The second time Éowyn of Rohan found Gondor's Steward flouting Master Varan's rules she was paying an unannounced and most impulsive visit to Finduilas' secret garden.
It was afternoon. The warming sun had reached its zenith and heated the torpid air; settled its heaviness like a blanket-dense and thick and nap-inducing-across an impatient City that fretted, quietly, at the lack of news.
The sense of hopeful waiting of the days before had turned to anxiousness—only Yavanna's creatures (the wrens, resolutely and blithely gathering supplies to nest) seemed minded to sing out loud. Their trill had been broken once abruptly that morn by the peal of a single trumpet from the ruined gate. Soon enough a group of outriders, mounts lathered and blowing foam, had clattered up the twisting streets, bound for the Citadel's main stair. For a moment all hearts had lifted. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was news of victory. But the grizzled veterans had only shaken their heads and mumbled that even were the Host to have flown on winged feet they would only just then have reached the vast black rampart of the Morannon.
In all the hours since, no word had come. Officially or otherwise, and so the Tower Guard, helmets gleaming bright as Anduin's eddies in the sun, had griped their weapons harder and cast their gazes still resolutely east.
Inside the prized east-facing chamber Éowyn found herself equally unsettled; frustrated, oddly jumpy under her skin, but unlike her fellow patients disinclined to spend another single moment lying flat. Sleep had not come, and although for once it had not been her splinted arm that irritated, it was still pointless, futile to waste another moment hoping for her gritty, tired eyes to close.
With a sigh she threw off the coverlet and arose; pulled a warm shawl about her shoulders for insurance, took up her makeshift weapon and hastened out the Houses' central gate. The Sixth Circle's cobblestones were hushed—she had the street quite to herself and in only a few moments she was beside the little garden's oaken door, greeting Bergil softly, pleased to realize she would have company. If the lad stood sentry that meant her fellow patient-prisoner was already at work on his skills.
She turned the key in the lock and strode quietly through, making her way past the shuttered glasshouse. admiring the first of the daffodils to nod along the garden paths. It was an uncommonly lovely day, warmer and brighter than the ones before, with little wind and quite perfect for a little surreptitious practicing.
She had planned her sojourn carefully. Lothiriel had been cajoled into braiding her hair and setting it into a loose messy bun. Dernhelm's trews and shirt and boots had been retrieved from the garderobe. Nothing wayward would be let to interfere in her working with a sword. She was ready, lighter of heart than she had been since Edoras, and most eager to begin.
From around a mass of budding shrub, she heard Faramir before she saw him: a bowstring twanged and there came a muffled 'blast'.
The green fletching of an arrow arced away. It sailed smartly (but far below battle force) across the gravel to cluster with its fellows in a makeshift butt. She rounded the corner and there Faramir stood with his back to her, quiver slung low at his hip and rough cotton shirt untucked against the warmth. His left arm was obviously relieved of its sling and fully involved in the mechanics of subterfuge.
She watched him pause in the act of critically examining his result, wincing and rolling his injured shoulder awkwardly. Four arrows stood but a handspan apart on either side of a blue inked circle. Very good. Except perhaps if you were Gondor's most famous archer.
Béma. Even she should have imagined he would wait a day or two before trying the harsh pulling weight of a bow.
Another imprecation was uttered low and Faramir turned, reaching for a shaft, his loose dark hair flashing black as a raven's wing against the sky's hard brilliant blue. Below his eyes dark smudges of fatigue still lingered, his mouth was set thin with pain but a look of fierce determination was anchored firmly between his brows.
It was this face that lead good men out into hopeless battle. Steadfast. Fair. And quite beautiful, noted a certain faithless section of her heart.
Also quite devoid of hair.
"You have no beard!"
"Pardon?!"
Startled by the sudden exclamation, Faramir whirled around, shoulders sagging back in relief when he saw her puzzled face. "Éowyn! It is only you. Thank the Valar. My skills are clearly not what they were. I did not notice you standing there."
Only? Her mouth twitched in amusement. Either his skills were lessening or she was a better soldier than he thought. Or both, although it would be far from gracious to point that out. "I fear we are making a habit of this, my lord. Accosting each other on garden paths."
