Third month, 19th day
I awoke early this morning. I wished to see the sun rise, I always do this (when I can), and it was an encouragement in dark days that at least something was right with this maddening world. For this I became known as the "Daughter of the Sun." Of course I have many other names and nicknames, but that is beside the point for now.
I knelt down, beneath it's warming rays, (for Minas Tirith is oft cold despite how far south it is.), and prayed to the Valar for guidance. For surely I shall need it. My hopes and dreams have been smashed by many a person. I must now find a way to live on.
I was surprised by a voice, the Steward's to be specific. "Lady, wilt thou not come down from there? You shall catch your death of cold."
I complied, but my confidence had returned over-night, and I was somewhat annoyed he should think me so fragile. So, I retorted, "My lord, you seem to forget I was raised in the far north, in Rohan where it is frequently cold, and that I have slain the King of Wraiths. I am no fragile doll to be turned to some man's purposes."
He laughed softly, "Nay lady that you certainly are not. Although I must say you are far different from most if not all women I have ever known, For most go out of their way to convince they are fragile dolls."
"Then they are cowards, and leeches."
"Is that not rather strong language?"
"That is nothing compared to what I use sometimes. You should have spoken to my brother ere he departed, and he should have told you that I use far worse language when provoked."
"I think I shall trust your testimony for the moment until your brother returns."
"Return?!" I begin bitterly, "My lord, you must not know whither they have gone, or perhaps you do not comprehend the enormous odds they shall face. Nay, they shall not return."
"There you are wrong my lady, for you forget now, it is I who ventured as close to the black land as far as any living man would dare. There is a chance, however small, that Mithrandir's mysterious plans will work, and they shall return once more to the White City, and see her flag fly yet again."
"What do you know of Mithrandir's plans?" I ask, intrigued.
"Little, do you know anyone who can read the mind of a wizard?"
"Nay, but what do you know?"
"I am sorry lady, I am not at liberty to say, except that they are very risky, and that it is a gamble even my father Denethor was unwilling to take." Perhaps it was just my imagination, but did he say his father's name with dread?
"What became of your father?" I ask softly.
"You speak of my father as if he were dead lady, tell me, what is it you know that I do not?" he gaze became frightfully strong at that point, yet I was not as afraid as the last time. I immediately regretted telling him by accident that his father was dead, he must not know yet.
"How much have they told you?" I asked in surprise.
"Nothing, save that I was wounded and my uncle brought me back, stricken from the field, and that it was some time before Lord Aragorn could heal me."
"Would your father not have visited you though, if you were wounded? Surely you would expect him to visit his heir were he alive?"
"There is much you know not of the House of Stewards and the line of Anaorien, lady, and do not wish to know. Let us simply say that my father was very harsh on me."
"Do not call me lady, my lord, for it is a title, and I deplore titles." I know not why I told him that, or what came over me, but I suddenly felt unworthy of his company. Again, I suppose aftereffects of Wormtongue and/or the Nazgul.
"Then what may I call you?"
"Simply Éowyn. For I am undeserving of such a lofty title."
"That is nonsense. For you are the King of Rohan's sister, and that is equal to, if not above my station."
"Still, I do not wish it."
"Very well, then you shall call me Faramir. However shall I explain this to your brother though? He is very protective of you."
"You have spoken to him?" I ask excitedly.
"Aye. For a short time, Mithrandir would allow him no more. He simply told me he was going to war, and there was none here he trusted to watch over you, and he asked me to."
"You know my brother?" I say in utter confusion. Why hadn't Eomer spoken of him before then?
"A little. There were times where he and I met at our borders. Once he even came to Gondor on the request of my father, (with your late cousin of course), and we taught him some sword-fighting tricks. In turn, your brother and cousin showed us some horse-riding tips. That was many years ago now, when I was twelve and he ten, your cousin was fourteen, maybe thirteen. My brother was about you cousin's age. You would have been around five winters, am I correct?"
"Yes. Now that you mention it, I remember vaguely a time when my brother and cousin went away. It was when they returned that they were so shocked at the change in my uncle."
"Change?"
"Yes. Did you not hear of my king's bewitchment?"
"Nay, for if my father heard of such things, he would certainly never tell me." There he was speaking in riddles again, as does Mithrandir, perhaps he learned it from him.
