Éowyn
Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing.

I've sorted out this incredible mess I've made with Éowyn. Appalled at my own stupidity and inattention- please forgive me.

This fourth chapter is chapter three in former count, so nothing new- to those who read this for the first time, say, two weeks ago, you might want to look at chapter three which I forgot at a certain point. Sorry about that. I'm working on more, I promise…
On the other hand, I've re-beta'd the chapters and discovered quite a few phrases with wrong turns and expressions I thought unfitting as well as grammar stuff I should've corrected long ago. Most of it has stayed same, so there is no great need in rereading it, except for what I mentioned above, but of course you may.

Since the plot's no new thing, I must concentrate on the style. I am aware that an ordinary person wouldn't be able to transcribe a whole dialogue from memory, but I wasn't willed to change perspective throughout Éowyn and leave out her personal comments.

Oh, and the length of the chapters varies quite a bit because they're split up in entry times.

Hopefully, everything's fine now (at least formally), but that shouldn't hinder you to point out any mistakes or comments concerning 'plot', logic, sentence construction, grammar etc. –I'd be extremely grateful for that. Because I haven't done this before properly: Replies to reviewers (ch.3)

TheLastBLACK17: Thanks for all your reviewing- I've been checking out your stories lately. I'm open to your compliments (and critique, if you post it) any time! It's nice to have someone reading from the start (which isn't too long ago, but, hey!).

Lilan: Thank you. I'm glad you say this… that the 'initial apathy' as you aptly called it, isn't unlikely. I was unsure about it and feel better now. -Sorry to disappoint you, I'm still working on a chapter five, and as you can see, I'm not the quickest update…

Voldie on Varsity Track: Go Watership Down! And thanks for the praise concerning this!

WildBlackWolf who is –lookie- too lazy to login: glee joy -That means a lot to me… I wouldn't want anyone to turn over in their respective graves, especially not Tolkien! This is supposedly a story for the purist (in me)… thanks for confirming!

Thanks & sorry to all reviewers from a dismayed and extremely muddled-up thayzel.

Disclaimer: see first chapter. Quotes (unmarked as such) especially included.

Year 3019, March: 20
early afternoon / sunny weather

There is much to tell. Much has happened since my decision only this morning to dress.
It is confusing to say, even now, but to sort out my thoughts I will write it down in the proper order.

After the disturbing awaking from numb sleep and the even more disturbing awaking from numb consciousness, I had regained all my composure (which I have left) when the two women entered. When they had bathed me with fresh water in a bowl they had brought and crushed a herb that, it seemed to me, had a wonderfully calming scent, they tended my arm. I then asked them about news of the host, but they said there was nothing they could tell of.

Then I asked to bring me raiment, and they obliged without too much fuss. They did seem hesitant at first, and tried to argue with me, but when I persistently asked, the older one nodded to the younger girl – an apprentice, it seemed, with a shy smile and darting eyes – and she scurried off. While the girl was gone, the older woman set my arm into a sling of rough linen, and she was still coaxing the cloth in a knot when her apprentice turned up in the doorway with a bundle of clothes.

It was a rather simple dress I was clad with: A very light beige, almost white, that could easily fit anyone else, even a pregnant woman, for it could be tied loosely by wish. It was quite long and went almost to my feet. I did not object when the younger girl tied it rather tightly around my hips, for I wanted to make the impression of a healthy woman with a recovered sense for her outward appearance towards the Warden.

When I was dressed, I thanked them, and the two women busied themselves in my room. I walked out and with my hand, I touched the cool stone wall of the passage. It was empty, I noticed – no extra beds that did not fit into the patient's rooms and had to be crammed in the corridors like it had been in Edoras sometimes. It was a pleasant memory, the familiarity of it, the opposite of these cold echoing walls.

The passageway had ended and I saw myself standing in a large and, surprisingly, bright hall – quite contrary to these corridors. A man with dark hair was pacing up and down in front of a table covered with books and loose sheets of paper, holding one of the latter in his hand, apparently reading and in deep thought. I coughed, and he turned to me, then lay down what he had been reading very quickly.

I do not know how I had known it, but I assumed him to be the Warden of these Houses. He had a certain air around him that is impressive and authoritative, and slightly… fatherly.

He seemed busy, yet willing to engage me, and so I greeted him with due respect.

"Sir," I said, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."

"Lady," he answered gravely, "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 yet, or so I was bidden. I beg you to go back."

I knew I ought to stay in bed longer, but even though writing as I do now occupies my mind, it does not satisfy my spirit, that was alive, and so I told the Warden:

"I am healed, healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease."

I saw him looking at the sling and smile, and then he raised his head and looked at me questioningly. I went on.

"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."

I was hoping he had received news; after all, perhaps the women did not know anything because these causes were not of their interest – after all, I am not accustomed to Gondorian habits; I thought the Warden of the Houses of Healing to be a more reliable source.

