At last a gambit fails; a captain finds a pawn; the White Queen makes a play
T.A. 3019, March 6-8.
In a time of wonders and aching shadow many strange things came to pass. A wizard, seeing only the parts of the board his master would allow found his plots begin to fail, crumbled to dust like the pages of some long forgotten tome. In a great and ancient wood the Eldest of living things was moved to act, while at the gates of a dark and fabled tower the erstwhile wardens sat and smoked. One who might be saved let pride reject the hand that reached, while one who was not yet lost sent an arrow dipped in blood. In a refuge hidden well a vision long foretold came to pass at last.
War had been loosed upon the land.
~~~000~~~
The dark-haired man blessed with his mother's light grey eyes and deeper sight, sat upon a wooden chair, face limned by the yellow torchlight that flickered across the glistening old stone walls.
All around the murmur of tired, sated men gave quiet voice to the day's events. To the rush of battle, the pursuit yet still to come and thanks that they had been little scathed. They knew this was but the opening move. Soon the One-they-did-not-Name would know of their deed and his retribution would be swift. With grim determination weapons were repaired while grave-faced men pondered their luck and the surprise that walked from under Ithilien's boughs. They did not pry about their guests but the tallest of them cocked an ear, turned ever busy hands to the haft of a broken spear.
Madril worried and watched the Steward's now only son from out of the corner of his eye. Two tiny legends had walked out of the darkened north where fell the Captain-General. He liked it not. They seemed too poor a recompense for the halves of a broken horn. Though Madril had argued against it, the Captain had made up his mind to bring them here, at great risk to all and great risk of censure, knowing well the cost of disobeying his Lord and father. Faramir had made such choices in the past. They had supported him and with never any cause to doubt his judgement. But these were strange and trying times. The strain of losing Boromir was surely great and Frodo had not been honest about their errand. That much was clear even to the big lieutenant.
Suddenly a stool fell back and clattered on the stone. The sound was over loud in the company's quiet space; breaking the customary hush of the night meal's afterglow. The stool lay upturned like some trapped animal vulnerable to its foes.
'…here in the wild I have you: two halflings, and a host of men at my call, and the Ring of Rings…'
The men of Ithilien, attuned, as ever, to their beloved Captain, looked up and a wary hush descended.
The periain, the twain, stood with backs to the heavy walls, faces stiff and set while the Captain loomed above, sad eyes glinting in the light. The men looked on in puzzlement. They had not heard his words but the Captain's very stance made them anxious with uncertainty. Over by the trestles Mablung rose and casually grasped his new-oiled sword. Damrod nodded at his companion's glance and felt a sudden need to stretch and walk.
Madril clasped the binding of his spear a little tighter, eyes narrowed, alert for any threat and absently tying off the new smooth leather. A prickling had crept up his nape just as it did before an Orc burst through the underbrush. Something was ill but he was hard pressed to say exactly what.
Time widened for a longer moment. The whole company held its breath and the only sound to be heard was the eternal chiming of the waterfall.
Just when the big Tolfalas man was minded to rise himself the Captain's shoulders relaxed the barest bit. The older perian smiled warily as the Captain bent and righted the tumbled stool. They sat back down and Faramir followed suit. Soon enough his quiet chuckle could be heard in the watchful lull .
Madril let out a shaky breath and lay the spear beside his seat. Perhaps it had all been some jest, some joke that did not translate to the little people's world? There had been precious little laughter from Faramir these days, still less a smile. He could thank Eru at least for that.
He reached for his tankard of late winter ale and drained it to the dregs. Strange times. Strange times indeed, and as his old mam used to say 'Smooth seas never made for skilful sailors.'
Sometimes, he thought, listening as the customary quiet noise of the refuge filtered back, he could just wish they were not all so skilled at what they did.
~~~000~~~
A twist, a turn, an unexpected play and fate moved on, set new pieces on the board and turned thoughts to yet another move.
The lieutenant need not have worried so. In the heart of the two travellers there was resolve and quiet dignity. In the heart of his Captain there was weariness and grace.
Dark is a way and light is a path. It leads ever to the west…
~~~000~~~
Sam awoke with a start, heart pounding heavily, alert to any sense of looming danger. As he lay and gripped his dagger the world and where he was came gradually back. Ithilien, he was in Ithilien and had had his finest meal in months. His master was peacefully asleep (at least as peacefully as he was able) and they were safe and in the company of brave and honourable Men.
