Chapter Thirty

Farewell

Éowyn, in her all-knowing capacity as regent of Meduseld, had another steamy bath waiting for me. I soaked my legs and thighs back to normal, and then joined her in her chamber.

She was again seated before the fire, but now there was something decidedly odd about her manner. I could see she was tired: her eyes spoke of weary, boring hours, probably spent with accountants and clerks, but she could not see to settle to the greave she was repairing. As I entered, she jumped up, and then sat back down to offer only a cursory greeting.

Dinner waited for me again, so I divided my attention between the food and Éowyn's wrestling with the crumpled metal plates. "Must you work always?" I asked, as she struggled to return them to overlapping alignment.

She did not look up. "Yes. There is much to be done."

I bit my lip, feeling stupid and petty. "I only meant, are there not others to do such tasks?" I gestured at the armor. "Surely they do not leave repairs to the Lady of Rohan?"

She glanced up, eyes alight. "No, they do not. But the Forgemaster, like the Stablemaster, is short of hands, and he has done me an especial favor, so I offered my services." Rising, Éowyn crossed to the armoire. "He agreed, as did I, that a staff will not serve you on horseback, except you are a wizard, and suggested a spear. And while you might have one from our armory, I thought you would prefer your own weapon."

From the wardrobe she took Celetirmar. A glittering, leaf-shaped blade nearly a foot long had replaced one of its end-caps. Éowyn brought the weapon to me. For a moment my mouth would not work properly. She had given me a gift I had not asked for, and I did not know what to say. My staff, beautiful, defensive, gifted to me by Boromir and the Lady, had become a weapon of killing precision, and I was not sure I liked it.

But when Éowyn placed it in my hands, it was still mine. Somehow the Forgemaster had contrived to balance the blade, enabling me to continue to use the weapon as a staff, albeit with an extra, nasty surprise at one end. In addition, he'd used the excess mithril to plate the blade, making it, if possible, more lethal.

I though Boromir might have approved, since I defended his city—my city, now—as well as myself. He might have hefted the weapon, tried a few feints, and then returned it to me, saying, "It will serve you, Firiel, for dark days await." And maybe he would have said other things, but I could not bear to think of them.

The promise of tears constricted my throat and, determined not to cry in front of Éowyn, I crossed slowly to the far wall and leaned Celetirmar beside my pack. The I turned back, knowing I must thank her in some way, but neither my brains nor my vocal chords were up to speech just yet, so I went to her, taking in her carefully neutral expression, and put my arms around her in a silence embrace of thanks.

She stiffened, making me wonder how long it had been since anyone had hugged her. Had Éomer, before he rode to battle? Had her uncle, as he left Rohan in her charge? Somehow I didn't think so. As she relaxed, so did the lump in my throat, and when her arms encircled me in turn, I could tell her thank you.

Nodding against my shoulder, she said, "Gear and supplies we have backed in your saddlebags, and I have commissioned copies of maps showing the way to Mundberg that you may take. Have you chosen a mount?"

I pulled away, the better to gauge her reaction. "I have. And such a horse! Simbelmynë is her name."

Éowyn's expression solidified. "Gandalf taught you well. He has taken the first horse in Rohan, and you have chosen the second. She will serve you. I trained her myself."

I was going to strangle Éolas when I saw him next. How dare he? "Oh. It was not my intention to take your horse, my lady. I will."

Éowyn shook her head. "No. If I ride, it will be to war, and I will take Windfola, my cousin's horse, who has been trained for battle. Simbelmynë you may have. She is swift, but no warhorse."

Relived enough to stifle a yawn, I thanked her again, pressing her hand. "I would ask the use of your bed for one night more, and take my leave in the morning." I gestured at her armor project. "You may continue to work if you wish. The light will not disturb me." Indeed, I did not think that even a full-scale assault on Edoras would keep me from sleeping that night.

