After the Storm 2
Faramir made his way up the streets of Minas Tirith, greeting his people with fond pride. He'd spent most of the morning surveying the damage sustained on the first and second levels of the city. Plans must be drafted and set in motion, to repair or replace a great deal. The charred remains of the great gates had been pulled down immediately, and almost the Steward was tempted to leave the gigantic arch open, as testament to his confidence in the new peace forged out of Sauron's defeat. On the first full day of freedom from the Darkness, he'd begun his day at dawn, standing on the very edge of the ship's keep of the City, watching the sun rise for the very first time in his life. And despite the very busy day he'd had beginning the restoration, this day he again found himself awake at dawn, watching as rose and gold covered the sky. Would he ever grow tired of the sight? He doubted it very much. With that miraculous sight to fortify him, Faramir dedicated himself to preparing Minas Tirith and Gondor for her King's return.
Though part of his mind still dwelt on what needed to be done in the city, and on what information certain clerks sent into the Archives might have found, Faramir did not fail to notice the Houses of Healing as he reached the sixth level. Those halls still succored many, including the two halflings to whom the whole of the West owed gratitude. There too remained the wizard who'd befriended Denethor's lonely second son, and the lady Eowyn, the lady to whom that second son had lost his heart. To himself alone, Faramir had no reservations about admitting his regard for the Lady Eowyn. And though her beauty had laid the snare, it was her person that had trapped him. Since the Ring was destroyed, he'd had little contact with her, but every word she'd uttered since they'd met, every glance, every wry smile, had writ themselves upon his mind, where he revisited every moment in memory, awash in admiration. She was magnificent. She was admirable beyond any woman he'd ever heard of.
She was also suddenly before him, in the doorway of the Houses, and waving to him.
"Lord Faramir!" She called, and he obediently hurried to her. "I was about to go in search of you," she exclaimed as he joined her. "Master Samwise has awoken."
"He has!" Faramir delighted in the news. He followed Lady Eowyn into the Houses, and to the room where Samwise had been recuperating. They entered the room where Mithrandir sat speaking with the halfling.
"Captain Faramir, sir!" Samwise cried the moment he spotted the Steward. "Oh, this is a relief!"
Eowyn smiled to see Faramir greeted so well, and to see the clear pleasure in Faramir's expression as he returned the halfling's hail. Clearly, the two had met before, but Eowyn did not know the tale. A great deal had happened leading up to the final battle and the destruction of the One Ring. She wondered how much Faramir had not told her, about the events in motion, and his part in them. Obviously, he had befriended and aided the halflings somehow, as his conversation with Samwise displayed.
"Twas right you were, sir, make no mistake," the halfling said, shaking his head. "That Gollum did all he could to turn Mister Frodo's head. And I near fell for it, too, leavin' Mister Frodo alone as I did up there on that dreadful pass."
"Long did I fear for you and Frodo," Faramir replied, "feared that the dangers were too great, and that the skulking thing that led you would prove false. But you have won, Master Samwise, you have won the day! All the West owes you and Frodo a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid." He smiled at the halfling. "Now, you and your master will heal, and peace shall reign in Middle Earth."
Eowyn, standing close to the door, smiled herself to hear such bright optimism from the Steward. Never had she heard him say a single thing to belie his utter faith that the West would triumph over foul Sauron's evil. Slipping out the door, she ordered food for Samwise, recalling how Meriadoc and Peregrin had ever held their stomachs as their first concern. Then she sought the Matron of the Houses, a woman charged with control over domestic matters. Discovering upon inquiry that the halflings' clothes were severely damaged, she ordered that seamstresses be found to replicate the garments. When asked on what account should the services be charged, she did not hesitate to order they be credited to the House of the Steward. Her confidence and ease in ordering such matters put her beyond questioning. At any rate, few there were in the Houses who did not know of the friendship between the Lady of Rohan and the Steward Faramir. Many tongues were set to wagging by Lady Eowyn's commands, but all with the fond expectation of an arrangement that would surely be soon announced.
Eowyn herself heard nothing of these rumors, but returned to Master Samwise's room in time to hear the halfling say, "And surely I though I was dead when I awoke, for no lady so lovely could be watching over the likes of me."
She heard Faramir's chuckle. "You are indeed fortunate, Samwise, for the Lady Eowyn is formidable."
"Lady of where?"
"She is sister to the King of Rohan." Eowyn thought she detected a note of hesitation in Faramir's voice. She wondered at it.
"A princess then. And sittin' here watchin' over me."
"The Lady does as she wishes. She did offer to watch over you." This time, Faramir's voice rang with approbation.
"Did she now? A gracious lady she is indeed. I -- Why, Captain, are you --?"