Beyond his pallet a grim-faced, grey-eyed young man picked up the bench that he had dropped. It was that sudden thud that had awakened Sam but not his Master who slept more like the dead. Neither hobbit had had a proper sleep in long.
"Your pardon, little master." was the whispered word of the Ranger who quickly bent to lift his load again.
Around there was a quiet clatter of tables being removed and stacked, men readying pallets on the floor. It was clearly time for all to rest and so Sam lay back and tried to settle again but this time, with the first wave of fatigue fresh blunted, peace would not come. He should sleep but it all felt so odd. The soft felt of the pallet was unfamiliar and somehow he felt nervous, jittery almost, with so many men around.
He forced himself to close his eyes but when he did the near disaster of his error, his revelation to Faramir of the Ring, came back around and taunted. Bless him for no better than a youngling, blurting out whatever was in his head. It could have been a right disaster, but for some strange reason all was well that ended well. Though he could not quite believe Faramir that it was meant to be, perhaps it could be for best.
Untangling his twisted blanket from his knees, the young hobbit sat up and cast his eye upon his Master. The least he could do was sit watch over Mr. Frodo, exhausted as he was. Carefully, Sam reached and pulled the older hobbit's blanket a little higher. It would not do for Frodo to catch a chill and a last lingering wariness made Sam tuck Frodo's collar down, to keep even the golden chain out of sight.
"Faithful servant Samwise, to watch your master's rest when you have need of your own."
Faramir's quiet voice came from just beyond his elbow. The man crouched, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry half grin. "Have no fear Master Samwise. You are safe and honoured well. At least til the morn there is peace and safety here." It appeared that the Captain had paused in the midst was readying himself for bed for the ties of his linen shirt were loosed and the last of some warm drink steamed gently from a goblet in his hand.
"Begging your pardon sir, I am not sure we will be ever quite safe again." Faramir frowned as Sam turned and looked upon Frodo's lined and careworn face. The face he knew so well was now thin, with dark shadows below his eyes. "He is carrying wounds, suffering and all I can do is ease his way a little."
Faramir nodded, gravely. "For now all that we can offer is a guarded rest. Come." he said, gesturing to a nearby curtain, in front of which sat a desk and chair. "If you will not sleep yourself at least sit at ease. Lord Irmo will watch Frodo's dreams."
"Oh no Captain, I should not like to keep you from your bed." Sam looked across to the opening in the curtain. Inside a small oil lamp sputtered on a low, wooden table and beside there lay a rumpled pallet surrounded by piles of books and papers. He smiled. It was quite a contrast to the tidy space of the main refuge.
"Nay," said Faramir, "I am not ready quite as of yet."
He may not have been ready but something about the softer set of the man's grim features suggested he was about to take a moment's break. It would not be right to take up what little time he had.
As if he caught the unspoken thought Faramir demurred. 'Tis no intrusion, Sam. I should be glad of the company. Bide with me a while."
Knowing there would be little chance again upon the road and heartened by the man's gentle manner, the hobbit took a seat upon the chair. Faramir walked to a nearby iron brasier that rested on a metal stand. It was stuffed with red-glowing coals that gave off a welcome heat but little smoke. The man dipped a small earthen cup into pot keeping warm upon the grate.
Faramir returned and handed Sam a pale and softly steaming tea. "Try this Sam. Many find it hard to rest after the tenor of our day."
The cup was small and neat and around its rim ran a pattern of leaping stags. He wondered if it had been made for a human child, dwarfed as it was by Faramir's much larger hands.
Sam took a cautious sniff. The herbs smelled almost musky but in a homey, wholesome way. More warm earth in the summer sun than damp leaf litter in the dark: the scent reminded him a little of one of Elrond's brews. Perhaps it would help with sleep. The young Hobbit took a sip and found the taste more pleasant than he expected. The captain held back his smile and, in a move surprisingly graceful for one so tall, folded his long legs underneath himself and sat upon the floor.
'Tell me a little of your people.' Faramir asked when he had settled and so Sam did: of Hobbiton and smials and the party tree, of Merry and Pippin (but not their part in the Fellowship), of Tooks and Baggins and Brandybucks.
