Notes: Thank you all so much for the reviews...I was reminded why I do this, and now I'm even more excited about posting the rest. (I'll try to not make you wait so long again!) Oh, and by the way, I finished the story (except for the epilogue) two days ago, so now you can all be assured that there will be an ending. But not anytime soon. I don't even think we're half way yet.
Thank you for correcting me...Eowyn did have gray eyes, by jove! I shall try to fix that little slip in the rest of the story, but if you see a rogue blue eye, know that it is a mistake. And also, I know Faramir probably didn't see Eowyn before they met, but the Professor doesn't exactly say they didn't...he just said they were surprised. Well, so they are:-) No, really, I was just giving the movie a nod, because I like that scene. And I also love the obscenely short scene in the Houses, too, for all its shortness. His expression is worth a million words.
Chapter Ten: A Window That Does Not Face East
The next day a chill wind began to blow, and the short spell of warmth the inhabitants of the Houses of Healing had enjoyed came to an end. Though Thailan could not dissuade Faramir from walking in the gardens again, he did convince him to dress warmly and wear a heavy cloak. Thailan did not accompany him to the garden, for Faramir was now strong enough to walk a greater distance, and Thailan was content with Faramir's promise of resting when he felt the need.
As Thailan watched his charge go, he was struck again with the thought that Faramir was wandering through these days almost aimlessly, as if he was drowning, and the only thing keeping him afloat was his stubborn resolution to heal and be of use again to his city. Thailan knew it was almost impossible for Faramir to have any other reaction to the events that had just happened in his life: his father and brother's deaths, his final stand and the lives of his men it had cost, his recent wounds and unfathomable trip to the world of shadows, and the terrible waiting that affected all of them, but him most of all. How it must hurt him—now the Steward of Gondor, and still captain of his men—to be left behind while the other captains led their men to either victory and renown or glorious deaths. Somehow, Thailan told himself, I must help him find his pride and his will to live again. But how long has it been since he had both or either?
Outside in the sharp breeze Faramir drew his cloak about him and reflected on the sudden change of weather. He had not dressed a bit too warmly, for there was a bite to the air that seemed to freeze the very blood inside him. He rubbed his gloved hands together, thinking absently of all the times he had kept himself warm and alert in Ithilien when the nights had been so cold he could scarcely breathe. What had he done then? The time seemed to stretch infinitely between now and those days on patrol, but in reality it had been two weeks at the most since he had left the woods of Ithilien.
Now was not the time for reflection or memories. Faramir turned his thoughts purposefully away from pondering everything his mind so passionately cried out to think about, instead intent on focusing on the future. He had been denied to go with the host, that was painfully evident. He had been left here, to recover, to wonder, to rot. They had gone on, and they no doubt had little thought for Minus Tirith or the man who waited anxiously for word of their fate. He, however, had nothing but thoughts for them, he realized ironically.
Well, then let their wonder upon returning be that much greater. He would set his energy and sights upon rebuilding and revitalizing the city. He would work, and build, and order, and they would accomplish as much as they could before the host returned, if ever they did. There was no time to be wasted! He would begin by ordering a report of all able-bodied men be brought to him…
Faramir came to a sharp halt and gasped for breath, his shoulder flooded in pain. He had forgotten his own weakness and had walked too fast; now his breath came painfully and fitfully. He gripped the stones that formed the wall, for his steps had led him up onto the walls, and tried to steady his breathing and calm the pain. With a rueful smile, he acknowledged to himself that he would have to wait a few more days before undertaking his scheme. His body was not yet ready to be pushed to work, no matter how restless his mind was.
"My Lord Faramir?" The voice was not familiar to him, and he turned swiftly to see the Warden of the Houses of Healing standing not ten feet away. Faramir's eyes narrowed in confusion, and he was conscious that his breathing was still somewhat labored. Then, before the Warden could say anything else, Faramir's glance fell on the lady behind the Warden, and his eyes grew wide again.
