Faramir arose at first light after another night of heavy, drugged and dreamless sleep. Outside his eastern window, dawn's blush was just fading from the Tower's white and gleaming spire; gilding it like a ray of Anor leapt from the bones of earth. He sighed forlornly, taking a moment to rest his elbows on the stone, and bask in the glorious sight. The splendour of the morning never failed to thrill, but now who of them knew how many more dawns they should see if Frodo failed his quest? Not even the Valar mayhap. It was an all too sobering thought; one that suited the restlessness of his mood and all the more reason to pay attention to Eru's unexpected gifts.
Impatient to do something other than just rest, he decided to let Bergil sleep. Beregond's young lad, Faramir's self-appointed aide and shadow, had made sure to arrive by the breakfast bell each day, but that would be an hour yet. He was loathe to wake him and surely one grown man could manage to dress himself with a little care?
Faramir took the challenge slowly, laughing at the awkward dance of pulling on breeches one-handed. He cheated only once. A cuff would not slide free and required the persuasion of a harder tug. Valar. This was exactly what Varan had told him not to do and in retrospect, something of a mistake.
The sharp jolt of shoulder pain was more than passingly unpleasant.
Chagrined, he approached the tunic more warily. Lacing was impossible, and so he slipped his arms through the sleeves gingerly, one by one, leaving the ties to fall open at the neck. It would not matter. Though the gardens would not be warm before mid-morn (the steady west wind from off Mindolluin's snowcapped fields brought steel blue skies but also a decided tinge of frost) he had his familiar green Ranger cloak. Last, but not least, he slipped on a pair of soft suede boots liberated by Nera from his rooms.
Ready. To face whatever the day might bring.
Ignoring the inconvenient rumble in his stomach, Faramir made his way through the arched colonnade with its benches and soft cushions to the near courtyard. Close in to the Houses the paths were wide and the flower beds raised - a space for those in rolling chairs or needing help with walking. He followed by instinct, picking his way past the few fellow patients making their own slower progress, pausing beside the main fountain to take in a stand of croci. This early in spring the garden was painted white and palest gold and blue; all the tones of hardy flowers that thrived in cooler soil.
It was a balm. And a welcome contrast to the somber colour of the ruined fields below.
At a fork in the path Faramir paused to choose his way. Beyond the central courtyard there were two loops: a nearer, shorter path for those with less stamina, and a longer outer arc that wound toward the west, meeting the Sixth Circle's high curtain wall where it rose up to meet Mindolluin's bed. With only a little hesitation he stepped onto the outer arc. He would not regain his stamina by ease, and to walk a quiet path might settle the clamoring inside his head: it was proving taxing to shield so many other's thoughts. A little tranquility was a more than agreeable proposition.
He strode along quickly as he dared; the Ranger that lay never far below the surface cataloging his environment. White moonflowers, tightly closed and their scent tucked away for the evening's gentler breeze, nodded beside stone baths in which the bold robins played. By an arbored bench he smiled and laid a hand on a large and nodding cypress's rough string-like bark. His memory was clear: Father admonishing him not to run, and he, released from Nera's charge and excited to be visiting Mother, skipping away down the path, gazing up in awe at the large umbrella-like canopy. Like his mother, the tree too was an exotic- hardier in Dol Amroth's warmer clime, but protected by the lee of the curtain wall. It had been his childish mistaken fancy that they should both withstand the winds of life.
As he pushed on, the character of the garden changed: neat order and light scent gave way to a blowsy expanse of white flowers that would smell and shine strongest under the moon. Like Ithilien of the lower slopes, and without thinking he instinctively followed the sound of trickling water. A wall fountain nestled by the outer curve, burbling merrily, its stone hellebores nodding forever downward above a little pool that was cool, but far more welcoming than the one he knew. There were no knives below its placid surface.
On impulse he dipped two fingers into the spray. The shock of the chill made him gasp but that too was welcome- it helped him focus on the subject that had driven him mercilessly from his bed.
The night before he and Meriadoc had sat long under a thin quarter moon and talked. It had been a delight to speak with Pippin's cousin, to discover that he loved boats and ponies and also maps; had the same cheerful exuberance of his cousin, if not the slightly scattered focus. Faramir smiled fondly. Perhaps it was experience that made Merry more mature beyond his years? The young Hobbit clearly grieved Theoden's loss most keenly-had spoken movingly and personally of a man Faramir knew only by reputation. It was also clear that Merry was deeply worried for his "Dernhelm". The King had been released from Wormtongue's loathsome grip, but his niece was still dogged by memory-by hot breath and lingering footfalls of ill intent.
Faramir sighed and looked towards the Houses' eastern wing, running his free hand through his hair, more troubled than he cared to admit by the unexpected discoveries of a tiring and eventful day. How had the Lady Éowyn received his hasty, awkward words?
For him the whole meeting had been surreal: there had been an uncomfortable air of unreality to speak with someone from outside himself, to accept an address as Steward. Not an hour before he had leaned against the balcony, chatted with the men as if he were just a Captain, come to shoot the breeze and ponder the suitability of the new recruits. They had humoured him, but then with a few quick words the illusion had been torn. He had had to pause and push aside the ache of that salutation, startled by the pain that was greatest. Not his shoulder or cracked rib or the quilt of blue bruising down his flank from the fall but a phantom: the limb ripped away by loss. He could feel it, the sense of amputation was frighteningly strong, as if he stood in a scene of green and beauty bleeding on the leaves. The illusion was a powerful one. And sadly also partly true, for then rattled by the event he had bled verbally all over the poor startled lady. 'Flowers fair and maidens fairer.' Morgoth's balls, what had possessed him? His brain must have been addled, mesmerized by the lady or some fey spirit of old who had taken hold his tongue.
Thankfully, he had stopped just short of twittering utter nonsense.
