A/N: Thank you, Arlewen. Without you, I would have kept the "cape" instead of changing it to "cloak", and then we'd not only have a Superman Aragorn, we'd have a Superman Faramir too!
About the names: I do believe Elboron and Morwen are correct...I do not remember why Morwen is correct, I just remember that it is (Note: Don't trust my memory...I could be wrong. But I'm about 93 1/2 percent sure of her name...) Maybe they named her Morwen after Steelsheen, one of Eowyn's ancestors? Feomir I did make up myself, because Ha! there was no third child! In fact, I'm not sure there was a second child. Well, there might have been, but it's not recorded. So I needed a name, and I decided to blend both their names and that was what came out. I suppose if I was going to mix my husband's name with mine, I'd do it on the first, but don't think about it too hard.
After having written all of the dramatic closing chapters, this is still probably my favorite one, because I believe in this one I get the closest to portraying his unfathomable grief the right way. I do not say I did portray it it the right way, for that is pretty much impossible, but I do believe I got the closest in this chapter. If, after having read the other chapters, you have a different opinion, feel free to express it, because everyone has a different understanding of grief, and I'm interested in hearing yours.
Chapter Four: To the Sky
"The fool says in his heart,
'There is no God.'"
-Psalms 14:1
The day of the funeral dawned chill and bright, a wind sweeping in from the north and blowing before it a hint of frost. It was odd for early October, but I thought it fitting that the weather should be as cold as my heart was that day.
As I dressed and donned a heavy black cloak I suddenly wished with all my heart we had been peasants. At least they could mourn without all the pomp and show. They were not required to go through all the ceremonies and nonsense involved in a great lady's death.
My room was cold, and I shivered as I pulled on my gloves. I had dismissed my manservant the day she died; in truth I never needed him. I was perfectly capable of dressing myself (as I had for years before) and Éowyn was always the one to smooth out the wrinkles and fix whatever was askew. Now I had to do for myself.
With one final yank, the glove slipped on and I left the room for the great hall, where my wife lay in state. I had not seen her since she died, and I had been up all night, pacing, trying to prepare myself for this viewing. It was not until barely an hour prior that I felt I could handle it, and had begun dressing. No food would pass my lips that day.
My steps rang hollow in the great, empty palace. It was still very early, and the funeral would not officially start until nine o' clock. But I was going now, to the place where Éowyn lay, to see her first. The first time had to be by myself, because I wasn't quite sure what my body would do when I saw her.
I reached the doors and nodded to the guards. "I wish to go in, alone," I said to them. They opened the doors, shooting sympathetic glances in my direction, which I ignored. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside.
The doors clanged shut.
The candles flickered.
I was alone. With Éowyn.
I clutched the door behind me in a sudden panic, not willing to look or go forward. I should have prayed to Eru for strength, but I didn't. As far as I was concerned, Eru didn't exist. Throughout my entire life, I'd believed in him and prayed to him, asking that he'd help me through whatever trial I was currently going through. No more. If he did exist, he was far too cruel to speak of, and was only there to hurt us.
Gradually my head went up, inch by slow inch. Éowyn's casket was in the center of the room, surrounded by candles and flowers and wrought metal tables, on which were set engravings of her. I took a step forward, ignoring the shaking of my body. It was hard to walk, trembling as I was, but I took another step, then another. When I was close enough, I reached out a hand and watched it shake up and down. Closer, closer...
And then I could see her pale, still, face. It was beautiful, even in death. For a moment all I saw were her eyes, looking at me and laughing; her sweet mouth puckered into a kiss; her hands clasping our newborn, and a cry was ripped from my lungs. It echoed through the empty hall, vibrating against the thick windows.
A cry of despair.
My legs would not support me any longer, and I sank to my knees next to her bier. I clutched at a picture that had been set up, drawing it close enough to see through the tears. She was standing on the steps of Meduseld, her eyes cold and clear. My brother had drawn this.
Sobbing, I curled into myself, the etching held in my hands. The floor was stone: cold and hard, like I wanted my heart to be, at that moment. But it wasn't! It was soft, and easily hurt. Oh, what I would have given to have a heart of stone! Then no matter what happened to me, I wouldn't feel it. I wouldn't care, because my heart would be unfeeling. I reached a hand up and gripped the side of the casket until my knuckles turned white, then hauled myself up and let go of the picture. It fluttered to the ground, face down.
My hand (still trembling) reached out and touched her face so, so softly. I smoothed her hair, so beautiful, away from her brow, and bent my head down until it was in front of hers. I pushed all thoughts of how cold she was out of my head and, as I kissed her, remembered how warm and alive she was the last time we had kissed. Then, pulling back, I said in a low voice that I did not recognize, "Éowyn, my love, I will never feel again. I will never love another, so that my heart will never be broken again."
What about your children? asked a voice from far away.
"I will love them," I said firmly, "But I will not have my heart broken again!" The room was dead silent. I looked back at Éowyn and a tear slipped onto her cheek. As I reached down to wipe it away, I felt my heart still a tiny, tiny bit from the wild agony I had endured in the past week. A smiled approached my lips, and if it did not quite make it to them it can be overlooked.
