And again, thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! They mean so much to me and really help keep me motivated. And yes, this chapter did not take nearly three months to pump out, like the last one. Again, I am sorry. Life got in the way, as it so frequently dose.
Disclaimer: I offered the Tolkien Estate to buy the rights to the Lord of the Rings, but unfortunately they turned me down. Maybe it had something to do with the nickel I said I would pay for exclusive rights. So there! I do not own The Lord of the Rings. Not mine don't sue.
Author's MISTAKE: Thank you to one of my wonderful readers who pointed this out—the name of Eorl was automatically being defaulted by my computer to Errol (the Weasley family owl). Thank you to who pointed this out, and the same thing with my misusage of manor (not manner). I fixed both of those mistakes, including the default spelling of Eorl to Errol. Thank you for pointing it out, and for those of you who put up with my stupid mistakes.
Note: Someone brought this to my attention that Aragorn was known as Thorongil in Gondor and not Rohan. Aragorn called himself Thorongil when he rode with Thengel, and yes, those in Gondor would know of him as Thorongil but this is an A/U so I did change some things. It ads a bit of mystery to the man that Eowyn loves, and Faramir…whoops…nearly gave it away! To the reader, thank you for your wonderful review.
Warnings: Nothing much I can think of, unless you count a Denethor alert system. For the record, I don't like him. I nicknamed him the 'Mad Dotard Pyro'. It is a joke if you remember Gandalf's line to him in RotK "you will be dotard when you die" or something along those lines; I just thought it was funny so I officially named him the Mad Dotard Pyro. Oh, I don't own Gandalf's line either. Don't sue me. And if you don't understand the humor in Gandalf's line, go look up the word dotard, and see how it relates to Denethor's death.
Enjoy this chapter….
…. (SIVIVXIVIVS) ….
(The next evening)
The ruin of Osgiliath was set before Ingold's eyes. It was oddly ironic how such a worn and ruined city could hold such beauty. What little untarnished marble that remained shined against the sun, reflecting the sparkle of Anduin small waves. Little patches of grass and other such brush grew askew in odd patches, slowly dominating the crumbling city. For Ingold it held a primal beauty that was akin to Osgiliath alone, a feat that Minas Tirith could not accomplish.
Overhead the sun began to kiss the green rimmed mounds to the North of Osgiliath. The ethereal beauty of night began its routine clash with the sun's golden rays, a battle that was won at every horizon. Against the glistening armor of the Gondorian Knights, the sun beams tinted the grey steel a light orange hue. Ingold squinted his eyes against the blazing rays as they fought futility against the rising moon's forces. He and his army had been awaiting the return of Prince Boromir and Faramir to Osgiliath where they would escort the company to the gates of Minas Tirith and upon the cold words of Lord Denethor. Ingold knew very well of his Steward's plans for treaty with Rohan, and the marriage that would accompany it. He doubted seriously as to whether either prince, Boromir or Faramir, would humbly submit to their father's will. Boromir has too head high with pride in battle, and Faramir cared little for Gondor's political affairs and relations with foreign countries, save for if it was perceived as an imminent threat to home country.
'Well, at least this was an easy task,' Ingold consoled himself, doing his best to keep from feeling that the entire day was a wasted effort of just sitting like a hoard of ducks in a pond. The Knight doubted that his men, both inferior and superior, felt any more different. He knew many, including himself, who would be much more content with slitting the throat of a troublesome Orc, or in the fight against Mordor. In that moment, the soldier was grateful for the fact that his duties took him away from Minas Tirith, and the epicenter of Gondor's politics. It was more often than not, tiresome and pointless, when he was assigned a duty anywhere near the free kingdom's borders.
Ingold kicked a random rock into a puddle of water with his iron clad toe. Boredom was beginning to take over reason in Knight's head. Just as he was about sigh in frustration a voice called out, "Captain Ingold!" He lifted his head forward to see one of the younger knights of his group pointing excitedly towards the horizon.