"Samwise." Faramir's voice held a note of warning, and Eowyn felt a great curiosity as to the expressions on the speakers' faces. Just then, a maid hurried up with a tray of food, and with a nod for Eowyn lingering around the door, brazenly entered the room.
"Ah, now that's a sight to comfort a hobbit," Samwise declared.
"I'll leave you then, but shall return soon to visit." Eowyn scuttled away from the door, lest Faramir catch her listening. He noticed her as soon as he exited the room, with a smile for her. Eowyn was suddenly struck by his presence, but how she could not say. Indeed, Faramir was very tall, and seemed full of energy this day. "Lady, may I have a moment?" he asked her.
"Of course. I see we need to resume your lessons."
Faramir's expression appeared blank for a moment, then he placed her jest, and smiled. "Alas, my lady, I fear I shall prove a most recalcitrant student."
"Nonsense. What is there to distract you from your studies?" She teased.
His expression turned wry. "A great deal, at that. Tell me, my lady, do you still long for employment?"
Faramir watched Eowyn's expression closely. It was one thing for her to desire activity when waiting weighed upon her, and the future uncertain. But would she still be willing now that Light had conquered, and the world was sure once more? A sudden fear gripped his heart, that her powerful essence had been born of the desperate situation, and now with naught to threaten, she might change into a lady of no more substance than any other noble woman of his acquaintance.
But his momentary fear was soon relieved by her eager expression. "Indeed, my lord, I am willing to do whatever service may be needed."
"Thank you, my lady. There is a great deal to be done. Would you walk with me to the Citadel?" In her company, he left the Houses, and led the way to the seventh and highest level of the White City. As they walked, he explained what was needed. "First, I would ask that you do me a great favor by reviewing such horses as are left in the City. A great many were lost, unfortunately, in the charge … to reclaim Osgiliath." He hoped she did not notice his hesitation. He still had not taken the time to grieve for those men under his command who had fallen, men whose deaths weighed on him even in this time of joy. "I have sent some riders out to comb the fields, in hopes of finding a few mounts which might have escaped to wander. The stables lie on the third level."
"What are you looking for?" Eowyn asked, understandably interested in the task.
Faramir sighed. "In truth, I do not know. Hopefully, enough stock to continue breeding. I suspect we will have to bargain for mounts with Rohan." He gave her a sidelong glance, teasing, "Though perhaps we shall get a better deal with Dol Amroth, or Lossarnach."
"If you want to dilute your bloodlines with such weak stock, please do so," she replied with false arrogance. They laughed together at the jest as they passed through the tunnel up to the Citadel. "And the second task?"
Faramir paused, remembering her reluctance to speak of Edoras and her life there. Were he not becoming desperate, he would never make the next request. "My lady, Gondor has not had a King in over a thousand years. I've discovered that the House of the King is in shambles." He indicated the great stone mansion that dominated the right third of the Citadel, connected by walkways to the Great Hall. "We have a Coronation looming ahead of us, and find we cannot even house our King respectably."
With a reserved expression, Eowyn questioned, "Do you not have someone to order the household? Is there not a lady to undertake this task?"
Faramir paused, concerned by the odd note in her voice. He feared offending her. "There is none. There hasn't been a lady of high rank since my mother passed away, many years ago."
"But surely your brother --? Or yourself?"
He flushed slightly at her implication. "We neither -- there is no lady to order the House of the Stewards. A housekeeper only, and I find now that she lacks initiative," he finished diplomatically. He felt keen embarrassment to highlight his family's unstable structure in such a way. "I am afraid that with the needs of the City and her populace, I have so many duties, I cannot keep close eye on the refurbishment of the King's House, and yet I have none to rely on. My Lady Eowyn," he turned to her, stopping their progress. "I would not ask were I not in such need."
Eowyn raised her chin, and met his gaze fully. "You may rely on me, my lord." A flash of determination in her eye banished any reservations he thought that he saw.
As they entered the great hall of the Citadel, half a dozen men called out to Lord Faramir. Their sudden cacophony of voices amazed Eowyn, as they surrounded her patient friend. He seemed to reply to each in turn, with assurances and clarifications of orders. "And here is the Lady Eowyn Wraithslayer!" he finally raised his voice, commanding attention and overpowering their words. "Sister to Eomer-King of Rohan. She I have deputized as my adjutant in certain matters, and will act with my full authority."
Eowyn paused as these fawning men suddenly turned their attention to her, with bows and thanks for her service in the battle before the City. A gentle touch on her elbow from Faramir steered her quickly away from the crowd, leading her to a side office. Faramir firmly shut the door behind them, and she smiled a little when he sighed in an exaggerated fashion.
