It was the noise that the last men of the retreat would take with them to the end of their long days.
Oldsters by blessed luck, settled warmly if not completely comfortably by a fireside, they would sigh and shake their heads, rub gnarled hands on trouser legs and recount the terror of each shriek and shout. The bone-shaking boom of the breech and the pounding, rolling roar of a black wave they could not hope to stop.
Quiet, such as the Houses' healing garden held, was for them all a blessed boon.
This early morn Faramir found he could not handle the ever present patter in the Houses' halls. He had retreated to the solitude of the healing garden. Only the low tinkle of the fountain and the soft crunch of gravel disturbed his thoughts—made a gentle music that calmed the soul –and an island of repose within the storm of war.
That is what this space has become and I within her, he thought sadly, looking out across the battlement to the wreck of his beloved Pelennor. Faramir suffered no illusion as to the City's safety: Minas Tirith may still be standing, the broken gate guarded by the Marshall's stout Rohirrim, but away eastward war would soon rage. Anborn (as ever his best source of news) spoke of Orcs harrying the woods of Lorien and without a shred of doubt he knew that Ithilien still crawled with the Enemy.
It was folly to think that they would be unassailed for long.
A sudden stiffer gust made Faramir shiver for a moment. Somewhere in high in the dark and desolate passes of Ephel Duath two small hobbits still carried all their hopes. The host, the bait (for such it was) moved more slowly than his own company but by now they should be passing through the pines and slopes of north Ithilien. Soon the army would reach the spot he judged the most perilous before their final goal: a deep cut in the Harad Road, near to where he and his men had ambushed the Enemy a scant two weeks before. Blind and vulnerable in its depth, used by the Rangers for that very reason. Mab would know of it. He trusted his lieutenant's hard won skill and judgement…but still it was hard to wait for news.
Faramir turned and sat heavily upon a near stone bench, pushed aside the book he had tried futilely to read. The sun beat warmly on his face and the morning breeze lifted his long hair. The wind was warmer and alive with the scent of spring but still his heart was heavy. No matter how idle he made his days the fatigue frustratingly would not abate. The little wooden lapdesk that Bergil has so obligingly carried all the way from his rooms lay untouched upon the bench and he felt guilty not to put it to good use. Varan had just the day before pronounced himself happy with his patient's progress-the Master less alarmed by his lack of energy than by his lack of appetite-though the patient himself found it far more disconcerting that he could not bring himself to write.
Perhaps Faramir should have expected the answer to his most recent pressing question. "Not yet, " had been the Master Healer's pained, almost withering reply when he asked how soon he might take up his sword.
A quill, he snorted ruefully to himself, a quill at least he could manage. Putting act to deed he settled down with parchment and a newly trimmed tip and paused to gather his thoughts. Lothiriel had reminded him that only a letter from his own hand would convince Erchirion all was well and so slowly and deliberately he began to recount the days before, how he planned to take up his sword in his shield hand should all go ill and how brave and skillful both Thiri and Ivriniel were in the face of the appalling injuries they had to treat. The writing was slow going. His right hand was unused to penmanship but he dared not move his wounded shoulder too very much; on that point Varan had been most firm.
A quarter candlemark's hard work found him so engrossed on forming letters that he did not hear he had company until Anborn cleared his throat.
"Ah Captain here you are. Convalescing yet hunched over reports already. Hand me a soggy cloak and I could swear 'tis as if we'd not left Henneth Annun."
Faramir looked up. The Ranger's mobile face was plastered with a cocky grin. He sighed in not altogether feigned irritation and leveled he best semi-sober stare.
"Lieutenant, this is a letter not a report. And I am obeying all of Master Varan's orders."
"Ah well that makes a happy change then," Anborn replied with a wink. "Look who I brought for you to see, Sir," he added, stepping to one side. "Thought you might want to bollock him yourself."
Eldrin, the Ranger's youngest surviving recruit, stood awkwardly to attention, his shattered hand bound and resting in sling, mouth hanging open in something akin to shock.
Obviously, he'd not had time to become used to the rude familiarity amongst Faramir's long-serving men. Or the tenor of Anborn's deadpan teasing.
"My Lord."
The stammered apology was waved away while Faramir shook his head. Anborn, once famed for his reticence in all but arrowcraft, seemed to be making up for lost time. Who could credit that a broken shoulder could also loose a tongue?
"Private I assure you whatever this reprobate says all I am is very pleased to hear that you are hale enough to try to ride out with the men." He nodded toward the sling. "How is your hand?"
The young man shrugged with enviable ease. "Not too bad a bother Sir." His smooth face broke into a wide and sunny smile below a dark curly mop. "I was treated by an Elf. Can you imagine it? I expect that makes it fair to heal a mite faster."
Faramir's dark eyebrows flew up, not failing to take inthe distinct grin on his lieutenant's face. This was why the young man had been brought to call. Anborn and Amerith, Lothiriel and Aunt Ivriniel were all finding sudden, spontaneous reasons to make him smile. It was so kindly and lightly done a less suspicious man might not even notice. Faramir smiled. His admiration and knowledge of the Eldar had been a source of amusement and awe amongst the men.
But he had yet to meet one in the flesh.
For good measure he put an extra tone of enthusiasm into his voice. "An elf? Truly?"
Eldrin nodded eagerly. "The King's brother, sir. Or I should say foster brother. Lord Elladan. The healers thought t'hand too far gone to ever knit, thought they'd need to take it off but the Lord just argued with them, insisted he try to set it. He was ever so gentle, my Lord. I can't credit it but I hardly felt a thing and he was done and I was bounded and poulticed."
