Chapter 5:
A fine day dawned across the land of Rohan. White lilies clustered in harmony with the simbelmyne, and Lothiriel accompanied her husband as he went for a walk, past the burial mounds of Rohan's past kings. White snow covered them all by now, even the two newest, her cousin by marriage, and his father, Theoden. The green meadow grass around them swayed in the comforting summer winds. Above, the sky was blue.
But the mind of Lothiriel was swarmed with rain clouds.
"This is a time of peace, my love," Eomer said softly to his dark haired wife, the two of them walking arm in arm.
"I know my lord. But how long will this peace last? I fear you will ride to your death, and you have only just returned."
"Elessar wishes for me to accompany him to the south. It is not just I. Faramir will be called too, and the leaders of the Northern realms. Even Legolas will journey with us, as far as Umbar. It will not be a long trek, I promise. Then we will elect a new ambassador who will aid this striving misled country and former enemy in earning back her pride and wealth."
"Do you really think they will submit so easily to the conquerors?" she asked in a small voice.
"We cannot be worse than Sauron. They had better."
"Or you will crush them my lord? This striving, misled country?"
Eomer cleared his throat in a mock-authoritive manner, "They will not be under the noose of the west. They will be a kingdom in their own right. We will all be allies in this middle earth."
The daughter of Dol Amroth and Queen of Rohan sighed.
"Your dream is a sweet one. But there is no harmony in politics. You are a warrior, but battles are not always fought on a field of gold and glory. Every nation is in thraldom to another, my lord. A kingdom is about power. If you give them a kingdom, do you not fear they will use that power against us?"
They stopped at the last mound; both knowing deep in their hearts for whom the next grave mound here would be constructed.
"Why should they?" Eomer spoke, turning to his wife, "We are their saviours. They would not have survived the past six years had it not been for our charity and aid."
"They are a proud people. Do you think they will suffer charity? Perhaps they see it as a... humiliation."
King Eomer Eadig put an arm around his florid wife: "It would be a greater humiliation if they found out Ithilien has stopped sending them grain for the winter." He said with a mocking smile. It was a fact that there was not much difference in the seasons in the land of Harad. The people of the South actually needed food more in the summer, when the heat was too much for crops and livestock.
"Look," he said at the look on her face, "The Reunified Kingdom is a fair one. I think if Elessar suddenly became a tyrant, the Steward of Gondor certainly would not approve. And I myself would hear the beckon of duty. As long as we are all allied in a common cause, there is little reason for doubt. And if anything happens to we three kings, we can always rely on our queens to help us out." He added with a grin.
She smiled back at him and they walked back to their mounts, grazing peacefully on the fresh green meadows, oblivious to the cruel and complex world around them. Lothiriel envied them because they had no worries or cares apart from their own personal survival. She had to look after her own as well, but it was much more complicated process.
Slowly, they both walked back, arm in arm once more.
"When are you leaving?" she asked.
"Tomorrow, I should think. I will pay a visit to Ithilien while I'm on my way. If there is anything unforgivable according to the Telcontar, it is tardiness."
Lothiriel smiled, as she mounted her horse gracefully, "Then I shall help you to pack."
It was times like this that Faramir wished his brother were still alive.
Eowyn was in tears. She sat at her bedside, her hands cradling her belly. Her face was pale.
Faramir sat by her, but his face was turned away.
Morning rays reflected off her pale face from the drawn window, but the light was cold and harsh. Her husband sighed, and put a reluctant arm around her withered shoulders, feeling her flinch.
"Am I mad?" her voice quaked.
What could he say? How could he comfort her? And how could he himself remove that sick feeling from his stomach? The ghost of his father was haunting his beloved wife. How could this happen? Why now? If only Boromir were alive. He always knew the right things to say, or do. It was always he who comforted his younger sibling. He felt desperate and humiliated, that now more than ever, he needed someone who was dead.
Absently, he stroked her pale knee. It looked slightly bruised, and her foot had scratched red marks. There was nothing in the bedroom that could have caused her harm, and the injury, though minor, did not seem to merit her attention. How could he let her sleep alone after she had been having nightmares? All midwives knew that pregnant women had queer moods: it was up to the husband to put up with them. He had tried his best, but he knew, from the first moment she had given him the news, he had wanted to run away.
No, he really did want a child: A son and heir, or a daughter. It would make his dreams come true. But he was sick with fear.
He feared. He feared just as much as Eowyn did about the child, and worried about it more. It had never strayed from his mind. She was relying on her foreign potion, but what could he rely on? He had to make her stop taking the 'medicine', but he knew she was stubborn. She would never give up, despite what had happened before. The doctors had warned a woman's body could only take so many miscarriages.