"I do see how your duties weigh upon you, my lord." Eowyn said, and was rewarded with Faramir's swift smile.
"I know not how my father dealt with them. And can only imagine my brother calling for his sword were they to surround him." She laughed at his jest, but saw the flash of misery that crossed his face at the memory of his lost family.
Sympathetic, Eowyn pushed forward. "How might I wield your authority in the matters you wish for me to manage?"
Nodding, Faramir moved to a desk and pulled out a heavy ring. "Office of the Steward," he explained, handing her the seal. "There are several, used by adjutants and messengers. Ten, I believe." He frowned a moment, looking into the desk. "I have only five here. I should collect the rest."
Sensing his distraction, Eowyn said, "I display this, and can command with your authority?"
"Yes. Anything regarding the horseflesh of the City, and the Citadel, and anything else you notice that needs doing, feel free. I trust your judgment." Eowyn raised her eyes to his, startled by his bald statement. He gave her an ironic smile. "None I trust more in the City, besides Mithrandir." Their eyes held, and Eowyn felt a sudden flush heat her cheeks. When initially asked to undertake this task, she had felt a disappointment, that her friend would ask her to perform such duties that any lady might order for him, despite his expression of confidence regarding the horses. But she now realized what he truly asked of her. Lord Faramir trusted her with ordering his home and city. He trusted her to act as a ruler would. She recognized as well that this was the same sort of faith in her strength and abilities as her uncle had shown in giving rule of Rohan over to her at Dunharrow, and she had not had the wit to appreciate it at the time. She silently vowed to not fail Faramir as she had failed her beloved King.
Straightening her back, she tightened her hand around the signet ring. "I will gladly do what I can."
His expression of relief was almost comical. "My abject thanks, my lady."
Faramir bid good day to Lady Eowyn, placing her in the care of a page that would guide her to meet not only the stable masters, but the staff of the Citadel who stayed during the siege, uninformed of the dangers. Faramir often wondered at the tactics of his father, that the city was not prepared for siege, nor the populace evacuated. Was it possible that his father did not recognize the threat of Mordor?
Setting aside contemplations that were no longer of any concern, Faramir finally opened the office to the Councilors, that gaggle of chattering old men who'd waylaid him and the lady upon their entrance. The number of discussions held necessitated orders, requests for more information, and yet more discussions. Within a very short period of time, Faramir began to wish for the king to return swiftly, so that he himself might flee.
"Enough." He finally commanded firmly, and was privately surprised at the alacrity with which the councilors obeyed. "Many of these issues must be considered at a later time. We cannot make such decisions in haste, and certainly not in the absence of our King." He glanced about, and saw with pleasure no defiance at the idea of Gondor's King. These men could wreak havoc should they resist the return of the King. Obviously, times had changed, and now any King was better than no King. Certainly Faramir had already spotted some hesitation in their dealings with him as Steward, but it did not concern him. He would not be ruling as Steward long, and that suited him well.
Indicating the meeting had reached its end, he rose and exited the office. He found Lord Hurin, the majordomo of the Citadel, waiting for him.
"My lord," Hurin greeted him, bowing just as low as the others had done for Denethor. Hurin met the gaze of this new Steward with a smile. Faramir sensed that Hurin at least had faith in him, and it seemed if even should the King disappear again, Hurin would support this Steward with conviction.
"He let them squabble amongst themselves." Hurin told Faramir in a low voice as they walked away from the crowd. "Then cut them down and threatened them."
"Are you insinuating that they see me as a soft touch?" Faramir asked. Hurin cocked an eyebrow at him. Faramir chuckled sourly. "Very well, perhaps I am a soft touch. They are not evil, or even stupid. Just misguided. I keep hoping for sense from them."
"And find little."
"Little enough."
"Well, I have prepared you an escape. The watch commanders await you in the barracks office on the sixth level. And perhaps a tour of damaged trebuchet stations after that."
"My thanks, old friend. I have given over certain authority in the Citadel to the Lady Eowyn of Rohan. She is to assess the status of our horseflesh, and also she is given authority in ordering the King's House, and other such matters about the Citadel. Indeed, I gave her free rein, if you'll pardon the phrase, to command as she sees fit."
Hurin paused in surprise. "You trust her that much?" His expression clearly indicated his amazement, for Faramir was not known to hand over any of his concerns to another's control.
"I do." But the closed look he gave the majordomo forbade further comment. "You I need to delve into the Archives for guidance. We know of Kings succeeding Kings, and Kings giving power to Stewards, and Stewards succeeding Stewards, but never have we had a Steward give power to a King."
