Éowyn had always been a sound sleeper. No noise, no commotion could jolt her from her slumber- but Míriel's terrified cries were so loud that she feared the whole City would hear them. She rose unsteadily from her bed and rushed to the cradle, squinting in the chamber's pale glow.
Her baby was shrieking in frustration, hands clenched into tiny fists and face scrunched up into a look of pure horror. She opened her eyes, large blue orbs as turbulent as the rolling surf, and hiccupped back a wail as she focused on the dark figure bending over her. Éowyn rubbed her tummy concernedly.
"Another nightmare?"
The infant blinked slowly. Since her birth, Míriel had been a restless child, waking often from menacing dreams. Perhaps she was afraid of the darkness; during the day, she was quiet and peaceful. But every night, she screamed until someone calmed her and lulled her back to sleep. At first, Elessar had dealt with her, and Éowyn remembered waking to see the King pacing the floor with a small newborn in his arms. He would sing to her in Elvish, or just rock her silently till she drifted off again.
Éowyn had not been on good speaking terms with him in those last days. After what she had done, he-
She shook her head, and lifted Míriel up carefully, holding her against her breast. Her daughter grabbed a lock of hair, and tugged resolutely. She tried to loosen it from her grip. "Do not do that. That hurts Mama. Stop."
Míriel reluctantly released it and gurgled happily.
"I wish we could get through one night without you rousing the entire household. Your brother was never troubled."
Éowyn walked towards and window and shifted her arms to let Míriel see out. "It is pretty outside. Nice and bright. Nothing scary at all. The moon makes the shadows go away."
The baby yawned, and she continued. "Though the sun is better. Much more to do during the day, and in its light there is no darkness at all. Do you like the sun, little Leohta? There is nothing to be scared of when it shines, stronger than the stars above."
She swung her arms gently. "Do you know how the sun was made? Great Béma was riding his horse when he noticed a jewel glistening in the grass. He picked it up, and tossed it high, high into the heavens- but it stuck to a little diamond. The silver gem told the bigger golden one that he would help her wiggle free- in return for a favor. Instead of the diamond circling the world all the time, they would take shifts. The yellow jewel agreed, and kept to her part of the pact."
Míriel stuck her fist in her mouth.
"Did you like the story? Your father could tell much better ones."
Éowyn turned back towards the cradle. Elessar had loved his daughter greatly- for they had been very similar. Not in appearance, but in other aspects. Míriel made her think of things she otherwise would have forgotten, and her gaze was oddly penetrating for an infant's. And the way she sent her chin resolutely when forcedly carried about by strangers, and suffered patiently through the frightening ordeal of being kissed and cuddled by unfamiliar people; she was her father's child. She showed promises of having a steady temper and noble reserve, and Éowyn knew she would grant dignity and poise to the Telcontar line. At present, Anardil was excitable and rowdy; grief seemed to have added to his unruliness. But Míriel was her comfort, in a way. She gave her a reason to awaken every day.
She had refused to have children, originally. Why allow such distractions into her planned and orderly life? But Elessar had insisted with undisturbed resolution. She had consented to marry him, and he needed an heir. She might not love him, but she must do everything that was expected of her.
It had surprised her, the flow of maternal emotions that appeared during her first pregnancy. She wanted these little ones, to care for them and shield them from harm. She did not want to lose them. Motherhood was not the dreaded role she had imagined. Supporting the tiny form in her arms, she felt like she had done something right at last.
"Ic freogan eow," she whispered softly. Her daughter's eyes fluttered, and Éowyn swayed back and forth, humming lightly until she finally dozed back off. Holding her delicately, almost reverently, she placed the baby back in her crib and climbed back into her own bed.
She was not alone. She had her children to love and nurture. Perhaps the days ahead would not be as painful as she had feared.
Pulling the covers over her head, she fell back into senseless dreams.
Faramir waited till several days after the funeral before paying his respects to the widowed Queen. As Steward, custom dictated that he visit Éowyn and offer his condolences over the death of her husband. But every time he prepared to set out, he found himself sidetracked by insignificant issues, silly things that could have been postponed. Perhaps he did not want to go through with it. Fulfilling tradition was all very well, but why comfort a grieving woman with the same redundant, trite statements as everyone else? He would rather break social mores and leave Éowyn to her solitary company than cause her any more pain.
However, it must be done. He walked to the King's House slowly, trying to collect his thoughts and formulate phrases that would heal and not hurt. But he was not about to yield to the halflings' insinuations. He would speak with her and attempt to lessen her sadness, but he would not make any declarations. On any subjects.
He would not use words like "your loss" or "Elessar's unfortunate demise." He remembered dull Gondorian officials speaking of his father's death as such a sad turn of events; it was not sad, nor a series of incidents. Denethor had given into despair and killed himself: a depressing affair that could not be summed up with a few stale words. He would not subject her to such banal language.
But how to express his sorrow? How to show her that he truly cared for her well-being, and was not merely calling for convention's sake?
No preplanned speech could accomplish that task. He must be honest, and convey the emotions he harbored inside. He would speak from his heart.
"If you are seeking my mama, she is not here."
Faramir glanced down to see Anardil standing before him, an expression of cautious interest on his small face. He looked oddly like Elessar in that instant, his grey eyes searching and studying intently. "Can you tell me how long before the Queen returns?"
The boy shook his head. "I do not know. I think she had a meeting with some of the Rohirrim staying in the City. She should return soon."
Faramir prepared to turn away when he felt a little hand tugging at his sleeve. "Since you will be waiting-"
He nodded encouragement. "Yes?"
"My friend Beren- he is the son of one of the guards of the Citadel- taught me a game. Where one person hides and the other must find where they are. But mama will not let him come play, for our family is in mourning." Anardil sighed. "I have had nothing to do. I do not think that the creators of proper mourning behavior considered how dull it is for boys like me. Could you play with me till mama comes back?"
In Anardil's somberly pleading gaze, Faramir caught a glimpse of Éowyn, begging for death in battle. He might resemble Elessar, but his character was clearly that of the White Lady's. Bold and blunt, facing a problem directly with little outward indications of his fear.
Faramir knew the ache of grief. His mother had died when he was five.
Memories surfaced of the days after Finduilas's passing: Denethor had refused to see him, and forbade him from going beyond the courtyard. But Boromir had been there. His brother had amused him, and helped him overcome pain and confusion with silly contests: climbing the statue of Mardil without being discovered by the guards, building ships out of parchment, and creating stories about Faramir's stuffed rabbit. They were childish things, but he still remembered the compassion and the empathy Boromir had shown him in those dark times.
Was not Anardil in a similar situation? His father was gone, and his mother hiding her misery behind black dress and thick veil. Faramir could not ease all his sorrow, but he could raise the boy's spirits for a few moments. He smiled.
"I would never refuse the Prince. Shall I count to one hundred?"
tbc