"Thíri, if you stay here another minute, you will drop down where you are, and I am in no condition to carry you to your bed."
"I am not tired," I said.
"Indeed!" Faramir snorted. "Then try holding your eyelids apart with your fingers. You used to do so when you were a child and we tried to coax you into bed."
Normally, I would have flared up at a comment like this one, but today I just smiled, surprising myself, and stretched. "Are you sure you will not need me any longer?"
"Thíri!" he groaned. "I. Am. Not. Dying. Not yet, at least. Go get some sleep, cousin, you look terrible."
"What a thing to say to a lady," I sighed. "Who taught you your manners, Faramir?"
He grinned broadly before answering, "A lady."
Still, I was unsure if I should leave him alone. After all I had done in the day, I felt I owed him at least some company.
We had stayed with our heads touching for a long while, silent, and then I started fussing over his pillow, damp with his tears, and eventually we decided to just turn it over 'and hope no one would notice', as I put it, and it all was over with the two of us giggling like a pair of five-year-olds pleased with a successful concealment of some mischief.
The mood lightened thus, now I was not certain if I could leave him alone for the night. I was weary, yes, and starting to feel every bone in my body, and it had long grown dark outside… no, that could not be taken as a token of nightfall. The darkness was near, and it was not easy to discern between night and day, save by the need to sleep.
I crossed over to the window.
"Go to bed, Thíri," Faramir said again. "It's late already."
I turned to look at him. "How do you know?" I asked, more sharply than I intended.
His eyes became sad. "You are right, it would not be possible to see. How I long not to see you here, Thíri… You, of all, were not meant for war."
"Who was, Faramir? Were you? You detest fighting, that has been a famed subject for discussion in the family for ages."
"I am a man," he shrugged. "Whatever I prefer, defending my land is my first duty. I have been taught to do that. And I was not the worst, by the way, whatever…" he stopped suddenly.
'Whatever my father might say,' I finished in my thoughts. It angered me beyond any measure. How could Uncle have been so short-sighted?
Perhaps, it was him being a man. In my years, however few, I had learned that men often would complicate things to the utmost; helped them fell important, I thought. But I could not forgive Uncle, I could not! What kind of a father would willingly send his child in the chase of death?
Faramir seemed to have read my mind, for he shook his head slightly. "No, Thíri, do not be so quick to judge. You do not know a great many things… nor would you want to know them. Let me tell you just this: I do not bear any grudge against my father. Quite the contrary, I would give anything to be able to have him alive."
"Will you really be all right?" I asked, still lingering in the room.
"I promise, my lady," he pressed his hand to his heart in mock solemnity. "I pray you to forgive me using my left hand, my right one being in no state for this."
"Oh, Faramir!" I laughed, flopping down onto the floor again and kissing his cheek. "You are so sweet!"
He sighed. "Was it not you who berated me for my bad manners mere minutes ago? And Thíri… please use a chair, you are going to ruin your dress and regret it bitterly later."
I ignored the advice and put my cheek onto the edge of the bed. "Why is it," I said dreamily, "that I do not become raving mad when you treat me as a little girl? Most of the time, I hate it and do not repress the feeling."
He gave me a very tender smile. "Perhaps, you are growing up, my little cousin," he whispered and winked at me, thereby earning another kiss.
"Now off with you, Thíri," he commanded.
I turned to cast yet another glance on him. His eyes were on me, smiling, but the smile was not that of our childish mirth of minutes before. There was something deeper there, tinged with sadness only a little, but with wonder as well. A thought struck me full force: I loved my cousin. What a new and unexpected sensation it was: to look upon someone and realise you love him, with a quiet and contented feeling that did not need to be put in words, for this was a kind of love you share freely with your nearest ones. And yet… never had the feeling been so acute when I looked at my father and brothers. No, no, it was not that I did not love them. I simply never realised that, taken with my petty griefs and childish offences.
"What is it, Thíri?" Faramir sounded concerned.
I smiled and said, "Nothing much. Goodnight, Faramir."
In the morning, I came to check on him, but he was sleeping peacefully. I had already learned that such a thing was a rare gift to my cousin, so I tiptoed out of the room determined to let him sleep as long as he needed. I reported to the Warden, and he appointed me to caring for others afflicted by the Black Breath and drawn back by Aragorn. By now, it seemed, no one doubted much that he was the long expected King. I only hoped the man had not overexerted himself; he had looked truly weary the day before.