"There are no tidings, save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale;" the Warden said, and I was, on the one hand, relieved, and on the other very disappointed. Observing the look on my face, he continued:

"And men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief."

I nodded; I had already supposed it, so it was no big surprise. But it was news, and I was eager to hear more. Encouraged, the Warden drifted off:

"A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield a sword. It is not thus in Gondor now, though once it was so, if 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."

He strode to the eastward window, and I followed, looking longingly and faced him again.

"It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them," I responded politely but firmly, and stated my opinion, "would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies?"

I saw his eyebrows twitch at this underlying affront, and he started, but I waved him off with a small movement of my healthy arm, and continued speaking after a small pause.

"And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would chose the latter."

I again admired the sight in the East, but was aware that he could not solve my problem, for he could barely understand me. Wordlessly, he watched me, and sighed, so I turned to him again.

"Is there no deed to do?" I asked him, and, with an air of despair:

"Who commands in this city?"

After a silence, evidently considering what to say next, he spoke.

"I do not rightly know. Such things are not my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

I stiffened ever so slightly at the mentioning of Éomer, but then relaxed when I saw him watching me closely. I could not remember having heard of a commander called Lord Húrin, but the name Faramir rang a bell somewhere, although I could not have placed him had not the Warden included that information, I am ashamed to admit.

"Where can I find him?" I asked, expecting that either he had ridden with the other Lords or that I would be showed to the Hall. Almost unknowingly, I was looking out the window again, bending to get a better view, marvelling at the sight I had missed and yearned for, sighing inwardly. When the Warden spoke, I was slightly disturbed but turned to him.

"In this house, lady," he surprised me, and, giving an explanation, "he was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know ––––"

He faltered, and quickly, having regained my stiff posture, I asked, or demanded, unsmilingly:

"Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."

After a thought he nodded obligingly to show his approval, and told me he would accompany me – certainly to ensure that neither the Steward nor I fainted suddenly in sight of each other. I followed his lead, his pace echoing louder than my footsteps in the hallways, when he stepped outside. The light was quite bright in comparison with the corridors, and I felt my eyes adjusting. I noticed the Warden was waiting, and motioned him to go on. It was warm outside, but still the feeling of coldness did not leave me.

Walking into the gardens, the Warden presented them to me as those of the Houses of Healing, and I admired at the thoughtfulness of letting the sick wander in nature. We approached a tall man with shoulder–long, dark hair from behind, who was pacing slowly towards East, gazing at the stone walls.

The Warden spoke his name when we were near enough for him to hear, and the Steward of Gondor turned to him. In that movement he became aware of me, who was watching at him, and he returned the gaze intently, and I saw how he changed from a polite welcome to a piteous greeting. My first impulse was to turn around, but I checked myself sharply, turned my regard to the ground and held my breath, while the Warden did his best to introduce me.

"My lord, 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."

At this, I sighed inwardly again, looked back up into his face, and, trying to be polite and not upset or anger his pride yet tell the truth, I added distant, but polite:

"Do not misunderstand him, lord. 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 I have not died, and battle still goes on."

I hardly saw the lord Faramir give the Warden a sign to depart while I was speaking; but he did, and this created an unwanted intimacy between us, for no one could hear us talking. Despite the fact that he had gestured the Warden to leave, the Steward had listened intently, his eyes never leaving my face, and answered with understanding, so it seemed to me.

"What would you have me do, lady?" And when I did not say a word, he added, more quietly:

"I also am a prisoner of the healers."

At the tone in his voice I, who had lowered my eyes to the ground again after my speech, directed my head upwards again, and saw his eyes, unreadable save a the glance that appeared on them when the dark of them passed me. I saw he was looking towards the walls again, but not with such a yearning as I did. The pity he obviously felt for me did not infuriate me as much as I had thought a man's pity might; for I saw also another emotion behind the curtain. It was a grave tenderness, such that he took me serious and cared for my well–being; and I saw him, half turned away from me, against the standing sun. His profile was distinct, but there were deep lines of grief and pain in his face; yet, I thought, he unconsciously had a proud and steadfast attitude that filled me with sudden respect for a man who had not ridden to the greatest war, and I understood he must be a fine and outstanding warrior; and I doubted that there may be any better, even though the glance full of sentiment might have betrayed his courage to others.

I admired him, but I did not envy him, and lost in my contemplation, I ceased to reply to his question, so he repeated it, seeing I had been distracted; but he did it inconspicuously so that I not be offended.

"What do you wish? If it lies in my power, I will do it."

I, by then, had prepared an answer, and said:

"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go."

The moment I had said these words, I suddenly felt foolish; I had uttered them proudly, convinced: but still, they sounded childish and immature, and knew then that my wish was no possibility for the Steward; his responsibility would prevent him from granting it.

As I had anticipated, he denied my request:

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping. Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City."

