Éowyn woke to find herself staring at a low stone ceiling, barrel-vaulted in the white stone of Minas Tirith. She lay in a narrow bed, a feeble light creeping through the myriad panes of a small window. For a moment, she watched the light cast across her sheets, breaking into bands of colour where the edges of the glass panes splintered the light into tiny rainbows. At another time and in another place, she might have found it beautiful. She moved slightly, and a searing pain shot through her left arm. And all at once she was back on the battlefield, facing the evil darkness, feeling her arm shatter into pieces beneath his mace. Then suddenly, like a deluge of icy water, the knowledge that Faramir was dead hit her, and she choked with tears.
Someone must have been within earshot, because suddenly she heard soft footsteps echoing, coming nearer. She turned her head on the pillow, and saw a middle-aged woman in a drab grey gown come through the doorway. The woman approached, and laid a hand on her brow, then lifted her uninjured wrist and felt for a pulse – Éowyn suddenly realised that her right hand, and indeed the whole of her arm, felt icy cold and numb, a sensation strangely worse than the pain in her other arm.
"Lady Éowyn, you are in the Houses of Healing, in Minas Tirith. You were brought here after the battle. I am Mistress Ioreth, one of the Warden's assistants. Just lie still and rest – I will bring you a soothing draft to help with the pain and enable you to sleep."
"No," said Éowyn, trying to sit up. Her stomach muscles felt as though they wouldn't obey her. She rolled onto her side and pressed herself upwards with the cold, numb hand. Odd, she thought, It's almost like it doesn't belong to my body any more, like it is someone else's. She realised her throat was dry and sore, but managed to croak out a few more words. "The battle? The Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons? The Rohirrim?"
"Rest easy, my lady." The healer pressed gently against her shoulder as if trying to persuade her to lie down once more. "The battle was won. The Rohirrim arrived from the north at dawn, then, just as things looked hopeless, a fleet arrived on the river, bringing with it..." Her voice dropped to a whisper… "An army of the dead, fulfilling their oath to the heir of Elendil. He it was who healed you."
Éowyn almost retorted To what end? But then, flickering in the back of her mind, she recalled a half-made promise, a promise to be strong. To be strong for someone's sake… But whose? She couldn't remember, dammit. Collecting her thoughts she said, "And what of the Rohirrim? How fared they? Who were they led by?" She recalled her departure from Edoras, her uncle shrivelled and wizened, a shadow of his former self, crouched upon his throne. And the Worm, standing beside him, gaunt, twisted, malevolent.
"They were led by the king of the Rohirrim, my lady. It is said he led the charge and fought at the front of his cavalry, falling bravely..."
Éowyn found herself fighting back tears once more. These were the memories she had shut out, this was why she had faced the nightmare, fought the witch king. She saw her beloved uncle, not wizened but restored to his strength, yet shattered and in agony beneath his own horse. And she saw the fell beast of the air, swooping, ready to tear his body into carrion pieces. But she had triumphed at the last. No man may kill me, he had said. Yet she was no man, and she had killed him.
The healer patted her shoulder and offered her a cloth to wipe her eyes. Éowyn took several deep breaths, then said, "What of the rest?"
"Your brother survived the battle, my lady. He is now king of your people."
"Where is he? Is he here?" Perhaps this was the half-remembered promise, the reason the heir of Elendil had drawn her back from the dead. Maybe she had promised to live on for her brother's sake. She knew it had been about something vital, but the more she tried to grope towards what it was she had promised, the more it seemed to elude her.
Ioreth rested her hand on her cold arm, in a gesture Éowyn realised was intended to calm her.
"My lady, they have ridden to war once more. Your brother left a letter for you – the warden has it, for when your strength has returned enough."
"Then take me to the warden, madam. I would see this letter, and ride out to join battle myself."
"My lady, you cannot. Your arm – you could not fight, you would not be strong enough."
Éowyn's face set into a stern mask. "I managed to slay the wraith after he had broken my arm. I am sure properly splinted I will make shift somehow."
Ioreth looked at her with an expression of disbelief, then as if giving up the fight, said in a resigned tone, "I will take you to see the Warden. He will make the final decision, and I have no doubt, will not indulge you in this rash course of action."
