The White City has a king again, and one who shines like the lords of old.
The White City has a queen again, who walks among the people and is still,
they say, not mortal. They would be figureheads, but they do not permit
such from their people, who love them for it, with a love that tempers fear
with gladness that the world has not ended.
The White City has one throne again, and the black chair at the foot of marble stairs has gone. Faramir, when he pays homage to his king, sits side by side at table, and they break bread together. Eowyn, when she greets her queen, does so with a curtsey and an invitation to ride beyond the walls.
Faramir is the Steward of Gondor, but the title means little these days. His duties are much the same as they were when he was second son, and he rides among his rangers as he always has. He was not raised to rule, and so he is silently grateful not to have the burden of kingship, under any title. The rebuilding of Osgiliath occupies much of his thought, though there are not as yet enough people to undertake so great a task. In his thoughts, he plans a monument to his brother in Osgiliath, so Boromir's defense of the city will not be forgotten. He knows that the loss of the river was not his fault, but the hurt runs deeper than thought, and is not assuaged by knowledge. He has already helped build a monument to Denethor, as well, in Gondor itself. A testament to the strength of the stewards, in keeping the city safe for the rightful king: perhaps not fitting for Denethor, who would have wrested control from Elessar had he lived, but some things are better left unsaid, and Faramir's loyalty to his father is too strong to lay blame on the dead. His people, Elessar's people, are not always so forgiving, when losses are remembered, but peace soothes old grudges, wearing them soft and indistinct with time and plenty.
Eowyn rode with the rangers, at first, and some few women of Gondor took after her, in awe and following of the one who killed the Witch-King, but it is a short-lived thing. A woman is killed while fighting orcs, hesitation her failing as it always was in sparring, and the rest of the women are restricted from riding on patrol, by husbands, fathers or fear. Eowyn chafes at the implied restraint, and knows that Faramir would not have the heart to refuse her, but Dernhelm does not ride. She has said her piece over a near-stranger's grave, and she is too sick of death to court it anymore. Now, when she rides, it is with the ladies of Gondor, on sedate trips in safe lands, or with her queen or husband, when she aches to ride free and wild as she did in her childhood. Rarely, she misses Rohan and the wind on the hills of Edoras, and then she goes to the top of the city and sits under the White Tree with her hair let down to blow in the breezes as it used to do. She is embroidering Faramir a banner, in the styles of Gondor and Rohan, and it will be finished before their first child is born. She can speak to her king with no difficulty, now: the knowledge that she owes him her life is what holds back her words. Eowyn has never liked being in someone's debt, and this is one she will never repay. Somewhere, deep in her, the sight of Elessar reminds her of riding to death, and of the disappointment of waking, sick and wholly alive. Around Faramir she smiles, and her heartfelt joy mutes the whisper of doubt for days or months on end, but around her king she cannot help but feel the walls close around her, and then she will mount her stallion and ride as she did in Rohan, chasing the shadows of Theodred and her childhood self. When she returns she is wind-tangled and wind-flushed, and smiles as she did before Wormtongue came, before her cousin died.
The White City has one throne again, and the black chair at the foot of marble stairs has gone. Faramir, when he pays homage to his king, sits side by side at table, and they break bread together. Eowyn, when she greets her queen, does so with a curtsey and an invitation to ride beyond the walls.
Faramir is the Steward of Gondor, but the title means little these days. His duties are much the same as they were when he was second son, and he rides among his rangers as he always has. He was not raised to rule, and so he is silently grateful not to have the burden of kingship, under any title. The rebuilding of Osgiliath occupies much of his thought, though there are not as yet enough people to undertake so great a task. In his thoughts, he plans a monument to his brother in Osgiliath, so Boromir's defense of the city will not be forgotten. He knows that the loss of the river was not his fault, but the hurt runs deeper than thought, and is not assuaged by knowledge. He has already helped build a monument to Denethor, as well, in Gondor itself. A testament to the strength of the stewards, in keeping the city safe for the rightful king: perhaps not fitting for Denethor, who would have wrested control from Elessar had he lived, but some things are better left unsaid, and Faramir's loyalty to his father is too strong to lay blame on the dead. His people, Elessar's people, are not always so forgiving, when losses are remembered, but peace soothes old grudges, wearing them soft and indistinct with time and plenty.
Eowyn rode with the rangers, at first, and some few women of Gondor took after her, in awe and following of the one who killed the Witch-King, but it is a short-lived thing. A woman is killed while fighting orcs, hesitation her failing as it always was in sparring, and the rest of the women are restricted from riding on patrol, by husbands, fathers or fear. Eowyn chafes at the implied restraint, and knows that Faramir would not have the heart to refuse her, but Dernhelm does not ride. She has said her piece over a near-stranger's grave, and she is too sick of death to court it anymore. Now, when she rides, it is with the ladies of Gondor, on sedate trips in safe lands, or with her queen or husband, when she aches to ride free and wild as she did in her childhood. Rarely, she misses Rohan and the wind on the hills of Edoras, and then she goes to the top of the city and sits under the White Tree with her hair let down to blow in the breezes as it used to do. She is embroidering Faramir a banner, in the styles of Gondor and Rohan, and it will be finished before their first child is born. She can speak to her king with no difficulty, now: the knowledge that she owes him her life is what holds back her words. Eowyn has never liked being in someone's debt, and this is one she will never repay. Somewhere, deep in her, the sight of Elessar reminds her of riding to death, and of the disappointment of waking, sick and wholly alive. Around Faramir she smiles, and her heartfelt joy mutes the whisper of doubt for days or months on end, but around her king she cannot help but feel the walls close around her, and then she will mount her stallion and ride as she did in Rohan, chasing the shadows of Theodred and her childhood self. When she returns she is wind-tangled and wind-flushed, and smiles as she did before Wormtongue came, before her cousin died.
