Notes: Many thanks for that lesson in 'Rohirrim' and 'Rohirric', and many apologies for my misuse of the words. If I miss one later in the story, know that in my mind, now, if not in my writing, I have been set straight. :-)
I hope you're all following my Eowyn in her confusion and distress. If you think at some points that she isn't making sense--you're right! She doesn't make sense completely, because she's scared and she doesn't want to think about her emotions. So bear that in mind.
Chapter Sixteen: Seven Days
Eowyn had not expected him to ask her to teach him Rohirric, after her thoughts before he had come, and she struggled all the way back to her room with the emotions his words had brought upon her. There was no doubt in her heart that she loved Aragorn, still, even after he had spurned her, but she also felt an uncanny seed of doubt beginning to blossom. It was as if her assurance that she would never love another was shaking, and this man who was so good looking and so learned could perhaps make her love him after all.
But she pushed the thoughts away as best she could at her knowledge that he could not possibly think of her as a serious match. Who was she, after all? True, she was the niece of the King—the sister of one, now, she thought with a shock—but that was not likely to matter much to a Lord of Gondor. It had not mattered to Aragorn. Faramir had been the son of the most important man in all of Gondor, up until Aragorn had come, and his position would still be one of glory and respect. She had never heard him speak of Rohan without the highest honor, it was true, but she could not pretend to know what was in his heart, or the hearts of the court around him. He was probably expected to make a good match, and a shield maiden from the wilds of Rohan, who did not even know her letters, was not likely to be the kind of woman the people here expected.
She passed the rest of the afternoon in her rooms, doing light embroidery on a piece of muslin Bithie had brought for her. She had learned embroidery young, like all noble women, but it did not interest her as much as other maidens, and her afternoon would have been very dull had not Bithie burst in, face aglow, in mid afternoon with her arms full of packages. "They're here my Lady!" she said breathlessly, throwing bundles triumphantly onto the bed and ushering two more women in, each of whom carried more packages. Eowyn stood and dropped her neglected needlework onto her chair.
"What is it?" she asked, and Bithie shook her head with a smile.
"It's your new clothes, my Lady! What else would it be?" She sent the women out with a thanks and then turned to the bundles. "Let me show you the gowns, my Lady…you will love them, I am sure."
Eowyn could not pretend to be wholly uninterested. Bithie's swift hands undid the packages, revealing gown after gown, and Eowyn felt a bit of pride at the thought that she would once again dress as her station. Even in Rohan she had worn much finer things than what she had been wearing here. The clothes, she also found with some surprise, were beautiful. They were not, as she had feared, overly gaudy and frivolous, but they fell in clean, delicate folds. They were rich and ornate, but there was no stuffiness about the richness, and Eowyn knew she would be comfortable in them.
Bithie laid them all out on the bed, and Eowyn saw that there were four dresses. She marveled at the quickness of the seamstresses—they would have worked day and night making these dresses in such short a time, to say nothing of the nightgowns, undergarments, and other pieces of dress that were lined up on the bed. Two of the dresses were day dresses, meant to be worn in the mornings and afternoons; one was a light blue trimmed with snatches of silver braid, and one was a dark crimson that Eowyn knew would make her hair appear almost white, if it lay over her back as it often did. The third dress was more ornate, and Eowyn thought that it appeared scandalously low in the bosom, though she assumed that was the style here. It was of a heavier cloth than the others, green in color, and the bodice was studded with tiny seed pearls. Eowyn gasped as she fingered it and raised her eyes to Bithie.
"Their craft will be graced by your beauty," the maid said simply, understanding the look in Eowyn's eyes. "You will honor them to wear it."
The fourth dress was unlike any of the first three, and Eowyn was a loss as to what exactly it was for. It was white, as pure as the clouds, and around the hips a gold belt hung delicately. Eowyn knew when she put it on it would accentuate her figure in the way a woman wanted it, but the dress itself was not provocative at all. She suddenly raised her arms to her back, trying to unbutton her dress, for she found she wanted to try the white dress on very much. Bithie stepped up to help her, and the white dress floated over her head and settled on her body as if she had been born in it. The belt, as she had expected, hung around her hips and she raised her hands to rub the arms of the dress and the waist.
"It's lovely," Bithie said, her voice conveying just how truthful her statement was. "It looks as if it was sewn onto you."
Eowyn lowered her head to look over the dress. "The seamstresses here work wonders," she said. "I would not have expected anything to fit me so well, on such short notice." She gazed at herself for a moment longer and then seemed to snap out of the spell the dress held over her. She glanced at the bed and her brow furrowed. "There is no cloak!" she exclaimed. "Is that coming later?" Then, realizing her words might sound as if she was demanding special treatment from the people of Minas Tirith, she said, "But that is all right. I do not need one right now."