There she stood—the lady he had seen the day before in her window. She was just as beautiful as before, though now she wore a heavy wool dress and light mantle. Her hair was still unbound, and it draped over her shoulders in such startling gold locks that Faramir could not draw his eyes away for a long moment. His eyes went next to her face, and there he read her shock and wonder, and underneath it the same fear he had seen yesterday. She had obviously not been expecting to see him, and she even looked slightly embarrassed. As the Warden spoke, greeting Faramir and telling him of this lady's wish to see the Steward of the city, he suddenly thought he understood.
It was true the lady's surprise upon seeing him was no less great than his upon seeing her. She had been expecting some older man, much like the Warden, especially since she had heard tales of the stern, rigorous Steward ruling in Gondor. When her eyes fell on Faramir, therefore, she was at once puzzled and embarrassed. Had the old Steward, then, been killed in the battle? Had he gone with the host? By the look of this young man—young! she marveled—he was a warrior himself, and he had some superior wisdom in his eyes. His features were startlingly handsome, and as she gazed at him she saw with a jolt that he bore a strong resemblance to Boromir of Gondor, who had stopped in Edoras on his journey to the land of the elves.
She noticed at once that he was recovering from some wound himself, and that was no doubt why he was in the Houses and had not gone with the host. It must have been a very serious wound, she reasoned, or he could not possibly be excluded from the captains' company. She was beginning to ponder just how ill he might have been when she was brought back to the conversation by the Warden's words and insistence that she had wanted to see the Steward. "Do not mistake his words, my Lord," she said with a slight lift of her chin. "I do not suffer from lack of care, for I have never been treated better than by the healers in these Houses. But I am now on the road to recovery, and I cannot lie idle."
At her words Faramir felt something painful stir in his heart. The way she said idle brought to his mind all the feelings he had recently been enduring, and for a glimpse of a second he was tempted to agree with her. Instead he gave the Warden a significant look and waved him away. The man bowed and turned away, but his eyes gave away how much he had wished to remain and hear what the two said to each other. Faramir was not sorry; the Warden was a kind man, and he had wisdom and discernment, but whatever this woman had to say to him was, he sensed, deeply personal and private, no matter how hard she tried to say it nonchalantly.
"As you can see," Faramir began, leaning against the wall imperceptibly for support, "I too am a prisoner of these Houses, recovering from wounds sustained in battle." At her look of inquisitiveness crossed with annoyance, he hurried on. "I have not yet taken up authority in the city, but if I had still I don't think I would cross the Warden in matters such as these. He knows how far a healing body can be pushed."
The lady's lips pressed together and she drew her cloak tighter about her. Faramir was struck with the way her eyebrows arched together towards her fair hair, causing her face to take on a lofty expression. "And I am supposed to simply lie in sloth?" Her words rang with her disdain of the position she was in and her anger towards herself for not recovering quicker; Faramir felt his spirit kindling with the nearness and similarity of her feelings to his own. He stepped forward slightly, pushing off the wall now that he felt his breath return to normal and his aching wound subside.
"There will be much to occupy us all in the days to come," he said level-headedly, though his own feelings did not agree with his words. "The time spent resting and recovering now will be of great use to everyone in the days to come." And reflecting, he almost added, thinking of the painful thoughts he himself could not dispose of. He knew from her expression and words that what she most desired was something to take her mind off the thoughts and feelings pressing down upon her. He knew not what those thoughts and feelings were, but they were probably as unforgiving as his own.
She paused at his words, and her eyes searched his face unashamedly. Something told her that he was a man who was wise beyond his years, and though her eyes told her he was formidable on the field of battle, her heart told her he was gentle and wise in his mannerisms and judgments. She had never met such a man before, and she was struck with wonder. Her wonder, however, was quickly extinguished by bitterness toward all men, and she berated herself inwardly. Yet her true wish, burning in her breast, could not be denied, and she lowered her head so that she did not have to look into his eyes—eyes that would no doubt think her an idiot in a moment—as she said, "But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet, and my window does not look eastward."
