment, at least.

When we reached the children's room, he went in and looked at each of them in turn for a long while, planting a kiss on top of each dark head, then came and stood by me. We leaned away from each other on opposite sides of the door.

'They have changed a great deal,' he murmured.

'You took a long time to come and see us,' I gently admonished him.

He looked at me awkwardly. 'I did not know whether you would want to see me again.'

'You would need to ask to find that out!'

'It seems that all my choices go awry...' He dropped his head. 'Éowyn, I cannot say enough how very sorry I am...' He looked again at me, and the shadows lay heavy about his eyes now.

'I think that we should speak no more tonight,' I said softly. 'You are very tired, and I do at least remember that you prefer to sleep on matters. We can talk in full tomorrow.'

He nodded in acquiescence, and followed me in silence as I led him back towards his chamber. I recalled now that this was the room he had used when he had stayed for those months after our betrothal. I wished I had remembered sooner, and asked Lothíriel to put him elsewhere.

'Let us meet again in the morning,' I said, as he reached to open the door. 'You will want to see the children as soon as you can, no doubt.' And we looked at each other for a moment, and then bid each other an uncertain goodnight.

I lay awake thinking for some time when I went back to my own chamber. I had watched him closely throughout the evening, and it seemed there was nothing there of the bitter man he had been before I left. This man was more like to the one I had first met and known in the Houses of Healing - reserved, preoccupied, with an air of permanent sadness. Yet something about him had changed even from that man - as if he had in some way been very badly bruised, or as if something small but vital had been broken. And I wondered what this might mean for the man he was now. Too much hurt and disappointment, his uncle had warned me against; and there had certainly been each aplenty, and for both of us, not just Faramir. What kind of man might this have left behind?

He was staying for a week, so I would have some time to judge. And there was plenty we had to discuss, his concealment of his illness from me not least. For these were the matters that troubled me most, his deception - when he knew how I loathed any kind of duplicity - and also that sudden transformation that had overcome him. For all his weary quietness this evening, for all he seemed very like that grave and gentle man I had first met, still I could too easily recall that rage, his arm lifting as if to strike, and the shattering sound of glass breaking beneath his blow.

I sighed, and turned over to sleep. For once, I thought, I would follow his example, and see what the new day brought.

When I went to fetch him in the morning to take him to the children, I saw my brother walking ahead of me, heading for the place where my husband was waiting for me. I quickened my step, but hung back in the doorway, preparing to intervene only if necessary. They could not put off this meeting forever.

My brother walked slowly towards the chair in which my husband was sitting and, at his approach, my husband set down the book he was reading and rose to meet him, clasping his hands behind his back, his face set and his eyes grey as steel. They were much the same height, but my husband was leaner and tauter; my brother broader and effortless in the way he moved. And I watched anxiously for, despite all his promises, I knew that my brother was still very angry and, looking at my husband, and despite his condition, I remembered what I had thought when first I had beheld him, that there were few, if any, in the Mark that could better him.

Please, I beg you both, restrain your natural impulses. Faramir, do not speak! And Éomer - please, do not hit him!

With studied casualness, my brother set his hand upon the hilt of his sword and, without even looking at him, said to my husband, 'Were it not that my sister and my wife have begged me not to, and were it not for the great love I have for your king, I would thrash you to within an inch of your life.' Then he did turn to look at him, and my husband's face was pale and still, but he was standing very straight and looking back sternly, his eyes narrowed.

'Keep away from me while you remain here,' my brother said, and then he turned and quit the room. I stepped out of his way.

My husband let out a breath and dropped his head, the tension draining from his body.

I went in. He looked up quickly, and a little anxiously, perhaps thinking my brother had changed his mind, and a flicker of relief passed over his face when he saw it was me. He took up his book again, and folded his arms about it.

'I am sorry if that was unpleasant,' I said.

'In truth, my lady, it went better than I had feared. I thought he would strike me, at the least.'

'For all he said, I do not think he would strike a man who would not be happy to return the blow.'

'I would not have responded in kind,' he agreed.

I fell to thinking for a moment. 'You would not block a blow from my brother, and yet you would block one from me?' I asked.

His face crumpled. It was as if I had indeed physically struck him. His head fell again and he seemed almost winded. 'Oh, my beloved lady...' he whispered.

I admit I was somewhat taken aback by the extreme nature of his reaction, and I sought to lessen his distress. 'Perhaps I should be flattered,' I said, with an attempt at levity, 'it is clear you fear more from my blows than his!'

He was not consoled; indeed, he seemed very close to tears. He had put one hand to his face as if to shield himself, and with the other arm he was pressing the book against himself even more tightly.

'Let us not speak more of this,' I said hurriedly. 'Come, the children are waiting to see you. You would not wish to appear upset before them, I am sure.'

He fell in at my side as I walked out of the room, and I listened as he brought his breathing under control. By the time we reached the garden he was in hand, and could face the children with equanimity.