She helped Eowyn get up and put on a drab brown gown, which Eowyn assumed had been borrowed from one of the healers. Then Ioreth ushered her from the room, and the two women set off along the corridor, both maintaining a kind of mulishly obstinate silence. Éowyn followed the healer down twisting passageways and eventually through a small courtyard, then through an arched doorway into a hall. Ioreth, still without saying a word, strode across the flagstone floor and rapped sharply on a heavy oak door.
"Enter," said a male voice.
Ioreth lifted the latch and pushed the door open, ushering Éowyn ahead of her, then followed her into a small study. The room was lined with shelves, containing books, glass jars full of strange specimens floating in liquid, bottles containing potions and tinctures, trays of surgical instruments. At a large desk, the Warden of the houses sat, writing in a leather bound volume.
"The lady Éowyn, sir, would like to leave the houses. She feels that if her arm is sufficiently securely splinted, she can follow the host of the peoples of the west, and ride into battle at her brother's side." Ioreth kept her face absolutely impassive as she said this, staring at a spot on the wall just above the Warden's shoulder.
The warden paused, laid down his quill carefully on the inkstand, then surveyed first his assistant, then Éowyn. His face gave little away, only a slight lift of one eyebrow expressing any surprise.
"My lady, surely you must see the foolishness of this course of action?" the Warden said, with a calmness which Éowyn found infuriating.
"Foolishness?" she replied. "When we are all like as not going to die anyway within a few weeks? I would sooner die in battle taking the fight to the enemy, than die helplessly on the end of a spear when the city is overrun."
"Have you no faith in your brother and the Lord Aragorn? They are brave men and proven warriors. Surely they would not lead out their armies to certain death. They may be gambling on a desperate throw of the die, but they did not strike me as suicidal," the Warden continued, his voice still level.
"You are not a military man, I gather," said Éowyn, irritation showing in her voice. "You do not understand that given the relative sizes of the armies of Gondor and the Riddermark, when compared to the hosts of Mordor, then certain death is precisely what awaits them."
"I am a man of peace, my lady. As you rightly point out, I am not a military man. But surely a wise man does not engage in a battle he must lose?"
"But what is the alternative? It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those that do not have swords can still die upon them. I should sooner choose to die in battle."
"Your choices, however, may prove to be of little import. It is several days since the host departed, and you would not catch them in time, even if you were fit to wield a sword."
"Armies move slowly. A lone horseman, much more rapidly, Master Warden."
"Well, if I cannot sway you by appeal to your reason, since you are set upon a course of extreme foolishness, perhaps I can appeal to your sense of responsibility."
"Responsibility? Towards whom? All those whom I count as my kin, my friends, my countrymen, my allies, all ride already towards certain death. What greater responsibility can I show but than to die by their side?"
"And what of your responsibilities as a woman?"
"As a woman?" Éowyn felt white hot anger rise within her. Here was another man who sought to cage her, simply because of her sex. "Have I not proven my worth in battle equal to that of a man? Did I not slay the witch king upon the field of combat? And yet you would have me… do what precisely? Spin? Weave? Perhaps work fine embroidery? While the city lies in ruins around us. Or perhaps supervise the running of a fine household in a city under siege with no provisions?"
The Warden gave a heavy sigh. "My lady, I refer to that which only a woman can do. Surely you have some care, some feelings towards the babe that grows within you?"
The room lurched sideways, the floor buckling beneath her feet. Éowyn swayed with it and had to place a hand on the chair back to steady herself.
"Mistress Ioreth, look to the lady..." But Ioreth had already taken several swift steps forward and caught Éowyn, helping her to sit upon the chair.
"A babe?" said Éowyn, helplessly. Yet even as the words left her mouth, she remembered the curious, misty grey wasteland of her dream-scape, the heir of Isildur leading her from the desolation at the brink of death, bidding her live on for the sake of Faramir's child.
"Surely you knew, my lady?" said Ioreth. "Your courses..."
"Have always been irregular, and I have long taken remedies to keep this from happening," Éowyn replied.
Ioreth gave a snort. "Folk superstitions. You mean, you've been lucky."
"Peace, mistress," said the Warden, still in his annoyingly calm voice. "Now is not the moment for reproaches. The lady has had a severe shock. I am sorry – had I realised you did not know, I would have broken the news more thoughtfully. Your husband?" His voice ended on a note of gentle enquiry.