He ran a hand sheepishly across his jaw and quirked a wry half-smile. "So it would seem. I begin to suspect you have had Mithrandir's tutelage. You bewitched my sentry's tongue-there was no warning call."
Éowyn held up the crude ash staff she held in her sword hand. "Is it so hard to glean my intent? The lad is quite observant. You shaved," she added, pointedly, still not quite recovered from the shock. Why should it seem so strange? Faramir was a Gondorian nobleman. They were known to be quixotically proud of their prow-shaped noses and clean shaven, chiselled jaws.
He glanced across and gave a little shrug. "I thought it time. I wish to feel more like myself and a bit less like I am hiding." A black brow arched. "You do not like it?"
Her earlier unsettledness now found its outlet in a round of satisfying bluntness. "You look like a boy," she said, for he did. Much younger than he had the day before and younger still when he grinned and uttered: "I assure you that I am not."
So Éowyn could see. His loose cotton shirt was remarkably ineffective at hiding the grace of the muscles below his sleeves. He-far from embarrassed at being caught deshabille by a woman- went about the business of slipping back on the sling, laying his bow down against a high back carved seat and settling his left arm again.
Through the sun-lit fabric she could just make out the darker white of the bandage above his stomach. Her mouth ran a little dry. "No Rider would ever forgo his beard. One cannot be a warrior without it."
"I beg to differ." Faramir's grey eyes sparkled mischievously as he methodically pulled off his shooting glove and tucked it in his belt. "You haven't one and your courage is unmatched…"
Drat the man! For a moment Éowyn sputtered. Once again he was too quick by half. Rebuttal and a compliment. She stood, hands on hips, teeth grinding, pondering a satisfying verbal riposte. One that would place him on defense.
She toed the quiver with her foot. "Is this wise?"
Faramir squinted up into the sun and grinned, "Almost certainly not; but it is all too beautiful a day and the bow feels right underneath my skin."
"Varan will scold."
"And I shall happily ignore him."
Carefully and unhurriedly, Faramir walked toward the target, grasped each arrow in his right hand and pulled them out, refilling the half-empty quiver before returning to his mark. She watched him fumble with the strap that buckled the quiver to his belt.
He looked relieved. Was he more concerned about censure or being stopped? The latter, she supposed; although drawing a bow the very first day of practice was forward even for a man who made his own rules when necessary. A fine sheen of sweat lay upon his brow and darkened the back of his shirt. He was, like her, deconditioned from ten days of idleness.
He alit on the nearby seat, closed his eyes and let the spring warmth course down. She watched the sun play about his face, casting enigmatic little shadows that made his cheekbones hollow out. This face- relaxed-was not a face she recognized. When had either of them just enjoyed the world purely for what it was? Had the leisure of sober, timely thought? Months? Years? Too long, certainly, for this idle moment to not be a gift.
One eye cracked open, feeling the intensity of her gaze. "Please…. sit." He slid across the stone, pushed a soft leather satchel aside and gestured for her take a place.
She did. Cahill was otherwise engaged and so, in lieu of a small feast, there was rather simpler snack: fruit and cheese and bread. He plucked a withered apple from the bag and took a hefty bite. Her stomach rumbled, loudly. Faramir offered a wedge of hard gold cheese which she accepted, and then a wineskin to which she shook her head. "This is perfect." she sighed happily, when she could speak again.
He upended the skin, held it expertly with one hand, not letting a drop of dark red wine miss his lips. "To what do you refer? The sheep cheese or the faintly fermented fruit?"
"Both," she chuckled. "All of it. This quiet space and the chance to digest in peace. If I have to smile while Bern or Rygel watch me finish every bite one more day I might snap and cause a diplomatic incident. Marshal Elfhelm would have to apologize. He does not do that well."
Faramir snorted and leaned back against the stone of the seat, closed his eyes and stretched out his long legs, ankles crossed in a picture of easy repose. "My Grandfather Adrahil always said that courage is the form of every virtue at the testing point. That includes patience I dare say."
The urge to thump his shoulder was almost irresistible. If Éomer had so smugly teased her, or worse still Theodred, she would not have pulled the punch. Especially if sheltered from prying eyes. But here, already likely breaking umpteem Gondorian court rules, she hesitated. What did it mean that she so lightly considered touching him? Had noticed his form?