His superiors exchanged a look. 'Hardly felt a thing' likely meant the poor lad had fainted from the pain. It was a mercy that he didn't remember after all. "I have not had the pleasure to make Elladan's aquaintance but I have heard much of the healing arts of Rivendell. He is actually half-elven I believe. Was he dark of hair and very tall?" There was one book in Minas Tirith's library with the likenesses of the princes of the Noldor, and Elrond, son of Earendil and Elwing in his youth.
"Oh yes. Ever so tall. Like yourself Sir. Though I fancy he looked a bit about the face like Prince Imrahil. Narrow cheekbones but very fair. And he spoke Westron and Sindarin."
Faramir's mouth twitched. Such gushing enthusiasm for the new King's wider 'foreign' family boded well for the temperature on Aragorn's return. "I daresay over a few millenia one has time to study languages a bit."
"Wouldn't that thrill you Sir.."
He chuckled outright at that. Anborn's expression said for him it would be nothing short of torture. For Faramir it would be a dream.
He shifted awkwardly, trying to sit a little straighter up. His back was tired- the sling pulled on his neck and his shoulder muscles ached-he had been sitting in the garden since near dawn, too restless to stay in bed and now a bit too fatigued to sit much more. With a start he realizedhe was being rude-both men were convalescing, too. He shifted the desk and a small box to make a little space. "Won't you sit down?"
They did. Anborn peered curiously down into the open box. "Captain. are those mallant…?"
"They are indeed. Please help yourself." He proffered the tissue filled, velvet-covered square. How like Amerith to try to tempt him with something as pretty to look at as to eat. The treats from her cook were one of his favourites but somehow after the first few bites the moist almond cake had tasted like sweepings from a stable. He'd broken the rest into crumbs and left it for a greedy finch.
The younger men quite happily tucked in. When Eldrin reached to take a second Anborn rapped him lightly on the wrist. "Save some for the t'Captain. We're in flamin' Minas Tirith not Osgiliath lad. Mind your manners."
"Me,,,?" Eldrin flushed, embarrassed but a little mutinous. foAnborn had already snared two for himself.
"No, the other filthy Ranger behind you, Of course you, you twat."
The private's sudden stiffening should have been a giveaway but Anborn prattled on, oblivious to the shadow that had arrived. He did not notice his mistake until Faramir gave a pointed cough.
"Oh begging your pardon Captain."
Faramir's lips twisted in amusement. The man was becoming almost dangerously loquacious. Something might have to be done. It was not actually his pardon that needed to be begged. "Good morning Aunt Ivriniel."
Anborn's brown eyes widened in shock. His swift half bow was impressive given the tightness of the bandaging. "Your highness. Please forgive my rat-arsed tongue."
The Princess of Dol Amroth, long used to tangling with far ruder stuff than a pair of Ithilien Rangers, ignored both the verbage and the address in favour of fixing one elegant eyebrow and a stern frown on her nephew. Perfectly erect and bright of eye, clad for convenience in the grey habit of the House's healers, she looked like a particularly fierce but tiny sparrowhawk.
"Good morning Faramir. I see you have not eaten yet."
With a sinking heart he followed the direction of her gaze. Oh Valar he had forgotten to hide his laden breakfast tray. It sat, in full view of all, untouched, on another bench not three feet away.
An embarrassed flush stained his pale cheeks. "Aunt Rini, I…"
Aunt Rini sniffed her disapproval and began to pull an ominous flask-shaped item from her robe. Morgoth's balls it couldn't be….
"Never mind dear," she chirped brightly as he forced back a groan. "I have something far more appealing if you find it hard to eat. I have brought your morning tonic."
.
~~~000~~~
.
"My Lady you are awake!"
A young woman in the simple linen dress and apron of a servant smiled shyly above a groaning breakfast tray, bobbed up and down in a remarkably steady curtsey and nudged the oaken door a little wider with her hip.
Crockery and jars clattered musically in the hush as with practiced ease she set her load upon a waiting stand. Over in the rumpled bed the Houses of Healing's most illustrious and impatient, (if sleepy) patient regarded the repast with frank dismay.
Bema take Varan if he expected her to eat all of that.
Éowyn did her best to stifle a quiet groan and pressed cautiously on her unbroken arm to push a little up. It was awkward, ridiculous really to be so weak; she could not lean on the splint and her sword arm felt wobbly as a new foal's legs, as if the stroke at the Nazgul had drained her strength away.
She set her teeth and tried again.
"Here my lady, let me…" Swiftly, a small strong hand was placed below her elbow and helped her to sit up. Éowyn straightened the tangled folds of her nightgown as best she could, blinked the last vestiges of sleep out of her eyes and studied the woman's fawn brown eyes. She did not look familiar.
"Thank you…?"
"Kira, my lady," came the muffled response as goosedown pillows were plumped into submission behind her back. An extra laid below her cast "Tis Annelise's rest day. I am to help you and the Steward too." The girl (for she was younger than she first looked) beamed, pleased and proud at her assignment, and clearly anxious to do each task correctly. "And how do you feel this morning? Would you break your fast now or do you need to get up first?"
Éowyn frowned, considering the question. Strangely, even if her arm was still quite numb, she had to allow she felt more refreshed that morning. Somewhat less like butter spread too thin. The edges of her dreams had receded and for once they had not been phantoms, not the dark shapes that left her unsettled and with nameless dread. She felt a little lighter, more ready to face the day.
Breakfasting could always wait.
At her cautious nod toward the garderobe, Kira stepped back and waited while her charge swung both legs over to the floor. With grim determination Éowyn tensed her muscles, pushed up and stood a little unsteadily, waiting for the disconcerting weakness to pass off. She was of no mind to suffer the ignominy of a fall.