He kicked desultorily at a loose stone beside the path. The whole conversation had been ridiculous. Too forward and awkward on his part, and yet he could not entirely regret it. For a moment, gazing into eyes as blue-grey as new-formed ice on a winter stream, he had thought of nothing but the issue right before him. What a boon. Was it that she was fair? Certainly the Lady Éowyn was that—hair like a river of gold and so unlike any other woman he had seen, cool and remote in a long white robe but little paler than her grave and beautiful face. He had drunk in her loveliness, dizzy from a sudden roaring in his ears and sense of shock. That low and lilting voice - the rolling accent of the open plains was to his ears almost musical next to the careful, mannered speech of Gondor. The soft purr that rolled over her rs and vs, set a shiver inside his bones.
And was quite startlingly familiar. I have heard it in my dreams.
Surely not? It was all too fanciful…and yet…
Faramir shook his head and forced himself to move again. When faced with a problem he had always found that his mind could sort it best when his body was occupied. And it would not hurt to explore his range: become reacquainted with the paths. He strode a little quicker, swinging his free arm for the little exercise it gave, passing a small copse of trembling birch and another of hawthorn before his troubled thoughts intruded once again.
The White Lady (for that was now how he thought of her) was a puzzle and a troubling one. The boy who had thirsted for every detail of lands and races, drank in as much lore as Ivanduil could give, knew a little of Shieldmaidens. They were a proud and ancient order, founded when the forefathers of Eorl lived along the Anduin; gifted warriors and rightly admired; held in as much honour as the Rangers or Swan Knights. Strong. Fearless. Why should she, honourably wounded and discharged, still desire to die in battle?
He bit his lip, worrying the threads of knowledge that he had. There had to be something more.
Merry had spoken of a proud young girl, waiting long years, restless and helpless, bound by duty to watch as a man she revered and loved slowly faded into decay. For a fleeting moment he thought of another lady, lovely and sorrowful, hemmed in by stone. Finduilas. Like his lady mother Éowyn was a daughter of kings, a princess in all but name, with a princess's pride to match. What should he say to her? He was used to dealing with one who was proud, even arrogant, but the stiffness with which Éowyn stood was not arrogance. Not his father's stubborn pride that could not be teased apart from power. Behind the White Lady there lay history. Tradition. Rohan was steeped in these; home to the strongest line in the latter days save the Dunadan of the North. It made her diffident, not hopeless—and strong as the snowdrops he had found beneath the snow growing defiant of the Shadow amidst Ithilien's pines. She too was beautiful and brave; strong and stern in the face of the world's inclement air. Faramir smiled at the analogy. There was nothing tiny about her—tall and high-hearted-she was more like the white camas Ivanduil (as much naturalist as historian) had once shown him in a botantical. Long petals and stiff spiky leaves waving elegantly in the oat grasses of the Wold.
Lost in thought, he looked up, startled, when his cheek was brushed by a heavy curtain of new green. The great cypress. Ruefully he shook his head, tugging at one heavy dangling frond and reflecting that he was not ready for combat yet if he was taken so easily unawares. The White lady was proving a distraction and a puzzle: one that a short morning's ramble would not solve. But perhaps some understanding had been gleaned. What of them did not have a longing to be free? Of fear. Of worry. Of grave dishonour. Éowyn had been caged in truth and now, like a caged bird, she struggled. Her trammeled wings beat against the bars until she lay, exhausted, without hope but not the fierce need to fly.
He knew she would test the bars again and there perchance he best understood.
Denethor's youngest knew all too well the iron bars of duty.
.
~~~000~~~
.
The echo of the morning's waning second bell found Éowyn of Rohan also negotiating the garden's white gravel paths, no less troubled in mind than Gondor's newest Steward, but a good deal less confident of her destination.
Her day had not begun auspiciously. Waking tense and out of sorts, by some mischance Éowyn had slept part of the night upon her splinted arm. Hours of unwelcome pressure made the bone throb incessantly, protesting everything: the firm binding of wood stay and linen that stopped the sharper jolts, the sling that kept it up and above the level of her heart. It was as if her arm had been jammed into an ill-fitting vambrace, measured in haste and now repented on a long and particularly difficult patrol.
Kira took one look at her lady, white and pinched of face, pacing restlessly like a cornered badger, and called for Mistress Ioreth. The dose of willowbark tea had helped alleviate the pain. The rambling monologue that accompanied it had not.
When the room was blessedly quiet once more Éowyn forced herself to settle, to leave off picking pointlessly at the breakfast tray and find a more productive use of time. Lothiriel had very kindly dropped off a selection of books from Prince Imrahil's own library. Reading would help the slow morning's hours pass. The prospect was appealing. She had had little leisure to read for herself since her Uncle's illness; the inventories and stores orders that had filled her days were hardly riveting-she could not think when she had last picked up a piece of prose or poetry. Pulling the first slim volume from off the pile, she sat back upon the bed and propped a feather pillow below her splint. 'Mithrellas and Imrazor: Bright Wood and Rolling Wave." This rather fanciful title was scribed in elegant gold leaf across a watery blue leather. She thumbed the fine vellum pages carefully. The legend of Dol Amroth's first Prince was new to her and though it took effort to read Sindarin (a language she spoke with her Uncle but had not read since putting her dolls and tutor both away) for a while the story held her. An hour later, Galador, Lothiriel's many times great-grandfather, had just been born but a dull pounding had begun to spread behind her eyes. She shook her head. It only seemed to make matters worse. The words began to slide right off the page and she could not catch them no matter hard she tried. The room felt stuffy and her head filled with damp cotton wool.
