Éowyn was sitting on a wooden stool by the hearth, feeling very foolish as
she poked the blackened logs. There was no fire, for it was too warm for
one and since the sun was bright in the sky there was no need for light.
Yet she was restless and could not concentrate on any of the books Faramir
had given her on herblore, nor even on her swordsmanship and so she
contented herself with poking an imaginary fire.
Bitterly, she regretted not forcing her brother to tell her what mischief he was planning. It was probably some great joke on Faramir, she thought with dismay. And by obeying her brother she had become a party to it. That is, if Éomer was in fact planning something. It had occurred to her that Éomer might actually be angry. After all, it was one thing to be kissing in private, but quite another to be kissing in the great hall where any servant or guard might come upon them. And then rumors might be spread throughout Edoras (and subsequently the whole kingdom) of debauchery in Éomer King's household. But then the absurdity of this came into her mind, and she scoffed at such things. It had only been a kiss.
Éowyn had been in her room over an hour when the door opened finally behind her. She turned, expecting her brother, but found instead one of her maids.
She shot her a look that was both curious and annoyed, as if to say, "I did not send for you. What business have you here?"
The lady curtsied. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but the King bade me come. He wished me to deliver this."
And suddenly the maid stepped aside, reveling two other maids holding the most beautiful dress Éowyn had ever seen. She was sure that it was silk, and silk of the purest white. Over the low neck the finest strands of gold and silver had been embroidered.or perhaps it was mithril. One of the serving women held a belt of gold tinted red with copper, which had been assembled by chaining together the smallest links that could possibly be crafted in the manner of chain mail, and attaching the outer ones to fillets of steel. She saw the intricacy of the belt's design: the patterns made by different sizes of links and different metals. If she hadn't seen the horse buckle she would have guessed it to be of Elvish make.
Yet the belt was nothing to the dress. How it shimmered, even in this, the dimmest of light! Even though Éowyn generally cared very little for dresses, she found herself entranced as she approached it and ran her hand gently over the delicate fabric, almost afraid to touch it.
"Silk from Dol Amroth, my lady," said the maid who held it.
"Prince Imrahil?" she gasped in wonder, realizing that it was a wedding present.
"I know not, my lady. You will have to ask your brother," answered one of the maids, casting her eyes downward in a manner that made it seem to Éowyn as if she were afraid to say too much.
"Where is Éomer?" asked Éowyn.
The maid holding the belt answered. "He is in his room, my lady. And if you please, madam, he also commands that you surrender your sword in exchange for this dress."
Éowyn nearly choked, not certain she had heard correctly. She noticed the maids backing away from her, and realized that she must look very angry. But in truth she felt no hostility whatsoever. Instead, she walked to her sword, which she had propped up against the wall by her bed-the very same sword her brother had presented to her after their Uncle's funeral, seized it and then surprised her maids by walking right out the door.
"Lay the dress out on the bed," she called behind her.
Then she shocked the servants even further by barging into her brother's rooms, launching herself into his arms, and crying, "Oh Éomer! You are the kindest and best of brothers!"
*****
Faramir wandered through Edoras alone after Éomer had left him. He had gone to the stables, but Éowyn was not there and so he had left feeling a bit betrayed. Why hadn't Éowyn defended him? All he had done was kiss her, and this had been no more than they had ever done before.
But then, Éomer was her brother. He could not ask her to fight with the King for his sake. Another small part of his mind said that he could not ask it, but such a request should not be required in the first place.
He found himself disliking Éomer for the first time since they had been introduced. What sort of a man would deny his sister happiness merely to increase his own? Why could he not take pleasure in her joy? Why would he not let them ride to Gondor and be married?
Imrahil had liked the King very much, but that was of no comfort to Faramir. His uncle was the very best judge of character, and yet what did good character matter if Éomer did not approve of him? For surely this was the problem. He and Éomer had never fought side by side in battle. He had never been able to prove his worth in person. And Faramir then thought that perhaps he himself would not approve if Boromir were still alive and had attached himself to one woman so quickly after being in love with another.
Faramir reasoned through the entire situation with admirable calm, trying his hardest to see Éomer's point of view. Yes, it must be hard giving up one's only remaining family when peace has just arrived. It was an easy distance between Emyn Arnen and Edoras, merely a week's journey. Only four on a quick mount, and even less if one were to travel light. Yet Éomer was king now, and grounded in his kingdom with responsibilities. Visits would be infrequent.