Eowyn naturally made the horses her first priority. She met with a trio of stable masters, pleased to find that two were born of Rohirrim mothers, and one a descendant of Lossarnach horsemen. Many riderless Rohirrim mounts had been retrieved from the battlefield, and she taught the masters the breeding marks, so that they might identify the riders. Many men still rested in the Houses of Healing, and Eowyn planned to reunite them with their mounts if possible. Due to her presence in the stables, she was the first authority to hear reports of marauding orcs, and in unconscious defiance of custom, sent the messenger up the levels of the City mounted, the more quickly to report. She would later find that Lord Faramir loudly lauded her order, as the move caused that much swifter a response from the forces left in the City.
Then she was ordering such able-bodied Rohirrim left behind as defense that could be mounted to ride out and patrol the surrounding countryside and eliminate any remaining threat. The Riders had hesitated to take orders from the Gondorian commanders, but obeyed after receiving Eowyn's approval.
When she returned to the Citadel, she met at last Faramir's recalcitrant housekeeper and the staff. The housekeeper, named Mirrill, was pinched faced woman, stick thin, with a sallowness about her features that spoke of ill humors. She also had an unnerving tendency to mutter to herself under her breath, and as often as not her mutterings were uncomplimentary. Eowyn instantly understood Faramir's problems with the woman, and resolved to take a firm hand with Mirrill and the staff. With luck, Eowyn could find a maid or two with sense, and set them to separate tasks. She had a page fetch a scribal desk for her, and she set to with a will.
"Let us begin then," she announced to the staff assembly. "You say maids have been sent to clean the King's House, an excellent start. Any repairs needed to doors, windows, plastering, and other structural elements should be reported immediately, and I shall arrange for craftsmen to do the work on the morrow. The same should be done for any furnishings in need of repair. Are there tiringwomen?" She looked up expectantly, and two matronly women stepped forward. "Good. Would you please make a survey of any linens that might still be in good order? Any that might be immediately usable, we'll do a general wash. Those repairable, we'll set aside for now. We want to be presentable enough to do Gondor proud, but not work ourselves to death." This sentiment won her quick support from the staff. Eowyn smiled. "If necessary, we will purchase linens. I have met Lord Aragorn, your King. He is a man of … simple tastes. A soft bed will suffice, I doubt he'd notice the lack of embroidered royal seal." Smiles were shared, and though Mirrill muttered about barbarian lack of manners, Eowyn saw that the staff preferred to imagine an amiable King. She began to become concerned over the way things had previously run, if all seemed so relieved to take orders from a foreign lady rather than the familiar Housekeeper.
"Lady," a small girl with a small voice piped up. "There are stores in the caverns, of both linens and fabrics."
Mirrill snapped, "Know your place, chit!"
With a scowl for the housekeeper, Eowyn motioned the girl forward. "Excellent! You are a seamstress?"
The girl flushed. "A laundress, my lady."
"Well, you're now deputized to find those stores. Take some of these strapping fellows with you," and Eowyn bestowed a smile on a few servingmen in the crowd, "to move the stores to where they can be examined." Swiftly, Eowyn made her way through an array of duties performed in a royal household. She quickly learned that Minas Tirith was not so different than Edoras, and despite Mirrill's dire mutterings, the staff of the Citadel had a good idea of their own responsibilities. Truly, it was only Mirrill who truly caused problems. And she was soon to learn why.
"Soap? Nonsense! Lye is good enough, cheaper too," the sour woman declared. Eowyn blinked at that forceful proclamation, over as simple a matter as washing sheets.
"Soap makes the cloth softer," Eowyn replied. Mirrill snorted rudely, and at that Eowyn stood. "Mirrill, I will admit I am not familiar with all the customs of Minas Tirith, but I have ordered the household of a King. Perhaps we should visit the House of the Stewards, that you might show me how things are done here?" She nodded at the rest of the staff. "You know your duties. Dismissed." They dispersed quickly, and Eowyn indicated the temperamental housekeeper to precede her.
Eowyn viewed with dismay the state of the Steward's House. Besides the vast number of rooms closed up, never aired or cleaned, she felt a dark atmosphere settle like a shroud upon her head as soon as she entered. Growing up in Edoras, she was the only Lady of the line of Eorl, but even in that masculine bastion, the softer touch of a woman's care provided by the basic ministrations of the staff was well felt. Comfort at least had been assured in Edoras, but here not even rugs softened the stone halls. Few tapestries and fewer candles warmed the rooms. It seemed as if the household were ordered to pinch a copper as far as one could go. Eowyn experienced a sense of disorientation as Mirrill conducted her through the Steward's suite. Surely these were not the rooms of her friend Faramir? But when she asked out of sheer consternation, she was informed that these were Lord Denethor's rooms, and that Lord Faramir had yet to make arrangements to move into them.