"It is sufficient to say that had not Mithrandir come to save the king we would not have come to your aide. It is a dark and fearsome tale, the bewitchment of my king, and you should not wish to hear it. Unless perchance you delight in such tales?"
"Nay, we have enough dark tales in Gondor. I do not wish to hear of yours at this time. Let us, rather, dwell on lighter things."
"What does my lord wish to speak of?"
"Remember I asked you not to call me that?"
"I am sorry. It seems rather strange to call a man I do not know that well on a first-name basis though."
"Then perhaps I should tell you more of myself, so you shall not be so uneasy? What would you have me say?"
"I do not know, for it is your tale to tell. Perhaps-though, whenever you mention your family, you never mention your mother. Why is that?"
"Lady Éowyn, if what you say of my father is true. The only family I have remaining is my uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. My mother was his sister. She was more attractive than many elf maidens, and none at the time could rival her beauty. Yet, she was frail. She missed the sea from whence she came. Findulias withered in Minas Tirith under the growing shadow of Mordor. She passed on to the West when I was but five, and my brother eight. Her passing was hard on all of us. Mainly my father. All that is left of her to me is the memory of her standing on the wall facing Dol Amroth, while the wind tangled her in black hair, and her blue and silver cape flapping in the breeze.."
He broke off there, and he looked away. I reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, for I too had known much loss in my life, and could sympathize. "I am sorry about your mother, she must have been a fine woman." I reply softly.
He began to sing quietly in Elvish, and though I knew not the words, I understood what they meant. It had something to do with his mother and how he missed her. My heart went out to him at that moment, though this man had suffered much hurt and doubt he continued on in hope of better times. But then the wind whipped up fiercely as it is wont to do across plains, and it became cold, so I sought the shelter of the tree.
Then we went in for the noon meal. Faramir demanded to know what became of his father while we were at dinner, but he was given evasive answers. This did not please him, but there was little he could do at the moment.
Here I am writing about another man's troubles in my journal, aren't journals for your own problems? Not others'? So why do I write pages about his, yet so little about mine?
A/N: I know, I changed some things of Tolkien's. Faramir is by rights twelve years older than Eowyn, but I changed that to seven.
I awoke early this morning. I wished to see the sun rise, I always do this (when I can), and it was an encouragement in dark days that at least something was right with this maddening world. For this I became known as the "Daughter of the Sun." Of course I have many other names and nicknames, but that is beside the point for now.
I knelt down, beneath it's warming rays, (for Minas Tirith is oft cold despite how far south it is.), and prayed to the Valar for guidance. For surely I shall need it. My hopes and dreams have been smashed by many a person. I must now find a way to live on.
I was surprised by a voice, the Steward's to be specific. "Lady, wilt thou not come down from there? You shall catch your death of cold."
I complied, but my confidence had returned over-night, and I was somewhat annoyed he should think me so fragile. So, I retorted, "My lord, you seem to forget I was raised in the far north, in Rohan where it is frequently cold, and that I have slain the King of Wraiths. I am no fragile doll to be turned to some man's purposes."
He laughed softly, "Nay lady that you certainly are not. Although I must say you are far different from most if not all women I have ever known, For most go out of their way to convince they are fragile dolls."
"Then they are cowards, and leeches."
"Is that not rather strong language?"
"That is nothing compared to what I use sometimes. You should have spoken to my brother ere he departed, and he should have told you that I use far worse language when provoked."
"I think I shall trust your testimony for the moment until your brother returns."
"Return?!" I begin bitterly, "My lord, you must not know whither they have gone, or perhaps you do not comprehend the enormous odds they shall face. Nay, they shall not return."
"There you are wrong my lady, for you forget now, it is I who ventured as close to the black land as far as any living man would dare. There is a chance, however small, that Mithrandir's mysterious plans will work, and they shall return once more to the White City, and see her flag fly yet again."
"What do you know of Mithrandir's plans?" I ask, intrigued.
"Little, do you know anyone who can read the mind of a wizard?"
"Nay, but what do you know?"
"I am sorry lady, I am not at liberty to say, except that they are very risky, and that it is a gamble even my father Denethor was unwilling to take." Perhaps it was just my imagination, but did he say his father's name with dread?
"What became of your father?" I ask softly.