He was soon close to tears again to see them. It was very poignant, since it was plain that Elboron did not remember him and Morwen had not had the chance to get to know him. And I am not so false as to deny that I had a small flash of pride, for in the past I had often felt that all my children's qualities were because of the care lavished upon them by their father rather than my own attentions. But now I could see that despite his absence they had thrived, and that this could only be because of me.

Morwen smiled at him and he was immediately enslaved, supporting what I had already begun to suspect, that our daughter had inherited something of the charm of both her uncles. Elboron was very shy with him, but he was patient, and by the end of the morning, the makings of a cautious alliance was in place. And their father became a little happier, and I could see he had lost none of his tenderness and affection towards them. 

That afternoon we walked together in the gardens, as we had often done during his first stay here, but this time inches apart and not touching. I did not need to ask whether he could remember the paths we were walking; his face would, now and again, flicker with a sudden recognition, and he did not need me to direct him. At length we came to a bench, where we sat, one at either end. There was room for another between us. He sat with his arms folded for a while, then sighed, leaned forward, and turned to look at me. I waited for him to speak.

'I am sorry,' he said at length.

I nodded. 'Your apology is accepted.'

He sighed again, a little unsteadily, and with evident relief.

'Which resolves very little,' I added, and he nodded in turn. Then he rubbed his hands against his eyes, opened his mouth as if to speak, and screwed up his face, clearly struggling. Finally he spoke. 'There is something I have to tell you, something which may explain much, although it excuses nothing.' He stopped, and again his face seemed at war with itself.

'If this is about the reason why you no longer carry a sword,' I said softly, 'I already know.'

He looked up at me, quite stunned. And then a great confusion of emotions passed across his face: fear, guilt, panic, shame. All in very quick procession, but shame at the end.

'How?' he whispered.

'Your cousin told me.'

He looked blank for a moment. 'Thiri?' he said in disbelief, jerking a thumb in the direction of the hall. 'How does she...?' His eyes narrowed. 'Uncle...' he muttered under his breath and I thought there was a slightly threatening note to it.

'In fact, no. She heard from my brother. Who did indeed hear from your uncle, and from the King.'

His jaw dropped, and I could see that he was with increasing horror scrolling through the list of connections that was our family. He put his hand to his brow.

'Although your uncle, it seems, has also told his sons. Indeed, the entire family seems to know.'

'Not by my leave,' he said a little hotly. It was, I thought, somewhat naïve of him not to have considered that his family would discuss amongst themselves the matter of his health; although, knowing my husband, it would most likely not have crossed his mind that the topic would be of interest to them. Deceit came to him about as naturally as self-importance.

'The entire family, that is, with one notable exception,' I added.

'This was not how I meant for you to hear.'

'How then did you mean for me to hear?' I asked.

'I do not know. I do not know what I meant. I have no idea what I was thinking.'

'Why did you not tell me?'

He dropped his head into his hands. 'I feared you would despise me more than you already did.'

'Not later. At first. Why did you not tell me at first?'

'It was not... it was never my intention to deceive you,' he said, and I listened closely. He had, at least, grasped that this was my main complaint; it seemed not all of his perceptiveness had abandoned him. 'You were ill, and then the moment was never right, and then I came to believe that if I told you I would lose you... Above all, I did not want to lose you...' He laughed a little bitterly into his hands. 'That strategy was not a great success, was it?' He made an effort to control himself. 'How angry are you with me?' he said, looking up at last, his face flushed and upset.

'I was very angry, at first. And then I began to wonder what it was I had done to make you believe that you were not safe to tell me this terrible distress you were suffering. And when I thought upon some of the things I had said to you, my remorse was very great.'

'They were no more than I deserved,' he said.

'That is untrue. I said things to you that I know now were cruel.'

He shook his head. 'Whatever you said was in ignorance. An ignorance in which I kept you. And yet everything I said to you I said in the full knowledge of how it would wound. That, my lady, is unforgivable.'

'My intention was also to wound, to my great shame.' I sighed. 'We are neither of us blameless here. And to compete for the position of more blameworthy is, I think, not a helpful pursuit for either of us.'

He fell into a thoughtful silence.

'Tell me more about your condition,' I said, at last.

He stood up and paced a little in front of me, eventually coming to rest with his back against a tree directly opposite me, his arms folded before him, looking like a man preparing to confess a crime and receive judgement. 'What do you want to know?'

All of it, you idiot, I thought, but restrained myself. 'Tell me... what happens.'

He took a breath, as if summoning up his strength, and then began. 'I go back to the retreat,' he said simply. 'It is as if I am there again. The noise and... the panic. It affects my judgement. It happened first when I went out on patrol in Ithilien, that time I came back early...' He looked up, and I nodded to show which occasion he meant. 'Under different circumstances I could have killed all those men...' He shook his head.

'It must be terrifying,' I murmured, thinking of how it would be again and again to see the death of the king and hear the shrieking of the monster.

He did not answer, but his head dropped and, although he was trying to hide it, I saw the shadow of fear pass across it.