But Éowyn put away the greaves and joined me in bed. We lay in companionable, drowsy silence while I wondered whether she was glad to see me go, or if she wished for company in leading the people to Dunharrow. Either way, there was not much I could do about it. I had sworn to go to Gondor, and that was that. I hoped she understood, but still. . . "Éowyn?" It was easier to use her name when I could not see her face.

She wasn't asleep, and said so. "Would you rather I stayed? Or," as a thought occurred to me, "do you want to come with me?"

After a moment, she answered. "It would please me to fight beside you, sword and spear together for Gondor and Rohan. And for glory and renown. But I must stay here, where I am needed, and you must go where you are needed."

The sadness in her voice nearly broke me, and I reached out for her hand. "My mother used to say that we do not find happiness by looking for it, but stumble across it on the path of duty. I pray you will find it so."

I don't know if she fought down tears in the darkness, or simply had nothing to say, but she did not answer. Had my statement been too trite for words? "Maybe you will find your battle on the road to Dunharrow," I said, trying a different tack. "Did you not say that it was a long and perilous journey?"

"So it is," she admitted. "Perhaps you are right. I know not."

Something Boromir had said of his brother popped into my head then: 'I know what he would do, and it is far from what he must do.' That described Éowyn, as well. Thinking this over, sad for a number of reasons, I fell asleep.

Éowyn shook me awake in the dark. "Come."

I pulled on a hodgepodge of Rohirric and Elvish garments, my copper under-tunic beneath a woolen one given me by Éowyn, all belted over trousers of silk-lined wool. The cloak of the Galadhrim, knotted to make up for the lack of brooch, and my boots completed the ensemble. I at least felt dressed to brave the frigid March winds.

Éowyn's maps showed that the most direct route from Edoras to Minas Tirith was the Great West Road, which ran southeast between the White Mountains and the Entwash. Three hundred and twenty-five miles of open road. I prayed Simbelmynë was swift enough to carry me away from any danger that might beset us. Éowyn had said as much over our hurried breakfast.

"Try to reach the cover of Firien Wood by nightfall," she said, pointing to it on the map with her knife. "There, Mering Stream marks the border of Gondor. Give Simbelmynë her head, and she will take you to it."

I nodded, my mouth full of bacon. She continued, "Anorien, that we call Sunlending, is a fertile land, and will be pleasant to ride through. Once you round Druadan Forest, Mundberg is a straight course due south."

Shoving the last of the toast into my mouth, I stood and folded the map away into an inner pocket. I nodded, she nodded, and we left the kitchens. Simbelmynë, saddled and waiting for me below the horse-head fountain, shining golden in the gray dawn, her saddlebags packed with food and my gear, nickered as we approached. I had thought to see Éolas there, but he was nowhere to be found.

No door-wardens hampered our progress down the stairs now, though I walked slowly and Éowyn's tread was heavy beside me. I knew that farewelling me could not be easy for her, so before I mounted, I turned back for a final hug. We clung to each other for a long moment, and I whispered an Elvish benediction that popped into my head, courtesy of Mme. Alatar.

"Farewell, gwâthel nîn," I finished. "Sister-in-arms."

Standing at arm's length, Éowyn placed her hand over her heart, and then over mine, speaking in lyrical Rohirric. "Our steel will shine together, and our paths will cross again. If not in this life, then I will find you in the Great Hunt, beside the Rider, for I will know your horse." She kissed me swiftly on both cheeks, and then moved to hold my stirrup, unshed tears making her eyes shine silver. Once on Simbelmynë's back, I did not turn around until I reached the foot of the hill.

I could still see her standing on the terrace, gown and hair streaming gold against the weathered wood of Meduseld. The mare beneath me whinnied in farewell, and I echoed her with a wave, which Éowyn returned. Urging Simbelmynë down the rutted dirt track that joined the Great Road after a mile, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stared ahead.

Boromir had said he always winded his horn before setting out on a journey. I had no horn, but I lifted my head to let rip from my throat something part scream, part howl, and part feral cry of triumph. It was a war cry, though, I did not know what part of my soul had seen fit to deliver it. It roused Simbelmynë, though, and we took into the dawn.