Chapter 3

AN: Good job to Lady Scribe of Avandell and Kezya for guessing the play. It's Shakespeare's Twelfth Night or What You Will. The conversation between Éomer and the widow was similar to that of Feste (the fool) and Olivia in the first act. I'd never heard of this play before the local theater slated it for this year, but I really enjoy it. Éomer doesn't really represent the fool, though; just for that conversation. However, the widow is probably going to be parallel to Olivia most of the time, if I keep on the right track. Thanks for your reviews!

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When Éomer rose the next morning, he was not greeted by the sight of Éowyn at the breakfast table. Indeed, he did not make it to the table, for he was accosted in the corridors by Faramir, who paced and looked rather anxious.
"What news?" asked Éomer, perhaps hoping that another messenger of the king had arrived.
Faramir's manner was grave as he led Éomer through the house. "Éowyn is ill again," said he, and the lady's brother started and quickened their pace.
"Of what malady?" Éomer asked.
"A fever that drives her to nightmares," said Faramir. "Twas the same before. I warned her against so much activity when she was so newly recovered, but her joy at your presence was too great to heed any cautions I could have given. She calls for you, Éomer, and so I bring you to her. A servant has been sent for the healer, who will allow neither you nor me to see her until she awakens, so make best your time."
Éomer followed Faramir into the chamber he and Éowyn shared, and lying in the bed, pale and still was his sister. He swiftly took the chair by her side and took her hand, feeling how cold her fingers were compared to her fevered brow.
"Éowyn," he called woefully, but she did not answer, nor even stir. "Éowyn, sister, always did you put others before yourself. I would that you had stayed abed, that I had not come, rather than see you so."
Faramir stood behind him, gazing worriedly down at his wife. "She would not have stayed in bed another moment," he replied, smiling fondly. "And if you had not come because of her illness, she would only have made herself ill again to spite us."
"How did she recover before?" asked Éomer of his brother-in-law.
"By time and patience," replied Faramir gravely. "I saw naught but her door until she was at last out of the fever. I damn the healer for his stubbornness, but he is the best, and he brought her back after all."
"And so shall return the lady once more, by your leave, my lord," came a voice from the doorway. Both Faramir and Éomer turned to see an old and bent man crossing the threshold, carrying a worn bag and looking curiously at Éowyn as she lay quietly in the bed.
"She is worse," he murmured, brushing his fingers across her forehead. When he saw that Faramir and Éomer stood still behind him, he turned angrily and waved them out. "It will not do to have three abed instead of one," he said, closing the door loudly behind them.
Éomer and Faramir took seats in high-backed chairs that had appeared from servants.
"He will appear soon, and say that we must wait," said Faramir to Éomer, who was tapping his foot impatiently. "Come, take your mind from your sister. Is there nothing of interest in Rohan to speak of?" "Naught that I can think of now that I am required," replied Éomer. "But perhaps there is one note on which you might expand. Yesterday, I encountered a woman on your grounds, clothed completely in black and with many attendants, also in black. I heard her called a widow, and I hear tell she dwells in your house. She spoke few words with me and left me more curious than before. If it is not too bold, I would hear this tale from your mouth, which I trust more than the whispering of servants." Faramir sighed and shook his head sadly. "Odd that you would ask of her," he said. "At such a time, as well. The woman is no widow, but a lady fair and fierce. She suffered a great hurt in the War of the Ring, when her beloved and betrothed rode to the fields of Pelennor and was there slain. She has vowed she will not take in the sight of company of men for the rest of her life, and went into mourning for her beloved. Her father sent her to me in hopes that I and the lady Éowyn could draw her out of her seclusion, but she will not speak or dine with us, and she appears once a day, to walk the grounds in mystery and silence." "A tragic tale, to be sure," Éomer replied. "But who is this lady?" "She is my cousin," Faramir replied dolefully. "Lothìriel, lady of Dol Amroth, the daughter of Imrahil."
Éomer sat in shocked silence for a moment. "My sympathies," he said at last. "For the grievance of your cousin."
Faramir nodded, but said no more, for then the door opened, and they both flew to their feet.
But the healer opened the door only wide enough to stick his face out. "The lady of the house is gravely ill," said he. "And she will be allowed no visitors but those attendants you send me for aid. I will notify your lordship if her condition changes."
And before either of them could say another word, the door closed firmly in their faces, and they heard the click of the lock on the other side.
Éomer growled fiercely at the door and began to pace, but Faramir sat patiently, head in hands, listening almost amusedly to his brother-in-law's nervous footfalls.
"No word will come for hours, Éomer," said Faramir at last, when Éomer had stopped pacing and rested his head on the smooth stone wall. "Go and take a breath of fresh air, for I am accustomed to waiting and have business to attend to, while you are restless and a guest. Return when night falls, and then we will have news."