It was the fifth day since the battle and still she found herself annoyingly unsettled. However was she to manage on her own? It rankled to need help to wash and dress, to complete the most basic of tasks she would rather fulfill herself, and with a pang of sorrow she thought of Theoden. All his long years of illness, how many times she had helped him in his debility. And the glorious sight of bright Herugrim, high in the dawn, honouring a wall of steadfast spears.
She too must find a way to overcome.
Pushing aside the worry, Éowyn walked slowly and haltingly toward the little alcove, set her lips in concentration and waved off Kira's hovering form. She would do things this day more for herself. With that in mind she completed her ablutions quickly as she could, made her way back to the bed andsank down onto the mattress once again.
Good. There had been no need of a helping hand this time.
Buoyed by this small victory, she perused the light wicker tray soon set across her lap. It held a dizzying array of food given the city had been under seige. Breads and cheese, jam and smoked fish were piled onto delicate china plates. And a rather frightening looking fruit that she first took for a nut. As he put aside the prickly sphere and nibbled cautiously at a slice of hard gold cheese, Kira left off the fire and pulled back the shutters to let in the morning sun. The view of the gardens through the curiously delicate stone arches of the window was beguiling, the fragrance wafting on the breeze even more so. It was lily-of-the-valley-Grandmother Morwen's favourite perfume- and its light, sweet scent made her suddenly homesick for Edoras. Somewhere in a shady corner of the garden there must a blooming patch.
Perhaps if the blasted healers ever let her up she'd have a chance to see them.
Every morning Éowyn had asked to rise and every morning she had been refused. It was infuriating. She was trapped between four admittedly elegant walls (for as the King of Rohan's sister she was housed in the choicest room) and no amount of firm rephrasing engendered any change.
At first Éowyn had assumed that the nurses and orderlies were simply spineless, would not risk a decision without a direct order from above, but on deeper questioning it transpired there was an order to the opposite. Aragorn himself had given directions as to her care: she was to lie abed ten days and so far as the Gondorians were concerned, crowned or not, the King's order was immutable She was dismayed. To comply was impossible . She needed freedom. A chance to regain her strength. To get news of the Host and how they fared. And a chance to find a horse.
(In her darker moments she suspected the King of guessing her intent. And Master Healer Varan too. There was something of the man's quiet, dark intensity, the sheer imperturbability of his face, that made her want to hide. As if he could see aught other than her wounds; had confined her for fear she'd follow on. It little mattered that they were quite right.)
After several minutes of listless picking at a piece of bread (all white and soft and with nothing like a proper crumb) Éowyn gave up and reached for the gently steaming cup. It was far heavier than she expected, the contents not clear tea but something brown and thick. She sipped very, very carefully. It was delicious. Rich and dense and sweet.
"What is this drink?" she asked.
Kira turned and placed a pale folded shawl upon the bed. "Chocolate my lady. Most well-bred ladies have it of a morning. I believe it is thought to warm the blood. Tis made of the seed of plant from near Harad. The Lady of Lebennin brings it in."
Whatever its purported properties it was a pleasant way to wake. Éowyn steadied her right hand and poured another measure from a little silver pot.
"Oh my lady, bless my memory-I almost forgot." Kira paused in the act of refilling a water pitcher by the bed and pulled several squares of parchment from the pocket of her apron. "The young lad who runs errands for Marshal Elfhelm left these for you. Said they came with messenger yestereve."
Éowyn set the cup aside and reached with eager fingers for the letters. The first she recognized with a twinge of guilt. It was from Éomer, his haphazard scrawl she would know anywhere, and the thought of him, how she had lost her temper made her meagre meal twist sourly in her stomach. It had been churlish of her to step back and deny his kiss; the brief flash of hurt in his eyes was still upsetting to remember. How by Nahar's silver hooves had she let her pride get the better of her in public? And in front of the Éored no less. She, daughter of Eomund, niece and now sister to the King, did not lose her iron control like that.
Abashed, she set his letter aside for a moment when she felt more composed and picked up the second one. The elegant script was unfamiliar, all curlicues and loops, penned, she thought, by some over enthusiastic scribe.
Slipping a fingernail below the seal, she unfolded the stiff parchment and began to read.
It quickly became evident the letter not dictated. Nor was it from one she ever expected would write.
Dear Éowyn:
Forgive my hasty missive but I find myself quite literally at the Crossroads and henceforth will not have time to set words down. My heart was beyond heavy to leave you so distressed at Dunharrow and since that day the thought of what ill might befall you has pained me, never more than to find you, white and silent, upon a bier. Praise Este that image has been replaced by one of you, flushed and proud, astride your brother's horse, receiving the accolades your valiant heart is due. I know it will be hard for you to wait and watch others take up the call. I implore you to not underestimate your foe. Do not take lightly the need to convalesce. It is well earned and quite truthfully required.
It is a sharp sorrow that we must leave you behind again and most keenly I regret that I have had no time to speak more of our last discourse. I would have you know that it was a great sorrow to have to abjure a lady so brave and beautiful. It is not for that you are not worthy—you are fair and true, a queen among flowers, one that any man would cherish-but my heart has been given to another for many long decades now. For her I have wandered and will wander a little farther yet. Our test is not complete and though I hope all our strength suffices for the hardest blow, I am relieved that yours is past, that you have prevailed and now can rest. Allow me, on that point, the liberty to make an observation, one formed across many years and through many lands of this Middle Earth. I do not share it flippantly, although it might seem an airy thought for these dark and shadowed times.
Éowyn I say to you that love oft times comes upon us when we least it expect it. Swift and unlooked for, sharp as an arrow, fierce and all-consuming as a summer storm. So it was for me. And so, I hope, it shall be for you. Do not be afraid to open your heart again. The gain will be beyond all price.