"Oh no," Bithie said, bustling around and picking up clothes. "I will send and find out. Your Ladyship cannot possibly be expected to go without a proper cloak! That one—" she pointed to the gray, worn one hanging over the back of a chair, "is simply not fitting of your rank!"
"It will be fine," Eowyn said with a slight smile. "I have made do with much worse."
Bithie said nothing else, but Eowyn knew the maid would request a cloak, and she would likely have it in a few days. It would probably be lined with sable, too, if there was any fur to be found in the city. She took off the white dress and put on the one she had been wearing, telling Bithie that she had no need for a fancy dress at that moment, and Bithie was soon gone with the promise of supper soon to come.
Eowyn sat down on her bed and looked reflectively at the closet where her new clothes had been stowed. Would those clothes make Faramir like her any more? But that was ridiculous, she thought. He was already more than cordial to her, and anything else would be annoying to her and grievous for him. For her heart was already given to another man, never to be taken back. Wasn't it?
With a sigh, she fell back against the bed and closed her eyes momentarily, trying to grasp the emotions bubbling inside of her. When she opened them again, her eyes met a small vent in the wall, just above her table. The metal covering had come loose at one corner, and she narrowed her eyes as she tried to place which side was which, and whose room was on that side. It was Faramir's room—she knew it almost at once. She knew she should resist the temptation on all accounts and should simply turn away from the grate and go on with her thoughts, but she couldn't. Without stopping to think, she rose and clambered to the top of her table, steadying herself with one hand against the wall. The grate was just at eye level, when she stood on the table, and she moved the piece of metal easily enough.
The view into his room was better than she had expected. The whole of the little whitewashed room was visible to her, and she saw that, to her surprise, Faramir was in the room. She didn't know why that surprised her—after all, it was his room, and there was no place more logical for him to be, but still, she had not expected to actually see him. His back was to her, and she watched as he filled a cup with water and gulped it down as if he was dying of thirst. He wore only a simple shirt and trousers, and she realized she had never seen him in anything but full dress and a cloak. That struck her as odd, but she knew it shouldn't. After all, he had certainly never seen her in anything but full dress!
The door to his room suddenly opened, and Faramir turned to greet a young man Eowyn had not seen before. The sounds were dim, and Eowyn knew when she re-shut the grate the sounds would be almost completely muffled, but she could make out their words now. "Is it time?" Faramir was saying, setting the cup back on the table. He looked strangely uncomfortable, and Eowyn wondered what could possibly make him feel that way—he who had always seemed so at ease to her. The young man nodded apologetically, a wide grin cracking his face, and set a basket of bandages and poultices on the table.
"You are healing well," the man said. "Only a few more days and the pain will ease a great deal. You won't even feel it in a few days."
His wounds? Eowyn wondered. Is that what he is so afraid of? She had no time to think either that it might not be appropriate for her to watch, or that it was odd for him to be so afraid of having his wounds dressed before Faramir raised his good arm and began to pull his tunic over his head. The young man stepped up and helped him lift it over his wounded shoulder, and Eowyn could not help a tiny gasp at the sight of Faramir's upper body.
She was not surprised to see the bandage covering his shoulder wound, of course, for she knew of that, but as Faramir turned toward the bed in the flickering light she saw that not only did he have another bandage over his stomach, his chest and shoulders were a mass of ugly black and yellow bruises. His left shoulder and arm, she saw, had burns on them, and she remembered that night when he had pulled up his sleeve to show her the terrible marks. But on his shoulder blade, on his back, she saw one burn that was considerably larger than the others, and worse—as if his clothing had burned and had been pulled off of the skin, leaving a terrible sore. The others, she thought briefly, would probably heal, but that scar would remain with him until he dies.
The young man knelt before Faramir and carefully cut away the bandage from his shoulder, easing the old bandage off and fetching a towel and water to wipe away the dried blood. Eowyn's stomach turned at the sight of the wound, knowing that it was healthy but still ugly. He would carry that scar, too—mostly because whoever had taken it out had not had the time nor the skill to do the job well. She assumed it was removed on the battlefield, before he had been brought back. The man re-bandaged it and turned his attention to the other wound and the burn marks and bruises, spreading an ointment on them that apparently soothed the pain somewhat.
"How did you manage to get these bruises?" the man asked, looking up with a sympathetic grin into Faramir's face. Faramir shrugged.