Lo and behold! His 15 hours of waiting was not in vain. Dotted against the horizon was a white banner that interwove with the wind. Following the rear was the green flag of the Rohirim. Ingold mounted his horse and went out to meet his captain and princes. Eagerly, the rest of his men followed suite behind their leader.
The distance between the two parties was closed quickly. "Captain Faramir, Lord Boromir!" Ingold called to his superiors.
The two black haired specs raised their hands in greeting to their fellow comrade. Coming over the buff of the hill Snowmane and his rider, Théoden, soon was in the midst of Ingold and his men. Behind the King of Rohan were its Prince, Third Marshall, and Shieldmaiden. Only twice in Ingold's life had he been among the company of Rohan. He knew only a little of their ways and culture, and even less of their native language. But from what he had gathered, the Rohirim were tall and proud, sturdy and strong with long wild locks of yellow and red and horses that could out run even the noblest steed of Men. It was somewhat difficult for Ingold to comprehend why such a proud people would surrender their most prized treasure, their White Lady, all at the whim of a lord from a foreign, at least from the perspective of the Rohirim, lord. But then there were many things that Ingold knew not, nor did he wish to know. This was one of those situations. "Welcome guests, we," he pointed to his men, "are glad to have you visit our great city," he pointed to the shining white marble sheen in the distance. "My name is Ingold; I am a Knight of Gondor. If there is any way I can make your visit more enjoyable please do not hesitate to ask," the Knight finished. After all courtesy to travelers was a common place. Boromir and Faramir both bore looks of boredom.
"I thank your kind welcome. I am Théoden, King of the Riddermark," Rohan's leader responded.
"Come sir Théoden-king, my Lord Denethor is waiting," Ingold said, not wanting to prolong his task. He quickly took note of the tall golden haired man, with fierce grey eyes, wearing well-made, thick, and sturdy armor. To his right side was a woman fair and clad in white, with the same yellow tendrils. It was strange for Ingold to see a woman upon a horse; nothing could be more foreign to the Gondor custom. Sighing he signaled for the company to follow him to the Steward of the White City.
SVXIXVS
The ride across the Pelennor fields went all too fast for Eowyn. She would have given anything within her power to prolong her time before her meeting with Denethor. Earlier in the day, her uncle pulled her aside and warned Eowyn of Lord Denethor and his powerful grasp and linage. Théoden spoke also of the customs in Gondor, when a woman was quiet and dressed in long frilly clothes. It became clear to Eowyn that she would be like a duck out of water in a city such as Minas Tirith. Eomer had stuck to her side like glue all day, not moving even an inch from her hip and always sending hostile expressions to Boromir and Faramir. Theodred did much of the same thing, only he tailed her from behind hoping not to at least a bit more oblivious. His attempts failed miserably, but Eowyn said nothing.
Minas Tirith was a city so strange and different than anything she had ever seen. Eowyn could not help but internally gawk at the settings around her. Everything was so crisp and clean. She knew from the word of others, much less from experience, that the white shimmering marble would show off any sort of soil or fouling element. But it was clean and polished to a crisp gleam that reflected the sun's rays in an almost ethereal manner. The Stone City was almost a living contradiction to the Golden Hall. Everything there was silent and refined, where as Meduseld could almost always be loud and jubilant, at least when there was no cause for sorrow. The children in Rohan would run, jump and play in muck and soil only to have their parents laugh heartily and scold them softly for not inviting them in on the fun. The women of the Riddermark acted and partook in events the same as any man, but in Minas Tirith Eowyn could only catch glimpses of an occasional mother with a child quickly hurrying back home and not out and about, frolicking in the sun. If this is what it is truly like to live in this city, than I want no part of it, Eowyn thought grimly.