Was she going mad?
In answer, he took her in his arms, burying his face deep in her soft neck.
"No. You just haven't slept well, that's all." He knew inside that was a lie, but he was doing his husbandly duty, and he loved his wife. He stroked her golden curls and whispered, "Tonight your side I will not leave."
It would have been a different world if Boromir had been alive. If Boromir had lived, Denethor would not have sunk into what he did. If Boromir had lived, Faramir would not have suffered his war wound – even now it still hurt him – and his father would not have died. If Boromir had lived, his father would still be alive. His father would still be sane.
But if Boromir had lived, Elessar would not have been king. The living Denethor would have seen to that. And then where would he, Faramir, be? Would Eowyn be married? The question was more who was Eowyn more likely to marry, given the choice? It was chance that brought them together in the Houses of Healing, all those years ago.
You had no competition by that time, a dark side of him spoke. Faramir shuddered, and suppressed the thoughts. He no longer wanted to think about the possibilities.
But he allowed himself to ponder – why did everything happen so neatly? Well, for him at least. Happily ever after, all because his father went mad and died. Perhaps it was meant to happen, perhaps not. And now here was a child.
But now the past, and the ghost of Denethor was coming back to haunt them.
Haunt, yes, that was the right word.
But why would his father want to hurt him so? Why would he want to hurt Eowyn? There must be something wrong here. His father may have been mad, but he was not malevolent. It was just a dream, after all. She may have been sleepwalking.
But the same dream, for consecutive nights...
Was it his fault? Did he pass something onto her? Looking at his sickly wife, Faramir sincerely prayed that madness was not hereditary.
Suddenly Eowyn jolted, and stood up.
"Do you know where Shaliwar is?" she asked him timidly, eyes still red.
"I will send someone to look for her." he assured, and took her soft form back into his arms. God, he worried about her. He loved her, and seeing her, touching her and knowing she was his to protect... it was a beautiful ache to his heart. It was love. He knew he was overprotective at times – when her icy shieldmaiden facade shattered, this was the icicle butterfly he had to protect.
And he feared he would crush her.
The door opened, and Faramir started, fingers instinctively reaching at his hip for a sword that was not there.
"My Lord?" it was Halandil, and he relaxed a little, and let go of his wife.
"Yes? You are not interrupting anything."
"Er, I was just coming here to tell you that three of the baggage horses have fallen ill. I'd like your permission to go into the town and buy some ponies. The market will be open for another few hours."
"Why do you need more horses?" Eowyn asked, her head jerking up from her husband's shoulder.
"The horses we have are not enough for the journey, my lady." The man replied.
"You have my permission." Faramir said, and the man bowed and left the room.
When the door shut, Eowyn looked up at her husband. Faramir was somewhat glad to see that her earlier frost had evaporated now. Her fragility, which had unnerved him earlier, was gone, replaced by a look of sad longing.
"You are leaving." It wasn't a question. He nodded.
"Within the next fortnight, perhaps next week. I know it's soon, I know I have barely just returned, but understand that this is important."
But she merely nodded her head resignedly.
"How long will you be gone for?"
"Elessar said it would be anything between three weeks to three months. It depends how the situation is there. But I was starting on packing today."
Eowyn nodded. She stood up, with the aid of a chair arm, and walked to the window. She pulled the sash, and let in a glorious morning. It gave her face more life somehow, but Faramir thought how tired she looked.
"What is the situation there?" there was no resentment in her voice. She merely wanted to know.
He paused before answering, "Stable, at least, for the moment. Harad is a large land, and long it has suffered under the yoke of Sauron. Still, the shadow has its supporters. That is why a new ruler must be installed quickly. We of the unified kingdoms have decided its fate too long."
"Who will the new ruler be?"
"Well, he was chosen by Legolas, surprisingly. The royal bloodline of the Haradrim has either run dry or is in hiding from us (can't imagine why, with them supporting Sauron and so forth). When we went down there to meet the people, he recognised 'honesty and compassion and courage' in him. He was a nobleman, and literate. We found him to be leader material, so leader he will be. But the treaty between our nations must be signed, by at least three of us, Aragorn, myself and Eomer. That is the document that will give him true power and his nation true freedom. I should know; I wrote most of it."
He was aware that his voice was more cheery than usual. He was talking more, and trying to sound light, but it seemed to work. His wife returned to her normal state. She had not forgotten the night, but she was trying to. She turned around to him sharply.
"But will the people not oppose a leader who has been chosen for them? You say you are giving them their own rule, but still, you are deciding it for them." She smiled defiantly at him.