My lady I wish you nothing but joy. May you find strength and peace in which to heal.
Yours, in haste
Aragorn
Éowyn slumped back into the shelter of the cushions, for the nonce feeling anything but at peace. If Aragorn had meant to reassure, to be kind and considerate, he had failed, for the words (however well-intentioned) simply made her emotions roil the more. The pain of remembering her plea, her anguish as she had put aside her pride and poured out her heart, was like a wounded animal, quickly roused at every provocation. He had ridden to paths of certain doom and she, despairing, had looked for an honourable death, believing him all but lost. Oddly now that death had not come, though relieved to find him whole and unhurt, her heart was curiously unmoved. She had sat Firefoot with Éomer's broad chest at her back, looked upon the man she thought she loved and felt only admiration for his noble deeds.
It was as if rejection, and a bitter battle, had burned out the frail coals of love. Another bitter lesson that love brought only hurt; was a sham and a shackle she must avoid. Let him keep his words of hope.
With a heavy sigh Éowyn dropped the letter down on the soft coverlet and plucked restlessly at its print. Despite the light streaming in the she felt as if the walls of the room pressed closely in. The city was carved out of living rock and its stone hung, forbidding and heavy, over all. She longed for free sun sparkling on a waving sea of dewy grass, for the burble of snow-fed water on Sherbourne's gravelly bed That must be the cause of the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes.
"Is there naught that I can do? Are there no tidings of war?" she asked finally, seeking to focus once again. Emotion must be set aside. It would only distract her from her goal.
Kira started to be addressed and carefully laid the pewter pitcher back in its tray. "No my lady. No tidings of which I have heard. My uncle and cousins stand with the City Guard. If they'd heard aught I would surely know." The young woman frowned, fiddling worriedly with a corner of her apron. "By now they will be marching through Ithilien, east of Anduin. What number of the Enemy they will find I do not know. It has been long since those wilds were overrun, however hard Lord Faramir and his men strove to give the Enemy some grief."
Unconsciously Éowyn glanced away toward the east. The dark brooding shadow and red fume that in the Riddermark hung over the far far horizon was here perilously close. "What is it like?" she asked. The Host was too great to keep its movements hid. Once beyond the River and closer to the Black Land surely they risked a trap.
"It is a wild and wooded country my lady. Hilly beyond the river flats and riddled with steep defiles. The only passage is the old north-south road. My Uncle said they're not like to see much action before Cair Andros at the least."
Cair Andros? That was south and east of the Entwash was it not? Éowyn breathed deep with relief, though the tight tendril of worry would not completely leave her chest. Éomer and Eothain and even Meriadoc's cousin were safe for some days yet.
Shehad a little time-but not too much.
Quickly draining her cup, she pushed the half-eaten meal away. "Please, will you take the tray? I am finished." As Kira doubtfully lifted the still laden wicker off her lap she considered her options. This time she would not ask the nearest healer if she could leave. She would appeal to a higher authority. Somewhere in the City there must be a true warrior who understood her plight.
First issue she needed clothing. She knew her riding clothes to be rent beyond repair and the day robe Kira now laid upon the chair was thin, easy to handle for a patient staying abed, but hardly suitable for a ride. Windfola may be safe but the whereabouts of her pack and spare clothing was a mystery. A cursory search had not shown it not in her room. Making up her mind, Éowyn gestured to the light cotton nightrail. "Might I have something to wear that is not a healing robe? I wish to rise."
The younger woman frowned and chewed uncertainly at her lower lip. "I could ask if something can be found, my lady, but…"
"Do so, please. Whatever the orders I will rise."
The firm tone seemed to work. Éowyn sat patiently as she could after Kira's hasty curtsey and retreat. She picked up a brush laid in easy reach and began to work on the night tangles in her hair, yanking in frustration for here was another task she'd need help with to be ready for the fight. It was nigh impossible to braid. Even harder to twine up with the fingers of one hand.
The well-oiled hinges of the door whined softly once more, swinging wide to let in a tall, dark-haired young woman dressed in healer's robes. She followed Kira through, came to rest close beside the bed. Éowyn regarded her thoughtfully. She was nearly Éowyn's own height, but slender, and more delicately boned. And quite startlingly beautiful.
With a polite tilt of her head the woman gestured to the gowns laid carefully across her arm. "Lady Éowyn. I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. I understand you have need of some day time clothes."
Éowyn could not have been more surprised had she been addressed in Meriadoc's own tongue. The greeting was delivered in almost perfectly unaccented Rohirric. She peered closely at her visitor. Lothiriel was of her age or perhaps a little younger, with fine features and smooth hands that spoke of noble birth. She was, it seemed, the Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. A Princess. And her own distant cousin.
"Well met indeed, Princess. I did not know that you were in the City. I am greatly honoured that you should trouble yourself to come." Éowyn was all too conscious that her own Sindarin would not sound so smooth. She had practiced with Theodred and her Uncle when she could, but that was little enough with Theo gone always on patrol "And delighted and surprised to find Rohirric so well spoken about the Bay."
"Please, just Lothiriel." A bright smile and tinkling laugh lit the quiet space. "My father would say there are more languages spoken in our market than anywhere else in Middle-Earth. I am fortunate that he felt it as important for me to know when I am being fleeced as how to speak with my farther kin." She laid one gown across the bed and eyed Éowyn's own shift critically. "Kira tells me you need suitable clothes to go out. I have brought several of my day gowns though I fear the shoulders may be a little tight." Éowyn was indeed broader of frame. She sincerely doubted the Princess had swung a sword.
