Enjoy. This chapter was partially-reassembled from the previous chapter because it wouldn't fit. This story is inadvertently becoming more and more political... (A/N at bottom)


Part 6

"Master Maradif, do you know why I called you here?"

The Medicine Man of Harad bowed low before the White Lady of Ithilien.

"I came as soon as called. I did not ask for a reason."

The wife of the Steward lay back on a long sofa-like chair. There were white pillows for her to lean on. Her hair was loose and long and flowing, and she wore easy clothes: a linen shift with a cotton overdress of pale blue. Her feet were bare. It was obvious she had not gone out for many days.

"I wish to discuss some things in private with you." Eowyn glanced toward the scowling figure that stood behind his master. Maradif took the hint. He barked a few words at Noraliwi the apprentice, who left the room quietly without complaint. Eowyn's eyes followed him.

She bid the healer to sit. He did so awkwardly.

"Shaliwar!" she called. A brown haired girl came in, bearing drink and fruit.

"I am Lirwen. Shaliwar is not here. She has not been seen for some time." The timid girl said.

"I see." Eowyn stared pensively for a while. Then, recollecting her senses, she offered the refreshments to the healer.

"I cannot eat while my lady has a problem." He said.

"You are kind, but, please, drink something. It is a hot day, and you will have walked far."

"Does his lordship know that you asked to meet me?"

Eowyn paused as she poured the man some apple and grape wine.

"No." she said, "You know that I do not wish him to be unnecessarily concerned. This meeting is unnecessary. But he is concerned at the moment, very much so. In a week he is leaving for your country, master, to bear witness along with my brother, the King of Rohan, to a treaty that Elessar has drawn between the western kingdoms and your realms. He has enough on his plate, as they say in Bree."

"Ah yes. Bree." Maradif sighed, "I had thought that I too must head north for there... but I have grown to like this land and its mild climate... I wish to travel, but I am no longer a young man. I hope you understand, lady."

Eowyn nodded, "I too, am no longer the shieldmaiden that struck the Witch King. She who did it was a brave fool who was lucky and won her Prince. And she seems a distant memory." Eowyn stared gravely into her cup, and then said, "How does your apprentice feel? Will he follow you north or does he wish to stay here in Ithilien?"

"I do not know. I do not know whether I still wish to head north or not. He said when I picked him up that he would follow me wherever I went, but I feel he would rather stay in Ithilien. It would be wrong to drag him after an old man's fancies."

"Oh?" Eowyn stared intensely at the old man, "You say you picked him up?"

"Aye, lady. When I set off with my mule in Umbar, he came to me, a young man in pretty poor shape, asking me where I was headed. I said I was going to Ithilien, and then Dunland, and then Eriador, for Bree, and he said 'take me with you'. I was totally against the idea at first. But he told me he had knowledge of herbs and concoctions, and convinced me to take him on as an apprentice. He's not the hardest worker, but he's remarkably bright, and quite useful through our time together."

"How old is he?" asked Eowyn

"Hmm. Not much younger than yourself, lady, I would think. I have never asked him."

"That's a very old age to become an apprentice."

"He... is a little extraordinary, certainly. But I feel very warm towards him. He is, after all, an orphan." Maradif said

"How do you know?"

Maradif was silent.

"Are you a married man, master?"

The healer drew a deep breath, "I was."

"What happened?" Eowyn could not stop herself from asking. The man hesitated before starting.

"My sons went to war and never returned. My daughters married men who went to war and never returned. I do not know what became of them. Orcs are not kind to prisoners. My wife... she pined away for her lost children and a 'fluence from the stars killed her. So you see. Your people were not the only people to suffer under Annatar."

"I am sorry," Eowyn said eventually.

"But we are talking astray. You called me here to discuss something."

"Ah yes. Shaliwar?" Eowyn called, then stopped, "No, wait, she cannot be found." she walked over to her dressing table, and brought the glass vial, half full with the prescribed dark concoction.

"Ah, the baby potion." Maradif said cheerfully, "Has my lady been taking it every day as prescribed?"

"No," Eowyn said curtly, to the medicine man's surprise, "Master, I believe I have been suffering side effects."

"Side effects?" the man's expression was agape.

"I asked you here to alert you of this. I have been suffering from... dreams that are most queer in nature."

"Dreams?"

Eowyn put down her cup. Her manner became one of a tidy schoolteacher.

"Master, I have reasoned it with myself logically. It is quite obvious that my dreams are caused by your potion – it has something to do with it all anyhow. For three nights consecutively since taking the medicine, I have dreamt of my deceased father-in-law threatening my, as yet unborn, daughter. I also have reason to believe I have been sleepwalking. Is this a regular occurrence with your other clients, master Maradif?" her voice was, alas, chilly.

