II
So the men are gone. That is all I know of the war.
I have not left my apartment ever since the battle. My arm is now in a sling. I am not in great pain, it is now a slow throb in my arm. Whenever I asked the women, "What of the war?" They will answer after a lengthy silence, "Rest, Lady. You are still weak." And they will leave.
Merry, who was three doors down from me, was not permitted to meet with me. He is still ill, they tell me. I could not believe the stout-hearted, and merry Merry could be ill all this while. So far, we have only met once.
One afternoon, I had enough of it.
The House of Healing had women buzzing around, sick soldiers lying in great pain. I passed a particularly young lad. He had sad and pale blue eyes. He looked at me pleadingly, as if to say, "Stop the pain! Make it stop!" His gold hair told me he was a Rider of Rohan. His breathing sounded strained and labored. His body was jerked by constant spasms. A woman walked over and touched the young lad's forehead. She sighed and suddenly, the breathing stopped. The woman closed the Rider's eyes and pulled the coverlet over the lad's face.
I closed my eyes and turned away.
The Warden was bending over a Gondorian soldier. The soldier's head was bound in a bandage, his eyes were misty with pain.
"A moment with you, Master Warden?" I asked.
The Warden turned, startled. He looked from the soldier, to me, back to the soldier, and back to me again. He nodded and wiped his damp hands on his robe. We moved to a quieter corner of the Hall.
"Sir," said I, entering my practiced speech, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."
"Lady," he said gravely and firmly, "you are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. You should not have risen from your bed for several days, or so I was bidden. I beg you to go back."
Usually, I would have obliged. I have always been a particularly obedient child, Éomer was the rebellious one. My aunt called him the Headache and Theodred would always keep a constant eye on Éomer. Theoden King cared not for us two children of Éomund. Grima Wormtongue tired to convince Uncle Theoden to drive Éomer out, but he didn't. Uncle Theoden had that much sense in his head back then.
"I am healed," I argued, "healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease."
The Warden looked skeptically at my arm. It was hanging limp and lifeless and useless in its sling. So I continued:
"But I shall sicken anew, of there is naught that I can do. Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing."
"There are no tidings," the Warden said, shaking his head sadly. "Save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale; and men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief. A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield the sword. It is not thus in Gondor now, though it was so, if the old tales be true. But for long years we Healers have only sought to patch the rents made by the men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."
It occured to me that these Gondorians seemed to take delight in lengthy speech.
The Warden strode with his limped gait to the eastward window. I followed and looked longingly at the war that lay in that direction.
"It needs," said I, "but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them. Would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies?" To that he had no answer, so I continued: "And it is not always good to be healed in body. ot is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter."
I turned to the East again. My window faces not East, I thought sadly.
"Is there no deed to do?" I asked him. He was silent again, this time the Warden looked gimmer. In exasperation, I cried out, "Who commands in this city?"
The Warden thought for a minute. With a puzzled frown, he said, "I do not rightly know. Such things are not my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Hurin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But..." he considered again. "But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."
I knew who the first two he mentioned: Éomer and Aragorn. I thought how splendid they must look in their armor. They were the lucky ones, being able to ride East, to fight. The name Faramir however... It seemed toring a small bellin my brain, but I knew not where I had heard it. It seemed familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. It was a nice name, anyhow.
"Where can I find him?" said I. A foolish question, I told myself. He must be out with the other Lords, riding to battle and to destruction. He will not be in the City as I am and I shall be confined to my room ere the day is done.
To my surprise, the Warden replied, "In this House, Lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know--"
I narrowed my eyes. "Will you not bring me to him?" I asked icily. "Then, you will know."
-
I had learned that the House of Healing had a garden, though I have not visited it yet. Merry said he has been there once, but the woman Ioreth found him and bid him return to his aparment.
The door to the garden was made out of oak-wood. Worms had left their mark on it. The brown paint was peeling, revealing a tan wood underneath it.
The Warden pushed the door opened and sunlight blasted into my face. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. There was a young man, tall and slim, looking to the East, his brow creased in worry.
The young man, hearing us enter, turned and I stifled a gasp. It was him, the one I had saved from the fiery pyre. From the mad old windbag who wanted to roast him like a hart. But I kept my mouth shut, thinking that he would deem me mad if I told him what had happened.
"My lord," the Warden said, bowing low, "here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the king and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City."
A cloud passed over the Sun and I could see his face more clearly. Yes, it was him. He still had his red-gold hair and shockingly pale blue eyes (when I saw his eyes, I thought of the poor young Rider who had died not an hour pass). It was not a handsome face. It was soft and quiet and wise, not like the hardened face of Gimli and Éomer and Aragorn.
"Do not misunderstand him, Lord," I said. "It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But, alas, I have not died, and the battle still goes on."