"You speak of my father as if he were dead lady, tell me, what is it you know that I do not?" he gaze became frightfully strong at that point, yet I was not as afraid as the last time. I immediately regretted telling him by accident that his father was dead, he must not know yet.
"How much have they told you?" I asked in surprise.
"Nothing, save that I was wounded and my uncle brought me back, stricken from the field, and that it was some time before Lord Aragorn could heal me."
"Would your father not have visited you though, if you were wounded? Surely you would expect him to visit his heir were he alive?"
"There is much you know not of the House of Stewards and the line of Anaorien, lady, and do not wish to know. Let us simply say that my father was very harsh on me."
"Do not call me lady, my lord, for it is a title, and I deplore titles." I know not why I told him that, or what came over me, but I suddenly felt unworthy of his company. Again, I suppose aftereffects of Wormtongue and/or the Nazgul.
"Then what may I call you?"
"Simply Éowyn. For I am undeserving of such a lofty title."
"That is nonsense. For you are the King of Rohan's sister, and that is equal to, if not above my station."
"Still, I do not wish it."
"Very well, then you shall call me Faramir. However shall I explain this to your brother though? He is very protective of you."
"You have spoken to him?" I ask excitedly.
"Aye. For a short time, Mithrandir would allow him no more. He simply told me he was going to war, and there was none here he trusted to watch over you, and he asked me to."
"You know my brother?" I say in utter confusion. Why hadn't Eomer spoken of him before then?
"A little. There were times where he and I met at our borders. Once he even came to Gondor on the request of my father, (with your late cousin of course), and we taught him some sword-fighting tricks. In turn, your brother and cousin showed us some horse-riding tips. That was many years ago now, when I was twelve and he ten, your cousin was fourteen, maybe thirteen. My brother was about you cousin's age. You would have been around five winters, am I correct?"
"Yes. Now that you mention it, I remember vaguely a time when my brother and cousin went away. It was when they returned that they were so shocked at the change in my uncle."
"Change?"
"Yes. Did you not hear of my king's bewitchment?"
"Nay, for if my father heard of such things, he would certainly never tell me." There he was speaking in riddles again, as does Mithrandir, perhaps he learned it from him.
"It is sufficient to say that had not Mithrandir come to save the king we would not have come to your aide. It is a dark and fearsome tale, the bewitchment of my king, and you should not wish to hear it. Unless perchance you delight in such tales?"
"Nay, we have enough dark tales in Gondor. I do not wish to hear of yours at this time. Let us, rather, dwell on lighter things."
"What does my lord wish to speak of?"
"Remember I asked you not to call me that?"
"I am sorry. It seems rather strange to call a man I do not know that well on a first-name basis though."
"Then perhaps I should tell you more of myself, so you shall not be so uneasy? What would you have me say?"
"I do not know, for it is your tale to tell. Perhaps-though, whenever you mention your family, you never mention your mother. Why is that?"
"Lady Éowyn, if what you say of my father is true. The only family I have remaining is my uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. My mother was his sister. She was more attractive than many elf maidens, and none at the time could rival her beauty. Yet, she was frail. She missed the sea from whence she came. Findulias withered in Minas Tirith under the growing shadow of Mordor. She passed on to the West when I was but five, and my brother eight. Her passing was hard on all of us. Mainly my father. All that is left of her to me is the memory of her standing on the wall facing Dol Amroth, while the wind tangled her in black hair, and her blue and silver cape flapping in the breeze.."
He broke off there, and he looked away. I reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, for I too had known much loss in my life, and could sympathize. "I am sorry about your mother, she must have been a fine woman." I reply softly.
He began to sing quietly in Elvish, and though I knew not the words, I understood what they meant. It had something to do with his mother and how he missed her. My heart went out to him at that moment, though this man had suffered much hurt and doubt he continued on in hope of better times. But then the wind whipped up fiercely as it is wont to do across plains, and it became cold, so I sought the shelter of the tree.
Then we went in for the noon meal. Faramir demanded to know what became of his father while we were at dinner, but he was given evasive answers. This did not please him, but there was little he could do at the moment.
Here I am writing about another man's troubles in my journal, aren't journals for your own problems? Not others'? So why do I write pages about his, yet so little about mine?
A/N: I know, I changed some things of Tolkien's. Faramir is by rights twelve years older than Eowyn, but I changed that to seven.