When viewing the heir's suite, Eowyn grew even more confused. Here were the lush fabrics and expensive items she would have expected in the Steward's rooms, but they were carelessly maintained, a candle stub melted right to a veneered desktop, the pile of a velvet coverlet crushed by a chainmail shirt thoughtlessly dropped atop it. Still, the feel of the room abounded with an air of masculine and martial pursuits. These were the rooms of the late Lord Boromir, and yet the rooms seemed untouched, as if expecting the return of the lord.
"Does no-one clean?" Eowyn asked, and got a scowl for it.
"Of course! Though we are not to move the Lord's things, for he likes to find his things where he left them." Eowyn wondered if no one had told the dyspeptic housekeeper of Lord Boromir's passing, or if the woman was indeed delusional.
"And Lord Faramir's rooms?" Eowyn asked, careful to keep her tone disinterested. With her brother and her cousin, all that could be learned about them could be seen in their chambers. From what she'd learned so far of her friend's father and brother, she wondered at what she might learn in his rooms. Perhaps her interest was unseemly, but she felt a strong curiosity about Faramir's habits, and his rooms were certain to reflect them.
The long walk to Faramir's chambers worried her. Why were they so far from the others? She also noticed that the building became draftier as they walked. When they arrived, she stared about. The rooms were situated on the mountain side of the building, with only the dull view of the catacombs and rocky steeps. They were indifferently maintained, that much she felt apparent. She recognized inexpert repairs to the room and furnishings here and there. She almost gasped aloud as she realized that the repairs may have been done by Faramir himself. In glaring comparison to Boromir's rooms, Faramir's accoutrements were simple, almost common in nature. But in contrast, every cheap tallow candle sat in a proper holder. Books were carefully shelved. A rag rug, most likely purchased on a lower level of the city, covered the floor near a small hearth. Eowyn puzzled over a bowl of water on the floor, until a quiet mew caught her attention. Under the neatly made bed hid a small cat. Eowyn smiled to herself, but did not try to draw the little thing out, imagining Mirrill's outrage. On the one sunny corner of the balcony, a pot of yellow flowers grew.
She learned a great deal about her friend in a few moments of observation, and a lump formed in her throat. How he tried to make these small and distant chambers home! It was as if his unflagging optimism decorated the room. Neat, as comfortable as possible, and with the same sense of quiet solidity Eowyn felt from Faramir himself when she was near him, these rooms were clearly a refuge for him.
Eowyn wondered if she dared take on reorganizing the Steward's house as well as the King's. Certainly, she might make changes to the foyer and the halls, opening up the additional rooms, if naught else but for a routine cleaning, and attempt to banish the feeling of dismal doom that filled the building. A new era had arrived. She would not presume to touch the suites, but the house itself could be refurbished, to show the people that not only was the Crown renewed, but their traditions could be as well. Determined, she strode from Faramir's chambers.
"Very well, here are my instructions…"
Faramir shared a pint of ale with the commanders after several hours reviewing the status of Gondor's defenses. Message riders made their way to the King, carrying reports and requests for orders. Having heard of Eowyn's command of the Riders of Rohan, Faramir passed the word that any reports regarding the Riders or their horses should be sent directly to the Lady, who would report directly to him. This prompted a round of tale-telling and singing, as many men expressed their admiration for the Lady's bravery and skill at arms. The soldiers of the barracks comported themselves with the sort of disbelieving relief of men pardoned from a death sentence at the final hour.
Late in the day, Faramir made his way back up to the Citadel. A group of citizens at the seventh gate blocked his way, a few men and several women.
"What's all this?" he asked of the guards.
"They want into the Citadel, my lord."
"We wish to help," a woman said, bobbing a rough curtsey at Faramir. "Word is that the Lady Wraithslayer makes ready the Citadel. My niece told us as she bought linens for the King's House."
"Your niece is on my staff?" Faramir asked. "What is her name?"
"Tayriel. Good girl, she is, and says there's much to do, and they all be running hard, for the King returns soon, and Gondor must do him proud."
Faramir smiled, hearing an echo of Eowyn's strong personality in that declaration.
"I'm a carpenter, my lord," said one man. "Any work that needs doing, I can do."
"My sister and I are good and quick with our needles, my lord. We want to help." Two young women to his right smiled eagerly.
"Not askin' for wages, lord," said one older fellow, twisting a cap in his hands. "A man can scrub floors for his king as well as fight for him."
