On either side of the door stood a sentry, in the black tabards of the citadel, emblazoned with the silver tree. They stood smartly to attention as Faramir and Boromir approached. Éowyn tried not to be overawed by the place; she was the niece of a king, she reminded herself. But glorious as the Golden Hall was, as regal and kingly as Théoden had been in the years before the darkness fell upon him, nothing could have compared her for this.
The hall down which they had passed was huge, overwhelming. Stone columns soared to a high vault. Perfect masonry, fitting together almost seamlessly, betokened the skill of the master masons of ages since passed. The flags beneath her feet were worn to a high polish. This building was already ancient when first Eorl the young had ridden across the green fields of the Mark. The great wooden doors were three, perhaps four times the height of even a tall man. Dark they were, yet inlaid with marquetry of a fine, lighter wood, and set about with fine insets of metal – a gleaming yet somehow dusky silver, which (though she had never seen it before) she guessed to be mithril.
Those great doors swung noiselessly outwards, and beyond, she saw another high vaulted chamber, with low steps and a dais at its far end. In the centre of the dais was a throne, magnificent, rich, the corporeal form of power, and yet empty. To one side of it was a smaller, more modest chair, and in it sat a man.
She recognised him instantly, for both (yes, both, to her surprise) his sons favoured him in looks. He must have been older than Théoden, but where Théoden was stooped by a combination of the years and the Worm's vile influence, this man sat straight as a battle spear, and every bit as sharp and dangerous. His hair was raven, but streaked with silver, and for a moment Éowyn found her mind drawn back to the mithril inlay on the door.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed the brothers down the centre of the chamber at a brisk march, coming to a halt before the Steward. His eyes looked her up and down, a cool, dispassionate examination. Then, as if she were of little import, he turned his attention to his sons.
"To what happenstance do I owe the arrival of both my sons? Are affairs in Gondor and Ithilien now of such little importance that you both feel able to delegate your authority to your junior officers to come gadding across the Pelennor to spend your precious time in Minas Tirith?"
Both his sons pressed their hands to their breasts, and bowed their heads. Boromir spoke.
"Father – when last we both came to see you..."
Abruptly, Denethor cut him off. "After the loss of Osgiliath. I remember it well. Would that I did not. I hope you do not come with tidings of similar misadventure."
"My Lord, no." Boromir took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before pressing on. "No further military losses. But Faramir told you of his dream."
Denethor gave a contemptuous snort. "Ah yes, my fey son, gifted with the sight of the Eldar. Or perhaps simply weak enough of will to have his mind turned to treacherous visions. For thus it seemed to me when first you came to me with this extraordinary tale."
Éowyn stiffened at this. How could Faramir stand there impassively, his grey eyes fixed calmly on his father's face while the man traduced him so? But before she could be tempted to react, to blurt out her half-formed thoughts in defence of her captain, Boromir spoke.
"Then you have two sons who are fey and weak-willed, Father, for I too have had this dream, several times, as has Faramir. It simply cannot be dismissed as a mere accident, a fevered offering of minds over-wrought by combat. There is a possibility that it is a portent, that it offers a vision of some unlooked for allies in far-flung realms. We cannot overlook this possibility: we must investigate."
Faramir stepped forward half a pace. "Boromir and I have discussed this. He is your captain-general, your right hand, of far more value militarily." He left the rest of the thought unuttered, but all those in the room knew the unspoken addition. Taking a breath, he continued, "The last time we talked, you said that Imladris lay far to the north, beyond the gap of Rohan, north even of Eriador, and was ruled by Elrond Half-Elven. With your permission, my lord, I would ride there and seek his counsel. Sooner rather than later – I would propose riding within the week."
It took all of Éowyn's will-power to stay upright. The room seemed to tilt, its columns and high windows swam before her eyes. She had thought she would be hard hit if Faramir were to leave, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of his imminent departure. She concentrated on breathing, slow and steady, in for a count of three, hold, out for a count of three. Then she tried to focus on the conversation.
"Ah, my sons, my sons. You think you are so wise. Think you not that I have my own sources of information, that I am incapable of coming to this conclusion myself."
"What sources?" asked Faramir.
"None that you need to know of. But your father is learned in lore – as learned perhaps as that wizard on whose coat-tails you loved to hang when you were younger. I have studied the tomes in our archives, cast divinations, looked afar..."
To Éowyn's surprise she saw Faramir cast a sharp, almost suspicious glance at his father on hearing these words. His father's face, however, bore an uncharacteristically preoccupied look, and he seemed not to notice Faramir's scrutiny. Instead, he continued, his voice suddenly decisive once more, commanding.