Faramir smiled a little to himself, realising that they were debating, an enjoyable activity that they had not partaken in for a long time, "I did suggest to Elessar that we let the people decide for themselves. Candidates would come forward, and people would vote for the one they wanted to govern them, as a 'one-man one-vote' system, but your brother dismissed it immediately."
"Eomer is something of a monarchist." Eowyn said dryly, "The Rohirrim have a fond attachment to their kings."
"Well, it would not work in any case. The candidate would just try to influence the people with lies so they will vote for him. The system is too susceptible to cheating. It is safer to just choose for them."
"Who is the new leader then, he who will bring progress and liberation to this country?"
Faramir smiled, and seeing a bunch of grapes lying on a side table, ate a few, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth, "Wife, should you not be paying more heed to domestic issues, rather than worldly ones?"
Eowyn feigned mock surprise at this, and pelted her husband with grapes, "You have already taken over domestic duties for me. What have I now to care for?"
"Well, if you must know, he is called Khalifah. He is a nobleman, and a retired sergeant. He is a good man."
"I do not doubt your judgement. Will he be crowned?"
"Not in the same way as a coronation. The signing of the document is really just a ceremony, but an official one, which is why it is so important. Khalifah, though an honest man, has his opponents, who would hate to see him ascend to the position we create for him. The ceremony will take place in a months time."
"Then I shall help you to pack." She said with a smile, unknowingly mimicking her sister-in-law, but inside, she felt like crying.
Halandil was thinking a lot as he traversed the town square. He was concerned, for one, about the state of his lady. She had not been the same since he accompanied her to that gypsy hut. He did not know exactly what had been said and done in that tent, but she had been happy, and now she was not.
And now that Prince Faramir was leaving...
He had picked three ponies, two male and one female. They seemed docile enough, a little on the fat side, but better fat than thin. With a leather lead, he harnessed them all onto the same lead, and slowly guided them through the streets of Osgiliath back to the Prince's stables. He had bought them from a Variag-turned-trader, with brown skin and very few teeth, paying twenty gold coins and three silver pieces. He couldn't help feeling he had been overcharged. Wasn't one horse usually about five gold pieces?
There were a lot more coloured faces around him now; less than a decade ago there were none. So subtly, they had crept in, to share the wealth of Ithilien... Halandil shook his head. He was not xenophobic by nature, and did not consider himself racially prejudiced. In fact, he had even befriended some of the emigrated haradrim. Why, many of the chefs at the palace were from the south, and with them, had brought the gift of many culinary mouth-watering delights. Halandil had tried many of them, and agreed, it was very tasty, and indeed, made his mouth want water very much.
Even one of Eowyn's maids was haradrim. Shaliwar was a pretty thing, he himself had conceded that fact, and Lady Eowyn was very fond of her. She worked hard, and he often saw her, bustling around the palace, attending to her mistress' every whim.
Come to think of it, he hadn't seen her for a while now... where had that girl got to?
He was abruptly distracted from his thoughts by a dark skinned stranger walking suddenly into him.
"Watch where you're going!" he yelled, out of tetchiness. He noticed the man was wearing a heavy cloak in the summer, but he could see his dark face from under the hood, something glittering in the darkness. The man bowed his head, and Halandil apologised immediately. He was a captain of the guard, and had a reputation to uphold. He had heard of incidents where haradrim had been lynched by less forgiving Gondorrim, and did not want to be thought of as one capable of those atrocities. And one of his subordinates had told him about the late night trespassers around the palace and city streets. There were rumours of kidnapping, theft, and general nightly misdemeanours.
"I'm very sorry." He said again, but the stranger nodded, and scurried past him hurriedly. He shrugged inwardly. Foreigners were strange, after all, and they had different ways. Very strange, different ways. Very strange...
He looked back behind him, but the cloaked man had vanished. He turned back, and there was a dark alley on his left. That was where the man must have come from. It was a very narrow gap, the buildings either side being a butchers and a tailors, and little light filtered to the floor there. Halandil was pretty sure, with a butchers and all, there would be rats.
But there was something else there, in that gap-alley. Not a rat, a person. He could see a silhouette there. Looking round, he tried to see if any parents had lost a toddler, but the street was busy and raucous, and no one was lost.
He looked back at the alley. Yes, there was definitely a person there, leaning, slumped against the wall, very still.
"Hello?" he called in, and started to approach the figure, leaving the horses by the butcher's awning pillar. As he got closer he saw the person was small, short, and definitely female.
He saw the fingers of the person was dripping blood. The arms, clothes were bloodied, and there was a bad smell. The face was covered in blood too, but Halandil had no trouble recognising it.
Now he knew where that girl had got to.