"Have you ever been on a battlefield, Thailan?" he asked, his voice tight. Thailan shook his head and Faramir nodded. "It happens," was all Faramir said in reply.
Thailan finished and stood, taking the basket of soiled bandages and ointments up in his arms and turning at the door. "I'll bring your supper in a little while," he said. "Can I get you anything right now?"
Faramir shook his head and the young man left, shutting the door gently after him. Eowyn watched as Faramir slumped forward until his head was cradled in his hands, and his face was hidden from her. She gazed at his broad back for a long time, noticing for the first time how muscled he was and how his whole body bespoke of long years of training and strength. Even sitting on the bed in an attitude of weakness she thought he looked alert—ready for something to happen, for someone to need him. And as she gazed at his scars and burns and bruises and wounds, she gained more respect for him. She had know he was wounded in his shoulder and had some burns on his arm, but that was nothing compared to the soreness he must feel. She had never detected any kind of burden of pain in him before, and yet now his attitude spoke of much suffering.
He moaned lightly and the sound brought that same odd feeling to her heart—a feeling of desire and regret and content, and so much more that she could not put into words. And with the feeling she realized where she was and what she was doing, and her cheeks burned with shame at the thought that she was spying on a man she hardly knew. She climbed down swiftly, after replacing the metal grating, and she felt even more guilty at the surety she felt that he would never even consider spying on her, much less actually do it.
She sat back on her bed, trying her hardest to picture Aragorn and become lost in thoughts of him. She had never before had a hard time picturing Aragorn and dwelling on him and the sweetness of the life together that had been thrown away; now she found his dear, familiar face to be only a shadow. Try as she might she could only see Faramir's bruised back and hear his voice, gentle and soft, telling her to make her 'q's looser, and knowing that his deep, sea-colored eyes had looked at her and thought she was beautiful.
That night Faramir dreamed once again of the fire, but to his surprise he was not the one burning. In his dream he stood, safe and whole, on solid ground and watched as the flames rose higher around one who stood silent, not calling out nor moving. At first he did not recognize the figure, and only knew that he did not want them to perish, but eventually he came so see that it was Eowyn. She was dressed in white, her hair flowing, and her eyes were proud and far-off. He called to her, pleading with her to grasp his hand. "Eowyn!" he called desperately over the rising inferno, "You must take my hand! You must try to save yourself! You will perish if you do nothing!"
He reached his hand farther until it touched the flames and he winced as the sting of the flames burnt his hand, but he held it there. "Eowyn…" he trailed off, and their eyes met for an instant. She would not do it, he realized, for she was proud and she did not see the danger. How can she not see the danger? he wondered. She stands in the midst of the flames! But she did not move and turned her eyes purposely away from his. He woke with a feeling of pain creeping up his arm.
Eowyn's first thoughts upon waking were of shame, and she hid her face in the pillow. "I cannot get up," she whispered to herself, and she started when she heard Bithie's answering voice.
"Why ever not, my Lady?" her maid asked, coming up next to her. Eowyn's large eyes looked up reproachfully at Bithie, and the woman bowed her head. "Forgive me, my Lady…I did not mean to disturb you. But the fire has burned low, and it is chill today."
Eowyn sat up and shook her head. "Never mind," she answered. "Just bring me something to wear." She shook her head when Bithie brought her the blue dress, throwing the covers off and setting her feet on the floor. "No," she said, "I wish to wear a simple dress."
"My Lady," Bithie protested, "You must wear the new things, for they were made for your use. It is more befitting of your rank, my Lady." Eowyn knew she was right, but she recoiled from the thought that they might bring attention to herself. She almost hated herself this morning, and as soon as Bithie left to fetch her breakfast she went to the window and leaned her head against the cool pane. How could she forget Aragorn so quickly? How could she let herself imagine a future at all, let alone a future with another man? What had happened to her solid belief in the hopelessness of her life, and her steadfast wish for death? She was so confused, for she didn't want to be miserable, but she didn't think she could let her heart hope again, and she could certainly not let it love again.
And last night—she felt almost as if she was guilty of some deadly sin, spying on Faramir the way she had. How could she face him today without seeing his scarred back and hearing his words—words that she should not have heard? He had said nothing personal, but if he had she would have heard it anyway. She raised a hand to run it through her hair and moaned softly. Her heart was in such confusion that she could not read it, and now she did not even want to.