"This is no fool's errand, but a quest of the utmost importance. Therefore I shall assign the forces at my disposal accordingly. Boromir shall go."
Éowyn let out a breath she feared must have been audible. She felt almost as if her heart was about to jump out of her ribcage from sheer relief. But at the same time, she couldn't help but notice the tremendous look of hurt on Faramir's face, and the look of stunned surprise on Boromir's.
"But father..." began Faramir.
"Silence! You question my judgement?"
"Of course not," said Faramir, his tone suggesting that he struggled to avoid giving the lie to his words.
"Who will be captain-general in my place?" asked Boromir, giving an expectant look towards Faramir.
"I shall appoint a general staff, with military decisions to be taken by myself and selected counsellors – Castamir and Turgon are the first men to spring to mind – and my decisions will be passed down the chain of command. Faramir, you are to remain in Ithilien. Intelligence gathering seems a task to which you are suited." Then Denethor turned his gaze towards Éowyn, almost as if taking note of her for the first time. He added pointedly, "Among other things. Building close links with our allies also appears to be something of a strength of yours. Or so I am informed."
Éowyn found her fists clenching beneath the folds of her cloak. At the same time, she saw Faramir's back stiffen, and for a moment she fancied she could actually make out the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Before he could speak, however, his father continued, this time addressing her directly.
"So, madam, I understand you are the King of Rohan's niece."
"Yes, my lord," said Éowyn, inclining her head slightly.
"So, my lady, what would you say of Rohan's condition? Rumours come to me that treaties have been signed with our enemies, that you pay tribute to the land of the shadow in the form of horses, black horses." Denethor fixed his gaze on her. His dark eyes, shadowed by heavy brows, were set either side of a hawk like nose, and she was reminded of a raptor, soaring high on invisible currents of air, its attention focused on its prey, waiting for the right moment to stoop.
"A vile falsehood, my lord. We pay no such tribute, nor are we in league with the enemy, who is as surely our enemy as he is yours. It is true that the forces of evil cross the Anduin in raiding parties and steal our horses, showing a preference for black mounts, but we make them pay for their theft in blood. Alas, though, the blood of my people is shed just as freely in defence of our land." Éowyn drew herself up proud and tall as she delivered this speech.
"Hmm. And what of your king, Théoden? Does he ever mention the oath of Eorl? Would he honour his oath if Gondor called upon old loyalties, and asked for the blood of your people to be shed in defence of Gondor?"
"Théoden King is a man of the utmost honour, and no oath-breaker." Éowyn's words started proudly and defiantly, but then she found her voice trailing off. A memory came to her of her uncle, hunched in his throne, barely aware of his surroundings, with the Worm whispering words of poison in his ear.
Denethor picked up on her hesitation instantly. "A man of honour, yes. Honour is to be valued, is it not? And virtue..." He gave her a pointed look, and despite her show of defiance, she felt a slight flush creep into her cheeks. A flicker of satisfaction flared in Denethor's eyes, as if he were a fencer who had scored a point, creeping under his opponent's guard. Éowyn realised this was war on two fronts: both the honour of her country and her own honour were under equally stern scrutiny. But there was no doubt that the frontal attack was focussed on assessing Rohan's readiness for war; her own role was a mere minor skirmish, to be pursued if there was an opportune opening for a quick and dirty tactical advantage to be gained. Satisfied with his point, Denethor returned to his main strategic aim.
"So, my lady," he continued – and this time he made no effort to hide the sarcastic edge in his voice as he delivered this salutation - "We have established that King Théoden is a man of honour. But what of his fitness to lead a military campaign. He is advanced in years: think you that his sword arm is still strong, that his command of his armies is still held within an iron grasp?"
"His son Théodred is a warrior of renown, strong, quick and a great leader of men." Éowyn realised her words were a mistake immediately; Denethor must see them for the evasion they were.
A knowing glint lit the Steward's face. He had read all he needed to know from what she did not say. She saw his fingers clench the arms of the carved chair, and then out of nowhere he launched a surprise attack on her flank.
"You are not the only Rohirrim to serve in my army, though you are..." He cast a sidelong glance at his younger son, who stood regarding him with barely disguised fury, before continuing, "Undoubtedly the fairest. Your brother seems to have sent quite a few of his men here, men of considerable skill as warriors. And yet you tell me that your country faces continual attacks on its north east borders from the forces of Mordor. Would your brother not be better to keep the services of the best of his troops? As well as perhaps keeping a closer guard on his sister's... safety."