The streets were empty and silent save for the sound of hooves against stone. Leading the intermixed party was Ingold and his men, with Boromir and Faramir behind. Théoden was next in line, Hama, Hamal, Eothain, and several other Rohirim. Then it was herself, with Eomer adjacent and Theodred leading up the rear. If adrenaline had not been pumping at full speed through her blood, Eowyn might have laughed at the sight she knew that they must have been marching up the seven tiers of Minas Tirith. However presently, Eowyn gripped at Windrod's reigns tightly, causing her hands to turn a slight tint of red, and did her best to make good use of her long blonde locks by letting them fall across her face.
Eomer, sensing his sister's apprehension gripped her sweat streaked palms and smiled serenely. Eowyn retuned his gaze with a weak grin.
However Eowyn was not the only one feeling tense as the distance between them and Lord Denethor decreased. Faramir slowly, steadily, and almost non-noticeably drew his bay back. The Ranger would have given anything if his father would greet him with open arms and a loving gaze, but his heart fell when he knew that it was Boromir who won Denethor's affections. All he was greeted with was a stern expression and hard words, and yet he did not resent his brother or father. No—it just made Faramir all the more determined to prove his worth to his father, whom he loved dearly. He knew that Boromir did not wish for their father's devout and obvious favoritism, and Faramir loved Boromir as he did his father. None-the-less, the second son of the Steward knew that it would be best if Denethor saw his first born before his steely eyes were laid upon himself.
Boromir knew this, and thus allowed his brother to stealthily slow his pace, without calling attention to his actions. The elder son loved his brother, as his father did him. It was one of the few ways that Boromir could show his brotherly affection for his younger sibling.
Every so often Faramir would catch a glimpse of Eowyn from the corner of his eye. Her demeanor was downcast and sullen, not that he could blame her. She, like him and even Boromir, had more than sufficient reason to feel that way; after all, the treaty between Gondor and Eorl was not one to be broken and encompassed them all. It was a strange and ironic familiarity he shared with the White Lady. Faramir hadn't spoken with her since the eve of Beren and Nimrodel. He chuckled at the thought of the river Elf with Beren. Faramir felt secure in the thought that Mithrandir would no doubt derive a good deal of humor from that thought as well, but Faramir reminded himself sternly, this was not the time to be pondering on what would humor Mithrandir. None-the-less, Faramir would have given a good deal for the old wizard's words and comfort, especially in the situation he was currently submerged up to his neck in.
He could not help but pity Eowyn, and yet, he knew that she did not want pity from anyone. His two brief encounters with the Lady had told him that much, and Faramir could not help but he somewhat attracted to that sense of independence and pride that almost seemed to radiate from her. She was an enigma; there was no doubt about that. Even Boromir had admitted, in the strictest of confidence, which he found Lady Eowyn enticing to the eye from a male standpoint. She was beautiful; with her long yellow hair, small and slender form, and blue eyes. All of the feminine aspects desired in a woman were present in the sturdy and proud Shieldmaiden. She was so different from any of the noblewomen in Gondor that Faramir found himself drowning in whenever he made a visit home. The noblewomen would follow him like a lost puppy dog and make a terrible fuss just whenever he would cough. The Captain knew exactly why his brother strayed from any and all matters dealing with women and their fickle ways, as well as tear-ridden and fussy manner. And yet, Eowyn was as independent and unconcerned about her male superiors as her brother. She carried herself like a man, rode as one, and held the pride and honor of the most daring soldier.
Before anyone knew it the gates of the Citadel stood proud and daunting over the sons of the Steward and the small party from Rohan. Ingold lowered his head in farewell and drew his men away to the mess hall. The first shades of night were beginning to cast their dark shadow over the land. Faramir turned to his brother who looked just as unnerved as he was. Signaling to the Rohirim, the brothers and their company dismounted. "No beasts of any sorts are allowed in the Citadel. I am sorry friends, but you will have to dismount here. Fret not, they will be well cared for," Beregond chirped cheerfully. Théoden nodded and his feet hit the ground with a loud THUMP. The remainder of the Rohirim followed suite.