Faramir was startled at the simplicity of her words, and his heart felt her pain even more as he looked upon her bent head and slight shoulders. Her request might have seemed stupid to anyone else, but he understood her perfectly. He felt, just as she did, the dreaded waiting and watching, and the need to be able to look to the east and count the days, hours, and minutes since they went forth. He knew how she must, as he did, try to calculate how many days it would take them to march there, how and what they planned to do when there, and how long it might take a messenger to return to bring tidings to them.
"Your window does not look east?" he repeated, and there was no coddling or patronization in his voice. Indeed, Eowyn looked up at the softness of his voice and the understanding in his words. He smiled at her as he said, "In this I will command the warden, and you shall have a room with a window that looks eastward."
Eowyn was startled at the way his face looked when he smiled, and how every feature changed. It was just a small smile, and she found herself wondering for a split-second how much his face would radiate joy if he smiled—really smiled. Then she chastened herself roughly for her thoughts and bowed her head swiftly to thank him. No smile passed her lips.
Faramir hesitated, thinking upon his next words and the way she would take them. He knew she might think it impertinent and refuse him flatly, but he had to try. The dreadful waiting and watching they were both sentenced to had to have some relief, and he for one would find great comfort in a companion, especially one he felt such sadness and similarity with. "My lady," he said gently, unconsciously balling his left hand into a fist at his side, "we are sentenced to wait here until some word of the host returns to us, be it either good or ill. Why should we not pass the hours together, walking in these gardens? It would ease my care greatly if you would walk with me, from time to time, and speak of your home."
Eowyn's eyebrows rose even higher as she stared at him, disbelieving what she had just heard. Why should he wish to walk with her? She would be a pretty poor companion if only he knew her, she thought with some pleasure. Really, she should just refuse him and return to her room to be alone with her thoughts. Alone with her thoughts; she froze at that thought and realized that if she did not take his offer up she would be sentenced to her own company, with no diversion at all to draw her mind away from the feelings that were so painful to her. She looked at him again, and decided that she would rather spend her time walking with a companion far less knowledgeable than him than reflecting alone.
"I am not the companion you desire," she said frankly, "for I am a shield maiden and my hands are rough and my tongue not laced with silver. But I will walk with you, if you so desire, and we will perhaps share some of the burdens of watching and waiting."
Faramir bowed his head in acquiescence and watched as she turned and walked slowly back toward the Houses. She seemed, then, not like a bird as he had previously thought, but like a delicate flower that was being crushed, yet attempting to stay erect. At the last flash of gold as she disappeared inside he turned and walked slowly down the steps—they were still hard for him—and returned to his room.
Kitha and Thailan were stacking and removing dishes as he entered. He smiled at the girl as she left, and Thailan shut the door with a smile of his own. "Are you thoroughly chilled, as I predicted?" he asked as he unclasped the cloak from Faramir's throat. The clasp at his throat was still hard for Faramir to undo without pain, though dressing himself was getting easier.
"It is cold," Faramir agreed. "But I am used to these conditions." Thailan nodded with another grin and laid the cloak over a chair.
"Have something warm," the young man suggested, gesturing to the table where a jug and several cups stood. "Kitha brought that moments before you returned."
Faramir nodded and walked to the table to pour himself a drink. As he raised the cup to his lips he suddenly asked, "Is there no one who can tell me aught of the lady Eowyn?"
Thailan was taken aback at the request, but he crossed his arms as he leaned against the windowsill. "There is one, perhaps," he said slowly. "The hobbit Meriadoc rode with the lady and the eored and was wounded very seriously. He is in these Houses, now."
Faramir set the mug on the table and nodded at his servant. "Send for him, if he is able to come," he said quietly. "I wish to speak with him."
As Eowyn entered her room she raised her good arm to unclasp the brooch that held her cloak in place. It was good only in the sense that it was better than her other arm—for both of the lady Eowyn's arms had been hurt in battle. Her left arm had been broken, and was mending in a sling at her side, and her right arm was still cold and had very little feeling in it. Eowyn thought with some satisfaction that the Lord Faramir had evidently not seen her arm in the sling, though she was not sure why that pleased her so much.
