Chapter XII – Vanwa

Éomer, King of the Riddermark, pulled gently at his mount's reins as the glistening white towers of Minas Tirith rose into view over the distant hills of the rolling Gondorian plains. Four months it had been since last he had looked upon this city's walls. Four months since he had stood over the grave of his sister and bid farewell to the husband she had left behind. Now again it was with grievous cause that Éomer rode to Gondor. Would this country not cease to cause him hurt?

The road from Edoras was long and hard, but Éomer had ridden it with only two bodyguards, the burden of a train of escorts being undesirable for as urgent a mission as this. Less than a fortnight prior, he had been summoned to the court of Minas Tirith by Aragorn himself, and swiftly had he ridden out from his hall in response to the letter. With light packs and fast steeds, he and his bodyguards had made excellent time crossing the countryside, and now at last they had reached their destination.

Several more hours of easy riding saw them to the wide gates of Minas Tirith, and with a claxon herald of the Tower's silver trumpets, the doors of the city swung wide to admit King Éomer and his companions. The capital of the proud nation was uncharacteristically solemn and quiet, however, and Éomer noted with concern the bowed heads and dark silence of the Gondorian folk as they went about their daily business in the streets.

"I have never seen the city so subdued," murmured one of Éomer's guards, as though sensing his King's thoughts. "What has put them so out of spirits?"

Éomer turned towards the guard who had spoken, who was none other than his own son, Elfwine. "Your uncle Faramir is popular and well-loved among his people, and if what King Elessar wrote me is true, then they fear now for his doom. Come—we have little time to waste."

Elfwine cast a sidelong glance towards the other guardsman, Déorthain, who only nodded encouragingly to the young lad and nudged his mount forward to follow the King's. Déorthain himself knew but little of these great men in whose shadow he served; he was too young to have fought in the Battle of the Pelennor all those summers ago before the fall of the Barad-dûr. But he had heard in his time visiting Minas Tirith of the mercy and wisdom of the Lord Faramir, and if King Éomer had judged the man a fair husband for his own sister, the proud shieldmaiden Éowyn, then Déorthain had to believe that the judgment was true.

The trio of riders soon reached the pinnacle of the White City, atop the seventh circle that stood seven hundred feet above the plain below, where the White Tree stood stark and naked against the harried spring breeze. Éomer, Elfwine, and Déorthain saw first to their mounts in the stables of the lower circle, settling them with fresh water and good feed, before making their way up the winding stairway of stone that brought them to the flag-draped uppermost level of Minas Tirith.

By the time they reached the Citadel, Aragorn had heard of the arrival of the travelers from Rohan, and he met them at the doors of his personal residence with a face that was perhaps more grim than welcoming.

"Éomer," he said, stretching out a hand to his old comrade in arms. "Glad am I that you have come so soon, for I cannot judge how much time Faramir has left in him. He is fading quickly—all too quickly, I fear."

"What evil has been cast upon this family, I do not know," Éomer said in a hushed voice, making against his chest the symbol to guard against devils and other foul things. "My dear sister lays hardly cold in her grave, and now my brother-in-law seems to be on her heels at the doors of death."

A strange emotion flickered behind Aragorn's wizened grey eyes, and he replied, "You know not how true your words are, my friend." He stepped back to allow the three entrance to his living chamber, where a number of soft couches were arrayed around a center table where food and drink was laid out for the travelers. Éomer took a seat upon the nearest couch, with Elfwine at his elbow, while Déorthain stood behind his lords, hands clasped comfortably behind his back.

Recognition registered in Aragorn's expression as he gazed at the boy seated beside Éomer, and his smile grew warm. "Elfwine? I almost did not recognize you, for how you have grown! You do your father's likeness proud."

"Thank you, Sire," Elfwine replied easily, evidently pleased with the comparison between himself and Éomer.

"How old are you this year?"

"I will be fifteen in another month, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded. "You grow into your armor well, and I've no doubt that you will serve aptly as a rider of the Mark."

At that moment, Éomer turned to see the door of the royal apartments opening once more to admit a spry lad only a few years older than his own son. Fair of hair and blue of eye, the lad was none other than his sister-son, Elboron. Dark was the emotion behind Elboron's stern gaze, and heavy was his bearing, in stature akin indeed to the Men of Rohan.