Out from nowhere a small number of stable men appeared and escorted the steeds of the horse lords to the appropriate settings. Windrod looked somewhat apprehensive to go with the strange men, but Eowyn cooed gently into his ear. After a final farewell pat, Windrod reluctantly trotted off with the other geldings. Sighing, Eowyn gazed around at the stone courtyard and its beauty, especially under the budding beams of the moon. A fountain bubbled from the center and its water was as pure as waters from Snowbourne. In essence the entire place held a strange beauty that Eowyn had never seen before. For a few moments Eowyn pondered why everyone remained still and did not descended to the daunting black and white marble Citadel that loomed ever so close by. She exchanged puzzled expressions with Eomer and Theodred; however their questions were answered when the large stone gates began to creak from being drawn by the mighty leaver that opened them.
From inside the dark interior of the Citadel a old man emerged, accompanied by a pair of armed soldiers. He was deathly pale and his visage marked by many deep chiseled wrinkles. His hair was grey, yet thick speckled with a few strands of white. Clad in black fur raiment and with a large black marble rod he walked with pride and a very cold demeanor. Eowyn could not help but take heed to his icy eyes that instead of looked placidly at the world around, as her uncle's did, glared with warning and suspicion. She knew immediately that this was the Steward of Gondor, but it was not by the bowed heads of the Gondor Knights, nor the lowered banner from the Rohirim. She couldn't quite place her finger and what it was that distinguished this man as nobility and power, but his very presence demanded heed and respect. Eowyn expected the first words from his tongue to be something along of the lines of 'what took you so long' but instead the Lord Denethor walked placidly up to Boromir and he broke out in a smile of welcome. "My son!" he said in a semi-jubilant tone. The pair embraced in a hug of welcome. "Father," Boromir replied.
Faramir watched in the same way as Eowyn did as his father so lovingly embraced Boromir. Why couldn't father love him as he did Boromir? In a reclusive manner, Faramir stepped forward and bowed his head as Denethor approached. He dared not say anything as his father's cold eyes came upon him. "Father," he greeted softly, his eyes daring that he would get a response of warmth and tenderness.
However the youngest son of the Steward sorely disappointed when Denethor did little but nod in recognition of Faramir's presence. His head sunk back to the ground, screaming at himself mentally why he had expected anything more.
"Théoden-king of the Riddermark, I bid thee welcome to my fair city," Denethor said acknowledging the green banner for the first time.
"And I am glad to be of such welcome. And yet, such dreary business bids our paths to be intertwined," Théoden responded, bowing his head in respect for the Steward of Gondor.
"Yes yes, but of course I would not have brought it forth if not my needs dire," Denethor said smugly, his eyes surveying Eowyn. She cringed internally at his gaze, but only a stone-cold expression marked her face. Eomer must have a change in his sister's demeanor because he stepped forward protectively.
"You are, of course right, however such dramatic circumstance must be agreed upon by both sides of the spectrum," Théoden replied sternly.
Denethor immediately lost his smug attitude and said promptly, "Come guests, my servants will show you your quarters. I pray that you enjoy this trip to my magnificent city," he finished. The two men that guarded either side of their lord went to Théoden and his guests. Boromir, Faramir, Beregond and their company took off in a completely different direction. The siblings took their place at their father's side and Beregond went to go join Ingold in the mess hall.
IXIXSIXIXI
Eowyn found her quarters quite comfortable and accommodating. Her room was made of white stone, and had a window that overlooked the fields of Pelennor and the faint glimmer of Osgiliath. If she looked directly down she could see a small courtyard with heaps of mail and iron stuffed in random corners. The Shieldmaiden assumed that it was a sparring ring for the Knights in training. She had a small metal wrought bed with soft cotton sheets and feather pillows. It was much softer and form fitting than the wool and nettles she had become accustomed to in Meduseld. She much preferred her itchy wool and nettles. Adjacent to her bed was a small marble table with a stone basin, which was currently filled with water. The smell of horses and field grass was absent in the air, and she found it somewhat vexing the lingering fragrance of perfumes that unrelentingly tickled her nose. Apparently the room was only used to occupy noble women of high rank and their noxious fumes. On the wall hung a silk spun wall scroll of the White Tree.