The more Faramir tried to understand Éomer, the more he felt disappointed. It seemed that Éomer was trying to find excuses not to allow him to marry Éowyn, just as his father had always found excuses not to find any worth in him. And although he had not been angry with Éomer when they had parted, he found his normally controlled temper rising with each second.
The pathetic question came to mind: why did this always happen to him?
He was walking aimlessly now, head down and feet kicking at rocks just like a little boy. There was nothing high or lordly about his appearance now save the clothes on his back, for he felt beaten down by the earlier incident. He kicked a particularly large rock that then went skitting down the path to strike one of the water jugs a servant was filling from the fountain. Her head shot up as if to give the offender a withering glare, but when she saw it was Faramir her face softened and she acknowledged him with a curtsy, though he could see she was still irritated. Then he remembered himself at last. He could not act like a child, nor should he. Éomer had not thrown him out of his house, and for all he knew the argument he had had with Éowyn concerned some other matter.
"I apologize," he offered to the woman before heading back in the direction of the stables. Once there Faramir found his horse, Cirion, stuffing himself from the oatbag over his nose, and picked up a brush. He had only worked his way down the first leg when he heard the voices of two grooms coming from the entrance.
"I heard the King commanded her to surrender her sword," said the first.
Her sword? thought Faramir. This must be Éowyn of whom they spoke.
"Did he?" said the second stablehand. "Well, that seems fitting to me, and now makes great sense of my earlier questions. I always thought that the sword was not proper for a woman to wield."
But they were walking quickly, and were soon out of hearing range. Faramir deemed it improper to have heard such a gossip-laden conversation, and tried to drive it from his mind. Yet, he could not help being angered for Éowyn's sake. How would these men know what was proper for a woman? Had they even seen her with a sword? But more importantly, why would the King have asked her to surrender it? Perhaps that was what they had argued over earlier and not the kiss. But it made no sense to Faramir why Éomer should ask for his sister's sword, especially since he had presented it to her himself. After thinking far too much on the subject for several minutes, Faramir then recalled his father's advice to him many years ago that he should put no store in the gossip of servants. Unfortunately, this piece of advice-no matter how wise-could not keep his mind from straying towards the subject, and then a great desire came over him to see Éowyn, for he knew she would explain everything.
He finished brushing down Cirion, and then slipped quietly from the stables, not wanting the two grooms in the back to see him. He returned then to the Hall, hoping he might see he bethrothed waiting for him on the steps. But she was absent.
The guards snapped their spears back to let him pass, much to his relief. He could never see their eyes through their helmets, yet something in their posture as he approached seemed to grow particularly steely. Faramir had half expected them to throw him down the stairs. There was some strange atmosphere now over the city, as if each servant were bracing himself for something.
As he entered the hall, he found servants scurrying around with water jugs or food. Each refused to meet his gaze, and in fact hurried about their business even faster, as if they would like nothing better than to be out of his presence. But worst of all, he did not see Éowyn. He found the way to her chambers guarded by a flock of gasping maids, and so he did not even attempt to knock on her door. Instead, he returned briefly to the throne room in order to collect the book he had left there, and retired to his own room on the other side of the Hall feeling dismayed and tired. There he remained for the duration of the evening except for when he emerged to dine. But when Éowyn was not present at the table, all Éomer's back- clapping and jovial outbursts could not keep him from his suspicions.
*****
Long after he had fallen asleep the creak of a door awakened Faramir. As he had warned Éowyn earlier, he still behaved in such situations as if he were again the ranger of Ithilien. Therefore, his first thought was to find his sword, but as he squinted in the dark, he was overcome by the surreal quality of the night. He found that he could not reach for his weapon, nor did he want to. Faramir simply knew that he was in no danger.
And sure enough, the first crack of light that escaped from the hall into his chamber was followed the delicate figure of a woman slip through the door. She held a lamp in one hand, and closed the door gently behind her. The pale light grew even dimmer then, and Faramir realized that there had been others outside the door, also holding lamps. He sat upright, still struggling to see through the shadows.
The woman set the candle down on a small table by the door and faced him. She was pale as the flowers of Lorien, he deemed, but more beautiful. She radiated with the faintest of lights. Faramir sighed with contentment. "Éowyn."