Faramir felt his heart swell with pride. "You do your country so proud. I cannot thank you enough. Guard, any that come to the gates looking to help within the Citadel may be passed on, with my approval." As the gathered folk cheered and entered, Faramir stopped the matronly aunt of Tayriel with a touch. "M'lady, pass the word. No general wages can be offered, I'm afraid, but should there be those who have no other livelihood left…"
The woman nodded wisely. "I'm understanding you well, my lord. And I may say, 'tis a blessing and a comfort to us all that you're here to look out for us, my lord." She patted his hand in a motherly fashion, then followed the rest into the tunnel to the seventh level.
Faramir trailed after them, a small, bemused smile upon his face. In the courtyard, he watched as the citizens paused, to honor the Tree, and then made their way to the King's House. Faramir stood a moment, enjoying the late day sunshine. As he lingered, a page bolted from the King's House, crossed the courtyard at full speed, and entered the Steward's House. Faramir directed his attention to the Steward's House, and noted with confusion that the vast majority of the windows were unshuttered. Even as he looked, a window opened, and he caught a glimpse of Eowyn's bright hair in the fading light. Mystified, Faramir walked to the entrance.
As he approached, the page bolted out the door, nearly running his lord down. "My Lord!" the boy yelped in apology, then hurried on his way. Now truly confused, Faramir entered his own house to find it transformed.
Shutters on the upper walls of the large foyer had been opened for the first time in years, and even now, a washerman perched on a ledge, carefully cleaning the colored glass in the evening light. Faramir could hear the bustle of a number of people in the house, normally so silent and grave. Doors to the left and right opened on salons he hardly remembered, and there too windows were open wide, allowing the burgeoning evening breeze to pass in. He stopped to contemplate a room decorated entirely in blue, and a vague memory of hesitantly plucking harpstrings as he sat in his mother's lap teased his mind.
Then raised voices drew his attention, and he mounted the stairs to the second level. Following the noise, he found Eowyn standing in a large study, arguing with his housekeeper.
"Madam, I care not one whit that Lord Denethor preferred to husband his assets with tallow! You will send for beeswax! Is this or is this not the greatest city of the West? The home of your rulers should reflect that!"
"You know nothing of Gondor, you heathen hussy -"
Faramir did not wish nor even need to hear the rest of that sentiment. "What is going on here?" he cried, inadvertently saving his housekeeper from a potentially fatal blow.
"Faramir!"
"My lord!"
The two women had the grace to look momentarily shamefaced, though both quickly recovered. A blush stained Eowyn's face as Mirrill found her voice first. "My lord, this woman has not only claimed your authority, she has usurped mine, and means to completely up end this House and reorder everything to her own liking!"
Faramir glanced at Eowyn. She met his gaze fully, though her blush did not fade, and she tilted her chin up just a fraction, as if in challenge. Faramir was a bit bewildered, but fully inclined to trust the Lady of Rohan. "Faithful Mirrill, I fear you are overwrought," he said kindly. "You have maintained this house through the most trying of times. Do allow the Lady to relieve your burden a while, and rest." He made a tiny bow of respect to the woman. "You may retire, and do not concern yourself. I am sure you are tired."
Unstable the woman might have been, but not stupid. Mirrill recognized a dismissal when she heard one, and with a sniff and pursed lips, she curtsied and departed.
Eowyn let out a heavy sigh as soon as the woman left the room. "Truly, she is a nightmare! However did you manage?"
Faramir turned to the lady, his brows drawn. "I didn't," he replied absently. "Mirrill had nothing to do with me, on my father's orders." He shook his head, and asked, "My lady, what do you here?"
Eowyn froze. "My apologies, my lord." Her tone was formal, nearly cold. "You bade me act as I saw fit. The Steward's House is in as much need of ordering as the King's. Should you wish to offer hospitality to nobles come for the coronation, now is the time to prepare."
Faramir blinked, put off by her tone. He held out a hand to her. "My lady, in truth, the idea never even occurred to me. I have been Steward but days, and place the comfort of my people before my own. I had not thought that this house could be host to visitors."
His voice seemed so piteous Eowyn slumped. He was not angry with her, much to her relief. Clearly, the man had no notion how to run a household. "I am the one to apologize. I have been fighting all day with that harridan. I should not have spoken so to you, who have ever supported me and been infinitely kind." She put her hand in his, and squeezed as their hands clasped together. The distress in his eyes immediately dissipated, and he lifted her hand to place a light kiss on the back. She felt her face heat again, and wondered how this Gondorian came to have such an affect on her. Surely she'd blushed more in his presence these last days than in all her years together. For a moment they simply regarded one another, almost basking in each other's presence.
"I would not have thought of preparing this house," Faramir admitted. "I am grateful to you, Eowyn."