Lothiriel held up the first gown. It was cut in Gondorian fashion, flowing and billowy, with wide drooping sleeves that were most awkward for any sort of chore but thankfully need not be slit to slip over her bulky cast. The colour was palest lilac, of a shade that would be wonderful against Lothiriel's jet black hair and milk-white skin but insipid against Éowyn's fairer, golden colouring. The second was of simpler cut and white. Éowyn nodded to it immediately, wondering if Lothiriel also knew something of her home's rituals. White was the colour of mourning If so, the choice was very kindly done. She began to like the young Princess even more.
After Kira helped her dress and slip on a pair of soft doeskin slippers (the shoulders were indeed a little tight, the shoes more than a little. She sincerely hoped the hide would not stretch) Lothiriel held forth a simple triangle of linen. Clearly if the patient were to be up and about the healers required her to wear a sling. It seemed unnecessary but Éowyn acquiesced with as much grace as she could. Not every battle needed to be fought. As she turned her neck to let Lothiriel tie the knot she caught sight of herself in the small mirror on the low wood dresser. Her hair was a tangled mess. It would be simplest if it were out of her way until she finally she found her pack.
"Would you help me braid?"
At the quiet request the maid flushed and reached for the brush. "My lady, are you married? I apologize. We did not know."
Married? A woman was to wear her hair to suit her status? Rather than practicality or choice? It seemed so for the servants had left her hair down the days before. She had thought was that it was for ease of care. "Nay, I am not wed. But I wish it out of reach."
Kira frowned, brows drawn tight in obvious consternation, casting a glance over Lothiriel's waist-length fall of enviably shiny black. It was covered by a filmy scarf. "Oh but my lady we should not braid it. Someone might get the wrong idea. I can certainly pull it back from off your face."
Someone. Meaning a man, of course. What should she care? She had no need for a suitor. Éowyn opened her mouth to argue but then thnoted the faintest of pleading looks in Lothiriel's grey eyes. Perhaps there was some other it politically incorrect to announce she was married when she was not? She did not know but she might need this woman's help, it would not do to antagonize her and truthfully- the thought of arguing was suddenly too tiring to consider. She turned her shoulders resignedly.
After several moments of dextrous attention Kira stepped back. Two long thin strands of Éowyn's hair were twisted at the temple, twined back and bound with plain grey ribbon. It would do. At least in this guise she could see. She gave a grateful nod. "Thank you also Lothiriel for the dress. I must speak with the Warden and could hardly wander in a nightrail and bare feet."
"The Warden.,. why?" Lothiriel cocked her head quizzically.
Éowyn took a careful step, minding the swish of the full skirt "I have spent long enough at rest. It is time that I left and found where I may help my brethren."
Lothiriel gave a little gasp. The idea clearly sat as well with her as it had the nurse the day before. "I am quite certain such a course would be ill-advisable in your present state. You have only been abed five days. The King's orders called for full rest"
Tulkas take the King's orders. Only five days. Éowyn had never been abed so long in her entire life. She silently ground her teeth, noting the grey robes and few telltale stains on the young woman's apron. Who was she to say? "Are you here as a nurse?" she challenged.
"No." Lothiriel allowed, "not formally. But I do have some experience…"
"That should tell you my patient most certainly should not be getting up."
.The tall and lanky, somewhat intimidating, figure of the Houses' chief healer slipped into the room Lothiriel started at his unexpected deep bass tones.
"My rounds this morning appear to be opportune…"
A flush of embarrassment crept up the young Princess's cheeks. "Master Varan…I only thought to let…."
A dark head only slightly flecked with grey shook back and forth. "Peace Lothiriel. I am not vexed, merely concerned." Varan turned toward his patient who stood quite still in the centre of the room. Éowyn's chin was raised and braced for her defense- she would not suffer a scolding like a child.
"How are you this morning Lady Éowyn? I see your appetite has not improved."
Nonplussed to not receive so much as word of warning she glanced guiltily toward the breakfast tray. How like a Gondorian to be oblique, to not engage directly with the point. Not her. She had neither the time or inclination to dance around the truth. "I am well as I can be Master. Well enough to rise and begin to plan my departure. I will follow my brother to battle as soon as I can sit a horse."
A pair of craggy brows flew straight up. "How well you are is for me to judge, my Lady. If you will let me examine you forthwith, I can ascertain your condition for the journey."
Éowyn huffed but nodded warily, unwilling to call the man a liar in front of the others yet certain that somehow he had outsmarted her plans by simply appearing to agree. His keen dark gaze held neither challenge nor celebration but she was not fooled.
Varan she expected would rather eat nails then let her out of his care before ten days were up. And she was going to give up on her quest. Stalemate. For now. In the meantime there was nothing to do but be patient while due process was observed.
Mindful of her privacy, Varan ushered Kira and Lothiriel from the room and proceeded to calmly and yet rather gently test the state of Éowyn's health. Her breathing, heart, limbs, all were assessed and found to be unchanged. Her steadiness on her feet was noted as 'within tolerance of the day before' –which was to say less steady than she would like, but perhaps a little better. Her weakened right arm was put through a complicated set of drills that included guessing with eyes closed when and where he touched her skin. She found she had to concentrate quite hard to follow even the simplest counter-pressure exercise. The speed and accuracy of her response was soberingly poor, and although she pushed hard as she could with her muscles against his grip it was disconcerting to find that she could not hold his large hand back.
"I am better am I not?" she challenged, unwilling to admit defeat. If only the faint smile of victory could be wiped from off his face with a particularly hard kick. Sadly that was a fantasy- she felt tired just from her feeble efforts, although nothing would induce her to admit the fact. The dress's long and flowing sleeves were helpful to
hide the sudden shaking of her fingers.