Éowyn had come. Faramir was certain he was dreaming, for she seemed so perfectly beautiful that it was unreal. She was as fragile and vulnerable as he had ever seen her and moved with a grace almost elven in quality. He felt as if he touched her that he would mar her beauty, like a man who reaches out to catch a snowflake only to see it melt as it touches his palm. Yes, he was certainly dreaming.
"Faramir," whispered the dream Éowyn as she came toward him. She trembled when she took his hand. Kneeling before him, she placed his palm on her cheek and Faramir saw that she was not a snowflake. She did not disappear. He leaned down to kiss her. Gently at first, their mouths barely open, and then more urgently as their passion increased. She tasted like the finest wine.
She felt so real.
Her tongue brushed across his lips. He felt her shudder against him as his hands tickled the base of her neck. Hers caressed his chest through his thin linen shirt. "I love you."
Faramir didn't know who had said it, but it didn't seem to matter. He said it anyway, "I love you." Again and again he whispered it against her skin.
He kissed by the ears, on her neck, then lower. It was the most intimate they had ever been with each other, and he could feel himself stir beneath the covers.
Éowyn found his hands, now cupping her face, and directed them lower to her back and the ties of her dress.
"Are you sure?" he asked, looking at her in wonder. But all the same, he was certain she was not real.
The dream Éowyn smiled at him. "You are my husband," was her simple answer.
"Then you are my wife." He pulled the ties, slowly at first and then faster as he realized how much pulling he would have to do. All the while Éowyn laughed at his haste until abruptly she stopped and gazed full at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He saw there fear and desire and realized she was nervous.
She stood now, very close to him with his knees on each side of her. Were he to lean over one inch, he would be able to kiss the flat of her stomach. Her scent was intoxicating, like wildflowers and the dew on the morning grass. He breathed her in, then kissed her softly on the belly. And as she leaned over, he kissed what flesh was exposed above her low neckline.
Éowyn reached up to her shoulders and pulled the fabric away, allowing her dress to fall away. Faramir was kissing her when he felt the dress slide away. Éowyn's hands had tightened to fists in his shirt, and he pulled away long enough for her to divest him of it. Then he threw back the covers and stood so he could lift her in his arms and place her upon the bed.
*****
Bitterly, she regretted not forcing her brother to tell her what mischief he was planning. It was probably some great joke on Faramir, she thought with dismay. And by obeying her brother she had become a party to it. That is, if Éomer was in fact planning something. It had occurred to her that Éomer might actually be angry. After all, it was one thing to be kissing in private, but quite another to be kissing in the great hall where any servant or guard might come upon them. And then rumors might be spread throughout Edoras (and subsequently the whole kingdom) of debauchery in Éomer King's household. But then the absurdity of this came into her mind, and she scoffed at such things. It had only been a kiss.
Éowyn had been in her room over an hour when the door opened finally behind her. She turned, expecting her brother, but found instead one of her maids.
She shot her a look that was both curious and annoyed, as if to say, "I did not send for you. What business have you here?"
The lady curtsied. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but the King bade me come. He wished me to deliver this."
And suddenly the maid stepped aside, reveling two other maids holding the most beautiful dress Éowyn had ever seen. She was sure that it was silk, and silk of the purest white. Over the low neck the finest strands of gold and silver had been embroidered.or perhaps it was mithril. One of the serving women held a belt of gold tinted red with copper, which had been assembled by chaining together the smallest links that could possibly be crafted in the manner of chain mail, and attaching the outer ones to fillets of steel. She saw the intricacy of the belt's design: the patterns made by different sizes of links and different metals. If she hadn't seen the horse buckle she would have guessed it to be of Elvish make.
Yet the belt was nothing to the dress. How it shimmered, even in this, the dimmest of light! Even though Éowyn generally cared very little for dresses, she found herself entranced as she approached it and ran her hand gently over the delicate fabric, almost afraid to touch it.
"Silk from Dol Amroth, my lady," said the maid who held it.
"Prince Imrahil?" she gasped in wonder, realizing that it was a wedding present.
"I know not, my lady. You will have to ask your brother," answered one of the maids, casting her eyes downward in a manner that made it seem to Éowyn as if she were afraid to say too much.