She threw the cloak over the back of a chair and poured herself a draught of some hot beverage sitting on the table. It was refreshing, she found, being able to think of something other than her own troubles, for now she could ponder the man she had met this afternoon. She was not in the habit of making fun of people, but she was always critical when meeting others. Eowyn had a sharp wit and very quick eyes, so she did not miss much. For instance, she had noticed after just a few moments of their conversation that he had been wounded in the shoulder—an arrow wound, she thought. There was also something about his air that suggested long suffering and a pervading weariness, but she had no way of knowing how that came about.
His manner, she reflected as she seated herself on the corner of the bed, had been pleasing. Her first impressions had remained throughout their conversation, and she thought now that he was a very knowledgeable man, and he had a wisdom and a grace to his carriage that pleased her. His well muscled form and lean body had not gone unnoticed by her frank eye either, for she was used to looking at men of all shapes and sizes, and though he was slighter in build than many of the eored, Eowyn knew enough about physique and seen enough of his reflexes to know that Faramir would not easily be beaten in combat.
He had been good looking, no doubt, but Eowyn dismissed that and thought about his manner. He had been gentle and kind to her, true, but there was such a reserve to his words and emotions that Eowyn thought he must have very staid or shallow emotions—perhaps both. Yet he had wished to walk with her, and if his only flaw was stuffiness and shallow emotions, so be it. She could at least have the pleasure of observing him and marveling at his words, be they idiotic or wise.
The door opened slowly and Eowyn watched as her maidservant entered, bearing an armful of clothes. The plump brunette smiled at her mistress as she threw the gowns onto the bed. "Here we are," she said cheerfully, "some gowns I found that should fit you." She began holding them up and Eowyn saw that they were all very simple in cut and style, and they all looked warm and comfortable. She was grateful for the simplicity, and though their colors were not quite to her taste—they were almost all deep, dark colors—she fingered them gently.
"These will do fine," she said with a nod. "Thank you for finding them, Bithie."
Bithie began folding them carefully and opened a small chest of drawers and inserted them. "Your shoes you already have," she said, "and your cloak. These gowns are to be used only until, of course, the tailors can make you some nicer ones."
Eowyn looked up at her maid and frowned. "These will be fine," she protested. Bithie shook her head.
"No," she said with a shrug, "the warden is very firm upon the fact that your ladyship should have finer things. He makes it very clear that the hospitality of Gondor should extend farther than simply caring for you." She smiled at her lady and put the last dress in the closet. "Therefore a seamstress will be in tomorrow for a fitting, if it pleases your ladyship."
Eowyn saw the futility of trying to protest the gowns and realized it would be easier to simply accept them without complaint. She only hoped they wouldn't be too full of frills and flounces. "Very well," she said, dismissing the topic and turning toward the fireplace. She watched the flames flickering for a long time and listened to Bithie bustling around behind her before saying suddenly, "Bithie, tell me about the lord Faramir."
It was not Eowyn's way to be coy when talking, but still Bithie paused and looked up in surprise. Eowyn's back was turned to her, and the maid hesitated for a minute, wondering if she should inquire as to why Eowyn was asking after him, or how she even knew of his existence. She decided against it. "Well," she began, picking up a pot of salve and a cloth, "he is perhaps the most beloved captain in Minus Tirith. Except for Lord Boromir, that is. Oh, but—" she sighed. "You will have heard about that." Bithie came in front of Eowyn and knelt down to take her right arm in her hands; she began rubbing it briskly with the cloth and salve. "All these captains congregating in this city," she said with a shrug of her shoulder, "and most of them I've never heard of before. But Lord Faramir, why he was born and bred in this city. Minus Tirith certainly never had a fiercer protector than Lord Faramir, not even Lord Boromir."
Eowyn was intrigued by Bithie's words, and she goaded the maid on. "Who are his parents? And why is he here?"
Bithie gave Eowyn a strange look. "Why, Lord Denethor and Lady Finduilas herself, bless her beloved soul. Lady Finduilas has been dead these thirty years, but lord Denethor…" she trailed off and looked at the floor. "Has your ladyship not heard, then?"