As the quiet words wound out the Captain leaned back and clasped his hand around his knee. The sight made him oddly sad and then with a start Sam realized why. Boromir. Boromir had sat just that way, hand laced about his knee. Sorrowing anew for the loss of the big, brave warrior he had so admired, Sam felt it was also oddly comforting to be with another man who was so alike, as if Boromir was not truly gone. It was uncanny, the similarities the brothers: their mannerisms, their hair and chins and noses so similar. Even their voice at times held a familiar timbre, though Boromir's was the louder. Watching Faramir's face in the lamplight Sam fancied he also saw something of another dark-haired, grey-eyed person he had met: Elladan, Elrond's son. The clear grey eyes, wise and kind, in a narrow, elegant face had a distinctly Elvish air.
The thought of Elves made him suddenly remember the Lady's gift. Where had it got to? In the rush to march from the battle ground he could not remember where it had been stowed. If he had forgotten it he would never forgive himself.
"'Cuse me a minute Sir." And so Faramir watched curiously as Sam reached for his kit and rummaged urgently. With heartfelt sigh of relief the hobbit sat back on his heels. He had found the plain grey box with its silver rune tucked inside the coney pot. Thankfully it seemed no worse for wear.
"What is it Sam?" The quiet question came when the hobbit had sat down again, stubby fingers tracing the tengwar on the lid.
"Something good, unsullied you might say. 'Tis not but a box of earth, but one from Lothlorien, from the Lady herself. She said it would help my garden grow, bloom like Lorien of old."
"That is a gift indeed!"
Faramir's wide eyes turned wistful. "I would see your Shire one day, with golden boughs amidst the green. This was the Garden of Gondor once. I dream of seeing it so again. A garden of green and growing things, living at ease and peace."
A gentle smile quirked again. "And perhaps a garden of verse will sprout besides."
It was then that Sam noticed the man had set a book upon the table. It was open. Clearly Faramir had planned to read, and with delight Sam thought he recognized in the faded ink the spidery flowing script of Elven runes. "Is that Elvish?" he asked, breathlessly.
"Yes. Yes it is." The gentle smile grew wider. "An ancient story, the Lay of Luthien and Beren. I am afraid I cannot do it justice if you have heard it spoken by the Fair folk of the Golden Wood."
"Aye, well you say you may not but I am afraid I would not rightly know." Sam explained. "Problem is I know it sounds right beautiful but I've no Elvish. I din't understand the words. Not a one for much book-learning such as yourself. I learn best by doing if you take my meaning."
The older man nodded as if he understood. "So each finds their way. I have had the fortune to study lore ere the world became a darker place. But soldiering, that is a different thing. That I also learned by dint of toil."
Sam set the box carefully back in his pack once more and looked back toward the laden pallet. His master slept, with only a few twitches and quiet mutters to betoken his cluttered dreams. Both of them were right muddling their way along.
He reached for the cup of tea and took a measured gulp. What was he in this adventure? Not a wise Captain like the man who sat beside nor brave like Frodo. Faramir looked on his discomfit curiously, turning his own goblet slowly round in his hands and allowing the hobbit the space to explain himself.
"I am not a soldier." Sam began. "Goodness knows I've not helped my master much thus far. Never had a right real adventure afore this. I'm just a gardener, learning on the road I am, and not easy in the world."
Faramir shook his head. "So are we all at first. For twenty years I have lived in the wilds most of the year. It is my duty but before my commission I knew little of this land." The man paused, wrapped long fingers around his cup and took a thoughtful sip.
"I have measured out my life in arrows as you have in spadefuls. Each is honourable in its way."
Sam frowned, embarrassed to be praised. "Seems to me Captain you contribution has been the more important."
"Nay, say not so. Fighting and holding back the Shadow is what we do because we must. Beauty and poetry, ballads and graceful gardens, that is what we do it for."
"That sounds like something Strider might say."
"Strider?" Faramir's black brows drawn together in puzzlement.
"Aragorn." Sam hastened to explain. " Like you, one of the big people easy in the wilds and ever so very brave."
"From my little experience on this surprising day, that is not only a quality of those with ample stature. " Faramir replied. "Frodo carries a burden and unfathomable weight with rare courage and purpose though he is not a warrior."
A peaceful quiet descended as the two drained their nightcaps to the leaves. Suddenly Sam found he could not stop a yawn so great it felt sure to split his face.
