Chapter 3 - The Steward and the Shield-maiden
by Siberia
Faramir was alone in the gardens. He was grateful that no other patient was here, for he took great delight in its tranquil serenity. He was glad that he had followed the Warden's suggestion, for the sight of the natural scenery around him lifted his spirits immensely. As the young Captain walked, he carefully admired the lush beauty of the surrounding flora with all of his senses, ensuring that his inquisitive touch did not harm a single fruit, petal or leaf.
The young Steward could never intentionally hurt one of the earthly gifts of the Vala Yavanna without feeling a small ache in his soul. For as long as Faramir could remember, he had always possessed an instinctive desire to respect nature, and as a child, he was surprised to learn that no other person shared this trait. And as it happened many times before, the boy received an answer to his curiosity through the wise and knowledgeable Mithrandir.
*****
"Not another question, young Faramir!" the Grey Pilgrim exclaimed, his voice riddled exasperation. Gandalf slammed the pile of dusty scrolls he was studying onto the desk, unable to concentrate due to the lad's incessant demands for answers. "If I received a gold coin for every inquiry you have asked me since I arrived here, I would be able to purchase Minas Tirith from your father!"
"Please, Mithrandir," the child pleaded, his grey eyes wide with unrest. "I promise this will be the last one for today."
The Wizard looked at his pupil with great scepticism and said, "Promise?"
"Yes, I promise!" Faramir declared. "I swear by the Valar that you will not hear another peep from me for the remainder of the day if you answer this last question."
The old man took a deep breath and uttered, "Oh, alright."
It was in this moment the boy learned that carrying Elvish blood in his veins entailed more than just strange visions and prophetic dreams.
"Elves have a special relationship with nature," Mithrandir explained. "They can sense both its joy and its pain. This is why Elves like to live close to forests, for the trees fill their hearts with great happiness. When one of Yavanna's creations perishes, however, a part of their essence becomes empty, as if they had lost a good friend. You cannot feel emotions as keenly or as deeply as a full-blooded Elf, of course, but you certainly possess much more empathy than the average man."
After he had absorbed the Wizard's information, Faramir replied, "Well, I suppose that means I should not rip grass from the ground anymore."
The Grey Wanderer looked at his student with slight confusion. "No, I am afraid not, my young lad, not unless you wish to endure the sorrow of the plants you killed. But why on earth would you want to do such a thing?"
"Throwing clumps of soil and grass is a fun way to irritate Boromir," the child answered flatly.
Mithrandir laughed heartily as he said, "Well, from now on, you will have to find some other way to annoy your brother."
*****
When Faramir had finally completed his exploration of every tree, plant and flower that blossomed within the gardens, he strolled to one of the marble balconies. As he stood on the platform, his grey eyes marvelled at the majestic scenery that lay beneath him. Faramir breathed in deeply the fresh spring air, feeling new life circulating within his veins. He then moved his face towards the light, welcoming the warm sunshine. The young Steward felt rejuvenated from its glow as he rested his hands upon the cool stone rail.
While his fingers moved ever so slightly over the marble's smooth surface, Faramir's heart suddenly felt gloomy again. He realized that his gaze faced eastward, where the War that would determine the fate of Middle-Earth was being fought. The Lord of the City felt both fear and guilt; fear for what might happen if Frodo failed his quest, and guilt because he was still very ill from the Black Breath when Aragorn and his men rode out from Minas Tirith, leaving Faramir incapable of defending his beloved homeland at the time of her greatest need. As the young Captain contemplated the hopelessness of the situation, he abruptly became aware of someone calling his name.
Faramir immediately turned to face the voice, and he recognized it be that of the Warden's. But his attention was focused solely on the golden-haired maiden that strolled towards him. He nearly gasped at the Lady's graceful presence. Only his legendary self-discipline prevented him from displaying the full force of his emotions. Not since the death of Finduilas had Faramir witnessed so much beauty and sadness reside in the soul of one person. His heart filled with great pity for this fair, tall woman that now stood before him. There is nothing I can say, whether it be in Adûnaic, or in the Elven-tongues of Quenya and Sindarin, that would begin to describe her loveliness and sorrow, he thought silently.
The Lord of the City longed to know what was causing the maiden so much despair. He summoned his Númenorian talents in an attempt to decipher her thoughts. Faramir discerned through her proud exterior that she was a fierce and formidable warrior. This fact did not surprise him, for he was well-educated man, and he knew of the ancient Rohirrim tradition that trained noble ladies to fight as Shield-maidens.
As Faramir probed further, it seemed to him that she had lost all desire to remain in this world. He saw the profound grief that consumed her mind, and guessed that the young woman was mourning the deaths of her kindred. He also detected that someone whom she treasured dearly had recently broken her heart. The Captain said to himself, Oh, Lady, if only you knew how much I want to lift the Shadow that haunts thy spirit, to see you free from every pain that plagues thee.
As Éowyn approached the figure that stood in the gardens, she had expected to meet a fat, cantankerous, old man. When she was finally able to see the Steward clearly, the Lady of Rohan was completely stunned to discover how false her predictions were. Though the Lord Faramir was grave in his posture, she thought he was quite youthful and handsome. He possessed a scholarly air about him, and she read in his features that he was wise beyond his years.