With an exasperated sigh, Éowyn set the book back upon the coverlet and stretched out her sword hand, wriggling her fingers and wrist to ease a nagging cramp. Both were still slightly numb. This was troubling, but worse, holding one position for a length of time was something of a mistake. However was she going to get back her strength if her muscles had no stamina? Certainly not by sitting idle, and so she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, gritting her teeth, ignoring her traitorous body's feeble complaint.
Once up, she turned and searched the room's pale, yet entirely unsoothing space for inspiration. The idea of calling for more willowbark appealed less than nursing an untimely ache. Back home in Edoras she would have saddled Windfola and ridden to chase the pain away. Exercise often helped when she was ill. With a pang, she thought of Theoden, so long confined to bed. How much had his lack of condition made his malady worse? Possibly significantly, and though it was clear the Gondorian Healers ascribed to such, she had no illusion that her tall and lugubrious jailor, Master Varan, would accept that argument. He seemed unlikely to allow her anywhere outside the Houses' walls, much less astride.
Craving a distraction, she set about collecting what few personal items were scattered on the dresser top. The Steward had promised her an east-facing window. No point in leaving the little packing to be done. There were no baskets to fill but the least she could do was gather and sort her things upon the bed. They made a meagre pile: of her hurriedly packed kit only what she actually wore to fight was saved. Her jerkin and riding breeches hung in the wardrobe, laundered and mended where an Orc's pike had come uncomfortably close. Her mail and boots were there, obligingly clean of any mud, but her helm was missing. As was her sword. Like her saddlepack they must be out somewhere on the Pelennor, trampled into the straw and muck. She regretted the loss but they were not her own- merely what fitted in the armoury. Easily replaced. Not so her knife. Her knife! It was the one thing she could not bear to lose, and with a sinking heart she grabbed for her belt. The leather sheath was empty. In vain she searched, increasingly desperate; rifling every drawer and struggling to pull the heavy wood knobs. There was no blade. Her last gift from Theodred was gone.
Fighting back a prick of tears, she was just pulling apart her work to check the jerkin's every pocket when Kira bustled in, fresh bed linens folded neatly across her arm. The girl dropped a hasty curtsy, her warm brown eyes warily taking in the jumble on the bed.
"My Lady? Have you lost something?"
Éowyn's shoulders drooped. "My knife. It is precious to me and I cannot find it anywhere."
Kira's frowned, laying the sheets across the footboard. "No weapons are allowed in the Healing Houses, but it is the custom to leave a note with the patient so they may be collected when they leave." The young woman shook her head in sympathy. "I confess I have not seen one. Was it jewelled? Could it have been given to your Marshall for safekeeping?"
"Jewelled? Of course not. It was for defense not for decoration." Thankfully it had never scored on its intended target. Éowyn shuddered, looking on Kira's soft, heart-shaped face, trying to remind herself that amongst these Gondorians she was an anomaly. It would never occur to them to arm a woman. Or at least not until every Man was lost.
Kira pulled a small notebook and charcoal from her apron. "I can at least ask the stores master if they have its like."
Éowyn blinked in surprise. The girl was well educated if she could read and write. "You have been tutored?"
"Yes my Lady. My father is a Guildsman here in the City. I had just apprenticed to the Houses but not yet begun my studies when word came that War would come."
That explained why Kira did more than simply fetch and carry-she was servant and assistant both- and was likely why she had been given the Houses' 'royalty' for her charge. Hierarchy was observed in all things. Including servants.
Much relieved by the practical solution Éowyn described the knife as best she could before bending down to fold the jerkin's straps into a square. "Let me do that Lady Éowyn. " Kira hastened to pick up the rumpled tunic.
"Thank you but I can manage." But this was clearly not an acceptable response for Eowyn found herself somewhat neatly elbowed aside. Her gentle but firm enquiry as to when she could transfer her things to the other room was met with a puzzled frown.
"Late morning, Lady Éowyn. But there is no need for you to help.."
"Why ever not? I have the time."
The answer - a lady did not shift her things for herself—only served to frustrate her more. Bema did they think Éowyn completely helpless? A daughter of a Princess of Rohan can and did whatever was needed to run a royal household. And the sickroom, in her experience. She was no stranger to rolling up her sleeves; getting her arms dusty or bloody, or stuck with stable straw. Éowyn snorted derisively. What ever did the noblewomen in Minas Tirith do? Sit and embroider and eat sweetmeats all day long?
"My Lady it simply isn't done." Kira protested weakly. From the faintly pained expression on her face she realized her argument was not a welcome one. Éowyn had to give her credit for some steel along her spine: Kira did not give in, merely set her lips into a measured line and pointed to the blue sky outside. The new green tips of the glossy vine that clung to the window frame swayed and nodded gently in the breeze. "It is a fine morning. I daresay the prettiest in months. A walk in the gardens might do you good, your Highness."
Highness? How typically Gondorian to think elevating her status and plying her with flattery might sway her. Éowyn bristled, about to chide the girl, when the sight of a white bitten lip made her hesitate. Kira seemed genuinely concerned. Worried about her welfare. Perhaps the formality had been more to show respect than to cajole? And she was a little prickly from the pain.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Éowyn laid the tunic back in the centre of her pile. She had to admit the suggestion was actually a welcome one: some green and peace and open air away from endless smooth white walls could help.
"Very well."
Another quarter candlemark found her in the courtyard with the book tucked under her good elbow and a light white robe pulled around her shoulders against the breeze. Close in to the wards the Houses' garden was a busy place. The sight of so many men gathered about colonnade, nursing mostly silently a myriad hurts and lingering fear, made her suddenly thankful for her lot. At least she could walk a little farther, and so she tried to put her best self forward: nodding as she passed the quiet knots of stoic men in pain, pushing aside the oddly unsettling intimacy of every greeting.