"Excuse me…think I shall…" He did not quite get the words out before another yawn took hold. Faramir arose and set the cups aside, steered the nearly stumbling hobbit to his little pallet and courteously held back the blanket.
"Thank you so sir.." Sam lay down. Suddenly to lie flat on a rough stone floor felt the best thing in the world.
"Good night Samwise. Sleep well."
Through half open lids the hobbit watched the man grasp his book and stride slowly about the room speaking with the few men awake and pausing for a quiet word with the sentries by the rushing curtain. Now the light had faded it was more a muted grey and many shades of lavender, no longer the gem-struck, elven decoration his heart had fancied. Together the water's ceaseless song and the soft drone of his Master's breaths made his lids heavy once again.
Sam closed his eyes.
In the last dream-like moment before peaceful rest stole down, a voice came to Sam: venerable and wise. Elrond's. You may find friends along your way when you least look for it. "Aye," he sighed contentedly, pulling a soft blanket to his chin. "that we have."
~~~000~~~
Hours later, ere the full moon had set, a great wave rose up and the son of Dol Amroth's line found himself once more gasping awake out of green water.
The dream. Its darkness so wild, so raw and inescapeable, it was as if water poured from the heavens and the deeps. Faramir sat up and ran a shaking hand through his sweat-slicked hair. The hammering of his heart within his breast began to ease. For much of his life the dream had been an irregular and unpredictable visitor, much like Mithrandir though more frequent and not nearly so very welcome. Now in the scant weeks since his vision of the boat the dream had been a near constant visitor-the surest signal of his disquiet and an unwelcome one, given how full were the ceaseless days.
He was tired. Bone-tired but by long experience he knew that to lay back down would be all too futile: the dream would not be exorcised so easily. He rose, pulled on a shirt and then wrapped his woolen blanket round. It was barely the start of spring in Ithilien and the night was still far colder than the day. He padded across the hushed and darkened space, toward the Window. Behind lay row on row of sleeping men, some turning restlessly and murmuring, others still as stone and just as silent. Damrod, as always, could be picked out above the quiet din. His snores they joked were a indeed a weapon. They kept even the Nameless One awake in Morgul Vale.
Faramir nodded to Toric who had the watch and, settling his blanket close, leaned back against the wall, far enough away to miss the sheeting spray but near enough to see the shadowed, sleeping land. It was moonset, his favourite time of night. Ithil's milky simmer washed across the still, brooding Forbidden Pool. Across the deep green of the pines and the hollows and the swales thick with glossy holly. It made a silver glow in a land hard beset and, here and there, a tiny white evenstar shone like a beacon in the dark. Niphredil bloomed. Despite the cold, the little sun of late, the rankness of the air.
As if the very land resists….
Satisfied that all seemed well beyond their door, he raised his gaze up to the stars. Mithrandir had taught him the old names for all the constellations. Wilwarin, the Queen, set by Varda as a butterfly to fly forever bound for her great pride, danced above his head. To the left and low the bright bow of Telumendil, the Huntsman, glowed as he chased his quarry around the Sun. This night the brightest of them all was Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar. A warning to Melkor and a sign of hope to the children of the One. In the blue-black arching vault of the winter night the stars in the Sickle's blade flickered hard and bright as diamond. He longed to ask an answer of them but the questions were too many.
A sudden gust of wind flicked wet drops across his front and into Toric's face. He watched the young man start and scan the sky for some unseen threat. The cold spray was almost welcome this time of night. The last watch before the dawn was always hardest. With a sigh Faramir realized that this might be his final chance to see this sight. In the days to come more Haradrim would take to the road and they must at last leave the refuge. The time for skirmishes was over. What little chance they had lay in concentration, strengthening the ring of Gondor's best defense. Some of company he would leave with Cair Andros but the rest, they would fall back to Osgiliath and support Boromir's company.
Boromir…The thought of his brother set a sharp bloom of pain within his chest. There were no tears to dry upon his face this eve but he scrubbed a hand wearily acroos regardless. 'Where is thy horn', his heart had cried? Both pieces now sat upon the lap of another who shed no tears, a man who was a husk. Dry and brittle and burned by grief to ash. His father's grief seemed all the sharper for that he had not had the vision and though he had tried to tell him of it, Denethor brooked no tales of dreams these days. And they were more at odds again…"Aragorn" The heir of Isildur Frodo had said. Could it be? Could there truly be a king again? And what would the Steward think of a claim out of the North?