Maradif had the look of a rabbit condemned staring up at a brief future in a potato stew.

"My lady! I-I... I do not understand! I have n-never, you must believe me – I would never harm—"

She held up a soft hand to halt him.

"Please. I accuse nothing yet." She watched him for a while as he fretted in front of her uneasily, and then continued carefully, "Although one must admit, it is a subtle plan. As the ruler of a small but significant nation makes plans to join the campaign of a much larger and powerful one, his wife and unborn child unexpectedly fall upon problems..."

Maradif coughed, and then started to choke.

"Please..." he spluttered, "I would never..."

She stopped him again.

"I smell a rat, as they say in Bree. Denethor does not wear a sapphire earring. You are excused, and your apprentice too. You will take the phial with you and analyse exactly what it is made of. Then you will report this to me in confidentiality. If anyone asks a question about your venture here today, you will say that you came to me today to check up on me and my condition, and to give me some more of the potion, prepared as the first batch. I told you I had been suffering from bad sleep and headaches, and that was all. You sat down and gave me some advice, and you left. That is what happened today."

Maradif nodded, only half-comprehending what was going on, but he would obey. He was struck by the simple power of this woman. She Who Slew the Witch King. He did not doubt that a bit. He bowed again, silently.

"Now you are excused." She said.


Faramir stared at the girl. She was a pretty girl, quiet and obedient, and had been a indispensable help to Eowyn.

And lying here she was, bruised, beaten, and currently unconscious.

He had not told Eowyn yet, trying to attend to the girl by himself the best he could in the house of healing, but this incident unnerved him. When Halandil had carried her home, he had thought she was dead. She certainly looked it. Her face was bruised and bloody, and an arm was broken, and her pulse was weak, so very faint. But he had attended to her the best he could, and her situation was stable for the time being, though he was sure there were many harms he couldn't see. But that was not the worst of it.

Every single one of her eight fingers was swollen to almost twice their normal thickness, like angry red and purple sausages. Some of them were bent in awkward ways, and others were crushed and covered in blood. Her right thumb had no fingernail.

Faramir was no expert, but this was nothing worse than orc torture.

"Who could have done this?" he murmured hoarsely to himself.

"I know not, lord," Halandil said, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice, "but if they wanted to conceal it, they did it clumsily. What I want to know is their motive."

"What has a simple serving girl ever done to deserve this?" Faramir suddenly turned to his guard, "Do you think it could be perhaps the... those people?"

"You mean the race intolerant clan... but I have never seen them do anything so terrible." Halandil shook his head.

"No, no. It cannot be them. The clan kill, but they do not torture like this. All these wounds look fresh, recent. Shaliwar has a life outside the palace… do you think… perhaps…" he trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say. Everything he could think of just seemed too horrifying to speak aloud.

"Should we tell her lady?"

"No, not yet. I must think about this. Do you have the horses now?"

"Yes, lord." Halandil hesitated, and then started, "I think I saw the culprit. It was a dark-skinned man, who came out of the same alley that I found her in. He… seemed in haste, sir."

Faramir gave the guard a piercing look, "A dark-skinned man. A haradrim, or a variag?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you think he did it?"

"I do not know, sir. I cannot be certain of anything, save that it would take more than one… man, to do this."

"Perhaps he saw her, and was going to get help." Faramir tried.

"You may take that view sir, but mine are less agreeable."

Faramir sighed, and unknowingly started pacing the floor. He rubbed his temples with one hand. This was too much. The treaty with Harad. Finding out Eowyn was pregnant again. A gypsy doctor from Harad. Dreams of Denethor. And now their haradrim maid, not dead, but tortured.

And he was leaving for Harad in less than a week. Eomer had said he was bypassing Ithilien on his route. He would insist on visiting his sister, of course, and he would celebrate and vex himself to find he could soon be an uncle.

"Halandil?"

"My liege?"

"Is it possible to postpone my leaving?"

"My lord! But you cannot take the risk of being late to the ceremony! King Elessar needs you there! I thought you said it was imperative that Khalifah be established as chief-king of Harad."

Faramir did not answer. Then Halandil spoke gravely.

"You are worried, my lord, about what will happen in your absence."

Faramir nodded distractedly.

"Then entrust that burden to me. I will stay behind. I will protect her lady with my life. I will look after Shaliwar as well. My knowledge of healing is not magnificent, but I am skilled."

Faramir was silent for a moment. And then he spoke sombrely,

"Halandil, do you know that Lady Eowyn is with child?"

The man's expression did not change, but with military tact, he bowed down on one knee, "I had my suspicions sir, but now that I truly know, my life is truly inconsequent. I have sworn to protect, and protect I will."

