Chapter 4 – The Houses
by Siberia
I would like to give special thanks to RiverRatRogue for pointing out a little mistake that I made in the original version of this chapter.
When the sun had finally reached its zenith, Faramir left the tranquility of the gardens and returned to his chamber in the Houses. The natural scenery no longer warmed his heart in the same manner as it did earlier in the morning, for Éowyn's departure had made him feel lonely and restless. As the young man walked up the stairs, he pondered over his feelings for the White Lady, and he was astonished to discover how much he had fallen for the fair maiden. Though Faramir had only conversed with Éowyn for but a few minutes, he already tasted the bitter pain of her separation. He was certain that it was no longer pity that stirred in his soul, but pure, unrelenting love.
When the Steward opened the door to this room, he noticed for the first time that a large book lay upon the windowsill. The volume looked ancient and it had a rich blue cover laced with an elegant, silver inscription. It looked very unfamiliar. Faramir was puzzled, for he had read every single tome in Minas Tirith and wondered where it could have came from. He approached the window and lifted the book into his hands; it was surprisingly light for its size. On the first page, he found a hand-written message personally addressed to him, composed in black ink. It read:
To my dear nephew Faramir,
I hope this book finds you well. I found this manuscript while searching through your mother's old chamber. It was one of her favourite stories while we were growing up. No doubt you already have a copy of this tale somewhere in one of your grand libraries, but I thought you would appreciate it more in its original version, and in the beautiful colours of Dol Amroth.
I meant to give it to you when you arrived in Minas Tirith, but your father's sour mood and his harsh words concerning Boromir's death made me deem the moment unripe. I do not know how many times I have already told you this, but you should never listen to Denethor when he tells you that you are unworthy. All of Gondor loves you. Never forget that. I heard the soldiers and the townspeople wailing and crying out your name when I carried your seemingly lifeless body back to your father. And I care very much for you, too, for you are all I have left of my beloved sister.
As I am writing these words, you are resting peacefully, for the Lord Aragorn seems to have healed you from your sickness. My heart aches to tell you what happened to Denethor, but I leave this matter in the hands of Mithrandir. May this book help you pass the time during your recovery in the Houses of the Healing. Dark days lie ahead of us, and I may perish in battle, but I do have hope that I will see you again.
Your uncle,
Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth
Faramir was deeply touched by his uncle's kind words, and for a moment, he felt released from every worry that plagued his spirit. He regretted very much that he saw Imharil seldom throughout his life, for Denethor did not wish his sons to become too familiar with their mother's side of the family. For as long as he could recall, a rift had existed between the Dol Amroth Prince and the old Steward. Faramir had always suspected that his uncle detested the way Finduilas was treated throughout her marriage, and no doubt Imrahil blamed his brother-in-law for her untimely death.
Eager to start his reading, the young Captain settled himself in a chair. He abruptly remembered that Mithrandir sat in this very seat when the Wizard told him of Denethor's demise. A memory of violence immediately flooded into his mind…
*****
Faramir heard loud, thunderous footsteps marching up the staircase. He did not pay much attention to them, for his thoughts were fully consumed in the Sindarin poetry that he was studying.
"What are you doing here?" the Lord Denethor demanded, his voice thick with anger as he burst through the door.
Faramir jumped at the Steward's shout, distracting him from his book. "I…I was just reading, father," the six-year old boy answered shakily.
The old man's eyes glowered at his youngest son. "I heard from the sword-master today that you did not attend your lessons! Is this true?"
Faramir felt his heart beating quickly, for he had never seen his father so furious before. He meekly replied, "Yes."
"Why?" Denethor hissed.
"I…I do not like swords or fighting," the child responded. "I am not like Boromir. I really did not feel like going, so I decided to visit the library instead."
His father slapped him hard across his face. Faramir never felt so much pain in his life. A stinging pain seared his left cheek. The lad instinctively moved his fingers towards the wound, and he was horrified to learn that blood trickled from it. Denethor's silver ring had sliced through his skin.
The Steward continued to yell. "I do not care if you feel like fighting or not. Every noble man must learn the ways of war!" The old man paused, attempting to catch his breath. "You are such an ungrateful wrench! I provide you with the best sword-master in Gondor, and this is how you repay me?"