A faint footfall broke his reverie. Madril, who walked just as silently as the rest for all his size, nodded as he strode past to have a quiet word with his guard. Faramir noted the grey settled bags below the older man's eyes and their thoughtful, worried gaze, glinting dark indigo in the light. The veterans and the younglings alike were weary of their days.
Toric saluted and Madril smiled, paced back to stand silently beside his Captain. How many nights now had they met on a watch not his? Too many but still Madril did not pry. They were his family and did not feel the need to speak of it, of the loss that clawed at his heart. They would not curry favour by showing they thought of him as some in the City had sought to do. He could just be as he was. Not whole. Struggling. So very tired of being not himself.
He could see the pity and grief in the men's eyes when they, like him, were too tired to hide all they felt. Did they understand how much he wished for duty to be released? At times the drumbeat of water on the rock was so sure and steady it called 'come this way'. At the window he could throw himself into the night's dark vault and soar. Away. Away from all that dragged, from duty and need and aching pain. He knew it to be an illusion, strong and siren, but at times so very tempting. There would be time to grieve but it was not now.
A warm large hand laid suddenly upon his shoulder, anchored him to the here and now, to the rock of the refuge with its welcome weight. Perhaps Madril understood.
The lieutenant was about to speak when Toric's low whistle made the grey head snap up. The sentry had seen something by the pool.
Faramir shivered. A sudden feeling of dark and malice crept up. Below the Forbidden pool, on which only starlight was allowed to play, was dark, ink-black, shadowed by something from above. There was the faintest rush of wings and overhead a shadow passed, bat-like. Silently Madril and his men unshouldered their great black bows and nocked. The few remaining lamps in the inner flickered ominously for a moment. Once, twice, thrice, light and shadow played across the pool and, then, was gone.
"What do you think, Sir?" Toric's hand upon his bow was trembling. He looked anxiously past his lieutenant to his Captain, fear clear upon his face.
"Some scout, hunting for sign of us." Some evil thing of His. Both he and his lieutenant glanced worriedly to the east. "You did right not to shoot. We dare not advertise our position." Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would muster and leave Henneth Annun to the water and the stars.
Commotion over, Madril turned back to his Captain, eyes narrowed and brow set. Faramir knew that look. It was what passed for insubordination in his friend.
"Faramir..Go. Sleep. We need you fit, not a wraith yourself." Toric flinched at his lieutenant's choice of phrase but Faramir knew what he meant. At times he felt like he was fading.
He bid good night to both men and walked silently back past the company, pulled the thin curtain on his private space and sat heavily on the bed. His feet had grown chill through his socks despite his care to keep them dry. The sheets felt cold like ice that would lie upon the Pool in the early morn. He had been gone longer than he had planned.
Lying back, pulling the blanket round, he turned and blew out the lamp. He tried to close his eyes but sleep would not come. It was not the wave that shimmered behind his sight but a blood red ring. The Steward's seal. However much Faramir wearied of duty's grip he would have to give his father an account of his actions soon enough. Twice over now his life was forfeit but he could not regret his choice. Spring's warm eastern wind had freed the mountains of their snow. The path Sam and Frodo sought was like to be open. There had to be some hope.
Oh my brother we served you ill. The thought came unbidden. Faramir had seen what was in Frodo's heart: Boromir unable to face Galadriel, his fearless and generous brother shorn of hope and dignity. The image made him shake, cling with desperate need to the vision of a boat, a peaceful mien upon a white and silent face. What did it mean?
He knew it was not what happened in the course of things: to recount so fresh, so sparely, something of such pain. And though some small part of him knew this was not grieving (how could he speak so calmly to the hobbits of losing the one who was his foundation?) because he loved Boromir so very much, needed his brother's death to count in the greater part to come, he held on tight, kept the dam of tears from bursting free.
With a pang as sharp as splintered glass he realized his life had been now quite neatly split. To the time before when his brother had lived and after when he had not. The former would never come again and the sense of not having him would never end. Could never end and with it had vanished his sense of what was certain.
It was not normal for second sons to become the Captain-General.