"Where is Éomer?" asked Éowyn.
The maid holding the belt answered. "He is in his room, my lady. And if you please, madam, he also commands that you surrender your sword in exchange for this dress."
Éowyn nearly choked, not certain she had heard correctly. She noticed the maids backing away from her, and realized that she must look very angry. But in truth she felt no hostility whatsoever. Instead, she walked to her sword, which she had propped up against the wall by her bed-the very same sword her brother had presented to her after their Uncle's funeral, seized it and then surprised her maids by walking right out the door.
"Lay the dress out on the bed," she called behind her.
Then she shocked the servants even further by barging into her brother's rooms, launching herself into his arms, and crying, "Oh Éomer! You are the kindest and best of brothers!"
*****
Faramir wandered through Edoras alone after Éomer had left him. He had gone to the stables, but Éowyn was not there and so he had left feeling a bit betrayed. Why hadn't Éowyn defended him? All he had done was kiss her, and this had been no more than they had ever done before.
But then, Éomer was her brother. He could not ask her to fight with the King for his sake. Another small part of his mind said that he could not ask it, but such a request should not be required in the first place.
He found himself disliking Éomer for the first time since they had been introduced. What sort of a man would deny his sister happiness merely to increase his own? Why could he not take pleasure in her joy? Why would he not let them ride to Gondor and be married?
Imrahil had liked the King very much, but that was of no comfort to Faramir. His uncle was the very best judge of character, and yet what did good character matter if Éomer did not approve of him? For surely this was the problem. He and Éomer had never fought side by side in battle. He had never been able to prove his worth in person. And Faramir then thought that perhaps he himself would not approve if Boromir were still alive and had attached himself to one woman so quickly after being in love with another.
Faramir reasoned through the entire situation with admirable calm, trying his hardest to see Éomer's point of view. Yes, it must be hard giving up one's only remaining family when peace has just arrived. It was an easy distance between Emyn Arnen and Edoras, merely a week's journey. Only four on a quick mount, and even less if one were to travel light. Yet Éomer was king now, and grounded in his kingdom with responsibilities. Visits would be infrequent.
The more Faramir tried to understand Éomer, the more he felt disappointed. It seemed that Éomer was trying to find excuses not to allow him to marry Éowyn, just as his father had always found excuses not to find any worth in him. And although he had not been angry with Éomer when they had parted, he found his normally controlled temper rising with each second.
The pathetic question came to mind: why did this always happen to him?
He was walking aimlessly now, head down and feet kicking at rocks just like a little boy. There was nothing high or lordly about his appearance now save the clothes on his back, for he felt beaten down by the earlier incident. He kicked a particularly large rock that then went skitting down the path to strike one of the water jugs a servant was filling from the fountain. Her head shot up as if to give the offender a withering glare, but when she saw it was Faramir her face softened and she acknowledged him with a curtsy, though he could see she was still irritated. Then he remembered himself at last. He could not act like a child, nor should he. Éomer had not thrown him out of his house, and for all he knew the argument he had had with Éowyn concerned some other matter.
"I apologize," he offered to the woman before heading back in the direction of the stables. Once there Faramir found his horse, Cirion, stuffing himself from the oatbag over his nose, and picked up a brush. He had only worked his way down the first leg when he heard the voices of two grooms coming from the entrance.
"I heard the King commanded her to surrender her sword," said the first.
Her sword? thought Faramir. This must be Éowyn of whom they spoke.
"Did he?" said the second stablehand. "Well, that seems fitting to me, and now makes great sense of my earlier questions. I always thought that the sword was not proper for a woman to wield."
But they were walking quickly, and were soon out of hearing range. Faramir deemed it improper to have heard such a gossip-laden conversation, and tried to drive it from his mind. Yet, he could not help being angered for Éowyn's sake. How would these men know what was proper for a woman? Had they even seen her with a sword? But more importantly, why would the King have asked her to surrender it? Perhaps that was what they had argued over earlier and not the kiss. But it made no sense to Faramir why Éomer should ask for his sister's sword, especially since he had presented it to her himself. After thinking far too much on the subject for several minutes, Faramir then recalled his father's advice to him many years ago that he should put no store in the gossip of servants. Unfortunately, this piece of advice-no matter how wise-could not keep his mind from straying towards the subject, and then a great desire came over him to see Éowyn, for he knew she would explain everything.
