Notes: I do love this chapter. I feel that this is where Faramir and Eowyn really begin to break through to each other. It is as if a simple act--not brutal honesty, though that helps, or commiseration, though that, too, helps--is the most effective in pulling off the masks they wear. But you can be the judge of that.
Chapter Fourteen: Striking a Deal
Eowyn's door was slightly ajar as she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. She liked to have the door partly open, for it held the monotony of the day at bay if she could listen to the people passing in the hallway. This pair, she decided, belonged to a man, light of build, and probably a ranger. Eru, she thought, turning over on her bed and closing her eyes. It's probably Faramir.
Her supposition was confirmed as she heard Thailan's voice in the hallway, coming from the other direction. "My Lord," he said, obviously meeting him in the hall, "you look tired. Where have you been?"
"With the men," came Faramir's soft voice in reply. "Visiting. Don't worry Thailan—this time I am quite able to make the walk." Eowyn found herself sitting up slightly to catch their words better. She suddenly felt terribly mischievous and guilty for listening in on their conversation, but she was too interested to stop.
"As soon as I drop these linens off," Thailan was saying now, "I'll bring you a drink. I'll just be a minute."
"Fine." Faramir's reply showed just how thrilled he was about receiving yet another drink he did not ask for and did not have the stomach for. Eowyn listened as she heard Thailan's feet begin to move and then suddenly stop, as if he had just been grabbed by the arm. "I'll tell you what you can get me," Faramir's voice came again. "Is there any sort of—library, or stock of books here?"
Thailan hesitated for a moment before saying, "I know of no such thing, my Lord. Do you wish for something to read?"
"More than anything." Eowyn marveled at how expressive Faramir's voice was…she could almost share his yearning for literature, though she could not read. "If there is any sort of books here…anything at all…"
"I know of no library," Thailan's voice said, "but the Warden has his own private stock in his chambers. He would be delighted, I am sure, to lend you a few. I'll ask him." His footsteps sounded again, and Faramir's voice rang out quickly, "Well, don't put him to any inconvenience—"
"It's none at all, I'm sure," Thailan's hurried reply came as his voice grew fainter. "He'll be delighted!"
By the clicking of the door, Eowyn knew Faramir had entered his room and the conversation was over. She rolled over on the bed again, laying a hand over her eyes. Read, he had said. Do you wish for something to read. Yes, Eowyn thought. I do wish for something to read. Bring me something, Thailan. Only I can't read. She sat up with a derisive snort and stared at the door. Here she was, eavesdropping because she had nothing else to do. Well, perhaps she could put her stay here to a useful end and bend her mind to learning how to read. She knew the only person who would have the time, skill, and inclination to teach her was close at hand; was he willing to do so after she had been so rude in the garden?
It took her until sundown to get her courage up, and when she did she brushed her hair with long, even strokes and pulled it back into a gentle twist. She had not wanted to look pretty for a man for so long she wasn't even bothered by the feeling, and when she knocked on the door she straightened her chin slightly. She knew she looked fine in her soft gray dress—the seamstress had not yet finished her finer clothes—but she wanted, for some reason, to look beautiful. When Faramir opened the door and his eyes grew slightly wider, she was thrilled to think that she had succeeded, if only a little.
"Did they find what you asked for?" she said, saying her words carefully, before he had a chance to speak. She had rehearsed her speech over and over and was able to recite it quite convincingly. Eomer had always said she was a good actress.
Faramir's forehead creased slightly, and then his eyes lit with a soft glow that Eowyn found was humor. "The books, you mean?" he asked. "Yes, Thailan brought a few. Would you—" he suddenly seemed to sense the impropriety of asking her into his room, and seemingly ignorant of the impropriety of her even showing up at his door, opened the door wide. "Would you like to borrow some?"
Eowyn pursed her lips slightly, screwing up her courage one more time. You've gotten yourself this far, she told herself, you might as well finish it. "Actually—" she stopped, realizing that the words would be infinitely harder to say to his face, attentive and alive, than to the post of her bed. "I…" she could not finish, and she was painfully aware of the flush to her cheeks.
He knew. His first reaction was to chew his lip slightly, from the inside, and then he smiled at her. Turning around he selected a volume from a stack on his table and said, "I have been told my reading voice is quite good, and I love nothing better than to have a listener. Have the hours grown too much for you?"
Eowyn's relief was intense, and she nodded mutely. He looked around, his eyes searching for something. "We—could read in the eastern chamber," he said. "There's usually hardly anyone there this time of night, and I for one don't like crowds." Again, Eowyn nodded, and Faramir pulled his door shut and held his hand out as an indication that Eowyn should go first.