She knew little of what to make of her situation. Eowyn knew that the following morning council was to be held between Denethor, Théoden and their advisors. Naturally she would be left out, and she seriously doubted that Eomer would be allowed in to over hear conversation. Luckily Theodred was the son of the King, and thus required to attend. It was painfully unfair how she was always left behind in any major decision making, and especially when it had to do with the question of her very future.
Night had finally officially overcome the land. Wanting a bit of fresh air, Eowyn stepped outside on the small balcony that came with her room. The railing was pillared to the ceiling in a strange structure, something that she wouldn't see in Rohan. The moon hung suspended overhead as did the unblinking eyes of the stars as the sparkled overhead in their crystalline splendor. For a fleeting moment, Eowyn was reminded of the Evenstar from the tale of Tinuviel. However she drew her mind back onto the more important and imminent task at hand. A light breeze began to pick up and it flared her flimsy silken night dress, as well as her hair. The air carried a small chill in it, and Eowyn shivered slightly but it was not enough to draw her back in. Eowyn clutched the railing however drew her hand back because of the frigid temperature that stone carried at night. She yearned for the warmth of the tender wood that formed her room in the Golden Hall. Everything in Minas Tirith just seemed so cold and frigid with proper manners.
Looking to the right and left Eowyn found that all the guest chambers held small balconies as hers. A story below was one considerably larger than her own, and this one was occupied. From her point of view, Eowyn could spy a thick head of black hair which she soon saw it to be Faramir. He too was dressed in casual eve attire; a billowy earthen tunic and cotton breeches. He was holding a book in his right hand and resting his head on his chin with the other. She knew that she shouldn't spy on others, especially the son of the Steward, but given the circumstances Eowyn carried little for the proper protocol. He was muttering somberly under his breath and seemed frustrated. Her ears distinctly caught the words "Why?" and "What can I do?"
………((()))………..
Because the atmosphere inside was clouding his senses, Faramir chose to step outside and clear his head. The book he had been reading was now clutched tightly in his hand due to the sheer frustration of not being able to take his mind off his father, brother, Théoden, and the Lady Eowyn. When he and Boromir had walked off with their father, he (Denethor) made it his first point of sneering to his sons that he had Rohan cornered and couldn't do anything against the situation. Denethor finished his speech by saying "fret not; the will of their so-called 'Shieldmaiden' is easily broken. Her nature is not so steely as they make it out to be" and then stormed off, calling Boromir to escort him, leaving Faramir in their shadow. Boromir looked back at his brother just as Denethor began to ramble on about how clever his plan was.
Faramir attempted at first to quell his foul mood by reading one of his favorite books of Elvish song, the one his hand held, however it ended in vain. His mind kept on reflecting the sneer of triumph on Denethor's lips and the increasingly narrow corner that Théoden was being pushed into. Even more was the sad face of the Lady Eowyn, and her independent pride. He pitied both the King and Shieldmaiden of the horse lords and the ever-sharper arrow that was aimed towards them. Soon the bowman would release his golden arrow and it would pierce the thickest armor and shields of pride and nobility. Someone would eventually be hit, whether it be Théoden and Eowyn by agreeing to Denethor's plan, or Eomer and his brotherly protection of his beloved sister. Sometimes it seemed that Denethor concocted more wicked schemes than Morgoth himself! Or course he didn't have the malice or the resources Morgoth did, but the comparison was frightening none-the-less.
"Little brother," said a voice from behind. Faramir spun his heels to see his brother looking back at him.
"What news has father told you?" Faramir questioned.
Boromir smiled softly. "Worry not. You know no more than I do. Sometimes I even wonder if he has the grounds needed to enact this treaty. But he is the Steward first, then our father. It is not my place to ask," he said softly.