He finished brushing down Cirion, and then slipped quietly from the stables, not wanting the two grooms in the back to see him. He returned then to the Hall, hoping he might see he bethrothed waiting for him on the steps. But she was absent.
The guards snapped their spears back to let him pass, much to his relief. He could never see their eyes through their helmets, yet something in their posture as he approached seemed to grow particularly steely. Faramir had half expected them to throw him down the stairs. There was some strange atmosphere now over the city, as if each servant were bracing himself for something.
As he entered the hall, he found servants scurrying around with water jugs or food. Each refused to meet his gaze, and in fact hurried about their business even faster, as if they would like nothing better than to be out of his presence. But worst of all, he did not see Éowyn. He found the way to her chambers guarded by a flock of gasping maids, and so he did not even attempt to knock on her door. Instead, he returned briefly to the throne room in order to collect the book he had left there, and retired to his own room on the other side of the Hall feeling dismayed and tired. There he remained for the duration of the evening except for when he emerged to dine. But when Éowyn was not present at the table, all Éomer's back- clapping and jovial outbursts could not keep him from his suspicions.
*****
Long after he had fallen asleep the creak of a door awakened Faramir. As he had warned Éowyn earlier, he still behaved in such situations as if he were again the ranger of Ithilien. Therefore, his first thought was to find his sword, but as he squinted in the dark, he was overcome by the surreal quality of the night. He found that he could not reach for his weapon, nor did he want to. Faramir simply knew that he was in no danger.
And sure enough, the first crack of light that escaped from the hall into his chamber was followed the delicate figure of a woman slip through the door. She held a lamp in one hand, and closed the door gently behind her. The pale light grew even dimmer then, and Faramir realized that there had been others outside the door, also holding lamps. He sat upright, still struggling to see through the shadows.
The woman set the candle down on a small table by the door and faced him. She was pale as the flowers of Lorien, he deemed, but more beautiful. She radiated with the faintest of lights. Faramir sighed with contentment. "Éowyn."
Éowyn had come. Faramir was certain he was dreaming, for she seemed so perfectly beautiful that it was unreal. She was as fragile and vulnerable as he had ever seen her and moved with a grace almost elven in quality. He felt as if he touched her that he would mar her beauty, like a man who reaches out to catch a snowflake only to see it melt as it touches his palm. Yes, he was certainly dreaming.
"Faramir," whispered the dream Éowyn as she came toward him. She trembled when she took his hand. Kneeling before him, she placed his palm on her cheek and Faramir saw that she was not a snowflake. She did not disappear. He leaned down to kiss her. Gently at first, their mouths barely open, and then more urgently as their passion increased. She tasted like the finest wine.
She felt so real.
Her tongue brushed across his lips. He felt her shudder against him as his hands tickled the base of her neck. Hers caressed his chest through his thin linen shirt. "I love you."
Faramir didn't know who had said it, but it didn't seem to matter. He said it anyway, "I love you." Again and again he whispered it against her skin.
He kissed by the ears, on her neck, then lower. It was the most intimate they had ever been with each other, and he could feel himself stir beneath the covers.
Éowyn found his hands, now cupping her face, and directed them lower to her back and the ties of her dress.
"Are you sure?" he asked, looking at her in wonder. But all the same, he was certain she was not real.
The dream Éowyn smiled at him. "You are my husband," was her simple answer.
"Then you are my wife." He pulled the ties, slowly at first and then faster as he realized how much pulling he would have to do. All the while Éowyn laughed at his haste until abruptly she stopped and gazed full at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He saw there fear and desire and realized she was nervous.
She stood now, very close to him with his knees on each side of her. Were he to lean over one inch, he would be able to kiss the flat of her stomach. Her scent was intoxicating, like wildflowers and the dew on the morning grass. He breathed her in, then kissed her softly on the belly. And as she leaned over, he kissed what flesh was exposed above her low neckline.
Éowyn reached up to her shoulders and pulled the fabric away, allowing her dress to fall away. Faramir was kissing her when he felt the dress slide away. Éowyn's hands had tightened to fists in his shirt, and he pulled away long enough for her to divest him of it. Then he threw back the covers and stood so he could lift her in his arms and place her upon the bed.
*****