Eowyn shook her head and watched as the maidservant twisted her lips uncomfortably. "Well," Bithie began again, "Lord Faramir was wounded by an arrow in the last stand he made, just before Dol Amroth arrived. They say he was there until the last, until he was struck down by the Harad dart. His uncle, Prince Imrahil, found him and brought him back, but by the time he arrived here he was wandering in a fever, and nothing we could do would bring him out. We believed for a time that the arrow must have come from the shadows above, but the man who healed him—Lord Aragorn, some say his name was—insisted the fever came only from the black breath, weariness, and grief over his father." Bithie shook her head sadly. "He was weary, alright, and he had endured quite a deal of blackness and shadow in the days leading up to that day. He wandered for hours before Lord Aragorn healed him, and he was almost dead when he was brought back from the shadow. We owe a great debt to that man, whoever he may be, for he saved one of Gondor's most faithful and steadfast sons. And it was no wonder he was so far gone before he was healed, for anyone who had endured his father's—"
Bithie stopped abruptly and her cheeks flushed. Eowyn had never before been so glad to have such a loquacious servant, and she leaned forward. "What?" she asked. "What happened?"
Bithie looked up into Eowyn's face and hesitated. "The Lord Faramir," she began shortly, "has never had a good relationship with his father. Well, they never saw eye to eye on many points, and while Faramir would never cross his lord and father outright, he held to his opinions very firmly. They were both stubborn, both of them. It was Lord Denethor who sent Faramir out again to the battlefield, though it seemed to everyone it was foolishness. And when they brought his son back to him, wounded…well, they say he went mad."
"Mad?" Eowyn was more intrigued than she had been in a long time.
"Mad—crazy. He took him up on a bier and brought him to Rath Dinen, the silent street. There he entered the House of the Dead and built a pyre to burn both his son and himself."
Eowyn was horrified and she drew away slightly with an expression that conveyed her feelings. "Burn?" she echoed. Bithie nodded.
"Faramir was saved at the last minute by Mithrandir and a halfling named Peregrin," Bithie went on, "and brought back here. It was then that we realized we would lose him, and we would have had the Lord Aragorn not come and saved him. His father, the Lord Denethor, was killed in the fire."
The maid stood and returned the pot of salve and the cloth to the table. Eowyn stared into the fire again, mulling over the news she had just heard. So this man had had a life of hardship too, it seemed. He had so recently lost a brother and father that Eowyn was shocked at his calm conversation this afternoon, and she voiced her thoughts aloud. "He seemed so calm this afternoon, not at all like a man who had just lost a dear brother and father."
Bithie crossed the room and put her hand on Eowyn's shoulder. "Oh, miss, he is hurting. I do not know him, but I know enough about him, him having, as I said, grown up in and served this city all his life, to know that he doesn't show his emotions like most people. Some say it's because of his father, and that he forced him to be so staid, but that I do not know." Bithie paused and then asked, "Did you, then, meet him this afternoon?"
Eowyn nodded mutely. She fingered the sling on her arm as she said, "He asked me to walk with him again."
Bithie's face lit up. "Oh!" she cried, "how wonderful! He's such a gentleman, he is. You will like him, I promise you will. But—" he face suddenly turned worried, "you must not tell him anything about his father and the pyre. He will know, of course, that his father is dead, but you must not breathe a word about his madness. Faramir loved his father very dearly, and it would absolutely crush him, especially now, while his body is still so weak."
Eowyn promised absently that she would hold her tongue and continued to look into the fire, again thinking over what she had learned. Eventually Bithie convinced her to eat a morsel, and then she retired to bed, again at Bithie's bidding. Her thoughts, however, for the first time since she had awoken in the Houses, dwelled the entire evening on someone other than herself.
Notes: I suppose I should really have asked what you think of my Eowyn after this chapter, since she had about a three second part in the last chapter. So...what do you think?
Next chapter...Eowyn and Faramir talk more; Faramir finds out about you-know-what...