"I have no husband," said Éowyn, shortly. Then realising that it was probably not in her best interests to present herself to the Warden and his staff as a wanton hoyden, decided to stretch the truth a little. "He is dead."
"My condolences, lady. Recently?"
"Yes. He was mortally wounded on the retreat from Osgiliath." To her horror, tears started to prick at her eyelids.
"Ah," said the Warden. "Now I begin to see why you are so anxious to throw yourself into battle. But please, my lady, bide a while, let time take the edge off your grief. It will not ever make his loss diminish – this I know too well, being widowed myself – but other things will come to fill your life in his place, not least his child."
Éowyn sat on the chair, her mind whirling. Eventually, her thoughts began to clear, and one issue began to come to the fore. No, that could not be done… he would dismiss her once more, if indeed he even allowed her into his presence… but he must be told. He would probably reject her, might even deny the child's paternity entirely. But the child was the last of his line: he must be told. Steeling her resolve, she spoke.
"The Steward of the City, Master Warden? I must speak with him. Could you send a messenger to him? If needs be, I will walk to the Palace of the Stewards myself."
"That need not be, my lady. He dwells within this house, recovering from the wounds he sustained during the siege, and recovering from his fever. I believe at this hour he customarily walks upon the wall at the end of the gardens, looking out towards the East, praying for the hosts that march forth, and perhaps considering how best to defend the city should they fail." The Warden cast his glance sideways to Ioreth, who nodded.
"That is indeed his custom, sir."
Éowyn rose to her feet, still feeling somewhat shaky. "Would you be so good as to lead me to him?" She swallowed hard. This was not going to be an easy meeting. But… wounded? If that were so, she had underestimated the man. He had clearly played a more active role in the defence of the city than she thought. Perhaps this cast his decision to send Faramir to his death in a new light. She would never forgive him that – and never forgive him denying her the chance to ride by Faramir's side – but she could perhaps finally acquit him of the charge of cowardice. He had clearly been willing to spend his own life as well as that of both his sons; he had not, as she had thought, sat safe within his palace while all around him fought to the last.
The warden had moved round his desk and offered her his arm. Grateful for the support, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he led her back into the passageway. This time, she found herself guided , not down the labyrinth of narrow passages that led to the cell-like rooms for the patients, but down a wider corridor that led to a vaulted entrance hall. He led her through a high arched doorway, the wooden doors thrown open to allow the spring breeze to blow inside, into a garden. It took her breath away – the unexpected greens, bright and vivid with the vigour of early spring, crocuses and snowdrops piercing the earth, a few almond trees with their early blossom like flowers of snow on their graceful branches. She blinked in the unaccustomed brightnesss. The warden took her along a gravel path, then to a narrow flight of stone steps which led up onto the wall.
There, thirty paces away, a man stood with his back to them. A tall man, broad-shouldered, with the stance of a warrior. His black hair blew from his neck, ruffled by the spring breeze – black hair with no trace of the mithril streaks she remembered so well from her first encounter with Denethor. And suddenly, she recognised that stance, knew who it was who stood before her, and her heart felt as though it would burst with a joy she had never thought she would feel again.
"Faramir!" Her feet had grown wings, she was flying across the stone pavement, seeing him turn, seeing his face as he recognised her. His face, as if lit by the rising sun, full of a joy that echoed her own. And he too had started to run, and halfway along the battlements, they finally reached one another.
And he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he cared not that they stood high upon the walls in the sight of many.
~o~O~o~
The line at the end is of course, Tolkien's. There will be another chapter, because I really miss writing happy fluff, and I think we all need some happy fluff after the last few chapters!
Thank you again for all the reviews.
Rachel – whoop, I have achieved angst! (It does not come naturally to me as a writer). Re. autobiographical comments – I think you misunderstood. I was reminiscing about the very young me, who used to do desperate unrequited crushes (which then evaporated when I was offered the real deal). I am glad to report I grew up!
Boramir – glad you liked the chapter, and yes, as you have just found out, I was saving Éowyn realising Faramir is still alive for this chapter. I don't think we're going to get as far as Éomer's reaction (I did that in another fic, and tend not to go back over the same ground unless slightly tongue-in-cheek).