Fighting the flash of anger she felt at this last barb, Éowyn scrambled to gather her wits together and come up with a suitable response. "It is not just the King who feels the weight of the oath of Eorl – all of his immediate kin feel our ancient obligation most keenly, and if my brother can assist by sending troops, and I by serving myself, then we feel duty bound to do so."
The words sounded leaden to Éowyn's ear even as she uttered them. Denethor merely raised his eyebrows slightly. Infuriatingly, Éowyn found herself reminded once more, and uncomfortably so, of the family resemblance. That raise of the eyebrows: she had seen Faramir use it to express his scepticism at some of the tall tales his soldiers told him. The fact that Faramir did so tempered with a sense of fair play, while she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that his father was, if anything, even more of a bastard than rumour had given her to understand, only added to the feeling of being caught off balance by this encounter.
"So it is not the case that he sends us the troops who have proved to be too... independent minded to serve comfortably in the cavalry of their homeland? Those whose loyalties to your brother are unimpeachable, but whose loyalties to the crown are perhaps... less firmly founded?"
Eowyn clenched her fists once more, glad of the folds of material which hid them. "Both their loyalties and my brother's towards Théoden King are beyond reproach. That their loyalty to the crown does not meet with equal favour in all quarters is not a fault to be laid at their door." Damnation! Let the wild hunt take me... I should not have admitted to that.
As quick as lightning, Denethor stooped to pounce on his prey. "So, there are divisions within Théoden's kingdom, are there? And how secure is his grip on power? Does he rule his kingdom in truth, or is he become old and enfeebled, unable to grip the reins of power?"
Eowyn took a deep breath to calm herself, lest she be tempted to draw her sword. "My lord, have you brought me here simply to insult my liege and king, my nation and my family?" She stood straight and proud, looking him in the eye. "If you have quite finished your examination of me, I ask leave to depart."
Denethor gave a tight smile, one which carried no hint of humour. "You mistake my intentions entirely, madam. I merely wished to gain some picture of the state of affairs in Rohan, a picture which I have now constructed with your... help. You may consider yourself dismissed from my company. Faramir, perhaps you could accompany your... companion. I have no further need of your presence today, though I require you here tomorrow morning as soon as you have broken your fast. Alone. And in the mean time, if you could remember your station and behave with the decorum befitting our family and its lineage, I would be grateful. I would like, if possible to avoid any breath of public scandal attaching to our name."
The Steward turned from them to his elder son. "Boromir, you will stay. There are matters pertaining to your journey of which I must inform you."
Éowyn refused to acknowledge Denethor with even the slightest inclination of her head. She turned heel and walked back down the long hall, Faramir at her side. He remained silent as they retraced their steps through the palace and out of the great doors to the courtyard outside.
Once out of sight of the guards, Faramir stopped beside a low stone wall overlooking the small walled garden. He slammed his fist down on the balustrade.
"Morgoth's balls, patricide is a crime both according to the laws of men, and an act of blasphemy before the face of the Valar. But I am tempted, by Tulkas, I am tempted."
Éowyn laid her hand on his arm. Suddenly she seemed to see, as if through the eyes of a disinterested observer, the farce for what it was. "Peace, my love. I now realise that your father's performance was as much as anything intended to rile me into giving up information I should have kept to myself. And, damn my foolish temper, I fell into the trap headlong."
"No doubt that was part of his plan. But his behaviour towards you was inexcusable."
Éowyn gave a wan smile. "Do you still think your plan to tell him of your feelings for me is a good one?"
"Good or not, I shall still tell him on the morrow. And make him choke on his words. Éowyn, I would fain tell him that I intend to marry you. Will you have me to be your husband?"
Éowyn stared at Faramir, stunned into silence. Then, to his chagrin, started to chuckle. "As proposals of marriage go, that has to be one of the least romantic in history."
Thank you to all my reviewers, especially (since I can't PM them) my two, as I now discover there are, guest reviewers. I wonder, was it the sameguest reviewer who complimented me on my "tasteful smut" in chapter 7 who then went on to mention my graphic and forward Éowyn in her review of chapter 8? The last chapter's smut was already written when I received that earlier review and I couldn't help but chuckle, feeling that I had thrown any claim to tastefulness completely to the winds. ;-) Re. the other review, yes, I do see Denethor as a complex character – certainly not a monster, by any stretch of the imagination. He is capable of being stern and forbidding, or even unreasonable, but he also genuinely cares for both his sons (as I think comes out in the scene in "The Siege of Gondor" chapter where he sits by Faramir's bed, lamenting what he has done). I did check the timeline before writing these chapters – this is pretty much following that of the books. As described here, Denethor is not convinced by the first dream, and there is a gap of two or three months, during which both brothers have the dreams, before Denethor agrees to send Boromir to Rivendell.