The healer pressed both hands together and studied her curiously. "You are a little improved, that I will allow. But still far from strong enough to control a mount. If you cannot hold with one hand against me how do expect to hold an animal three times my size?"
"Training." came her flat reply.
He snorted and sigh heavily. "Lady Éowyn it is not a whim that has me following the King's instructions to the letter. If you overwork yourself too soon you could suffer a relapse of the major symptoms." One by one he checked each off on a long bony finger. "Fatigue. Chill. Inability to eat. Disorientation. Depression. All of these, if left untreated, could lead to an outcome more dire still."
Éowyn did her best to ignore his pointed look toward her tray. "You are, I deem well enough to be up and partake of the baths if you keep the cast from getting wet. Will that suffice?"
"No. I need leave to be released from this prison you keep me in."
Varan's crossed his arms upon his chest. The ring upon his smallest finger, the symbol of his mastery, winked in the light. "If you will not heed my instructions you must appeal to the Warden. You may find he thinks otherwise but I doubt it very much His is the ultimate authority."
Drat these Gondorians and their protocol. Another layer of bureaucracy to fight. But at least it was the last.
Éowyn stood and found that her tart reply was pitched toward his back. Varan crossed quickly to the door, opened it and bowed low, gesturing gallantly for her to go through. Her mouth dropped open and his dark eyes danced, amused at her hesitation.
"Surely now is as good a time as any for you to ask?" He might not take well to be being crossed but neither was he delaying a decision.
Éowyn gathered up her skirts with the fingers of one hand as regally as she could and walked, mostly steadily, underneath the carved stone lintel and out into the hall.
She turned left at Varan's silent gesture and tried not the let a sinking feeling settle like a fog over her chest. Hallas could not be so stubborn as his esteemed lieutenant could he? Or, hopefully, so smug?
Frustrated, outmaneouvered, farfrom certain aof her reception, she readied herself for battle once again.
For all their apparent softness, the people of Minas Tirith could be as unmovable as the stone for which their City was justly famous.
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~~~000~~~
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In the event the Houses' Warden- one Hallas, an older man with the quiet authority and preternaturally calm serenity of someone who has seen too much- was also unmoved by her words.
Éowyn her teeth while she followed his sturdy form down a bustling hall and out into the healing gardens. There was another layer to consult: one who was the ultimate authority yet conveniently also Hallas' prisoner. She had the dizzying sense that this was all a child's party game, she was to find another chair, another person each time the music stopped but with no idea where she would wind up with when all was said and done.
For several minutes the Warden trod placidly down the white gravel paths, glancing back and forth across the greens, searching for a face he plainly knew amongst those gathered on seemingly every bench. It was near mid-day and already the space was full of convalescents. Against the low hum of quiet chatter Eowyn could hear the twitter of chickadees drinking from a pool, the quiet crunch of many careful steps and somewhere amidst the green, the brief trill of a feadan played haltingly.
All were a welcome respite from the Houses other constant: the low rustle and pained moans of wounded men.
She followed as steadily as she could, minding her own feet, oblivious to the masses of green and pale spring blossom, to the welcome scents and warm spring sun, so focused on her errand she nearly missed an overjoyed Westu hal from one young Rider leaning precariously on a crutch.
"Godne morgen, " she nodded, abashed to not take the time to stop and speak, but the Warden was moving on.
When Hallas finally paused and enquired of the Steward's whereabouts from a passing grey-clad form, Eowyn could have wept, the relief was acute. From their vantage the view of the sun sparkling on the high snows of Mindolluin quite took her breath. As did the unaccustomed exercise. It was beyond belief to have so have lost so much strength and energy from so little time abed. And all the more reason to be sprung from her corral of wool and featherdown.
Finally, in the lee of the southern wall the Warden found whom he sought. Three men, swathed to varying degrees in bandages and bruises, sat engaged in quiet conversation, looking beyond the fields toward a cluster of black sails at harbour on the river bank. One was sable-haired and of her own age, another was a youngster with no suggestion of a beard at all, and the third was a little older, with the brow and nose that marked him surely as Lord Denethor's second son. Grandmother had tutored her in Gondor's ruling family, a name came after a little searching—Faramir—Boromir's younger brother.
Hallas cleared his throat and stepped forward gain their notice. "My Lord Steward."
The man jolted sharply and stiffened as if struck.
As one the three began to rise courteously and turn to face their guests, She saw the Steward square his shoulders and pull awkwardly up, murmuring a grateful thanks to the bearded soldier who reached down to help him up. He moved more stiffly and slowly than the rest, as if dragged by some unseen leaden weight. Belatedly she remembered he too had been taken by the Black Breath: the grey malaise that dragged at her still and at the thought a sliver of pained chagrin crept into her breast. Here was a man not yet recovered from his own wounds, who had just lost his brother and his sire both, who almost certainly never expected to be Steward and unused to being addressed as such. Her errand seemed suddenly unutterably rude, selfish even, an intrusion on his privacy.
But it was too late to take it back.
The man bowed and placed his free hand upon his breast to do her a formal courtesy. As his downcast eyes looked up, the black curtain of hair fell away and a grave gaze held her own.
The shock ran through Éowyn like a thunderbolt.
She had once seen a young tree so struck, cracked open by the force, its soft heartwood spilling out. Looking into those eyes of a curious lucid grey, she felt just so, almost naked, exposed, as if this man could see into her very soul. It was unnerving and yet there was nothing outwardly about him to suggest such intensity- his face was calm and yet strikingly alive, a paradox of strong edges and softness, sharp intelligence and a sort of wry compassionate restraint.