I guess I behaved exemplary, for by noon the Warden appeared a lot less formidable than before and allowed me to take a little stroll, saying something about me being unaccustomed to such 'dire days'.
I briefly wanted to argue with him, but then changed my mind and asked him the whereabouts of the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.
"Why would you need that, child?" he demanded.
"Yesterday, her brother asked me to visit her," I explained. "He thought it might do her good."
The Warden looked as if he found it fairly difficult to believe that the presence of a clumsy little nursemaid might do any good at all, to the Lady Éowyn or any, but finally consented.
As I approached the door, I heard voices. Oh, right, I sighed. Do I always have to overhear bedridden people's private talks?
Of course, I had to either turn around and leave, or knock at the door to announce my arrival, but I did neither. As always, my curiosity got the better of me, so I stopped at the door, a tray with a jug of fresh water and some mugs held prominently in front of me – another nursemaid sent by her superiors with something the lady might need.
A man's voice said pleadingly, "Please, Éowyn, for me. You must get well, sister, and that will never happen if you do not eat."
That was followed by a fierce "No!" and a splash and a dull bang on the floor.
"Look what you have done!" the man cried. "Éowyn… must you make it all so difficult for us?" There was clear exasperation in his voice.
There was a pause, then he said, "All right. I shall get someone to fetch you clean bedclothes."
I was just a trifle too late to jerk away from the door; he threw it open and rushed into the hallway, bumping into me. Instinctively, I held the tray to myself, forgetting all about the water, which promptly splashed onto me. The jug and the mugs were on the floor in an instant, in the shape of shards now, I stood wet through and rather cold – a situation more ridiculous was really hard to picture.
He stood gaping at me, eyes aflame with rage. For a while, neither of us could utter a word; then he roared, "For goodness' sake, lady, if you cannot make yourself useful, at least step out of people's way!"
This said, he grabbed my shoulder and nearly threw me aside, before proceeding along the hallway.
Somehow, I managed to keep my foothold. I was angry, but my bewilderment was a lot stronger. Was this the man who wanted to boast his good manners when we met but a day before? The one who looked so compassionate and understanding?
With a sigh, I started to pick the shards of earthenware. That was all his sister's fault, I decided. She must have been stubborn… but then, had my brothers and father not called me stubborn?
I chuckled at the thought of my father pushing young ladies about after a particularly heated exchange with me. No, that would never happen. But my brothers, especially Erchirion…
Having collected the ruins of my camouflage, I placed the now useless tray by the wall and tapped at the door. No one answered, so I took the courage to enter uninvited.
A young woman was sitting propped up against the head of the bed, staring mutely in front of her. Her left arm was in a sling; her right one lay limply on the cover. She did not even heed me; her eyes never left the wall opposite her, as though she could see through it and observe something most intriguing there.
"Éowyn?" I called, forgetting all about the 'my lady'; but then, was I not a Prince's daughter myself?
At first, I thought she had not heard me. Then, very slowly, as if making an effort, she turned her head to me and looked at me with big light blue eyes.
She frightened me.
There was nothing in those eyes, except their colour. I could see no emotion there, no fear, or anguish, or sadness – not even despair. They were the eyes of one utterly drained of life.
Her bedclothes were wet and smelled of broth. I came closer hesitantly and said, "You will need to have these changed. Let me see to it."
She blinked several times, her eyelashes lowering slowly, as if she had just learned that simple movement. I busied myself with the bedclothes. If I learned anything here at the Houses, it was changing them without bothering the sick too much. She was silent, allowing me to change her soaked sleeping gown without any protest.
"I shall be back in just a minute," I said, slipping out of the room, to pick my poor tray and rush to the kitchens to get some new broth.
I returned with it. Éowyn was sitting in the same position, but this time she looked more alert. She gave me a look which was a lot sharper than the one before. I placed the bowl on the bedside table and took a seat on her bed. She eyed me warily. I straightened my back, preparing for a battle; from what I had heard earlier, I was now facing a task immensely hard.
Suddenly, I had an idea that looked good.
"Do you know the Warden of the Houses?" I asked.
She looked faintly surprised at the question, but answered, "Yes," in a very quiet voice.
"Then you know how terrible he might be," I continued cheerfully. "Nearly flogged me the day of the battle."
"Why?" she asked, a little more interested.