Had he thought on it before he would have said he knew the path his life should take. He would have been a soldier, but just a Captain. Fought battles with all his head and heart. Held a few men while their lives drained away. In time advised his brother. Loved. Married. Had children of his own. Written a little bit, though perhaps not well.
All of it, all that should have been, had been swept away by the desperate, final ringing of a horn.
~~~000~~~
'Then our paths are sundered,' said Éomer. 'He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles.'
Éowyn stumbled out of Dúnhere's modest hall into the evening dim, choked by sudden grief at her brother's words. Blindly she sought the fresher air out of doors, the green heath of Firienfeld and its fresh chill air, untainted by words she could no longer bear to hear. None had followed her. The men, so caught in their urgent council with Gondor's messenger, had not noticed yet another stricken face on yet another fearful woman. The dale was full of such and they had more urgent issues to consider.
She took a shaky breath but found it brought no respite from the tightness in her chest. Below lay the Snowbourne's ford and the grey stone Púkel-men who watched the lap of the White Mountains close behind. Starkhorn and the saw-toothed hulk of Irensaga, crowned by their everlasting snows, should have shone above, guarding the grim black wall of the Dwimorberg: the Haunted Mountain set between. But tonight no moonlight reflected off the running rapid nor the high, wind-crusted snows. Hope and light alike had been smothered in the brown fog rode over all; that robbed the world of shadow.
Éowyn turned her back on the looming mass behind and the sudden rising wind. It was cold and in her haste she had left her wrap behind. Though the hall was but a few yards back she did not wish to turn, to see the path he had taken to the Gate. Was Aragorn truly lost, she wondered? The quailing of her heart said so and her Uncle's account of the dreaded Paths, well-meaning as it was, had done nothing to lift her already faltering spirit.
Without conscious thought her steps took her down past the hall's tiny alpine garden to the Lord of Harrowdale's neat thatch-roofed stables, seeking the comfort of one who would not demand beyond the withered apple in her pocket.
Windfola had been granted the honour of covered housing: not for him the open lines of pickets between row on row of tent and booth. Silently, she walked along the rough stone aisle that ran down between the double row of box stalls. The stallion was a ghostly smudge of grey in the gloom. He wickered gently at her approach.
"Westu hal." Her quiet greeting as she slid open the door and entered the warm, close space was met by an impatient toss of Windfola's great head and a furtive nuzzle at her waist. "Cupboard love my greedy lad? " she chided. Eager teeth reached carefully for the wrinkled windfall apple and his lips were soft against her palm. The first smile in days lit her eyes as the stallion crunched contentedly at his prize.
"My Lady? Lady Éowyn? " The unexpected query made her nearly jump out of her skin. Dunhere's elderly stable master stood just beyond the stall door, an expectant look on his weatherbeaten face. "I apologise for the intrusion. Do you need aid? I was about to head up to the Hall."
"Nay Waldruf. My thanks for your care." she answered. He was good man and sought only to help but the last thing she wanted in that moment was human company. "Do not let me keep you from your meal. I have neglected my friend in these past few days with so many deeds to settle all the folk."
A proud smile graced Waldruf's homey features as he gave a correct half-bow. "And the people honour you for your service my Lady. Good eve."
"Good eve."
Éowyn turned back and buried her face in the sweet hay scent and warmth of Windfola's neck. He tossed his head and shook, glossy mane tickling at her nose. As ever he could sense her unhappiness and so she stroked between his ears, seeking to soothe both their nerves.
She had thought she was through with weeping, had no more tears to fill the great yawning emptiness left from that morn but a few drops of salty wet soaked into her friend's rough winter coat. Aragorn had ridden away without a backward glance, straight into the great maw of the Dwimorberg. The thought of what he sought to do still made her heart plummet to her feet. What did it mean that one so high and excellent would cast away the chance to lead his men to war, to help her brother and lift all their spirits with his skill? That he should go, seek certain death, truly it showed there was no hope for any of them now. Theodred was gone. Her Uncle was returned but now Rohan was beset from every side. Gondor was besieged. What was there but to try to find a brief moment's glory under the shadowed sun?
Aragorn had spoken of duty that troubled morn and though she could see it drove him hard, it drove him toward some good thing. It was a warrior's duty face death as steadfastly as they were able. And what of hers? Was her duty to ever help folk too weak to help themselves?