Faramir was close to tears as he pleaded for forgiveness. "I am sorry, father. I promise this will never happen again."
"For your sake, I hope it does not!" Denethor snapped. "What kind of a son are you? Boromir is never this disobedient. You should be learning from your brother, not these dusty old stories! From now on, I want you be present for your sword lessons. Is that understood?"
The boy tried his best to suppress his sobs. "Yes, father."
*****
Ignoring the painful images of Denethor's coldness and brutality, Faramir began exploring the pages of his mother's book. A faint, sweet scent arose from the manuscript. For reasons he could not explain, it instantly reminded him of Finduilas' long, dark hair. Perhaps he had played with it every time he had sat in her lap as she recounted him tales of Arda's creation and history. The young man sighed at his mother's memory; being in her arms was probably the last time he ever felt completely safe.
When Faramir attempted to examine the Elvish scripture, he found it surprisingly difficult to concentrate on the text. No matter how hard he tried, he could not prevent the images of Éowyn's beauty from consuming his thoughts. Frustrated, he placed the tome back on the windowsill. Ever since he had encountered the Lady of Rohan, Faramir's mind had become enraptured in the source of her despair. His inquisitiveness about the golden-haired maiden had gotten the better of him, and he summoned for the Warden.
"You called for me, my Lord?" the old man asked.
The young Steward turned away from the window to face him, and replied, "Yes, I did. I am very curious about what ails the Lady Éowyn. Something more seems to be broken than her shield-arm. What do you know of her?"
The Warden shrugged his shoulders. "Very little, I am afraid," he answered. "The only thing I have heard is that she has ridden to Gondor against the will of the Lord Théoden, and that she has been wounded by a great foe. One of the healers has complained that she is extremely stubborn and uncooperative."
Faramir's eyes drifted to the floor, disappointed with the small amount of information he had.
"But I doubt not, Lord," the Master of the Houses continued, "that you would learn more from the Halfling that is with us; for he was in the riding of the King, and with the Lady at the end, they say."
The young man's face lit up. "Is the Halfling well enough to speak with me?" Faramir inquired, in an almost impatient tone.
The Warden nodded his head. "Yes, my Lord. He has been hurt, but his injuries are healing nicely. Shall I bring him to you?"
"Yes, please," the Captain quickly responded. "That would be most appreciated."
*****
In the meanwhile, the Lady Éowyn had been moved to another room within the Houses. She immediately dismissed the maidens that accompanied her, for she did not wish to be disturbed. She approached the window, and parted the doors that enclosed it, allowing the radiant sunshine to seep through her chamber. Its warmth did not soothe her heart, however, for as the maiden peered out into the distance, she perceived the great doom that lay eastward. She worried about Éomer, and to a lesser extent, Aragorn as well. After she had remained in this trance for a few minutes, Éowyn quickly dismissed her thoughts. With some difficulty, she placed her clothing and most of her belongings in the large, wooden drawers. She cursed herself for sending the servant ladies away, for it was not easy to put away her things with only one good arm.
The White Lady then carefully inspected her remaining armour. She was relieved that her chain mail had survived the assault, but was saddened to discover that she could not salvage the helm. It also hurt being bereft of her Rohirrim shield, which was shattered into pieces beneath the crushing blow of the Witch-King's weapon. But what distressed Éowyn the most was the loss of her sword. Beautiful and deadly, it was much more than simply a mean to defend herself; the blade was a symbol of all her skill and worth as a Shield-maiden and as a woman.
When Éowyn had completed her task, she lay herself down softly onto the mattress. Almost immediately, her mind then drifted towards her meeting with the Lord Faramir. The maiden wondered why he greatly desired to spend time with her. She had accepted the Steward's invitation out of politeness, but she still distrusted the sincerity of his intentions. Not to mention that his gaze was most disconcerting.
Éowyn's grey eyes then scanned the chamber for a mirror, and when she glimpsed at her own reflection, she saw a pale, sickly, lifeless creature staring back at her. What on earth does Faramir see in me? she pondered. The Lady of Rohan then moved her head back to its original position and uttered silently, Why am I so suspicious of him, when he has been nothing but courteous to me? Why can I not accept his words at face value?