Beyond the formal beds and broader gravel paths Éowyn found the space was actually what she considered a proper garden: the angled parterres and clipped box borders gave way to broad swathes of colour and a real greensward with trees blessedly higher than a man. It was, she understood, the only such place in the windy circles of the city. A welcome one. And though she did not know at all where the path might lead, on impulse she took the left hand fork. It looked less busy. Only once did she have to stop and step aside for a soldier limping slowly by. His low 'Westu Hal' came as a surprise: his cropped head and beardless jaw were swathed in bandage. The healers had felt it necessary to shave him and cut his hair. Poor bugger. She returned the greeting and smiled in sympathy as he slowly maneuvered on.
Through an allée of new-budded forsythia she spied a great cedar tree and the creamy white of a low stone bench. The sight was welcome: she had just begun to feel a little like a new foal trying out a pair of damp and wobbly legs. She picked up her pace but then stopped short just beyond the green canopy. Bema. Ill luck again. The bench was occupied. A man sat in a long green cloak, hood up against the chill.
Eowyn turned and began to search the path for another, hopefully close by, seat. From the hunched set of man's shoulders he likely, too, had little desire to chatter about the weather with a stranger.
She had barely moved two paces before a muffled voice spoke up.
"Lady Éowyn?"
He knew her? Reluctantly, she turned in place and inclined her head in what she hoped was an appropriately respectful nod. The green clad figure rose and doffed its hood, bowing a little stiffly, but with remarkable grace for one hobbled by a sling.
Vana's mercy. Below the shock of slightly ragged long black hair, she caught the calm and thoughtful gaze of Gondor's Steward.
Could this day become any more irksome? Unconsciously her hand raised to touch the cheek she had dampened the day before with shameful tears. It had not been her best audience. What should he think of her?
Embarrassed by the memory, she gathered her skirts to make a swift and respectful exit. "I am sorry to bother you Lord Faramir. I did not realize that this seat was taken."
"Wait," Faramir implored, gesturing with his free hand toward the bench's nearer side. A slant of sun through the cedar fronds warmed the creamy stone. "Please. Be my guest. It is not a bother, Lady Éowyn. Truly."
She hesitated. After her performance of yester noon the last thing she wished to do was disturb this man again. He clearly had sought out the empty space for peace and reflection of his own, but her legs were tired. And she did not wish a repeat of the exhaustion that sent her into last night's death-like sleep.
"Thank you. Your offer is welcome, Sir." She sat and barely managed not to groan in relief. It was utterly ridiculous that a stroll of such little distance could do her in.
Her fatigue must have shown upon her face for Faramir's next words were shrewd, if more than passingly annoying. "Have you had enough of your morning's training?"
"No," she replied stiffly, nonplussed by his uncanny memory. Those were the exact words of their first conversation-the Black Breath appeared not to harm one's faculties. "I wished to walk. And I am not yet done."
Faramir nodded toward the volume resting in her lap. "Did you wish also for a quiet space to read? That is a lovely tale and the illustrations are well worth savouring."
Her eyes flew upward in surprise. "You recognize it?" She had barely reached a quarter of the way through, reading solely for enjoyment. It was not in her plans to conduct an erudite discourse.
"I know all my uncle's library," Faramir remarked mildly. "That is the famous tale of Mithrellas and Dol Amroth's first Prince. I think you will find there is a stain upon the central plate."
"There is?"
He chuckled. "It is Lothiriel's favourite. Her elder brother Amrothos once used it to catch a frog."
Éowyn could not help herself-she let the book part naturally and there it was: a yellow-brown smudge across a picture of a tawny-haired elf maiden in a moss green dress. Her lips twitched a little up. "It seems that elder brothers in Gondor and Rohan are not so very different. Mine once filled my saddlebag."
Faramir grinned. "And mine once filled my bed." Above the sudden smile his eyes twinkled mischeviously. "I got him back."
"You did?" She asked, meeting his gaze. His light grey eyes really were quite an unusual shade. "How?"
"I convinced one of his friends to sprinkle ants into his boots. Out on patrol. Where there was no chance of a replacement."
Eowyn laughed. Tricky man. The good Steward had hidden talents if he could charm people so easily to his will. And a pleasantly dry sense of humour, she thought, noting his wry half-smile. Who would have guessed that lurked beneath such a calm and quiet exterior? It was unexpected, as was the ease with which she shared such personal recollections.
His courteous manner was obviously a bit too dangerously disarming. She must try harder to keep on her guard.
After several moments sitting in companionable silence, Faramir stretched out his long legs, grimacing as some knotted muscle pulled. "I am afraid I am getting stiffer than this bench. I must get up." He pulled himself slowly to his feet and loomed above her, offering a callused hand. "Would you care to rest or renew your walk my Lady?"
Drat. Of course he would offer to join her. And although his invitation was undoubtedly quite genuine, she really did wish for peace. Master Varan may have won the first round but not the war. She needed to plan, formulate a new strategy, not engage in idle chatter. She opened her mouth to demur politely but those were not the words that tumbled out.
"Yes, thank you. I think I will walk again."
Then followed an awkward and amusing several moments where Gondorian etiquette was put to the test. Obviously Faramir considered it a courtesy to help her rise, to offer up his arm to walk, but her left was broken and his was in a sling. It was an impasse. With no little amusement, she watched the frustration and consternation flit across his handsome features before he settled for standing respectfully whilst she stood and resettled her robe.
They turned back toward Houses; strolling slowly shoulder to shoulder with Faramir at a politely shortened pace, free hand placed behind his back, quite happy to walk in silence. Éowyn was relieved. He seemed disinclined to nervously fill the quietude with words but here and there he would point out a particularly rare specimen or hidden gem, surprising her with the depth of his garden lore. His keen eyes roved over every little detail. She knew he had been a captain of a Gondorian eored, Merry had told her so much, and yet here he was: a soldier speaking lightly of plants and flowers in the garden as if he were healer.
