Thanks for all your kind remarks! I've got most of this story written -
well, all of it, really - but I'll post one chapter at a time, so you can
tell me if I'm doing things wrong.
On another note, this chapter might be a tad bit dry, since it's a lot of Tolkien's dialogue. Hopefully it's interesting. Éowyn's not the easiest character to write about, as I'm sure many of you other others have discovered. Anyway, thanks again!
-Daenerys Stormborn
***
Chapter Two
The Chance to Walk a While
To Éowyn, the idea that whoever was at present ruling the city of Minas Tirith could get the Warden to let her leave the city, to fight and die, seemed like a good idea in her room. But now that she stood face to face with the tall, dark haired, gray-eyed and silent Lord, she was shy as any girl. At first, she met his gaze, but her eyes soon dropped to the floor in pre-embarrassment of what she now thought of as a foolish and whimsical request.
But she had come to ask him, and that was what she planned to do.
".And wishes to speak with the Steward of the City."
"Do not misunderstand him, lord," she put in hurriedly. Did she sound ungrateful? "It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer for those who desire to be healed." She took a breath. "But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged." Her voice grew bitter. "I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on." She swallowed, and looked away again.
Faramir looked at her for a moment, calculating, it seemed, then gestured to the Warden to leave. He did so, with a bow, and left, glad to be away from those whose hearts he knew not how to heal.
Faramir turned back to Éowyn. He looked at her with an expression she could not place before speaking. When he did, his voice was warm, but, just as his eyes, something lurked in his tone, something she could not put her finger on.
"What would you have me do, lady?" he asked. "For I too am a prisoner of the healers." He smiled, and Éowyn could see the pity he felt for her, hear it in his voice. "What do you wish? If it lies in my power, I will do it."
Her anger flared. Pity her, would he? He was no different than the rest. He thought her a weak woman, who did not belong within leagues of the battle. The idea gave her the courage she needed to say what she had come for.
"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go." Her tone was proud, but again, her heart faltered. What would he think now?
She caught herself. What does it matter what he thinks of me? I fought and slew the Witch-king of Angmar! Who is he to judge me?
But somehow, what those gray eyes saw and what this man thought of her meant more than she could quite understand.
"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," Faramir told her gently. "Nor have I yet taken up 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."
Éowyn flinched minutely at the admonishment, but persevered. "But I do not desire healing," she told him. "I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he has died and has both honor and peace." She looked at him steadily, proudly, though despair clawed at her heart as she heard herself speak of her brother and uncle, gone beyond her reach.
As he looked at her, Éowyn could see a light of understanding kindle in Faramir's eyes, even as they narrowed in curiosity. But before an instant was over, both light and curious expression vanished from his mobile face, and when he spoke, his words were measured.
"It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death and battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in our own manner, if there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."
At these kind, sensible words, Éowyn's proud stance dissolved, and the despair lurched itself into her heart. Life looked bleak and futile from where she stood, and unbidden, a tear rolled down her cheek.
"But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet," she whispered. Her voice sank even lower, as if she spoke only to herself. "And my window does not look eastward." She looked helplessly up at the sky, over the eastern wall.
Faramir smiled, and now the pity was clearer than the day. "Your window does not look eastward? That can be amended. In this I can command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in his care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will, and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone." For a moment, his expression changed, and he spoke thoughtfully and quietly. "And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east."
Not for the first time did she wonder what was going on behind that face. Hope? Despair? And suddenly, a thought unbidden pushed its way into her head.
And who loved him? For surely here was a man someone could love. Where was she? Hiding? Healing? Dead?
The thought startled Éowyn, and she pushed it to the back of her mind.
"Will you walk with me, Éowyn of Rohan?" he asked her, interrupting her thought. "For it would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me." He looked at her kindly, and the questions burned in her mind once more.
"How should I ease your care, my lord?" she asked.
There was a pause. For the first time, the Steward seemed unsure of what to say. Éowyn, mildly suspicious, raised a brow, trying to guess what he was thinking, and soon gave up. Finally, Faramir said, "Would you have my plain answer?"
"I would." Now she was extremely curious.
With only the merest hesitation, Faramir replied, "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 maidens fairer still, but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful." Éowyn gaped at him, then realized that she was and pressed her lips together.
"It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world," continued Faramir, apparently not having noticed her staring, "and when it comes I hope to face it steadily. But it would ease my heart, if while the Sun still 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." Having finished this rather poetic speech, the Lord of the City looked at her calmly.
For a strange, strange moment, the world spun. She knew she should say something gentle and vague, but all she could think was protest. "Alas, not me, lord," she said. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle."
But another part of her felt differently. How I have longed to hear those words, she thought bitterly, from another man. And now they come from this stranger. But it no longer matters, now. It is over. And so she added-after noticing that Faramir's expression had not changed at all, despite being scorned-"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." Then she turned and began to walk away.
Three or four steps later she stopped, and turned. The dark-haired man too was walking away, and as Éowyn watched him go, a wave of loneliness engulfed her. Could she just walk away so willingly from company?
'For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.' Would he understand? Was he too haunted by dark dreams? She hesitated, and then wondered why. One less proud would have admitted fear, but Éowyn would not, even to herself.
Something spurred her to go, and never was she sure what exactly it was. But it made her run to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder. And when he turned to face her even his mask could not disguise the joy.
"Faramir," she said, then stopped. It was all that needed being said. Only later did she realize it was the first time she had said his name.