"You asked for me?" Elboron said, bowing slightly towards Aragorn as his eyes swept warily over the other three occupants of the room. Aragorn watched as the wave of renewed grief surfaced in Elboron's expression upon seeing his death mother's brother before him.

"King Éomer and his son are visiting Minas Tirith on business," Aragorn replied with a polite gesture towards the guests. "I was hoping you might show Elfwine around the city and entertain him while he is here."

Elboron frowned dubiously as he looked over the younger Elfwine, whose eager face and obvious kindhearted disposition won him over despite his reservations. "Very well," he said at last. "Come on, then." Elfwine beamed as he all but bounded from his seat to trail after his cousin. "How old are you again?" Elboron asked, surprised and amused by the boy's enthusiasm.

"I'm nearly fifteen," Elfwine told him confidently.

Closing the outer door behind them, Elboron nodded. "Good. You'll enjoy meeting the boys from my company, then…"

Éomer watched the pair leave, and then turned to Déorthain, saying, "Take the rest of the day off, as it suits you. Just be sure to have my horse saddled by sundown for my evening ride." The guardsman bowed and promptly exited, recognizing his lord's dismissal. Once they were alone, Éomer faced Aragorn and asked in a voice tinged with sorrow, "How much time do you think Faramir has?"

"Not as much as he needs," Aragorn answered. "He grows weaker day by day, and even my healing arts have not been able to call him back this time. But Faramir's health is not all that has brought you hither," he continued, and now his voice was low and strange-sounding, as though with uncertainty.

"What else, then?" asked Éomer, surprised. "Some new evil?"

"Perhaps it is evil indeed, though I know not. I have reason to believe that Faramir is looking for Éowyn. That he is searching for her spirit in the dreamworld of his own mind."

Éomer, the warrior who had faced down goblins and Uruk-hai and trolls alike, had grown suddenly pale at the mention of his dear sister's name. "Is that possible?" he asked, stammering in his confusion. "Do you mean that he might actually find her? What do you mean dreamworld? Can he bring her back?"

"No," said Aragorn firmly, though his eyes were soft with compassion. "No, he cannot return Éowyn to the realm of the living. Her time has ended, and she must pass on now to the Halls of Mandos to receive her judgment. But the possibility that Faramir may find her there is very real indeed."

"What does that mean?"

"I do not know," Aragorn replied honestly, sounding tired. "No one has ever managed to immerse themselves so deeply in the world of dreams and emerged again, as far as I know. It is a dangerous realm for Faramir to be toying with, and I have no idea what may befall him if he is successful in his quest—or if he is unsuccessful."

"Again, you talk of dreams. What do you mean by this?" asked Éomer, struggling with the concept that the dead might be alive still, spiritually at least, in some distant intangible place.

"Faramir has the gift of foresight," Aragorn explained. "He has had it since childhood. Recently, just after Éowyn's death, I discovered that he is capable of using this gift to see the dead, sometimes very clearly, even to speak with them."

Éomer swallowed a hard knot in his suddenly dry throat. "Has he spoken with Éowyn?"

"Yes. Or so he claims. And I believe him."

Éomer leaned forwards in his chair, his face paler than ever, his eyes wide. "What did she say to him?"

"That is not relevant," said Aragorn sharply. "The point I am trying to make is that living in this world of haunting spirits is what has deteriorated Faramir's health. I pray you not make the same mistake as my Steward and presume that you can alter the decisions laid out by fate. It will only hasten an end more bitter still. Look you at Elboron. First by unforeseen tragedy he lost his mother, and now as a result of Faramir's attempt to undo what has already been done, he may be about to lose his father."

Disturbed by the harshness of Aragorn's reprimand and the very idea of dealing with spirits from the grave, Éomer stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully and said, "What you're saying is that there is nothing we can do."

"Unfortunately…yes."

"Does Elboron know all of this?"

"No. He is still too young to understand," said Aragorn, his eyes full of pity for the boy he looked upon almost as his own son. "He knows only that Faramir has fallen into a state of sleep as a result of his injuries, and that the healers are unsure of how soon he will pull himself out of it."