A soldier with gentle eyes and quiet words. An enigma.
They reached the farthest part of the curve, and at one narrower bend, Faramir paused to hold back a mass of overflowing pale yellow poppies. Despite the earliness of the season the beds were starting to fill out-they had been thoughtfully planned to bloom year round-and the sunnier colour made her smile.
Faramir noticed her appreciative gaze. "My great-grandmother designed this garden." he remarked, carefully laying the floppy stalks back.
"She did?" Éowyn was embarrassed to admit her knowledge of Hurin lineage was a little thin. Ecthelion was his grandfather but who was there farther back? No name came to mind and sadly the wives of the Ruling Stewards were a total blank. "Lady Hurin?"
"No. My mother's grandmother. Princess Fana of Dol Amroth. She was famous for her knowledge of horticulture and healing plants. The great walled gardens at the Palace were, I think, dearer to her than her many children."
It was surprising to consider proper mannered Gondorians passionate about anything, but, sadly, she could not agree with the Princess's taste. The many muted pastels were presumably considered restful. She found them merely numbing.
Eowyn wracked her brain for something positive to say. "It is… elegant."
Faramir's mouth quirked again. "But not to your taste?"
"I meant no disrespect, " she replied hastily, settling her face into what she hoped was an appropriately apologetic smile. This man was far too sharp by half. "The lack of colour simply feels anemic."
"That is entirely understandable," he allowed. "In your homeland the landscape is famously bright, golden as the roof of the Golden Hall."
Éowyn flushed. Here was the diplomat who knew rather too much about her land and she was at a disadvantage. She sought for a different topic. "You seem to bear your confinement in this prison well."
He looked at her sharply and one black eyebrow raised. "For the moment there is little else that I can do. I try to not waste energy in fighting what I cannot change. Although I do fear I will wear the stone under foot away…"
This was her first hint that the passivity of his current demeanor was not a natural and steady state. So, they both knew the restlessness of waiting-he had said as much the day before but she had assumed it to be merely courtesy. "I will have ample time to explore," she added bitterly. Five days and still ten more to endure. Impossible. However pleasant the space. And perhaps even the company…
"I have not the distraction of surprise," Faramir remarked mildly. If her tone was bothersome he chose not to show it. "I have long since trod every path."
Long since? Whatever did he mean? She had not heard that Denethor's younger son had been a sickly child. "You were here often?"
"Only a little once I became a lad. It is more that my mother spent a great deal of time here before she died."
Éowyn bit her lip, abashed. Damn her importunate blunt speech. "I am sorry.."
"I was very young. And the Houses of Healing do not have the troubled memories for me they had for Boromir." He rubbed slowly at the dark stubble that rimmed his jaw. Belatedly, she realized he was speaking of the beloved brother whom he had just lost. "He would have never stayed here, save under great duress. He feared illness. It made him anxious, and although he was the one more often injured, I was the one more prone to the maladies all children share." A fond smile creased his lips. "He became rather overprotective of me. I once made the mistake of admitting in a letter I was a little under the weather and even as Captain General he came charging into Henneth Annun with half a squad."
"Henneth Annun?"
"An outpost. In Ithilien. The Rangers have a refuge there."
"The Rangers?"
"My former company. We harried the Enemy right up to Mordor's nearest slopes." She could not miss the hesitation on former. Curious. Not wanting to pry, Eowyn let it drop when no further detail was offered. The conversation died then for a little while until they came to an open vantage point.
She looked out across the white stone rampart, angling left to spy the reaches of the Anduin where they wound northward toward Ithilien. How far away was Éomer? Would they pass unhindered or battle toward their goal? Belatedly, she let out the breath she held and looked askance. Faramir was also looking east. There was tightness about his thoughtful face that said he, too, was greatly worried about the Host. Impatiently waiting for whatever stroke should fall.
"What is that sound?" she asked when the wind brought with it the sound of tinkling chimes. It was almost like a harp, although she doubted any one outside the City to have the leisure time to play.
"The ice is candling, " Faramir replied almost to himself. He turned to squint up toward the west, searching the mountain's slopes and then looked back down. "Higher on Mindolluin the wind is breaking up the last ice on the tarns. It splinters into long candle-shaped spars that make a most musical tone when they jostle. My brother loved it."
The words and sound both cut. His cheek paled but before he could turn away Éowyn impulsively laid a hand upon his arm. The bleak look in Faramir's eyes had pierced at her resolve to keep her distance. Surely it was not weakness to offer solace to fellow warrior?
"Your brother and your father.. I extend my sympathy."
"Thank you," he smiled a little wanly. "Forgive me, I have done it again. My mind knows better than my heart. It eases me a little to speak of him."
At his quiet words Eowyn was overcome by a sudden need to remember Theodred. There had been no time since Theoden rode away to honour her cousin, and no one in the Houses to speak with, save Meriadoc. Elfhelm was away chasing Orcs from Anorien, and though the wounded Riders could of course regale her with their Prince's exploits, she doubted they would welcome silly childhood memories. At least this man who also mourned understood the need.
She opened her mouth to speak but then a sharper gust blew her hair across her face. She turned away, pulling the long strands out of her eyes and shivered-surely that wind came straight from the mountain's higher snows? Once again, she regretted the loss of the saddle pack; here was she without warm clothing of her own.
Faramir's black brows knitted in concern. "You are chilled. Have you no warmer mantle?"
She wrapped her arms around herself defiantly. "I am made of hardy stuff." But the brittle edge to her voice was belied but a sudden chattering of her teeth.
"I doubt it not," assured Faramir, placing his warm hand on her shoulder and turning her back into the lee of his body. Swiftly he doffed his own heavy cloak. "But you are convalescing. Chill is a symptom." He beckoned to a young lad she had not noticed hovering near by, and with a quiet word, sent him off back down the path.