She gulped, stricken by the sound of her name spoken so warmly by him. Suddenly nervous for no reason she could fathom, she slipped her hand gently free. "I hope I did you no disservice. It is a lovely house. Many rooms are in good condition, and need only cleaning. And now I am told that people are coming up to offer help. We will soon have all to rights."
"Yes, I met some on my way in. Tell me, have you met a girl called Tayriel?"
Eowyn chuckled. "Yes I have. That young woman has been promoted today. From washing girl to one of my most trusted deputies. She'll have your butlers marching in close order soon."
Faramir smiled. "I have met her aunt. I'm minded to find a new housekeeper. What think you?"
Eowyn shrugged. "Tayriel is inexperienced, but quick witted. Or do you mean her aunt? I have yet to meet her." She turned to a nearby mantle, wiping the surface with a cloth. She could feel Faramir's eyes upon her, and yet something felt so comfortable in discussing such matters with him. Perhaps it was because she could rely on Faramir to listen, to weigh her advice and act on it should he find it good? For the first time in her life, to order a household's domestic matters did not seem a task for the weak, but something one could do as a trusted partner. She hazarded a glance to find Faramir watching her, his customary small smile upon his face. Eowyn smiled in return.
There was a tap on the door. Eowyn turned to find the very girl under discussion standing there, a bolt of fabric in her arms. "My lady?"
"Tayriel! Faramir, this is Tayriel, and she has done me much good service today."
Faramir smiled at the girl, who became quite flustered. "I am glad to hear it," he said warmly. "Excuse me, please. I fear I shall only get in the way." With that, he left them.
"My lady, I think that this would do, don't you think? For the Lord F-Faramir?" The girl proffered the dark blue velvet in her arms.
Eowyn smiled. She'd sent Tayriel to search the fabric stores. Garments for Lord Aragorn had already been ordered. Now Eowyn planned that the Steward should be dressed just as well as the King, or better. "That will do very well! I think it will suit him."
Faramir lay in wait near the bottom of the stairs. As soon as he heard the girl leave Eowyn, he stepped out of the shadows. "Tayriel," he called softly.
"M-My Lord!" the girl gasped, startled.
"Peace, child, I mean no harm. Only -- you are managing the fabrics for Lady Eowyn?"
"I am, m-my lord."
"Good. I should like… that is," Faramir found himself at a sudden loss for words. How did one make arrangements for a lady's wardrobe, particularly for a lady one did not have an understanding with? "The Lady Eowyn -" he began again, but didn't know how to phrase the request.
Fortunately, young Tayriel was indeed quick-witted. "We found some brocade, my lord. As gold as the lady's hair," she offered. "I think one of the seamstresses might know what style would suite Lady Eowyn. The lady had not mentioned herself, though garments are ordered for the King, and others."
"Thank you, Tayriel. That will do well." Faramir bestowed a smile on the girl as she bobbed a curtsey and made her way out of the house. So Eowyn had thought to far as to prepare wardrobes? Truly, the lady was Valar-sent.
He made his way to his rooms. There he received another surprise, for the fire had already been built, and his small roommate lay purring on the rug, an empty bowl nearby. He knelt to pet the cat, gaining a louder purr and a fond lick. Faramir had never named the tiny thing, having found it crying in a grate, piteously hungry. He'd cradled the kitten under his cloak, smuggling it home not long after Boromir had departed for Rivendell. His own need for company overcame any conscience he'd felt, but he'd refused to justify the action even to himself. He simply brought the cat home, fed it from his own plate, and fatalistically tried not to become too attached. He'd let it loose in the Citadel during his last tour, expecting it to find its own way. But when he'd visited his rooms one last time, to prepare for the fatal charge on Osgiliath, the tiny cat made it quite clear it considered these its chambers, and Faramir a tolerated guest.
A tap on the door drew his attention from these musings. "Come," he called, wondering who came to his chambers. No one ever came here, besides Boromir. Faramir even carried his own laundry to and from the kitchen. He blinked as his door opened to admit a young servingman bearing a tray, an evening meal steaming thereon. Following the servingman was Ergadol, an aged butler who normally spent his days dozing by the fire in the kitchens. The ancient worthy had come to the Citadel under Ecthelion, Faramir's grandfather, but was long retired. This was the first time Faramir could remember seeing the man do any work, but work he came to perform, ordering the servingman to settle the tray on Faramir's desk, and uncorking the bottle of ale he himself carried, to pour for his lord.
The servingman left, and Ergadol stood attentively by the desk, waiting for Faramir's approval to pour.
At a loss, Faramir only stared at the man.
"Does my lord not wish to dine at this time?" Ergadol finally asked, stiffly.