The answer then dawned on Éowyn before she even had the chance to suppress the bile that had risen in her throat: Gríma Wormtogue. "Oh, that snake!" she hissed. She recalled the first time she discovered his lecherous intent.
*****
Éowyn had just turned fourteen years old. She had celebrated her birthday with her family and friends in the Golden Hall of Edoras. The day had been perfect, for she was surrounded by much love and happiness. The young maiden was blessed with many wonderful gifts, and everyone agreed that the special feast that had been prepared in her honour was magnificent.
However, as the festivities ended, Éowyn's bliss soon became a nightmare. It was very late, and she wished to return to her chambers. Before she could enter, the maiden heard a cold, slippery voice.
"Hello, my young Lady."
Startled, she turned around to see who had spoken to her. Gríma had slipped from the shadows, and he slithered towards her position. The maiden observed that his manner seemed more oily and sticky than usual.
"Uh, greetings, Gríma." Éowyn found his behaviour strange. Before this night, her uncle's advisor had never ere appeared so close to her room. She recoiled in disgust when she noticed that little drips of saliva had seeped through his lips.
"You are now fourteen years old. What a lovely young woman you have become." Wormtongue stood close to Éowyn now, and he proceeded to caress her hair and face. His cold fingers made her tremble with horror, and his breath was putrid.
"Do not touch me!" she screamed, trying to fight him off, but he was too strong. He pressed his body against hers, his fingers exploring every curve of her figure. Éowyn feared what he might do to her as she began to choke on her own bile.
Gríma whispered maliciously into her ear. "I can show you pleasures beyond your wildest imaginations, my Lady. You need only to allow me to do so."
Éowyn cried, "NO! GET OFF OF ME!" Her hands struggled to find the knob to her door. When she had finally grasped it, she moved swiftly into her chamber, and with a great force and speed, she slammed the door into his face. The young woman promptly locked it, her heart thumping faster than the gallop of horses.
"Just so you know," Wormtongue hissed through the barrier, "I am available to you at any time. I wish you goodnight. I hope to see you soon, my Lady."
*****
Éowyn suddenly became aware of the muted chatter of the healers. She was furious, for the servant girls had left her door wide open. She began to feel insecure, and hoped that no patient or healer had witnessed her in her greatest state of vulnerability. When she was about to shut her door, the White Lady saw Meriadoc Brandybuck pass by her entrance.
Her eyes opened wide with surprise. "Master Holbytla!" Éowyn cried out.
The Hobbit turned to the sound of the Lady's voice and exclaimed, "Éowyn! I am so glad to see you are recovering! I was so worried about you. I am sorry that I did not get the chance to visit you earlier, but those incessant healers would not allow me leave my bed!"
Merry's enthusiasm and smile brought joy to her heart, if only briefly. "No need to apologize," the Lady of Rohan responded. "I know how irritating they can be."
She abruptly realized that the Warden was standing behind her friend, looking somewhat hurried. "Where are you taking him?" Éowyn demanded.
The old man replied, "The Lord Faramir wishes to see him."
Her eyes then focused on Merry once again. In an instant, she became even more suspicious of the Lord of the City. "Is that right?" she asked with concern.
"Yes," the Halfling answered flatly, "but I am curious as to why he wants to talk to me. What could I possibly know that would interest the Steward of Gondor?"
Éowyn did not like this situation at all. "I do not rightly know," she uttered.
"I am not sure how long this meeting is going to take," Merry added, "but I do wish to meet you for supper. Is that alright with you, my Lady?"
Éowyn nodded her head in approval. "Certainly, Meriadoc! We can meet in my chambers in the evening, then."
The Hobbit waved his hand as he passed her room. "See you soon!"
The Shield-maiden watched as the Warden directed her friend down the hallway until they disappeared from her sight. She became apprehensive, not knowing what kind of information the Lord Faramir wished to extract from Merry. As she closed the door to her room, Éowyn hoped she would not be the topic of their conversation.