"His injuries?" Éomer frowned. So much had not been explained, and with each further detail the image he was given of Faramir's condition looked grimmer still. "What injuries?"

Aragorn sighed and poured a glass of wine for each of them. "Perhaps you had better have a drink. I did not put this in the letter I sent you because I did not want to alarm you. An attempt was made not too long ago on Faramir's life."

"What?" thundered Éomer, rising from the couch in sudden wrath. "Someone tried to kill my sister's widower? Tried to kill the Steward of Gondor? What sort of monster is responsible for this?"

"We do not know. It is an ongoing investigation…but we have our suspects." Aragorn's hands subconsciously clenched themselves into fists where they rested on the arms of his chair. "Legolas and Elphir are helping to root out the source, but so far they have found no incontestable proof."

"In the name of Éowyn's honor, I demand that the culprit be found," Éomer growled, unusually commanding in the presence of a greater King. "I will not have my family disgraced by a masked killer too cowardly to make a challenge in broad daylight."

"I assure you, we are doing all that we can." Aragorn overlooked Éomer's inappropriate exercise of his authority, knowing that the Rohirrim was stirred quickly to passion by any threat to his family. "I will personally see to it that the man is brought to justice. Unfortunately, as usual Elboron has jumped in headfirst like the impulsive boy he is and jeopardized everything."

"Perhaps Elboron should come to Edoras for a time," Éomer suggested, his head cooling with Aragorn's reassuring words. "He and Elfwine seem to get along well, and it might do him some good to get away from the tragedy that has befallen his family here."

"True," Aragorn admitted, "but I doubt that you will persuade him to agree to such a sojourn. Elboron has dedicated himself vehemently to finding his father's would-be murderer, and distracting him for even a short amount of time has been no easy task. It is a wonder that he agreed to entertain Elfwine during our meeting."

"Then it should not be made an option," said Éomer. "Elboron will come to Edoras with me upon my return. Once he is at my court, I am sure that he will find plenty to distract him. Rohan offers much appeal for young boys his age."

Aragorn nodded. "Very well. I will inform him after we conclude our meeting. He will object, but if you have Elfwine convince him that it is a good idea, he may give in more willingly."

Éomer's face darkened suddenly. "Before we do conclude our meeting…I would like to see my brother-in-law."

"Of course. Come with me, I will take you to the Houses of Healing directly."

The path that led from the Citadel to the Houses of Healing was one that had been well worn by Aragorn's boots of late. As they walked the length of the sixth level, the two Kings were met by reverent but cheerless hails of greeting. How Aragorn grieved to see the misery and sorrow of his people. While Faramir lay abed, wandering within his mind, the White City did not fare well.

The old stone walls of the Healing Houses were covered in crawling vines, and the flowers that had begun to bloom there with the coming of a warm spring had been killed in the last chill morning frost. Within the halls themselves, there was not a sound to be heard—no midwives bustling about their morning duties, no young journeyman calling out lessons to the apprentices, no chatter of daily gossip, no peaceful babble of the courtyard fountain.

Something was very wrong.

Aragorn and Éomer moved slowly through the corridors of the Houses, making their way towards the injuries ward where they were met at the door by none other than the Warden himself. Grey was the old man's face, and taut as if with pain. Aragorn saw the redness of his eyes and the streaks that fresh tears had left upon his ruddy cheeks. Upon noticing the Kings, the Warden's face grew more ashen still, and put one hand over his heart as though it gave him some pain.

"We are here to see the Lord Faramir," Aragorn said, feeling his own heart pounding noisily in his chest. "Is there some problem, Warden?"

The Warden gave a tremulous cry and covered his face. "My Lords, forgive me… Prince Faramir…"

Éomer's breath hitched painfully, but his eyes were wild and fierce as he stepped forward as though to seize the Warden's tunic. Fear was not often to be heard in the voice of the King of Rohan, yet it was there now when he demanded, "Yes? What about him?"

"…He no longer lives, your Majesties. He passed away just before you arrived."

Vanwa

(Lost)