And so they walked, and they talked, and for a while, even the shadow of Mordor could not dampen the joy they felt at no longer being alone.
On another note, this chapter might be a tad bit dry, since it's a lot of Tolkien's dialogue. Hopefully it's interesting. Éowyn's not the easiest character to write about, as I'm sure many of you other others have discovered. Anyway, thanks again!
-Daenerys Stormborn
***
Chapter Two
The Chance to Walk a While
To Éowyn, the idea that whoever was at present ruling the city of Minas Tirith could get the Warden to let her leave the city, to fight and die, seemed like a good idea in her room. But now that she stood face to face with the tall, dark haired, gray-eyed and silent Lord, she was shy as any girl. At first, she met his gaze, but her eyes soon dropped to the floor in pre-embarrassment of what she now thought of as a foolish and whimsical request.
But she had come to ask him, and that was what she planned to do.
".And wishes to speak with the Steward of the City."
"Do not misunderstand him, lord," she put in hurriedly. Did she sound ungrateful? "It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer for those who desire to be healed." She took a breath. "But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged." Her voice grew bitter. "I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on." She swallowed, and looked away again.
Faramir looked at her for a moment, calculating, it seemed, then gestured to the Warden to leave. He did so, with a bow, and left, glad to be away from those whose hearts he knew not how to heal.
Faramir turned back to Éowyn. He looked at her with an expression she could not place before speaking. When he did, his voice was warm, but, just as his eyes, something lurked in his tone, something she could not put her finger on.
"What would you have me do, lady?" he asked. "For I too am a prisoner of the healers." He smiled, and Éowyn could see the pity he felt for her, hear it in his voice. "What do you wish? If it lies in my power, I will do it."
Her anger flared. Pity her, would he? He was no different than the rest. He thought her a weak woman, who did not belong within leagues of the battle. The idea gave her the courage she needed to say what she had come for.
"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go." Her tone was proud, but again, her heart faltered. What would he think now?
She caught herself. What does it matter what he thinks of me? I fought and slew the Witch-king of Angmar! Who is he to judge me?
But somehow, what those gray eyes saw and what this man thought of her meant more than she could quite understand.
"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," Faramir told her gently. "Nor have I yet taken up 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."
Éowyn flinched minutely at the admonishment, but persevered. "But I do not desire healing," she told him. "I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he has died and has both honor and peace." She looked at him steadily, proudly, though despair clawed at her heart as she heard herself speak of her brother and uncle, gone beyond her reach.
As he looked at her, Éowyn could see a light of understanding kindle in Faramir's eyes, even as they narrowed in curiosity. But before an instant was over, both light and curious expression vanished from his mobile face, and when he spoke, his words were measured.
"It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death and battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in our own manner, if there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."
At these kind, sensible words, Éowyn's proud stance dissolved, and the despair lurched itself into her heart. Life looked bleak and futile from where she stood, and unbidden, a tear rolled down her cheek.
"But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet," she whispered. Her voice sank even lower, as if she spoke only to herself. "And my window does not look eastward." She looked helplessly up at the sky, over the eastern wall.
Faramir smiled, and now the pity was clearer than the day. "Your window does not look eastward? That can be amended. In this I can command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in his care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will, and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone." For a moment, his expression changed, and he spoke thoughtfully and quietly. "And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east."
Not for the first time did she wonder what was going on behind that face. Hope? Despair? And suddenly, a thought unbidden pushed its way into her head.
And who loved him? For surely here was a man someone could love. Where was she? Hiding? Healing? Dead?
The thought startled Éowyn, and she pushed it to the back of her mind.
"Will you walk with me, Éowyn of Rohan?" he asked her, interrupting her thought. "For it would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me." He looked at her kindly, and the questions burned in her mind once more.
"How should I ease your care, my lord?" she asked.
There was a pause. For the first time, the Steward seemed unsure of what to say. Éowyn, mildly suspicious, raised a brow, trying to guess what he was thinking, and soon gave up. Finally, Faramir said, "Would you have my plain answer?"
"I would." Now she was extremely curious.
With only the merest hesitation, Faramir replied, "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 maidens fairer still, but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful." Éowyn gaped at him, then realized that she was and pressed her lips together.
"It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world," continued Faramir, apparently not having noticed her staring, "and when it comes I hope to face it steadily. But it would ease my heart, if while the Sun still 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." Having finished this rather poetic speech, the Lord of the City looked at her calmly.
For a strange, strange moment, the world spun. She knew she should say something gentle and vague, but all she could think was protest. "Alas, not me, lord," she said. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle."
But another part of her felt differently. How I have longed to hear those words, she thought bitterly, from another man. And now they come from this stranger. But it no longer matters, now. It is over. And so she added-after noticing that Faramir's expression had not changed at all, despite being scorned-"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." Then she turned and began to walk away.
Three or four steps later she stopped, and turned. The dark-haired man too was walking away, and as Éowyn watched him go, a wave of loneliness engulfed her. Could she just walk away so willingly from company?
'For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.' Would he understand? Was he too haunted by dark dreams? She hesitated, and then wondered why. One less proud would have admitted fear, but Éowyn would not, even to herself.
Something spurred her to go, and never was she sure what exactly it was. But it made her run to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder. And when he turned to face her even his mask could not disguise the joy.
"Faramir," she said, then stopped. It was all that needed being said. Only later did she realize it was the first time she had said his name.
And so they walked, and they talked, and for a while, even the shadow of Mordor could not dampen the joy they felt at no longer being alone.