Éomer sighed in resignation, nodded at Faramir, and strode purposefully out of the room. He made his way out of the grand doors of the house and down the first flight of stone steps to the landing that lay before the second flight, leading to the ground. He stood at the rail and looked out on the country his sister had come to call home, thinking it almost as fair as she, and yet not as worthy of a place in her heart as Rohan. And as he thought of Éowyn, he buried his face in his hands, frustrated and grieved, for among his bravery and bold deeds, he had one weakness that was easy to see: he could not bear to see his sister unhappy. He had felt a large part of himself gone when he thought her dead on the Fields of Pelennor, and words could not describe the moment in which she awoke and spoke to him again, in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. How long he stood there in such a manner, he knew not. His next recollection was the sound of a voice, lilting sweetly through the air behind him.
"Why do you stand so before the people of Ithilien, good sir?"
Éomer turned, and he felt a shock, as though he had been startled or suddenly frightened. He thought himself blind, perhaps, or even dead, for there stood before him a lady so beautiful that she could not be real. She stood tall on the last stair behind him, robed in a flowing white gown of silk that the wind caught and played with like a leaf. Her skin was white and fair as her gown, and in contrast, her hair black as ebony, twisted and pinned to her head and bound in silver that shone on her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were crystal blue, and roses bloomed on her cheeks as though she were a maid of ten or twelve and not a woman. It was she who had spoken, for she gazed at him with her piercing eyes and awaited his answer.
At last, he found his voice. "The lady Éowyn is ill once more, my lady," he replied. "And I grieve, for I fear she is abed due to my arrival."
The woman approached him and stood at the rail. "You are familiar with the lady of the house then," she said, her voice like a song. "She is a good lady, and strong, and I am grieved as well, to hear of her illness. Wherefore did you come to Ithilien, sir? To visit with the lord Faramir?"
"And with the lady Éowyn, for she is my sister and the last of my kin," replied Éomer.
At this, the young woman seemed rather flustered. She took a sudden step backwards and moved her arms awkwardly, as though she knew not what to do with them. Finally, she knelt swiftly to the ground, bowing her head.
"You are Éomer, King of the Mark, then," she said, her voice nervous. "My most sincere apologies, my lord, for I knew not."
Éomer was befuddled, and he knelt, offering her his hand. She eyed him nervously, then took it and rose.
"What is your name, my lady?" he asked.
She hesitated, then said, "I am Rîne, waiting-woman to the lady Lothìriel of Dol Amroth."
Éomer was taken aback for a moment, but he looked as unruffled as usual, and said only, "Rîne is an odd name for a lady of Dol Amroth."
She laughed. "Indeed, my lord," she said. "My father is not a noble man, by far, but we are not indigent, and so he gave to his children noble names and sent me to wait on the lady, in hopes of procuring for me a marriage above my station. A title to fit the name, he says."
"It is a fine name," said he, and a question rose in his mind. "I spoke yesterday with your lady," he said. "While she walked about the hills. Were you among her attendants? For they were veiled and robed in black, and yet you stand here in white, as a bride on her wedding day and not a woman in mourning."
"I was there, my lord," said she. "And my lady was intrigued by the exchange you made with her. She sent out her attendants this morning, save for myself, and bid me to go in my own garb and seek out the man she had met yesterday and make her apologies. My lady is humble, lord, or so she would like to think, and she sends her most sincere apologies for her swift judgment and hopes that you will send with me word of forgiveness."
Éomer smiled and nodded at her. "You must tell your lady she need never ask forgiveness, for she was in the right to call me a fool. I am a fool to trifle with so pure and noble a woman as she, who was withstood such tragic times."
For some reason, these words stirred the young maid. "My lady does not take kindly to pity," said she, her bright eyes shining. "She believes herself strong, and will not think well of those who shower her with pity for doing what she believes is fit and proper."
Éomer looked confused again. For one of little higher rank than a servant, this woman spoke nobly, eloquently, as freely as she wanted, as though she were used to doing so. "I apologize, lady," he said, for looking at her, he could think of her as nothing but a lady. "I meant no offense. I do not offer pity, if it is scorned, but compassion for your lady's situation."
The woman called Rîne nodded. "I must away," she said. "To tend my lady." She turned to leave, one foot on the first step already.
"Wait," said Éomer, and he caught her arm instinctively. She turned, startled, but she looked him in the eye and said nothing.
"Surely the lady Lothìriel has many attendants to wait on her," he said. "My mind is heavy with thoughts of my sister's malady. I would that I knew the land better, so that in times of melancholy and solitude, I might entertain myself. I desire better acquaintance---with the land, that is. Will you be so kind, lady?"
He smiled almost imperceptibly, and Rîne was entranced. He did not seem to be a man who smiled often, so grave was his face, despite his youth. She turned and stepped down again.
"I would be delighted, my lord," she said, and she took the arm he offered her, and they made their way down the flight of stone steps to the grounds. And those that saw them wondered at the sight of the King of Rohan, smiling and listening attentively to a mysterious woman in white, the face of whom none had seen before, but of beauty that was altogether too familiar.

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