She did not eat anything that Bithie brought, but she drank the steaming tea as if her life depended on it. When Bithie once more held up the blue dress she did not argue, and she said not a word as Bithie offered to dress her hair, only sat patiently as the maid brushed it and piled it high on her head. She was conscious that her appearance was greatly improved, and she felt almost foolish, not having worn anything fine or done her hair in any special way for many days. But she threw her worn cloak around her shoulders without another thought to her appearance, without even bothering to look in the mirror, and hurried to the gardens.
She paced the walls, finding no solace there to ease the turmoil within. She thought of Aragorn over and over again, seeing nothing but still feeling the emotions within her of admiration, comfort, and bitter despair. She let the wind blow gently across her face, wishing it was whipping her hair about her, wishing it was a tempest, but she did nothing to remove the pins that held her hair in place. She did not know how long she stood there, staring across the Pelennor, seeing nothing in the dim, shady lines at the edge of her vision, but imagining that she did.
Somehow, she was not surprised to hear his step behind her, yet she did not turn. She knew he had come looking for her because she had not kept her promise to teach him, or to learn in her share. He was silent behind her, giving her time to know he was there and to decide what to do. But still she did not turn, as if she hoped that by ignoring him he would go away. She knew he wouldn't, just as she had once stayed stubbornly by his side.
"Lady Eowyn?" he said softly, and Eowyn's heart fluttered as she heard the confusion and distress in his voice. She knew he had no idea why she was ignoring him and shutting him out of her world, and yet, she thought, when had she ever allowed him access into her heart of hearts? When had she shared her true feelings with him? Yet, she countered, pursing her lips unconsciously, why should she? What did she owe this man, that she must tell him all her secrets?
She felt his presence behind her and turned her eyes downward to rest on her hands, feeling a tear form in her eye. She felt it slipping out and before she could catch it she felt his hand touching her face, wiping the tear away. Her eyes flew to his, and she found him nearer than she had expected, warming the air between them with his soft breath. His eyes were full of emotions, and Eowyn saw none of the pity she expected to be there. She stepped back quickly, raising a hand to feel the skin where the tear had been. It tingled with the touch of his hand, still lingering.
"I'm sorry," he said, but his voice was not pleading, only gentle. He waited as she finished wiping her eyes and raised her head again. "You did not come, this morning," he said, and his voice was not accusing, only confused. "Is—is something wrong?"
Eowyn shook her head, struggling to find her voice again. "I'm fine," she managed, and she was glad that her voice was neither harsh nor broken. "I—this morning I felt…" she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence truthfully, and unwilling to lie. Faramir nodded and shifted his weight unconsciously; Eowyn could not help seeing his back again, bruised in the flickering firelight. She turned away and pressed her body against the wall. Neither of them spoke for a long time, and she shivered in the coldness. The wind was not heavy, but it was chill and her cloak was thin and not up to the frosty air. Suddenly Faramir turned and said, "Forgive me, Eowyn—I will return in a moment."
She watched in surprise as he turned and walked quickly down the steps to the garden and into the Houses. It was amazing, she thought absently, the difference in his walk between now and when she had first met him. He was truly healing and so, she realized with a start, was she. Her left arm was still in a sling, but it was getting stronger, and her right arm was beginning to feel warmth again. She turned her head back toward the fields and gazed thither until she heard Faramir's step again. She looked back at him as he came up beside her, and her eyes widened at the blue cloak he held in his arms. Without saying anything he unfurled it, and she gasped softly as the folds fell to the ground, revealing intricate stitching in silver around the hem and the throat. The inside was also silver, lined with thick cloth almost as beautiful as the outside.
Eowyn looked up as Faramir stepped forward, and without hesitation he settled the garment over her shoulders. The weight was pleasant, and she felt the chill immediately begin to abate as the thick cloak settled around her. Faramir looked down over her shoulder and touched the front of the cloak. "There are slits," he said, "for you hands. Somewhere down there."
Eowyn's hands found their way out, and she looked down at them in wonder before coming to her senses and stepping away from him. "I—I cannot accept this!" she said with a flush. "I do not know where you got this from, but it is too beautiful…"
"It's yours," he said firmly, stepping away. "You are cold in that shabby cloak of yours. You need something to keep out the chill."
"But this!" she said, her voice seeming too shrill to her. "Where did you find it? It is a woman's cloak…fit for a queen!"
Faramir was silent, but when he raised his eyes to hers they were peaceful. "It belonged to my mother," he said softly. "My father had it made for her, to grace the most beautiful woman on earth, he said. Lady Eowyn, please—accept it."