The chamber was only a few steps from the rooms, and neither talked on the short walk. But as they settled into some chairs Eowyn found her tongue again, and desperately trying to salvage her dignity, said, "The hours drag so slowly here. Thank you for offering."
Faramir's smile lit his eyes and even his features seemed to sparkle with the light. "I am only too happy to have found a fellow lover of the written word." The book fell open in his hand, worn from much use, and he began to read. His voice came alive, dipping into the mellow parts and growing hard and cold when the text was serious. Eowyn found herself falling under a spell, not simply because the words were beautifully written and flowed in a quick stream of sounds, but because his voice made them alive. When his voice was sad she was moved almost to tears, such was the depth of his sorrow. When his voice held joy she wanted to laugh aloud for the sheer whimsical life in his voice.
Eventually he slowed and his voice dropped away. For a long time she didn't even seem to notice that he had stopped and he watched her face in the quiet, flickering firelight. Finally, she held out her hand. "May I see it?" she asked. He handed her the book without so much as a nod. Her hands were gentle and almost reverent as she touched the pages, peering at the words in fascination. They were so closely written together they almost looked like drawings of flowers or waves, and she realized with a start that what he had been reading was not written in the common tongue, for she knew enough letters to know this was not it. She looked up to find him watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "What language is this?" she asked, her voice sharp, but not harsh.
Faramir's gaze dropped to the book. "It is elvish," he said quietly, "Quenya. The annals of Gondor are full of such books." He returned his gaze to her face to find her astonished.
"But you read in common…a tale that I understood. How did you translate so quickly? Your voice never faltered." Her eyes looked large in her face, blue and full of wonder. "Do you know it so well?"
Faramir shrugged. "I have read it so many times before that I practically know it by heart. My father used to read it to me, in Quenya, and I later worked on translating it in school." He took the book back and flipped through the pages gently. "It's almost like an old friend, and one doesn't think about explaining an old friend very much—he is already in your heart, waiting to come out."
Eowyn looked down at her hands quickly, trying to hide the envy in her gaze. How she wished, at that moment, that she too had been given the opportunity to be educated in languages—indeed, even in her own language! She lifted her eyes to meet his; the fire seemed to die down, and the crackling to stop. "Will you read it—in its original language?" she asked in a soft voice.
Faramir bent his head and began reading, and if Eowyn had thought his voice held emotion and light before, it was nothing to what she heard now. Every word that dropped from his lips was like a jewel, well crafted and labored over, yet as fresh as if it had just come out of the mine. His voice was trained and supple, yet there was something about the tone of his voice that suggested a depth of real love for the language. He was not just a scholar, learned in the elvish language and reciting it with perfection, he was a character in the tale, living those words along with the other characters.
Eowyn didn't realize her eyes were closed until Faramir touched her arm, and she jerked slightly at his touch. She opened her eyes, and was immediately struck by his face, looking into her own, and it seemed to her that the beauty of his voice was topped only by the beauty of his countenance. But the moment passed, and she saw him once again as just another man, though her eyes had been opened to his skill. "That was beautiful," she said, and at once hated her words, for they seemed so colorless after the smooth elvish. She gave a short laugh, hating herself more, and fell silent.
Faramir closed the book and leaned back. He found his gaze drawn to the soft curve of her white neck, and he watched the spot where her dress met her skin in fascination. Every movement of hers captivated him, he realized, for in her there was a blend of strength and grace that he had never encountered before. Yet as his eyes traveled to her face he knew that she was not happy, for there was something weighing on her mind. It was not that she couldn't read—no, that caused her shame, but it was not the dark burden on her soul. That he did not know. Yet.
He wanted to teach her so much, yet he felt helpless. He wanted to see her eyes light up as she mastered a concept. He wanted to watch her neck and head bend delicately over a book, and see her long fingers grasp a pen and use it to make swirling letters. He wanted to know that she was happy in her accomplishment, and was happy with him. He didn't know why her happiness was so important to him, but it was. There wasn't, however, any way that he could see of offering to teach her that would not wound her pride. If there was one thing he had learned about this White Lady, it was that she protected her pride like a tigress.
As Eowyn stirred, oppressed by the silence that had fallen over them, he suddenly raised his head and smile played with his mouth for a moment. "My Lady," he said, sitting up slightly. Eowyn's head raised and she arched her eyebrows inquiringly. "I—I have a favor to ask of you."
Eowyn's surprise was evident, but she nodded encouragingly. "Yes?" she asked.
Faramir smiled at her, willing his eyes to hold nothing but comfort. "I have always been captivated by languages, as you have probably guessed. My tutors taught me elvish, of course, and I have dabbled in some other languages, but I never learned the language of Rohan. In fact, I know very little about the Rohirrim people, and that I regard as a terrible failure. Would you—would you consent to teach me, at least as far as I can learn?"