These were no valid arguments; both he and I were aware of it. His authority was proven by the fact that the Warden regarded him to be consulted for my matter; and I was sure the Warden would relent to Faramir's commands, officially proclaimed Steward or not. Faramir must have seen the growing indignant look on my face, because he pressed on quietly, with what I thought a very small sharp edge in his voice:

"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."

He was reproving me, with right, and I tried to explain to him my motives.

"I do not desire healing. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."

He thought, or waited for me to continue, but when I did not, he reasonably told me it were to late to follow the Captains even if I had the strength. From any other, at another time, I expect, it would have been an offence, a veritable insult: I, kin of a king, warrior, honourable shieldmaiden (I think I've drawn up this list already) accursed of having no strength?
But he was right, and he said it in a way so matter-of-factly that I could not but consent: He spoke the truth. I needed only to accept it.

"But death in battle my 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 with patience the hours of waiting."

I pitied myself then. Here I was, a warrior without war to attend, being pitied by one in the same situation: Restless yet helpless waiting.

My whole life was ruined, the perspective I had drawn out of dreams: destroyed.

I would have cried, had I not been out there in the gardens with a man who wanted my well-being. As it was however, solely a single tear managed to escape from beyond my eyelids and in an attempt to cover this, I lowered my head; but I had not fooled him.

I looked at the ground, grey stones arranged to form a path, with dusty earth filling the gaps, small blades of green grass peaking through. I shuffled, and said something incredibly childish of not being able to look eastward from my chamber quite under my breath. But the Steward apparently had a good hearing and cheerfully told me this minor item could be amended. He concluded,

"If you 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, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Clearly, this was a request; and in normal circumstances, I would have been bound to accept the invitation. Yet his slow and thoughtful speech, the tentative approach he was voicing left me the choice, and I blushed slightly, unused to these compliments.

"How should I ease your care, my lord? And I do not desire the speech of living men."

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked, gazing at me very seriously.

"I would."

"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful" – this statement (even though I had claimed to accept his plain answer) astounded me, and I barely comprehended his further explanations, something comparing me to flowers or hills and the mentioning of darkness; but I jerked to attention when he spoke of the "wings of the Shadow", because this described accurately the picture that lingers in my mind, my dreams, still.

When I realised he had finished his speech, I replied, rather startled, that I was not fit for him, rather replying to his request before than to his explanations now that I had ill-manneredly not followed :

"Alas, not me, lord! Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden, and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least (I had summoned a few of my senses), that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the city."

I stumbled across words, and before I should actually blunder, I did him a courtesy to which he gravely tilted his head, and retired to the house, walking faster than necessary, luckily without literally stumbling, which in my state would have been rather probable.

There was no place to go to, save my own chamber. I did not want to find myself face to face with the Steward when I had just walked out on him; as I hardly knew my surroundings in a city strange to me, I would not know where a Steward would pass his time, especially considering the fact that he, too, was presently dwelling in the Houses of Healing. I sat down on the edge of my bed, debating what to do, but back in well-known terrain, a drowsiness overcame me, and I lay down.

I could not rest for a long time, and soon, I was studying the ceiling. My limbs were motionless, but my thoughts twirled about in my head, replaying the events of the morning

Once, the frail girl who had dressed me knocked and entered, and whispered, "Lady? lady, are you not well?" in a high-pitched voice with a notion of anxiousness, but I thanked her for her helpfulness, and assured her all was well with me. On her request, I directed her to set down the porcelain jug filled with water and the tall glass she was carrying on a tray on the small desk in the corner of the room. She complied wordlessly, and curtsied with a nervous smile before hurrying out of the room.

When the door closed behind her, I fell back into my former pensiveness, but my thoughts rather strayed from the meeting with the Steward to a more previous encounter with a far greater foe, and I shuddered. Aware that if I went to sleep, nightmares and visions would haunt me, as they had before, I decisively stood up and went to the small table next to the window. It was facing a piece of embroidery which pictured two small children playing in front of a tower – undoubtedly somewhere in Minas Tirith, I mused, for it was built of lightly coloured stone. At this display of hope I smiled, and arranged the desk so that it was diagonally facing the window with the embroidery to be seen. Both the desk and the stool, that stood in front of the former, were simply crafted and light, and to my astonishment, they hardly made a sound when I dragged and pulled them to the right angle (I had been prepared to hear a horrible creaking sound), until I discovered the cloth that was attached under the wooden legs.

It will soon grow dark; now and later. There is little to care for, even those small pleasures that delight now: when the city is destroyed, they will, too, be ripped to shreds, burned, and what will be left are ruins of our eliminated existence. And here I am, foreseeing this destruction with dread, damned to suffer the knowledge of the darkness that casts its preliminary shadows upon us, damned to endure with patience the hours of waiting – oh, this sounds so harmless, so safe, when the expected decision could cost us more than our lives.