It was a face that any man, any warrior, would follow. And many a woman too, her traitorous heart added, for the young Steward was tall and undeniably handsome, with the look of his brother but set in a wiry, slimmer frame and gentler face. His dark hair fell, a little ragged and untrimmed, almost to his shoulders and a skiff of short black beard only served to highlight the lingering dark smudges beneath those startling eyes. He looked like, and yet unlike, every other Gondorian she had seen: dark, saturnine but somehow at once more noble, thoughtful. Perhaps this was the stamp of the house of Hurin's ancient line.
Éowyn flushed, unable to look away and yet aware that to stare was rude.
She had the oddest impression that she had seen him once before.
Whatever the tenor of his private thoughts, Lord Faramir's face showed only polite concern. "Warden?" he asked, coughing slightly as if speaking were yet difficult.
Hallas clasped both hands before him and bowed formally. "My Lord, gentlemen. I apologize for the interruption. The Lady Éowyn wishes to address a higher arbiter than I. Lord Hurin commands the Guard but Lord Faramir by right yours is the authority."
If he was surprised at this request the Gondorian was too mannerly to show it. Faramir set his lips and respectfully inclined his head. "Lady Éowyn it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Beside him the smooth-cheeked youth, mouth agape, dug an elbow into the other soldier's ribs. Word of her deeds appeared to have traveled even amongst the 'captive' men. A corner of Faramir's mouth twitched. "Lieutenant Anborn, Private Eldrin this is indeed the slayer of the Dwimmerlaik. All our thanks brave lady. Your valor saved us from our most grievous foe."
Éowyn flushed. It was a pretty compliment but more than that it was high praise from one she knew to be of rare courage un: Éomer had told her of Faramir's efforts to hold back the Enemy at Osgiliath. Without that steadfast and tortuous retreat there would have been no City for the Rohirrim to save. One who deserved courtesy in return. "My Lord, please understand it is not lack of care that grieves me. I simply cannot lie idle while my brothers-in-arms have ridden off to War. I wish to be released. I am a Shieldmaiden and looked for death in battle. Though the care here is of the best for those who desire to be healed, that is not my wish. I must ride to war and find honour where I can."
The man's gaze lit briefly on the Warden. Hallas shook his head and gave a little shrug; he did not agree with her request but diplomatically would leave it to the City's new ruler to decide. At Faramir's signal and brief murmur of thanks, the older man and young soldiers retreated to give them peace. He gestured for her to sit, moving a little paper box aside, and when she had alighted, settled himself again.
"What would you have me do my Lady?" Faramir asked, a little tiredly. He too had one arm in a sling. A livid bruise marked the skin above the open throat of his shirt and his skin was pale beneath a fading tan.
She gathered her courage and spoke firmly as she could. "I would have you command the Warden to let me go."
Faramir brow's furrowed and in his eyes she caught the briefest flash: yearning replaced concern for the wingbeat of hummingbird but then just as swiftly it was gone. He raised the thin linen sling that bound his arm. "I well understand your desire-it is also mine, but truthfully I know not what else you expect me to in honour say. As you see I myself am in the Warden's care. Even if I wished to wield my authority I would still counsel you to listen to him. He knows his craft, even as you and I know ours."
Éowyn fought to steady a drumbeat of hooves pounding in her chest. It would little matter if Gondor's healers had Este's own touch. Somehow she had to help this man understand her need was more than childish whim; nor was she a haughty courtier, simply unused to being crossed. "But I do not desire healing,' she explained. 'I wish to ride to war like my brother and his men, or better still like my uncle Théoden, for he has died, wreathed in glory, and has found both renown and peace."
"Peace?" Faramir asked, his grave face at once sorrowful and wondering. "Is there no peace for you to be had among the living lady? It is ever thus that we who have been left must seek joy in the saddest places. Even in the spaces between the beats of a faltering heart there can be strength."
Éowyn clenched her fists, shaking and white, in the folds of her skirts as a red tide of fury and embarrassment washed in. Who was this man, this Numenorean to challenge her own view? She did not want pity- aid was what she asked for and here again was a man turning her pleas down. It was infuriating but then even as she opened her mouth to frame a withering reply- she hesitated. A grey shadow, a thin veil of deeper anguish, had descended in Faramir's clear gaze. This man, who knew sorrow like to her own, spoke not to condescend but as one whose own heart was heavy, for whom beauty in world, however small, must be a balm.
She found herself curiously unwilling to burden him more.
Éowyn breathed deeply, once, twice and carefully unclenched her hands. What words would resonate with a fellow soldier? Duty. Duty and sacrifice. "I cannot lie, in sloth, while brave men risk all and I do naught but rest abed."
The disconcerting gaze held hers until she felt she had to squirm. Sorrowfully, Faramir shook his head. "Lady Éowyn by the Valar, I say to you I too know this wish. I also am caged by my injury. Nor do I recommend waiting lightly. Had we both the strength to gird ourselves, and that is doubtful, the Host has left and the chance to follow them is gone. But battle may yet return and our task now is to rest and heal, to become hale as possible to face what is yet to come." The soft planes of his face hardened and suddenly Éowyn felt her proud words must sound shrill for this mantoo was a warrior, had fought bravely in the face of certain death and was now forced to wait. He understood, he did, but not how much it galled. How many years had she been tied to a sick room by Theoden's debility? Waiting in doubt and dread. And now she was a prisoner of her own body's frailty?
It felt too very much to bear.
"But I am caged again."
She had not thought to speak aloud but his strangely clear sight at once softened, lit like a sparkling mist of grey on a warming morn. "Is there naught else that I might do?"