They stood quite close for many minutes, she shivering, he with lips pursed in thought, shielding her from the stronger gusts with his much larger body. Up close she noticed that although Faramir was lean, he was still well muscled: the hand that rested on her shoulder was that of a warrior, not a scribe, however much he enjoyed a book. It was an odd but intriguing contrast.
The time passed quite quickly for just as Eowyn began to feel less chilled (and a little guilty that Faramir was without a cover) Bergil came hastening back with a pile of deep blue in his arms.
Vana the cloak he brought was beautiful. She was proud of her own skills as a weaver (she was as deft with the shuttle as the sword) but the workmanship of the mantle Faramir unfurled was wholly different yet again. He took his own green wool back and settled the new about her shoulders. The rich velvet, lined in silk and embroidered at neck and hem in silver, was heavy, yet soft as a feather against her skin.
She felt as if he had arrayed her in deep blue night and Varda's shining stars
"I cannot. It is too fine.." she protested.
"It was my mother's." he explained, and though she was quite touched, Éowyn felt more chagrined. The piece was almost certainly the work of a master tradesman. Meant for the Lady of Gondor and not for common use.
"But this is no day cloak.. and an heirloom…"
"My Lady.. Éowyn.. you are chilled and this is the only certain spare I knew of." A look of wistfulness softened the angles of his face. "Should you not have something beautiful? You are the sister of a king,.."
What could she say to that that would not seem churlish? It was far too fine a gift, but a thoughtful one, and she inclined her head in thanks, settling the silver clasp at her throat as she pulled up the deep hood. It was a pleasure to be so warm and likely would be of use again. More than one of the assistants had referred to Minas Tirith as 'the Windy City'. From the sharp snap of the pennants on Ecthelion's tower it came by the name honestly.
Together they walked on, each keeping to their thoughts, and just as they came back to the path's main fork the nagging heaviness began to creep back into Eowyn's legs. She would need to sit once more. Swiftly she stole a glance at Faramir's face. He had pushed back his hood. Away from the wall the wind had dropped and the air was warmer once again, but now even he, too, seemed to be tiring. His periodic commentary had all but stopped. And there was a decided darker smudge below his eyes.
At an opening in the green she spied a bench with a higher back. The perfect windbreak should an intemperate gust come up. "Here.." She found herself tugging at his sleeve and plopping down so fast it was more a fall than a controlled and settled landing. She shifted over so that Faramir could sit.
He lowered himself in a somewhat more measured flop. "Thank you. I was just beginning to doubt we would make it back."
"Then my assistance will be welcome for a change."
Éowyn jumped. The Houses' Master Healer appeared as if by magic, grey robes blending into a backdrop of silver melianthus, hands hidden by his long and voluminous sleeves. Blast the man. He looked like a ghost and the faintest of grins upon Varan's long face showed he was well pleased with his little trick. Appearing from nowhere without the slightest warning seemed to be his stock in trade.
Varan narrowed his eyes, peering from one patient to the other. Éowyn liked not at all the openly apprising look. It made her feel a child taking a scolding from a tutor, and, really, did the man expect to govern every moment of her day?
Mutinously, she sat straighter up.
Varan's cheek twitched. Almost as if he understood her thoughts, he shook his dark head slightly, bowing hand to heart in the Gondorian fashion. "Lady Éowyn. Captain. Forgive my intrusion. I am very glad to have found you both. And that you are sensibly taking rest."
Sensibly? 'Desperately' would be closer to the truth, although neither of them were going to admit it. A startled cough sounded to her left. She looked up and caught Faramir's gaze but he had already schooled his face into the sort of attentively bland expression honed by many years of boring briefings. Was she mistaken or did he really wink?
"I am told that neither of you have eaten this day or yester eve. I come to remedy that situation," Varan announced, apparently quite unperturbed by the tacit admission he had them watched. Yet another example of his sneaky nature, quite unjustified as part of examination.
Éowyn bristled. The only reason she had missed the evening meal was that she had fallen straight to sleep. She began to protest but Varan silenced her with an upraised hand.
"No, my Lady. I am afraid I must stop you there. Falling unconscious before you can take a bite is less than reassuring. I have apprentices researching all the scrolls we can find about this ancient malady and have taken counsel with the King and Lord Mithrandir and Lord Elladan. They all concur it will take time for the most pernicious symptoms to resolve. In the meantime, for both your sakes, you must eat."
Of course. Did her think her untutored? Every invalid needed sustenance. It was simply quite different when one's stomach twisted with every bite. She lifted up her chin. "I have tried. I simply have no appetite. "
"Nor I." agreed Faramir, who shook his head vigorously.
Varan frowned, watching both patients fidget nervously. It was not as if they were being deliberately difficult, or at least not in Faramir's case. Was he surprised at the united the opposition? He clasped his hands before him, giving them a little shake. "Captain it is most important for you to nourish a body weakened by a wound and days of fever. Also for you Lady Éowyn so that the bone of your arm knits properly and you may wield a shield again." He waved forward two servants who had been patiently waiting just behind and Faramir groaned. The first man set up a folding table support, the second laid down a broad wooden tray.
It was filled with smaller plates.
"I am told you may fare better with more frequent smaller meals. Dishes that are easy to eat and take less effort. I had thought to set up in the courtyard but with you both captive here and the wind blocked somewhat you should be warm enough."
Captive? An infelicitous choice of words. "Varan, honestly, " Faramir argued, "you need not trouble to do this." Éowyn agreed: the thought of being followed round by servants cajoling her to eat was simply too off-putting. She smiled her reassurance. "Neither of us wishes to be a bother. I am quite well and Lady Éowyn has just walked right round the outer ring. You need not be so concerned about our progress. Just yesterday I managed to snack on a dried plum in the afternoon."