The Lord Faramir nodded at the Warden, a sign for him to depart.
"What would you have me do, Lady?" he asked. Something stirred in his eyes (I still could not believe a man of the City of Numenor had such Rohirric features). Lord Faramir added, "I also am a prisoner of the Healers."
Well then, thought I. If you cannot command the Warden and bid him release you, then how will you have him release me? I wanted to should this at him, but I didn't. Something in his face made me stop. I saw pity; and another emotion. But there was something in his eyes, like a stone wall. No one could look in and see what went on behind that stone wall. There was lines of grief and pain in his young face. Yes, I could tell he was a seasoned warrior; but warriors--at least not in Rohan--had such gentleness in their actions and speech. Suddenly, I admired and respected him as much as I did Lord Aragorn.
"What do you wish?" he asked me. "If it lies within my power, I will do it."
Finally, I found my voice. "I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go."
These words sounded utterly foreign to me. They sounded like a restless child's ceaseless whining.
"I myself am in the Warden's keeping. Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City."
Ha! I thought. I thought so!
Lord Faramir continued quietly and with grave respect: "But had I done so, I should listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."
I said sharply, "I do not desire healing. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Theoden King, for he died and has both honor and peace."
The pity was replaced with amusment.
"It is too late, Lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength," he said. "But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure the hours of waiting."
I wished he did not say that. Suddenly, all honor of death in battle had vanished into thin air. I struggled to keep tears back but a tear rolled down my cheek. My head, which I had kept high, drooped a little.
"But the Healers would have me lie abed for seven days," I said quietly. "And my window does not look eastward." How childish my voice sounded! Why was I trifling the Steward with such small matters?
"Your window does not look eastward?" Faramir said, laughing a little. "That can be amended, lady. In this I will command the Warden." I was filled with gratitude. "If you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the Sun, as you will; and you shall look East, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, also looking East. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."
I looked up and looked him in the eye. He held my gaze.
"How should I ease your care, my lord?" I asked. "And I do not desire the speech of living men."
All amusment in his voice vanished. "Would you have my plain answer?" he asked solemnly.
"I would."
His voice rose and he said passionately, "Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flowers nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."
The last time someone said something like this to me, was back in Edoras. Grima Wormtongue was calling me "a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill". That was merely slimy flattery, but this one had a request in it. A request, I had learned, could be denied and accepted. My mind twirled with emotion. No, I will not walk with you. I will spend my days in my apartment, thinking of Lord Aragorn's return. Yes, I will walk with you. I will talk with you.
Finally, I said, "Alas, not me, lord! Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle." I sighed. "But I thank you for this, at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City." I curtsied and returned to my room.
-
That evening, a messanger came. He was a young lad of about ten.
"Who are you?" I asked him wearily.
"Bergil, Lady," he said. He had a merry face, his eyes winged with laughter-lines. No doubt he inherited his features from his father. "The Lord Merry and the Lord Faramir awaits you in the garden."
So, Merry has risen from his chambers. I was stricken with silence. The lad Bergil waited patiently. His eyes eyed my sword that slew the Witch-King.
"Thank the lords for their invitation," I said finally, "but tell them I will not come. And send my apologies."
I poured Bergil a mug of ale and after he had drunk it, I sent him on his way.
-
The next morning, I felt guilty.
No longer fearing that the women will send me back to my chamber, I went to the garden.
Faramir was there, just as he said he would. He was thinking and facing East.
"Lord?" I said.
He turned. And he smiled at me. It was a small smile and it cracked his face from disuse.
"I am sorry I did not come yesterday evening," said I, moving over to him.
"All is forgiven, Lady," Faramir said. He was silent again. "Merry is a good companion."
"I know," I replied, thinking about how we waited at the front lines of battle, waiting for my uncle to signal the charge.
"Come, Éowyn," Faramir said. "May I call you Éowyn?" I nodded. "Let go under that tree, shall we?"
We sat underneath the green canopy of leaves, breathing the fresh air. I kicked off my boots and stretched my legs out. It felt good. Faramir laughed. I laughed, too.
"When I was younger," said I, "my cousin Theodred would scold me endlessly for doing it. 'It isn't ladylike for women of the court to do such!' he would say. His mother had died, leaving me as Lady of the Golden Hall. Éomer, my brother, was never at home. He was always riding out and slaying orcs that passed through our lands."
"What is it like," Faramir asked softly, "Rohan?"
I was silent. For a moment, I could see gentle rolling hills covered with a diversity of flowers. The children would run, screaming, up and down the streets of Edoras. The Rohirric standard would flutter in the wild breeze that swept down from the mountains.
"Rohan," I said, finally, "is a land stained with the blood of innocent lives."
Faramir muttered, "How same are the lands everywhere!"
A/N: I guess this chapter is closer to Tolkien's The Steward and the King chapter. Please review! L. Anna x