Then I turned from my wife's body, striding out the door. I was ready.
At nine o' clock precisely, I stood inside the doors once more, this time with my children. Elboron and Feomir stood by my side, and Morwen was clasped in my arms. She had been sobbing uncontrollably, and I decided that, ceremony be hanged, I was going to protect my little daughter from this. We would see her together.
Elboron was crying silently, but it was Feomir who, as usual, I was worried about. He had not shed a tear yet, and from the dazed expression on his face, it didn't look like he was going to. I turned to him, bent down as well as I could with Morwen, and asked, "Feomir, are you alright?"
He looked up at me with eyes so like Éowyn's own. "Yes, father." I was about to press the issue further, when behind me I heard the King and Queen approaching. I squeezed his shoulder and turned to greet them.
Arwen looked positively devastated as she looked at the bier in the center of the room. Her beautiful face turned down and she stood in silent respect about six feet from the casket. Aragorn patted me on the back with a firm hand, he too silent. He left his hand on my back a bit too long, as if to say, "I understand, and I am here for you." I could only imagine what thoughts were going through his mind as he looked at the woman he had healed so many years ago.
Imrahil, Lothíriel, and Eomer came next, and behind them were the crowds of courtiers and family that were also attending the funeral. The first three stood next to us, tears streaming down every cheek. Morwen (in my arms) cried gently against my shoulder, and Elboron bowed his head. But we two did not weep. My tears had been spent earlier, and Feomir had not shed a tear yet.
The streams of people went on and on. We were required to stand there, but it was so hard to hear all of the mourners trying to comfort us. Morwen eventually quieted, and she stared behind me in silence, not being able to look at her pale mother. I watched the crowd with curiosity. Some were courtiers, dressed in finery; some were Kings and Queens; some were craftsmen (most of which left something they had wrought for her); still others were simple peasants. But I could see on all of their faces what the White Lady had meant to them. Many said simple things to me---"We will miss her more than I can say," or "She was always there for us." Some simply burst into tears, which said more than a million words.
As the day dragged onward and my arms began to ache from holding my eight year old daughter for hours without pause, the crowd began to thin out. I was just hoping that they would stop coming and I could finish the funeral when a crowd of fifty elves walked in. I had completely forgotten about the elves who, led by Legolas of Mirkwood, had started a colony in Ithilien. It was one of Éowyn's favorite things to do: talk to Legolas. I could see the deep, turbulent grief in his eyes as he drew close, and behind him walked two elves bearing a covered burden between them.
"Ello nin le, Legolas,(1)" (Greetings, Legolas,) I said as he approached.
He held a hand to his heart. "Faramir. Nin dim na ve ëar," (My grief is as the ocean,) he replied. Then he looked into my eyes. "We have crafted something for her, Gimli and I."
From behind the two elves bearing the burden stalked Gimli, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. "It's not half good enough, lad, but we wanted to honor her."
I managed to nod. "Thank you," I said as Morwen's head turned upon hearing her favorite "uncle's" voice. Legolas and Gimli took the bundle from the elves and set it on the ground. Reverently, Gimli lifted off the covering and stepped back.
The thing shone white in the candlelight, wrought from Mithril and gold. It was a frame, intricately designed, hiding many things in the curlicues. One was a tiny sword, welded to the frame, another a tall white flower bending in the wind. In the frame was yet another painting of her, but this one was so lifelike that it took my breath away. She was standing in the Houses of Healing, holding hands with a man. He was tall, with dark hair and black clothing...sweet Eru, it was me! I gasped and struggled to retain the calm I had possessed throughout the entire day.
"Hannon le," I breathed. Legolas and Gimli nodded silently. Gently, Legolas stepped up to the casket and set a single lily on Éowyn's breast, whispering, "Este esse mel, Nim Híril." (Rest in love, White Lady.)
The stream thinned then, and soon no one new was coming in. I looked at Aragorn, and he nodded. Now was the time. I gently set Morwen down, whispering, "I have to speak now, Wen. Alright?" She nodded, and Elboron put his arm around her. I stood and stepped toward the bier.
Refusing to look at the people, I took a deep breath and began. Funerals are done many different ways, but I had chosen this to be simple and short. There would be no sobbing; no wailing. There was no long speaking or remembrances of her deeds. I simply looked up and said, "In honor of the White Lady of Rohan, Slayer of the Witch-King, and Princess of Ithilien. Éowyn." I had written the verse earlier that week, and the tune just flowed from my heart. I do not remember it, but many tell me it was heartbreakingly sad.
From the hills so green in the blush of spring.
So away with thee shall I fly, shall I fly,
From this place to a land so far away.
Softly now with the dawn I will ride with the wind,
O'er the hills through the mist on the wings of thee.
Spirit fly, spirit fly
To the cloud up above
Spirit fly to a place beyond the sky.
Spirit fly, spirit fly to a place on high.
Softly now with the dawn I go with thee.(2)
(1)There is no direct translation of "Greetings" or "Hello" available in the elvish language; therefore I have taken the liberty of creating my own. "Ello nin le" literally means, "From me to you."
(2)Old American Folk Song