The silence in the room was heavy, but Faramir felt that what he had said was not wrong, and his wording had been chosen correctly. Eowyn's eyebrows were still raised, but her lips turned up at the corners. "Rohirrim is not a written language, for the most part," she said slowly. "I would have to teach you by ear alone." Faramir nodded and smiled at her.
"That much I know," he said. "It makes it much more alive, don't you think? Rather a language that is spoken and not written than a language that is written and no longer spoken."
Eowyn folded her hands, thinking about the turn of events. She had originally planned to ask to be taught how to read and write, and here she was about to agree to teach him her own language. Yet now…now she thought she could find the courage. Speaking quickly, before her resolve failed, she said, "Alright, I will, but on one condition." His inquiring gaze encouraged her, and she kept her eyes lowered as she said, "I found no time nor use for writing in Rohan, yet now I wish that I had been taught to read and write in the common. If I teach you my language, you must agree to teach me yours."
Faramir's laugh startled Eowyn, and she looked up to see him grinning at her. "We have struck a deal, then," he said. "One that is mutually beneficial." His lightness of heart encouraged Eowyn to smile at him, if only a little, and she nodded.
"We will start right away." But arresting her hand in midair as she reached for the book, she paused and seemed to notice how low the fire had burned, and how silent the halls had grown. She smiled slightly at Faramir and dipped her head to the side. "Perhaps tomorrow morning," she said, "for I fear I am weary."
Faramir nodded and stood swiftly to give her his hand as she rose. "Shall we meet here again, mid-morning?" he asked. At Eowyn's nod he went on: "I shall endeavor to find parchment and writing implements, if there are any left in this city."
Eowyn smiled and nodded again and was bidding Faramir goodnight when he lay his hand once more on her arm. At his action Eowyn raised her eyes to his and was startled to see something akin to grief there. "I am sorry about this afternoon," he said softly. "It was wrong of me to press you, and I beg your forgiveness."
Eowyn shook her head and batted his apology away. "It is of no consequence," she replied.
"But it is," he insisted, his words arresting her steps. "I have no right to pry into your affairs like I did. I of all people should know how tiresome that can be, and yet I pressed you like a fool." He looked down and then raised his grey-green eyes once more to hers, holding her gaze. "Know that I will never again ask you to speak of what your heart feels, when you do not wish to do so. But my Lady, I would also dare to say that you and I have found friendship and solace in one another, and if there is anything you desire to confide to me, I am willing to hear it."
Eowyn smiled for his sake and murmured something appropriate as she turned out of the room. The short walk back to her room was silent, and as she shut the door after bidding him goodnight she knew she should feel relieved that he had apologized and gave his word he would not ask her to share her feelings again. After all, wasn't that what she wanted? To be left alone? Yet the only sight that rose again and again to her mind's eye was that of Faramir's expression as she turned away from him, refusing him, shunning his kind intentions. She told herself there was absolutely no reason for her to divulge her secrets to him, but she could not shake off the feeling that if she only told him, somehow it would all be right. That's ridiculous, she thought as she climbed into her bed and watched the bedside candle flicker. There is no way he could possibly help me. If only I could forget the way he looked at me, like he knew all about why I came, and all of the feelings I can't even think about myself.
With an effort, she forced herself to think of other things, and before long she was smiling slightly and drifting off to sleep, thinking of pens, parchment, and letters dancing before her eyes.
His gasp was like the sound of a stone dropped in a still pool, shattering the silence of the night. He was aware that he was sitting up only after his breathing slowed and his sight cleared; his eyes shone in the pale moonlight like jewels, bright and full of fire. It was not the middle of the night anymore, but morning had not yet begun to break through the night. The world slumbered in the cold, dead period between comfortable night and hopeful morning.
Faramir sat, staring, until his mind returned to the coldness of the room, pushing away the shadows of fire that clung to him from his dreams. As if he was shrugging off a cloak, he shook his shoulders and raised his hands—cold in the moonlight—to his forehead, willing his brow to be cool. It was warm and sticky with sweat, and he gave a shuddering sigh. With the release of air he seemed to release his strength, too, and he sank back against the pillows. The glowing embers in the fireplace seemed to challenge him, beckoning to him and taunting him with their light. They were light, he was dark. They had warmth, and he was cold. They won.