'And does this happen very often?' I prompted quietly.

'Not now, no. I know what causes it.'

'Which is? It is not simply combat, is it?'

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows; surprised, perhaps, that I had guessed. 'No, no, it is not,' he murmured. He cleared his throat and then spoke more firmly. 'Tiredness. Worry. Too much noise or strain.'

'This would explain your desire to avoid our quarrelling.'

'As I said before, it explains but does not excuse much.'

I let that pass. 'What happened at Poros?' I asked.

He gave a rather wry smile. 'Yes, I can imagine that was something of a puzzle. Not one of my wiser decisions, as my uncle would say. I thought I was getting better. I thought by going there I could restore your confidence in me - '

That truth hurt like a whip, but I knew he had not intended it so and covered my reaction quickly.

' - And I was very wrong. By any normal standards, nothing happened at Poros. I had a look at the camp, and I had a look at the site of a battle. And I broke down.' He rubbed at his head. 'So it was at Poros that I came to understand at last that I would never fight again. And I thought that meant I would lose you.' He paused. 'Which I did,' he added softly. 'If not for the reasons I thought I would.'

After a moment he pushed himself away from the tree and came and sat back down, a little nearer to me.

'And your sword?' I asked.

He put out his right hand and imitated it shaking for a moment. 'That happens when I reach to touch it.' He gave a brittle laugh. 'It is really rather strange. I can show if you like.'

'I do not think there is any need.'

He nodded. 'So with all this in combination, I am afraid that I make a very poor soldier.' He linked the fingers of his hands together and stretched his arms out before him, almost as if to dismiss the person he had once been.

'But you are an exceptional steward,' I said.

He dropped his hands into his lap and turned to look at me, the brittleness softening slightly. 'Yes,' he said, with a quiet laugh. 'With so much practice, I seem to have become quite competent at that.'

We sat for a moment in silence and then, very slowly and hesitantly, he reached his hand out to touch mine. And with a purely instinctive reaction, and one I would have suppressed if I had known it would happen, I flinched away from him.

His hand shot back and then up to his face. After a moment he stood up and walked a little distance from me, his back to me, both hands to his face now. He stood like that for a few minutes, and I began to become concerned.

'Faramir..?' I said at length.

I watched him anxiously, and then he took a deep breath, and his shoulders slackened. Then he folded his arms, turned to face me and, remarkably, smiled at me. His eyes were warm, if a little rueful. It was as if in those few moments he had come to a decision or, at least, to some sort of acceptance. And I was again very much reminded of how he had been when we first met, when his attachment to me had been so apparent, and not returned.

'I am sorry - ' I began.

He shook his head. 'No, it is I who should apologize. It was most unfair of me to make such a demand on you. I understand your position entirely.' His smile tightened a little. 'Please, if I might be permitted to make a request of you, I would rather we did not dwell on this. My time here is so short. I would much rather simply enjoy your company and that of our children, than trying to mend something I have irreversibly broken.' He dropped his head and then looked at me, and it seemed he was ashamed. 'And I fear if we speak too much and too intensely, I might make myself ill with the strain,' he admitted.

And so we did not speak so frankly again, but spent the rest of his stay as he had asked. Most of the time, we enjoyed being with our children. I had offered to leave him alone with them but he raised an eyebrow at me and said that he would prefer me to stay. And we talked as friends or, perhaps, as those who were becoming friends would talk. I learnt more about his illness, about his headaches and the stress he had put himself under when the armies went east, He talked much about a single argument we had had that, amongst the many, it took me a little while to place, but which I finally recalled as the occasion shortly after which he had become cold the first time. Reading between the lines, I perceived that, although he did not say it in so many words, he was trying to tell me that he had come very close to complete despair.

In turn, I told him more about motherhood, about my fears and troubles. And I said how I had felt that his insistence on being alone with the children had been a judgement of me, that he had seemed not to trust me with them, or felt he was better equipped to care for them. He shook his head sadly. 'I would not have hurt you like that if I had known,' he murmured. 'I was simply desperate to be close to them. There was nothing else left to me...' It was very strange, I thought, how different were our perceptions of the same events.

And so the week passed and, as I watched him, it seemed to me that he had, even in this short time, become a little happier, as if much was now clearer to him, and he could see a path ahead. And throughout all this time he maintained a tactful and scrupulous distance, and we did not touch once.

On the morning of his departure, he was very sad again as he said goodbye to the children. He embraced his cousin and she fussed about him, and we ourselves said farewell with a dry formality. And, as he prepared to ride off, I said, almost on impulse, 'Perhaps, with your leave, the children might come to Gondor soon?'

He looked down at me, a sad and gentle smile passing across his face. 'Do you really need to ask me that?'

'I suppose not,' I smiled.

'Please make it very soon,' he said quietly, and I determined that I would, and nodded.

'Thank you,' he said, then set off. I watched him for a little while and, at length, he turned and raised his arm in farewell.