"I left the Houses when there was much to do, and he was furious at that!" I whispered with a horrified air. "I could only hope that would not reach my father."
"Why are you telling me this?" she said, quite indifferent again.
"Well, you can imagine what the Warden will do if he finds out you have not been eating," I explained. "You see, I am supposed to look after you when I am free from my other duties here." That, of course, was a horrendous lie.
"I do not feel hungry."
"Of course you do not!" I risked patting her hand. "But this feeling can be treacherous; you might have convinced yourself that you do not want any food, and when you taste it, it may prove wrong! Shall we try?"
She gave me a wistful smile, with her eyes more than her lips. "I am afraid my hands cannot serve me the way I would like them to."
"What happened to you?" I asked as softly as I could manage.
She winced as if in pain. "My left arm was broken by a mace, and my right one…" she shuddered and drew in a deep breath, "I struck that thing with it…"
She was deadly pale, so I hurried to change the topic. I longed to know what that thing was, but it could wait until later. All I could understand was that her right hand was in bad state as well.
"Let us see how I can help you," I said cheerfully.
She cast me a scornful glance. "All you can do is spoon-feed me. Well, go on. When my brother wanted to do that, I was mad! Now I think it was rash of me. Better him than a complete stranger. But – good thoughts always come a little late, do they not? And then you regret what you cannot change."
"Yes," I said quietly, looking at her intently. There was something so familiar in the tone of her voice… and in the stubborn tilt of her head… yes, that other would also feel humiliated by someone's assistance…
"Can you move your right hand at all?" I asked.
She slowly brought her fingertips together and smiled ruefully. "This is all I can manage. The healers say it will eventually be as it was before."
"Then you need to move it. Let us do this…"
I sat beside her, took the bowl in my left hand and held it in front of her. With my right hand, I took her weak fingers and wrapped them around the spoon. Her hand was deadly cold, but it shook a bit under my touch.
"See?" I said. "You can do it. I shall help you just a little."
She turned her head to look at me again. All of a sudden, I saw how young she was, about my age, and how tortured. The distant, withdrawn look was gone; her eyes were suddenly dark, pleading, as if she could not bring herself to ask for help except with those impossibly big eyes. Then she looked at our hands, clasped together – her white and cold one, and mine, darker with the sun and the sea wind. She breathed deeply and made to push the spoon into the bowl.
That was achieved fairly easy; the way up was more difficult, and I had to help her. She sipped the broth, winced slightly, for it was rather hot, and said, "It is good."
And it seemed the whole world was reduced to the hesitant movement of the spoon: up, and down, and then up, and down again. My eyes, and hers, too, never left that spoon; for a while, it was the centre of everything…
At some point, tears appeared on her cheeks; she did not attempt to hold them back, or stop eating, just continued the still hesitant movement of her hand together with mine, tears falling onto our fingers, the spoon, and into the bowl.
When it was empty, I put it back on the table, then took hold of her hand again. She was weeping still, and tears had left small wet marks on the breast of her sleeping gown. She did not attempt to wipe them off her face.
Lothíriel, you fool! I berated myself. She cannot do this, her hand is too weak!
Gently, I brought her hand to her face together with mine, caressing her wet cheek. She sobbed just once, before collapsing into my arms, shuddering with soundless weeping.
As usual, I found myself a little confused and embarrassed. With Faramir, I had not dared to embrace him; I still felt too shy, he was a man, after all, no matter that the man was my cousin! What is a woman supposed to do when someone is weeping in her arms? Stroke the person's head? Say something? What?
I went for the stroking, and it seemed to help, for she quieted shortly and just sat sagging against me. After a while, she sighed deeply and sat straight.
First, we tried to avoid each other's eyes; then I stole a glance at her and we both smiled, for she did the same just then.
"Do not tell me you were sent by my brother," Éowyn said.
"In a sense," I admitted.
"What is your name?"
"Lothíriel, but everyone calls me Thíri."
"Thíri," she repeated. "It sounds very pleasant. I guess my name is known to you." She frowned. "Why is your dress all wet? I certainly could not have done this, not so much!"
"No," I said. "It was your brother, leaving. He bumped into me in the hallway, and I was holding a tray with a jug of water. Served me right for a little eavesdropping."
She smiled fondly. "My brother."
And then we smiled at each other again, and she looked decidedly better to me.
TBC
I had some problems with the Net at the weekend, that is why I could not post. Now that it is over, I am posting two chapters at a time.