Small strong fingers clenched tightly in Windfola's mane. She had done this. Been nursemaid, scribe and housekeeper to her uncle for ten long years. And though a small voice inside her head told her Aragorn was right, it was honourable, she could not help but burn at the baseness of her role. She, proud daughter of Kings, was made for more. Gladly would she give another who wished for elevation the authority of her people now.
Some prize it was, she thought bitterly. Even ruling in her uncle's stead she was not Lord, had been told she could not act beyond her apron strings without her brother or her uncle's leave.
A heartbeat was all it took to decide. She may not ride with the Dunadan but she would, will he nil he, with an eored. A corselet and sword had already been bestowed..they would do. She could find kit (had she not been the one to order where all such was stowed?) and had a horse.
Looking on Windfola she realized her first stumbling block. Her stallion, proud get of Snowmane, was well known and the men of the Mark knew their steeds. He would be recognized.
Before she could hesitate Éowyn drew out Theodred's dagger and began to cut the long glossy strands of mane and tail.
After several minutes work Windfola looked at her reproachfully, shorn of his pride. She kicked the tumbled hair below the straw and stood, hands on hip, considering what else could be done. A star. She could give him darker markings.
In the deserted tack room she found a pail of tar such as the groomsmen used to dress dry hooves. She scooped up a double handful of the thick black stuff and hurried back. Apologizing all the while she smeared his forehead and then from his hooves up over his fetlocks, taking care to mark his off hind leg much higher for good measure.
Windfola stamped a little impatiently and Éowyn soothed him with a pat as she stood back to admire her handiwork. A gleam of silver in the stall caught the corner of her eye. Bema her saddle on its stand was covered in rich detailing and was far too fancy for a junior rider. Taking out the precious dagger once again she methodically cut off all the silver and leather cantle bindings, cut off the tooled embossing on the skirt corners.
There. Her mount, at least, would be unrecognizable.
But what then of her? She would need clothes. Some could be taken with no one noticing but she would need a helm, one that would hide her hair. Her hair. A hand raised unconsiously to finger a lock fallen from her braid. Surely it would be easier without two long braids to wind under a heavy helm and if Windfola could suffer the indignity could not she?
Quickly she unbound her two long braids to hold them gleaming in the weak lamplight. She raised the dagger to her nape and began to saw the golden strands, fingers shaking with fear or haste she was not sure. Her hand was far from steady and when the dagger slipped a little, she drew it up. Perhaps not now: later if it seemed necessary. Surely she could be allowed this one vanity. With a sigh Éowyn sheathed the dagger once again. Giving a last pat for her faithful friend, with a sterner heart she walked back out into the night
Dawn the next morning found the air a deeper brown. Now all was shadowless or all were shadows. Éowyn could not tell.
She stood and shed no tears. Her uncle bid farewell within the hold with Dúnhere standing grimly by. Stern and dry-eyed she kissed Éomer, gave no sign that she had any other design. It was startling how quickly her plan came together once she was of a mind. None had challenged her in the storerooms or the barrack, she was the chatelaine of them all. In the great store of arms, spears piled like forests of new-planted trees, shields massed like turtles sunning in the morn, a helm was found to fit.
Bare hours later she waited behind the mustering men. A lie (but a needful one) that she had an errand in Edoras had reassured Dúnhere that he had her authority til her return.
Now she was but one young rider among many. One who kept his head down, tightening his girth and looking to his saddle, caressing his grey as he looked a little uneasily at the lowering sky. In a moment 'Dernhelm' would mount and place Meriadoc safe behind. Another truant who disobeyed their lord.
"I should be ashamed to stay behind.'
Merry's words to Theoden had cut her to the quick. Even the smallest of them knew that to be stern and resolute in the face of danger was to win renown.
The brown dusk deepened and strengthened her resolve as the host began to move.
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A/N: Thank you so very much to rlsa who favourited and followed this past month and to Guest and Earthdragon for their lovely and thoughtful reviews.
I am grateful to Annafan, Thanwen, Artura and Wheelrider who helped me with this tricky chapter. It is such an iconic part of the book I did not want to just rehash but also Faramir had things to say, to work through, and their input helped me clarify how to do it justice. (and one day I will post a clean version the first time around :) )
Next up: The muster takes a shortcut and the Steward's son readies for Osgiliath. 'A bitter winnowing' fits into the chronology here for those who may be wondering.