"And I an apple," Éowyn nodded eagerly. It had been withered and dry, obviously the last of the city's stores, but she had valiantly finished every last small slice.
The healer's craggy brows furrowed into one. Their tally did not impress. "I have observed myself that the Perian is well able to eat. Several times a day in fact. That rather puts you both behind."
"And how do you know he is not similarly afflicted?" asked Faramir. "We have no basis for comparison. There have never been Hobbits in Minas Tirith before now. His appetite could in fact be much depressed." Éowyn placed a hand over her mouth to smoother the giggle that bubbled up. Merry did indeed have the appetite of a starving Rider kept too long on shortened rations. At luncheon the day before, he put away nearly twice as much as she. "Do they not take something they call 'second breakfast'? Pippin has spoken quite wistfully of the event. For all we know Meriadoc could be missing an entire meal."
Varan rolled his eyes. "Captain I appreciate your efforts at precision but your supposition is incorrect. The young one appears to have an entirely healthy appetite." His spread his hands in a gesture of resignation and sighed. "I expected you might not be easily swayed. Come now, I will have Rygel and Bern follow you around if I must, but would rather not waste resources. Surely there is something here that appeals? Princess Lothiriel went to the trouble of asking a Captain of the Rohirrim what might tempt you Lady Éowyn."
Éowyn eyes widened as a cover was lifted off. Frikadeller-the tiny spiced meatballs that graced every board at Haglimond-lay in a moist and enticingly fragrant pile, They were an unorthodox breakfast food but something she truly loved. Elfhelm. He, she thought, was the most likely one to have given up her secret. His wife Hilde was famous for her frikadeller.
Varan lifted up a plate of small sweet breads. "And for the boy I once treated because he made himself sick on his mother's favourite pastry I have sahrabas. From Prince Imrahil's own chef." A faint smile spread across the healer's lips. Faramir had to practically sit on his hands to stop himself reaching for one of the golden treats. The good Master was enjoying himself entirely too much. "Alternatively I could consult with Ivriniel? I am quite certain she could create new a concoction to increase one's appetite."
"Varan. that is truly vicious threat…" Faramir exclaimed, mock-horrified. With alacrity he reached for one of the flaky crescents. "I yield."
"Well I do not." Éowyn eyed the board suspiciously. "This.. food therapy.. it will not work."
The Master Healer drummed fingers impatiently on his sleeve. "My Lady. I do not expect you to eat everything presented. Just enough of what appeals to keep you going until midday."
Éowyn had to admit that the array of small breads and cheeses and even tiny griddle-cakes looked enticing. All things that could be eaten easily with fingers. Perhaps it behooved her to at least make a try. She reached for a frikadeller and took a tiny bite. It was still warm; rich and moist and heady with the scent of clove.
Her stomach rumbled loudly.
"Aha.." exclaimed Varan, crossing his long arms as an unbecoming flush stained her cheeks. "I thought as much. I will leave you both to it. Perhaps a little competition and dining out of doors will spur you both to greater efforts. Bern will clear up when you are done." With that the Master Healer made nodded to his assistants and the trio left the flummoxed patients alone with the spread and the bright morning air.
Éowyn fumed. She was not quite certain what constituted 'done' but her stomach had absolutely handed Varan the present round. It felt like she had been betrayed.
Faramir, anxious to soothe her ruffled feathers, sat forward and lifted up a small metal pot. "Tea or kahva?"
"Neither."
A pair of black brows flew up. "It is not shameful to accept an honourable defeat my Lady."
No, but it certainly felt like colluding with the enemy. Worried that he might think her temper childish, Éowyn belatedly nodded to the tea, accepted a spoonful of honey and set several frikadeller on her plate. "There is too much here," she moaned. "However will we make a dent in it?"
"Perhaps we can ask Merry to hide the evidence?"
Éowyn laughed. Oh bless the man. She was starting to quite like the way his nimble mind worked. "That is not sporting…"
Faramir shrugged sheepishly and she eyed him conspiratorially over the rim of her cup. Was she mistaken or did she detect a glimmer of excitement in his eyes? Gondor's new Steward enjoyed a little subterfuge.
"I dare you, my Lord."
"Call me Faramir, please." he said, grinning. "And be careful what you ask. You might be surprised by what I might do."
She rather thought she might. He was proving to be rather less conventional than it first appeared. This was the second time that morning he had made her laugh: the feeling of lightness in her chest was really rather nice, like the first warm breeze after weeks of cold and damp. How long had it been since she had shared a jest?
"Please call me Éowyn."
Faramir tipped his cup of dark brown kahva in salute and took a sip. She found herself noticing his fingers. They were long and quite thin for a man, almost Elvish in a way, and covered at the pads by little calluses. He was a bowman. Merry had mentioned it. Reputedly the finest in all of Gondor. Somehow from keenness of his gaze she could imagine it.
Faramir set his drink back on the tray and picked up one of the little meat balls. "These are really rather good," he commented, having mastered the whole in a single a bite. "Now if you wished to wage a retaliatory strike …"
"Yes?" He had her undivided and full attention. She returned his wry half-smile.
"You might suggest to Varan that fresh air and exercise would increase your appetite."
"Well of course, but how would that accomplish our goal?"
"Explain that slashing Orcs with your fellows in Anorien is just the thing."
The rogue! She, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, baiting the Master Healer? The idea was just too good. "Can you imagine the look on his face? When I suggest another 'therapy'."
It was Faramir's turn to double over, chuckling at his own joke. They must have made quite a sight, the pair of them giggling like children caught out in a naughty prank. She had to pause to catch her breath before continuing. "It is just too easy. Is he always so severe?"
"No, " Faramir brushed some crumbs from off his lap. "He is, away from the weight of responsibility, actually rather fun. And a good mimic. He has an eidetic memory and can give you every accent that passes through these Houses."