But his mild facade does not fool me, Éowyn murmured to herself. The White Lady perceived beneath his gentlemanly surface that he was a stern soldier, a Captain not to be trifled with. She immediately sensed the type of warrior Faramir was; though he was not as brawny as a Rohirrim man, what he lacked in pure brute strength, he more than compensated with his speed, quick-wittedness and finesse. Éowyn's experience as a Shield-maiden told her that no Rider of the Mark could ever defeat him in combat.
The Lady of Rohan suddenly became aware of Faramir's intense, grey eyes. The Steward's gaze startled her slightly, for it seemed to pierce right through her heart. She sensed that he was anxiously trying to uncover all of the hidden secrets of her soul. Éowyn shivered underneath the Steward's glare, for it made her feel vulnerable and exposed, and there was nothing that she loathed more in herself than being weak when facing an opponent. And yet, the maiden found herself unable to break away from his stare, for the Lord Faramir exuded a subtle tenderness that she found almost…irresistible.
Although Éowyn felt uncomfortable while her psyche was being examined with such scrutiny, she spoke firmly. "I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on. I wish to ride to the Black Gates of Mordor."
Raising his right hand, Faramir swiftly gave the Warden the signal to leave. The young man admired the maiden's desire to go to war despite her injuries, and he felt saddened to inform her that he would not be able to fulfill her request.
"What would you have me do, my Lady?" the young Captain inquired, looking at her helplessly. "I also am a prisoner of the healers."
Éowyn did not respond. The White Lady was astonished at his reply, for she did not expect him to be so accepting of her demands. She had prepared herself for a confrontation; to argue that though she was born a woman, her heart was as strong as any man's, and that she was perfectly capable of defending herself. Éowyn felt her composure deteriorate further beneath Faramir's warmth and understanding. She scolded at herself. What in Valar's name is wrong with me? What sort of Shield-maiden am I to be trembling before this unarmed man? No one has ever made me feel so weak and helpless in their presence.
"What do you wish?" Faramir repeated, his tone laced with concern at her silence. "If it lies in my power, I will do it," he assured her.
"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him to let me go." Her intonation resonated with pride, but even as she mouthed the words, the Lady of Rohan knew that in her heart, she was faltering into pieces. Doubt filled her mind, and Éowyn wondered whether she could really go through with her task. The Lord Faramir probably thinks I am but a silly, aimless child who cannot finish what she has started, she thought quietly. Ashamed at her frailty, Éowyn instinctively wanted to return to the Houses and hide herself from his powerful glare.
The young Steward sensed a change in the maiden's poise; it was as if she was shrinking back from him. Faramir wondered if he had done anything to make her feel this way. He carefully chose his next words, not wishing for Éowyn to feel humiliated in his presence.
"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," he told her. "Nor have I yet taken my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."
"But I do not desire healing!" the Shield-maiden exclaimed. "I am not a brittle damsel who cries every time she receives a bruise! I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."
Faramir sighed. He felt that his heart would burst, for he did not wish to notify her of the bad news. "It is too late, Lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength," he finally answered. "For I too desire nothing more than to be on the frontlines and defend Gondor against her foes. But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."
The Lord of the City watched as a single tear fell down from Éowyn's eye. The maiden lowered her head in grave disappointment. She craved to be in the midst of battle, fighting side by side with her brother. Her heart suddenly felt lifeless and empty. Oh, Éomer! she wailed silently. Will you die without me, too, like our uncle and cousin?
The White Lady's voice was now barely above a whisper, and it was riddled with sorrow when she spoke to the Steward again. "But the healers would have me lie in abed seven days yet. And my window does not look eastward."
"Your window does not look eastward?" Faramir asked with genuine concern. He smiled warmly, hoping to bring some cheer to Éowyn's mood. "That can be amended. I am grateful there is at least one service that I can provide for you. In this I will command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in our care, Lady, and take your rest, then you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."
Éowyn was puzzled by his statement. What could the Lord Faramir possibly see in her, a cold-blooded Shield-maiden from the North? "How should I ease your care, my Lord?" she inquired. "There is nothing to be gained from my miserable company. And I do not desire the speech of living men."
The Captain was afraid to tell Éowyn the truth, for he was uncertain how she would react if she knew of his feelings. Faramir feared that she would reject him, for he was aware that her heart belonged to another lord. He also worried that the Lady of Rohan might misinterpret his advances. She was a Shield-maiden, and she was perfectly capable of breaking his nose. But Faramir was not by nature a deceptive man, and simply said to the maiden, "Would you have my plain answer?"
Éowyn thought that was a silly question. For years, she had to endure the poisonous lies of Gríma Wormtongue, the former advisor of King Théoden. Besides a glorious death in battle, there was nothing else in the world The White Lady found more refreshing than the truth. She replied out loud, "I would."
Faramir hesitated before he spoke. "Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and the maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I see 'til now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes, I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."
The Lady of Rohan could not believe what she had just heard. The young man had practically uttered poetry into her ears. She almost laughed at Faramir's declaration, thinking that his mind must be suffering from delusions.
"Alas, not me, Lord!" Éowyn shouted. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a Shield-maiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City."
The White Lady performed a courtesy, and Faramir watched as she proceeded back to her chambers. The young Captain remained in the gardens long after Éowyn had departed. He was relieved that she had agreed to accompany him, for at least it meant that she did not resent his friendship. While the Lord Faramir continued walk among the trees, a smile crept on to his features; he was amused to discover that his gaze now turned towards the Houses rather than towards the east.