Eowyn opened her mouth to say more, but something held her back. She knew this was a mighty gift from him, for she had never heard him speak of his mother before, but she knew he held her in his memory as one of his most precious memories. This cloak was not only stunning, it was also, she sensed, of deep personal significance to him. It scared her, she realized, that he would trust her with something so precious to him. What could it mean? She forced herself to look over the Pelennor, forced herself to think of other men. She clung to the memory of Aragorn with all her might, picturing his memory in her mind again and again until she forgot about the man beside her, and about the warm gift around her shoulders. She could not let herself be beguiled by another man, no matter how generous. She could not take another spurn.
Faramir watched her face gaze over the fields, searching, he knew, for a man who was not there. He knew there was no attachment between them, else Eowyn would not have the look of despair in her eyes as she did now, nor would she have ridden so foolishly to battle with the men. He knew who 'he' was now, and he knew why she had loved him. When she had not come he had known instinctively that she was struggling as hard as she could to hold to her desire for the Lord Aragorn, and the hope she had had of being high Queen over Gondor. He had at first told himself he would go back to his room and try to forget her, but something called him to her side, as if he knew she was struggling to make sense of her emotions. And when he had come and saw her hair bound up on her head, wreathing it like a crown, and the blue dress peeking out from under her cloak, he had known his own heart immediately, and he knew that he loved her.
When it had happened he did not know, and he hated himself for loving a woman who had no interest in returning his love. Yet when he brushed her tear away he had felt a spark of something—love, he had thought, but now he wondered if it was not hope. Hope that she would accept that Aragorn did not love her and turn away from her despair. But it was too soon to hope for her love, he thought. She could not recover from her pain that quickly.
As he stood beside her, gazing with her across the plain, he wondered if she had found any solace at all in his company. He had thought she had, from time to time, but perhaps he was only blinded by his own love for her, and the freedom he felt in her company. One thing he knew—she looked breathtaking in his mother's cloak, and he could not look at her for fear his emotions would betray themselves. Why he had chosen to gift her the cloak he did not know either; he had long desired to give the cloak to the woman he would one day marry. It was foolish, he knew, to give it to her, who would return to her native land and marry. He would never see his mother's cloak again, and it would pass out of his house. But as he forced himself to look at her, he knew that he would do it again if he was given the opportunity. The memories of sorrow and sweetness wrapped up in the cloak were fitting for Eowyn—a woman much like his own mother in her grief and beauty.
Finally, he could stand the silence no longer, and he said to her, "Eowyn, what do you look for?"
She started and looked at him, her eyes full of unshed tears. "Is that not the direction in which the host marched?" she asked, wondering where the truthfulness came from, "and is it not seven days since he marched with them?"
Faramir clenched his fist as he heard her voice confirming his own thoughts, and he ignored her reference to the man she loved. "Seven days," he repeated, letting his gaze fall to the city below them. "And yet—do not condemn me if I say that I have not been unhappy, nor would I lose so soon what I have found." He, too, was startled by the truthfulness in his words, and he watched her eyes come up slowly to meet his.
"Lose so soon what you have found?" she repeated in a whisper, hardly allowing herself to think about the meaning behind his words. "I—but let us not speak of this!" she suddenly said, shaking herself and standing straighter. "Let us not speak of anything! These days have been so filled with pain and healing, and things I do not understand. I feel as if I am standing on the edge of a terrible chasm, and I am in the dark. I do not wish to fall in."
"Nor I," he said softly in response, and neither of them said anything more. Yet they drew unconsciously closer together, until their hands almost touched. She would not look at him, and he refused to allow himself to look at her; both pretended to be strong, only to feel more acutely their own weakness.
The sun came out and burst its light upon them, and they stood there even as the eagle came flying from the east to tell them of the news. The city took up a shout around them, and the hearts of everyone grew lighter at the promise of lives that would be returned and joy that would be renewed. But for the Lord and Lady standing on the wall, there were no words, for one could not give enough of himself, and the other could take nothing for her own.
Notes: Poor Faramir! He would be the first one to realize his true emotions. Yet Eowyn isn't far behind...
Next chapter:
Eowyn could not move. Had she really just felt happy and carefree only seconds before? Her stomach felt like a brick, and the weight of the food she had eaten was not only unpleasant, it was almost unbearable. Faramir was gone. She could not stop her mind from going to that thought over and over again. He had left, and he was not going to be there for her anymore. The thought stung worse than anything she had felt before, and she didn't know why. Eru, she thought, I don't even know why! He has made no pledge to me! He is nothing to me!
But it was not true. Her heart, fickle and deceptive, had opened itself to his smiles and his words, and she had tentatively begun to trust and even love him.
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