"No. Yes. I mean I am hungry." Faramir sat, and at his nod, Ergadol poured the ale into a horn cup. The table service was not the finest in the House, but as good as any. The meal too was simple but plentiful, fowl and bread and some few vegetables, the sort of meal an army officer might enjoy in the barracks, somewhat better than the common run, but still not so elaborate as Denethor preferred.
Ergadol bowed as he sat the ale near to hand, and said, "Should my lord require aught else?"
"No. Thank you, Ergadol." The elderly butler went to leave, but Faramir halted him, calling, "Ergadol? What - why?"
The butler's professionally even expression did not change, but Faramir caught a glint in the old man's eyes. "Her grace the Lady Eowyn has ordered the household. She reminds us that you are Steward now, and must be treated accordingly." He hesitated a moment, then continued, "I begged the honor of acting as your butler myself, my lord."
Faramir stared at the man a moment, then whispered, "Thank you, Ergadol." The butler bowed and exited. For a long time, Faramir stared at his meal, and wondered if he could possibly be worthy enough of Lady Eowyn's regard.
Eowyn had retired to the Houses of Healing just in time to enjoy a quick meal from the communal dinner. In her chambers, she undressed and stared to the East, but without the feelings of despair that had so oppressed her before. Instead, she smiled to herself, recalling all that had been accomplished that day. A few more horses had been found, some even from Gondor, and more Rohirrim mounts were matched with their riders. She'd been informed of the reports of several patrols, and had scribed them down and sent them to Faramir for review. Matters in the King's House were well in hand. The Steward's House too had been set to rights. It turned out that much of the neglect of Lord Faramir that Eowyn had witnessed had been due to Lord Denethor's own disregard for his younger son. Denethor must have been mad, Eowyn decided, for she had come to regard Faramir amongst the highest lords of her acquaintance. She even had some thoughts as to the arrangements of the Steward's chambers, but would not proceed without Faramir's agreement.
This thought made her pause as she brushed her hair. She realized that she had acted as if she were the Lady of the Household, and perhaps in this had acted presumptuously. She'd determined that Lord Faramir was unwed, but it was possible he had some Lady in mind, who'd resided safely far from the City during the danger, who he'd now call back to his side. Eowyn discovered a sudden ache of hurt in her chest at the idea of some other lady on Faramir's arm. She tried to dismiss it, telling herself that it was only reasonable, that a lord such as Faramir must be widely admired by the Gondorian noblewomen, that she would soon be gone back to Rohan, to retake her place in the Golden Hall. She knew her brother would rely heavily on her support. Yet eventually, he'd seek to find a husband for her. A matrimonial cage was no better than a sorcerous one, she thought. No man of Rohan was high-born enough for her hand. If there were none in Rohan, he'd look abroad. And where else would he look but Gondor.
A sudden fancy entered Eowyn's mind, of being forced into a loveless marriage with some Gondorian lord, and be forced to attend the court and there witness Lord Faramir happily wed to some unknown lady. Taken even further by her imaginings, what if the elven lady Aragorn so loved had indeed sailed into the mysterious West? Surely Eomer would try to convince his friend to wed his sister. In that instant, the thing she had once so longed for became abhorrent. Never could she wed Aragorn, never. There was not love there, for she recognized now her feelings for the King of Gondor as the desperate grasping of a desperate woman.
Now depressed, she set aside her brush and stared into the deepening darkness of night. She tried to imagine living in this City for the rest of her life, queen or courtier's lady. Only one consolation to the prospect could she find -- the proximity of such a life to Lord Faramir.
A servant had appeared to take the tray away. Faramir stood on his small balcony, watching the stars in the east sparkle. He'd already watched sunrises, marveling at the swift lightening of the sky as the sun rose unimpeded by Mordor's dark clouds. Now, he saw constellations he'd only read about.
Pressure against his leg drew his attention downwards, and he picked up his cat, cradling the feline close and enjoying its warm purr as the cat snuggled under his chin. Faramir gently buried his fingers in the fine fur of the animal, stroking it.
"All is well," he whispered. "At last, all is well." He turned his gaze to the City, though the Houses of Healing were blocked by the bulk of the Steward's House. "But I still wish for things I cannot have," Faramir told the cat sadly. His own thoughts depressing him, Faramir set the cat down and made for his bed.
AN: "tiringwoman" – an old term for seamstress. Derived from "attire". Most often used in relation to theatrical costuming, or embroidery/embellishment. Eowyn is looking for seamstresses that are regular staff as opposed to commercial seamstresses who might make garments on commission for anyone. In particular, a royal tiringwoman might be a specialist in embroidering the royal seal on linens.