Faramir turned his head purposefully away from the fireplace, trying to keep his thoughts from his dream. It was a futile effort, and he knew even before he began to try. The images flashed through his mind once again, almost as clearly as they had when he was sleeping. He dreamed of faceless fire gods, wreathed in flames, beckoning and dragging him towards their biers. He dreamed of feelings, not men, and that was worse, for he could not fight feelings, even as he could not fight dreams. He trained his thoughts during the day, and he could will his mind to dwell upon what he wanted. But at night he could not control the direction his thoughts took, and he was at the mercy of his phantasms.
Finding strength from some inner place, Faramir pushed himself up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The floor was cool and felt good on his bare feet; he sat for a minute, allowing his mind to relish the touch of pleasure. Then he stood, rubbing his shoulder, which was throbbing and stiff, and turned toward the balcony. The door was shut, but he opened it, grateful that it did not stick or make a squeaking sound, and stepped into the light of the moon. He bent over the railing, gripping it tightly until the wave of nausea passed. He knew he was recovering, but still his weakness overcame him every so often and his efforts were more than his body was willing to do. Yet the moment passed, and he remained standing on the balcony, supporting his legs with his grip on the railing.
It was in the night, directly after such a dream as the one he had just had, that he remembered most poignantly the reality of the darkness that had almost consumed him completely. His mind was uncomfortably close to the feelings of weakness—blinding weakness—and hopelessness he had experienced. If the king had not saved him he would certainly have perished. Yet as difficult as the emotions were to remember, the thoughts that tugged at his mind were even worse…questions of what there was left for him here, why he had been saved, and whether it would have been better to simply die. He didn't want to think that way, but as he stood, numb in the darkness, he could not stop them from coming. He felt worthless here, unneeded, and unwanted. But he was determined to fight those emotions, and now, as he swayed in the moonlight, he told himself once again that he would recover, and he would live life again—live like he had not lived before. He determined that his life would change now, should the world keep spinning and evil be overcome. He determined to find meaning for living, even if he had to search all over Middle Earth.
Hid mind suddenly flew to the dream he had had the previous night, and the wave that had risen up to destroy Numenor was bright in his mind. He shuddered at the dream, knowing that he often saw things that did indeed happen. Yet he also knew himself, and he knew the feeling when something was not quite right. Hope, springing from some unknown place, suddenly filled his mind and he had the urge to smile—smile in the midst of all his troubles, all his sorrow, and all his suffering.
And in the middle of that joy, he thought of Eowyn, and of the pleasure her company was to him. He did not deceive himself, and he knew that Eowyn was the kind of woman he could grow to love, and he feared that love had already begun to grow. He was no fool, and he saw that there was no love in her heart. Attraction, perhaps, and companionship definitely, but other than a reflection of his own dire need for company and companionship, Faramir saw nothing in her heart. Not towards him, anyway. He did not know how he could sense it, but somehow he knew the cause of her sorrow and unwillingness to talk about her pain was because she loved another man. Yet that fact only endeared her more to Faramir, for he knew that her hesitance to speak of it was either because of some respect for his feelings, as a man and as a friend, or simply because of some standard of decency on her part. The fact that she did not go shouting her secrets from the rooftops told him something of her character, and though she was rough at times, she could be very sensitive too, he was beginning to think.
The simple truth of it was she intrigued him. He had never met a woman so honest, yet so sensitive. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but she wore her beauty like a comfortable article of clothing—forgetting that it was there, yet appreciating it nevertheless. She was not like the ladies of court, who grasped their beauty like they were drowning and it was their only hope for survival—her fair face was highlighted by the evident knowledge that one day it would pass away, and she would be left with only herself.
The more Faramir thought about her, staring out at the gardens without seeing them, the more he burned to know who the man she loved was, and whether she had any hope of his returning her affection. It was possible there was none, for her love, he knew, was closely tied to her decision to run to the army. He longed to ask her, and for her to tell him—trust him as he knew he could be trusted. But he knew trust was not won in a day, and he knew he had to be patient. His gazed turned up the sky, reluctantly, and he sighed. I want her to love me, he thought. To return my love. Then he straightened in disgust. He had never before been one to let his emotions run away, and he would not allow himself to start now. It was better to think about the plans he would make to reconstruct some of the city, should the King and the host return. Eowyn and his dreams would last until he was released from the Houses, and then he would go to work. Turning, he found his way back inside as the moon began to set.
Notes: I found I could not resist adding in the typical dream scene with Faramir. Shameless, I know--but then again, why shouldn't the man have had bad dreams? In all likelihood he would have.
I know Eowyn might very well have learned to read--she was, after all, a princess. But I chose to ignore that and go with the explanation that Rohan was fast fading--her uncle was bewitched, her brother and cousin constantly occupied with war, and her mother and aunt both long dead. As you read, she had a meager understanding of letters, which might have been because of some early schooling, but in the long run, I chose the explanation that Eowyn's education was overlooked along with many other things.