"Unfortunately your words are true," Faramir said sullenly. "It is enough to make me wish that I were in Ithilien when he assigned us both to venture into Rohan and bestow upon them his requests," said he.
Boromir nodded in agreement. "I can only assume as much. And for once, I now yearn that I was with you and your Rangers when father summoned me for this little adventure," he joked.
Faramir chuckled. "Oh really? You would subject yourself to those who follow 'that great oaf' as father so lovingly puts it, Mithrandir," he threw back sarcastically. Granted both Boromir and Mithrandir were great and wizened warriors, Faramir had little doubt that neither would hold any sort of tolerance for the other.
"Speaking of father, are you alright?" Boromir inquired sincerely.
The smallest spec of sadness appeared in Faramir's brow, and he was grateful that Boromir did not excel at reading others. "Yes. Don't fret over it. You would expect that by now I would find myself immune to his--," he faulted, searching for the right words, "nature".
"No I wouldn't," Boromir replied.
Faramir was slightly shocked by his brother's soft and serene words. The way of the tongue was not necessarily his brother's specialty, or his for that matter, but the younger could not help but be moved by his brother's condolences and love. "Thank you," Faramir said and smiled at his sibling.
Boromir grinned, not only at his brother but at their spector. "It looks like we have ourselves an admirer," Boromir said smugly and gestured to the balcony above them.
Faramir looked up and like his elder, saw the long yellow hair of Eowyn and her pale face hovering over them. However, instead of being somewhat irritated by the fact that she had been watching and listening to the entirety of their conversation, Faramir couldn't help but noticing how ethereal she looked basked under the moonlight. Thankful to the Valinor that Boromir could not read his mind Faramir ignored her presence and said, "What think you of her now, after our first encounter?"
"Much the same as before. Fair in features but stone cold, and revered as a man instead of the woman she is," Boromir stated but not unkindly. A thought must have struck him because he smirked at his younger sibling. "And you little brother? I noticed you and her together on the first eve of our crossing," his eyes flashed with a boyish mischief.
Unblushingly Faramir replied, "She is proud, independent and yes the same as before—sad," he paused. "However I cannot help but pity her. think of it from her perspective and one cannot help but pity the poor maiden from Rohan," he finished. Looking up again, Faramir saw that Eowyn had disappeared into her chambers.
…(SISMVXVMSIS)….
Eventually the air became too frigid for Eowyn and she retired to her room. The brother's conversation was subtlety spoken and she could not clearly distinguish their words. She gladly met the warm air of her room went over to the corner across from her bed where her small trunk from the Golden Hall laid. Her trunk was neither fancy nor exquisite, but it fulfilled its duty as well as the most expensive and fancy accessory in all of Middle-Earth. Expertly she fumbled with the leather straps and watched as it fell open. Folded lazily at the top were the few dresses her maids packed for her meeting in Minas Tirith. One was made of cotton and trimmed with gold, with thongs bound the arms of the bell-shaped sleeves. Most of the others were rough and woolen for her riding and near the bottom was the only true exquisite dress she owned made of silk with satin slippers. Along with it was her headdress for royal court functions; usually it sat on a shelf collecting dust. Her foul mood the day of packing prevented Eowyn form giving two flips about what her maids packed, and this was the first time she surveyed the contents of her trunk. The only artifact inside was her sword that she had expertly concealed among the mass of skirts and floating sleeves of fabric. During the first eve of camp she had slipped it in her trunk when the candles had burnt down to nothing but smoldering wax and the camp fire had all but died out. Riding all day with a blade concealed underneath all her skirts was not the most comfortable method of transportation.
Eowyn drew forth her sword from among the massive amounts of cotton, wool and silk. The hilt was more or less a basic design given to the Rohirim for combat. It had the horse of Rohan carved into it. The real beauty of her weapon was the blade. It shined and shimmered in any light of sort and chiseled into the blade was the ancient writing of Eorl. She caressed her sword like a lover.