Faramir place his hands on the man's shoulders, "Rise, noble faithful. I need no oath from you. I trust you well enough to leave you this responsibility." He sighed again, a weary, tired one. His sleep, too, had been disturbed, "But I must leave you another task. There is a haradrim doctor that my wife consults. I want you to keep notice of his movements."

"My lord?"

"He has an apprentice too. Keep an eye on both. I want you to be alert. Be prepared. Too many things are happening at the same time."


"Why cannot we just kill them all?!" the speaker landed his fist on the heavy table.

The chief at the head of the table sighed, resting his forehead in his hands. Not again.

"Because..." he started, but was not allowed to finish.

"You take far too long in this operation! Subtlety, subtlety, but will it actually get any results?!"

The chief sighed again, and taking out a knife from his robes, stabbed it into the table with a thud. The seated men around it jumped.

"It is working. I have had reports of ill health, depression. The Prince leaves in a week, perhaps a few days. I shall continue monitoring."

"How?" the voice said scornfully, "The servant is dead."

The chief became still. His hand gripped the knife hard.

"Dead?" he said calmly.

"Well, she wasn't exactly co-operating. So we tortured her, like you allowed us."

"Yes... torture... so why did she die?"

The man became uneasy, "Well, we didn't mean it. I suppose the boys were slightly too... extreme. She just... stopped moving, and we... panicked. She was still –cold- and we didn't know what to do with her, so I sent some boys to dispose of her and make it look like it was done by gondorrim… bigotry."

The chief stood up.

"You did WHAT?" in any other situation, his expression would have been comical, but his fellow tribesmen saw the glint in his eyes that was definitely not amused.

His subordinate babbled, mouthing a load of gibberish. The chief sighed again resignedly, and sat down, his eyes fixed on the tabletop.

Then in a single motion, he plucked his knife from the table and flung it at the man. It spun a shining silver arc in the air and embedded itself into Udun's chest. He keeled over, making a soft thud as he hit the floor. The others seated around the table shivered, but did not move.

The chief stood up again impassively, and walked over to his former comrade, and plucked his knife out.

"I have little patience for incompetence." He said quietly, wiping the blade on the man's shirt, "No more mistakes shall be made, lest we all lose our heads, and not by my blade."

He looked around the congregation, all united for a single purpose – his purpose.

"I am afraid our fragile plans will be subject to changes. Danilbar," He addressed one of the seated, a Rhunic man who before this had been a farmer living near Dagorlad, "I'm afraid your contacts further up north will have to be alerted that action is to be taken by them now. Remember, Rohirric armour is both thick and strong. Much like their people, actually. "

The Rhunic man stood up, a fist to his breast, and bowed, "By tomorrow, it will be done."


Eowyn dreamt nothing that night. Faramir had come back from his duties, a distant look to his face, but he refused to say when she asked him what was worrying him. He asked her how her day had been, and she ranted a little vaguely about how the camellias she had planted were dying. She suspected he had not heard a word of it, but to know that she was preoccupied with trivial things again was a comfort to him, that she knew.

"You'll not mind me if I sleep first, do you? It has been a... tiring day." He had said.

"Of course not, my husband. Let me comfort you." She had smiled, played the doting wife, though it pained her to keep secrets from him.

"Your brother will be coming soon. Messengers at Lammedon said he was coming down the north-south road towards Anorien... two more days should do it..."

"You are tired. Sleep. Do not fret over Eomer."

So she let him believe that she was alright, massaged his tense, muscular shoulders, and watched him sleep. She watched the slight frowns that appeared on his face, eventually smoothed over into calm, easy slumber, smiling at the slightly jerky sounds of his breathing – he always swore he never snored.

And she slept too, knowing that as long as he was beside her, she would be alright.

At least, for tonight.


A/N: Forgot to apologise for long delay when editing last chapter, so sorry about that, and again, apologies for the long delay. Although it proves I haven't abandoned this fic, or the entirety of fanfictiondotnet altogether, I will be busy for the next few months, so don't be surprised if updates are sparse (but this is nothing new): I have GCSE exams to worry about. Scratch that. The pressure may make me writing-crazy. But I do plan to use my PC less in future: there's just too much on my mind at the moment. To the faithful readers out there (you know who you are) : thankyou. I amtruly grateful for all the helpful, encouraging feedback that I have received.

In answer to one of Kingmaker's reviews: I attract unfriendly reviews partly because I (used to) scour fanfiction a LOT. And in doing so, it is inevitable to come across something I don't like. I critisise. I have been known to flame when in a bad mood. But some people are overly sensitive :). Even so, the person responsible for a small number of those is my boyfriend (also an occasional browser and writer), back in the days when we were in denial of our flirting. Bless him.