She hid her face, dashed a hand roughly across her cheek, abashed to find fingers wet by a tear she could not hold back. The frustration had become too much. All her hopes were fading. Without the Steward's permission she would not be able to escape. A few discreet questions of the servants had quickly ascertained that not only were the entrances to the Houses guarded, each of the seven Gates had passwords that one must give. She could not get free from this pile of forbidding stone even were she, by some miracle, to sneak undiscovered into the streets beyond.
She was not free nor would she be. "But I am told to lie abed for still another week.." she murmured mournfully., "and my room does not look east…"
"Whither all our cares have gone." At that Faramir sighed and nodded, ran his free hand unhappily through his hair, lips pursed in thought "I expect there are no spare rooms to be had my lady. The Houses are over full with wounded and I should imagine they gave you your room because the view is onto this very garden."
Éowyn's heart fell farther to her feet. Of course there would be little room: she had passed doors that showed glimpses of cots pressed cheek by jowl, like salmon jostling in a stream. She began to take her leave but then but then Faramir's face brightened. A look of hope glimmered in his eyes. "You would look east..? My room faces so. We are across the hall, although mine is not so large. The east-facing rooms are meant for officers, not for the sister of a king. But exchanging rooms would be no great travail. I have little enough to move beyond some simples and a book or two. I would gladly trade with you. Would you have me request it of the Warden?"
"I would," she said, and in that moment some thing that had been hard inside Éowyn shifted a little bit. This was a tiny victory but one which counted still the more. She could at least look toward her goal, catch the sunrise for what days remained to them. She lifted up her gaze and nodded once. "I thank you my Lord. I have no need of views of fountains or green lawn."
The barest of wry smiles quirked. "A shieldmaiden indeed. I also have no need of views but will attempt to enjoy them for your sake." He turned then toward her, lifting his left arm out of its sling to spread his hands in supplication. "We are settled then. If it also pleases you I will ask that you be given leave of the gardens. We must wait with patience you and I. For a warrior, walking surely eases the long slow drag of hours. I should assume if you are well enough to sit here and speak with me you need not be confined to your bed."
Eowyn heart leapt. It was true the morning's warming breeze felt welcome on her face and to have sun was no ill thing. "That would be most welcome. I need to train."
A dark brow arched up thoughtfully. "Then you will find me here training also, for I have ranged the woods for many years and am more used to being out of doors. The light and beauty of this space eases my heart a little. As would your company if you would walk at whiles with me."
He smiled and she felt a blush of warmth stain her cheek. "My lord, I thank you for my liberty, but I wonder at how my company should ease your care?"
"Lady Éowyn we have shared something few others have in this darkened time: We have both passed under the wing of deepest Shadow. And the same hand drew us back."
"Alas, not me, my lord! Shadow lies on me still." she cried, starting up, pulling her skirts back with a trembling hand. The words stung (must she be reminded of Aragorn at every turn?) and now they pricked slumbering grief to life. "Do not look not to me for ease! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle."
Faramir hastened to rise, concern and confusion creasing at his brow. "Still I would be glad of your company lady Éowyn, for you are beautiful, and brave, and sorrowful. And my own hands have been ungentle with the Enemy for many years. I know well a burden shared can bring comfort to fretful watches of the night.
Éowyn stood shivering, struggling to unwind her tongue and hold her bolting pride. She did not need flowery words for comfort. Grima's daily showers of petalled lies had inured her to their spell.
Suddenly she wished nothing more than to be away.
Eowyn began to turn but from the corner of her eye could not help but catch the expression on her companion's face. This gentle man, more soldier than courtier, yet schooled in Gondor's layered etiquette, was frowning. Perhaps she had insulted him. He had spoken courteously and she had rebuffed an offer made, she assumed, in innocent civility. Bema's horn the King of Rohan's sister might have caused a diplomatic incident but suddenly she felt all too tired to really care. Her splinted arm throbbed dully and her sword arm felt chilled, as if it alone had been caressed by an evil breeze. She shivered again. Perhaps Varan was correct. Her symptoms redoubled when she did too much.
"My Lady are you well?"
Blast the man. There was now a look of doubtful pity in his eyes – he had read her weakness all too well. It was beyond past time to get away but the very least she must try to politely take her leave. "I thank you for your courtesy, my Lord," she managed with enviable restraint.
Not trusting to further speech Éowyn dropped a too awkward and shallow curtsey and turned before he could call her out, She trode away as quickly as she dared. Beside a rose-covered trellis her unhelpfully swirling skirts caught on a thorn. She yanked, hard, grimacing at the tearing sound but then rushing on, head down, uncaring of her route. It mattered not: she did not wish to see, still less acknowledge, another along the way.
Sadly several precious minutes were lost before she realized she had passed the same urn of ridiculously delicate carved stone roses not once, but twice. She had nearly doubled back upon the path and lengthened her retreat.
By the time she found her room and sank gratefully onto into the many bland and useless pillows upon the bed the air felt touched by an ill-omened planter's frost.
Kira banked the fire and worriedly laid on another coverlet.
.
Firstly, thank you everyone for your patience. I have been ill and off work for several months and this was an oddly hard chapter to produce. My apologies for the long delay.
Of necessity some parts of the scene might sound a little familiar..I tried to integrate familiar canon imagery and a phrase or two from The Steward and the King. Planter's frost is local term here for the inevitable unhelpful cold snap that hits in late spring..right when we are trying to get our annuals put in.
Grateful thanks as always to the ladies of the Garden and in particular to Annafan, Thanwen and Artura for their helpful comments and encouragement. And thank you also to Lady Lindariel and Wynja2007 for their thoughtfulness and care these past three months. The friendship of all these wonderful women, in and outside the Garden, have been such a balm.