A soft knock at her door brought Eowyn back into reality and she hastily hid her weapon back into her trunk. If Théoden or even Theodred caught found her hidden treasure, no doubt it would be ceased. After making sure that no trace of her secret, she went to answer the door. Who could be knocking on her door at this time of night? Even Eomer wouldn't dare or else face her ill temper and lack of sleep the following morning. The door made a little CLACK as she flipped the lock open and swung the door open. As it creaked when it inched forward, Eowyn's eyes became round as dinner plates when she saw who stood in front of here.
It was Lord Denethor.
"My Lord!" Immediately she dropped her head in a bow out of respect from the Steward. Under normal circumstances, Eowyn would do none of the sort but since this was indeed a foreign country where she had little to no say to any of the actions that occurred, she undertook what would be the commonplace courtesy in Rohan.
Denethor said nothing to her respect and invited himself into her room. Cold as always, he stepped over the threshold. There was little change in him with his icy eyes, grey mantle and a just plain mean aura that radiated from him. "I trust your stay in my hose thus far has been accommodating?" Denethor asked with no real emotion. Eowyn highly doubted that if she didn't find it accommodating that the Steward would do anything about it, but swallowing her gut she replied courtly.
"Yes my Lord," said she.
"Good. How has your uncle been since my sons have arrived on your door step?" Denethor said matter-of-factly, and then quickly changing the subject to Théoden. Because this was indeed the man that had sent his two princes to bring new of her near bestowment to Boromir or Faramir, Eowyn did not feel exactly forthcoming with information to the grey old man.
"My uncle is dealing with the manner as he sees fit. I do not understand why you question me, and not he if you are, as you suggest, concerned," she replied shortly, choosing her words carefully. However it was nothing more, or less, than the truth from what little information had been given her. Théoden had barely spoken three words to her since their departure of Edoras.
"Yes yes, but surely had not said anything to you since after you are the…epicenter of sorts, from all this," Denethor retorted somewhat mockingly.
More and more Eowyn just wanted to jump off her balcony to escape from her present situation, and even more from the mirthless grey eyes that refused to even blink in her presence. "No, he has not," she said curtly. She wanted so much to just at least glare back at him in anger. He was interrogating her, thinking her so stupid to reveal any and all words her uncle had said about the matter. Well Eowyn was not going to play the part of the witless maiden, nor was she going to divulge everything to the man before even if he was the Steward of Minas Tirith. Steward, she reminded herself, not King.
"Fine. If not your uncle then maybe his son. I could not help but notice that you, he and your brother are exceptionally close," Denethor pushed, becoming slightly short of patience that Eowyn was not the usual woman that fell to pieces in the presence of a man of high ranking.
"Theodred has said nothing. He will not betray the words of his loving father," Eowyn said, praying to the Valar more and more that she did not lose her temper.
"Come Child, certainly they have said something," said he.
"No, my lord," she replied putting a delicate stress on the word.
Seeming more than a little put-out, Denethor said," Very well. I should bid you wisely to retire for the night. The morning meal will be early and you are summoned to come," he said somewhat bitterly and stormed out the door. Putting her ear to the door Eowyn could hear the old man muttering, "Foolish women and their silly loyalties".
She would have love dearly to throw the door open and shout at the top of her lungs at Denethor, but her superego won that battle. Instead she mumbled furiously, "Foolish men and their ambitions". In that moment Eowyn vowed that she would with all her power not allow this treaty to take place. If she had to die on the battlefield then so be it!
…(XIXSXIX)….
END CHAPTER.
HA, what do you think of that? What will happen to poor Faramir and Eowyn now that Denethor has stuck his nose in? What is Denethor scheming? And what will Théoden decide once he hears of Denethor's circumstance that should Eowyn be engaged to either Faramir or Boromir?
Stay tuned! (Yes, I am quite aware that I sound like one of those crappy T.V. show hosts)
Please remember to R&R, as well as tell me your input on some E/L.
Elen sila lumenn' omtielvo
Narya