Éowyn snorted, waving off his offer of a griddlecake in favour of a piece of hard red cheese. That would have to be seen to be believed-the man she had tangled with looked like he constantly had a pickle in his mouth. Of course, that really was not a fair assessment. How would she look if she had hundreds of ill and injured men to worry for?
She sat back, momentarily chagrined, and eyed the table, considering what to sample next. Perhaps she should try to not tax Varan so. The plate of sahrabas did look awfully tempting.
Faramir followed the direction of her gaze and grinned. "Try one..they are very good. They are filled with chocolate. "
"From Harad?" That was a treat. Traders sometimes brought the confection to Edoras for Yule but rarely at other times. Éowyn picked up the small flaky roll and began to nibble delicately. The inside was filled with the sweet soft paste. Delicious. "Are you sure you want to share? Are they not your particular favourite?"
It was Faramir's turn to flush. She was teasing, gently, and it almost seemed to make him shy. "They are.. but I have learned the art of moderation. As Varan alluded, I once made myself quite ill eating five of them in one go."
"Five!" He must have a seriously rotten sweet tooth.
Faramir shrugged and surreptitiously licked a smear of chocolate from off his thumb. "I was all of six. My brother panicked at my groans and ran to Houses straightaway, grabbing the first healer he could find. It was Varan. He was barely sixteen and starting on his apprenticeship."
"Boromir did not send for your father?"
"No. Father would have said it was my due for indulging in the first place."
Éowyn just barely stopped herself from a candid and caustic reply. Bema. What sort of father would let such a little child suffer to prove a point? It appeared her image of a somewhat imperious, cold-hearted former Steward was not likely to improve with time.
"You are friends? Is that why you call him by his name?"
Faramir nodded. "We are, but that is not the reason. I have agreed to not call him Master Healer if he does not call me Lord Steward."
Oh. Of course Faramir would not want to be constantly reminded of the father he had just lost so unexpectedly. Éowyn reached for an oddly threatening looking purple fruit to hide her discomfiture. It was clear that no matter Lord Denethor's faults, his younger son mourned him deeply. How cruel that he had not had a chance to say goodbye.
She awkwardly cleared her throat. "May I ask you something…?"
"Certainly."
"Who is this fearsome Ivriniel?"
The reaction this provoked was startling. Faramir choked; coughing and spluttering as the pastry went down the wrong way. She dropped the fruit and pounded him as solidly as she could upon his back, much relieved when he began to speak again.
"She is my aunt." Faramir answered, accepting gratefully the cup of water she pressed into his hand. "A most wonderful, knowledgeable woman. A herbalist and healer. Doyenne of the vast garden at Dol Amroth that harbours every bitter healing herb and leaf known to Middle Earth." He paused to take another sip. "She uses every last one of them in her tonics."
Éowyn grimaced. "That sounds unappetizing."
"Spectacularly. Although once one chokes them down they do seem to work. It is especially entertaining to watch troll-sized captains of the Swan Knights quake at the sight of my delicate and tiny aunt."
Éowyn's image of rather serious, rouged and painted Gondorian women intently embroidering the crests of long-dead ancestors was taking a beating in the face of the rather eclectic Princesses of Dol Amroth. "I shall look forward to meeting her," she announced, picking up the purple fruit once more, searching for a seam. Although she worked hard, no amount of prying with her close-cropped nails could split the tough and shiny hide.
She rummaged on the tray but spotted no sharper knife. An oversight. But one that wouldn't matter if she had her blade. She sighed heavily.
Faramir looked up from the detritus of his second sahrabas. "What do you lack?"
"A knife to cut with. Mine has disappeared."
"Here, take mine." Faramir slipped a slim, bone-handled dagger out of the belt at his tunic front. From the weight and span it was for throwing not just the table. She wondered how he had smuggled in the weapon: it's wickedly sharp blade soon made short work of the offending rind.
Éowyn cut a second large slice and bit straight in. It was wonderful, just slightly tart and quite soft. She eagerly cut another piece…
They ate in companionable silence until the clang of the midmorning bell sounded from the Tower. Time had flown. Most of the small plates had had at least cursory attention, and now that Éowyn looked down the path she saw that the young assistant, Bern, was hovering. Obviously he wished to clear their repast away.
She touched Faramir's arm and nodded in his direction. "Shall we hail him?"
"Absolutely, but just a moment."
She watched, perplexed, as he retrieved a silver flask they had not touched from the off tabletop and turned to the boxwood hedge.
"What are you doing?" she asked. With one quick flick of his wrist he dumped the vessel's pale green contents all over the hapless bush.
"Ignoring a standing order." Faramir's eyes sparkled with hidden mirth. "Discretion is the better part of valour in this case."
"What was that?"
"One of Aunt Rini's famous tonics." He reached down and shook the dripping bush. The mixture was so thick it did not seep into the soil. "Not to worry. I am certain that its restorative nature will help flora as well as fauna."
"Oh dear. Should you have done that?"
"Perhaps not. They may be suspicious that all of it is gone." He set the pot back between the tea and kahva and retrieved his napkin from the gravel. Turned to look her steadily in the eye.
"But then a bit of control when there is little in one's life is a welcome thing."
.
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Thank you to everyone who has been so patient and commented and followed. Your feedback really keeps me going..and my apologies for the length of time before this update. I thought I was better but I was wrong. On the upswing again so I hope to find more energy to write.
Frikadeller is a real thing- type of German savoury meatball. Sahrabas is a made up name of my own.. for what is loosely a chocolatine. I head canon that one of Faramir's weaknesses is sweets.
Thank you to Borys for the comment about Orc therapy :) And to Annafan, Thanwen and Wheelrider for their encouragement and very helpful comments.
Merry Christmas everyone!