A little distance was perhaps circumspect.
She rummaged in the open bag, pulled another piece of bread from a tied cotton cloth and poked curiously at a little carven box tucked beside. It was well worn and obviously well travelled for the clasp was battered and the woodwork scuffed. It was quite beautiful, inlaid with golden and redwood swirls in a pattern she could not place.
"Do you wish to write?"
She shook her head but still Faramir sat up. The hand with its curious bow calluses reached past and plucked out the box, sprung the clasp and lifted the lid. Inside was a neat coil of parchment and a silver-topped bottle of writing ink. Éowyn watched, fascinated, as he set the bottle on the stone and pressed a hidden button. The lid flipped up. He inked a quill and began to slowly scribe a few letters on an already half-filled note.
"Do you find it difficult?" she asked. "Are you not cack-handed?" Despite the sling, the fingers of his left hand held the stiff parchment lightly to his lap.
"I am, but I can actually just manage." He bent to his task, tongue out in concentration, grimacing at a imperfectly formed loop. "As a child I used to write and draw almost equally with either hand but over time I lost some agility in the right. I used my left just to be different. It annoyed my father."
There seemed to be many things about his younger son that annoyed Denethor of Gondor. "To whom do you write today?" she asked, raising her hand to tuck up a braid that had begun to loosen out.
He had paused to dip the nib with care. "Merilen. Lieutenant Mablung's sister. She will be anxious without news and I want to put her mind at ease."
Éowyn's heart gave a funny little leap of relief.. She had braced herself to hear him say he wrote to yet another widow: thank Béma this chore was more prosaic. And that it was also not a note to his friend. That woman. The one who may or may not have been 'special' to him. Who had maddeningly interrogated her motives and intentions.
She looked down quickly. The wish to ask more questions about her burned suddenly in her chest but she forced herself sit and study the steady flow of words, Faramir's lettering was not exactly neat, not perfect like a scribe's, but still economical. She wondered how many times in battle he had been injured in the past. Had he had reason to have practiced with his right before?
"Is there someone to whom you wish to write?"
His quiet question broke her reverie. She blinked. Was there? Elfhelm had already sent word of her whereabouts to Dunhere, and so she had no need of messages to Edoras. Éomer of course she would like to reach but a message rider would go so far. She shook her head and narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. His words had the faintest emphasis on 'wish'. Was Faramir being courteous or curious in turn?
"No. Thank you, " she answered. "Those whom I must contact have had news already."
Was it her imagination or did he look pleased? The faint wry smile was back. She glanced sidelong, from the slowly growing letters up to his face. Had he meant something else? Was this his way of delicately probing at her state?
"I...am not affianced. There is no one in particular to whom I wish to write."
Her cheeks flamed. Whatever had possessed her to answer that? "And you?" she asked, hastily, before she could lose her nerve. Turnabout was fair play was it not?
His dark brows flew straight up and the quill immediately stilled. "No." he stated slowly. At her look of surprise he cleared his throat and a flush blossomed up his throat. "Well…I did love someone once; or thought I did, But it was impossible….for both our houses, In time I came to realize it was not truly love but infatuation. Youthful adoration for someone whom I found truly admirable."
Éowyn stiffened as if struck. Yavanna's grace, had he just described what she felt for Aragorn? A crush? Such as the giggling serving girls had each moon over the newest stable lad? Surely not. She was a woman, not an impressionable young thing, had never been one to fawn over clear blue eyes or a set of well-muscled shoulders. There had been no time for romance-no Rider had caught her eye and none had ever dare speak for her. She was the King's niece, his nurse and none had had the audacity to aim so high.
Save Grima. She shuddered inwardly. That was not love. It was greed and lust-nothing that any noble man should offer to a woman. With Aragorn she had wished to fight by his side. Be an equal, a partner to a man who was valiant and worthy of her regard. For too long all she had felt had been subsumed in caring for her Uncle, worrying for Éomer and Theodred; so much that her own feelings had become an afterthought. Held back behind a dam of icy resolve; high as Halifirien and just as cold.
Until a man with a jewel upon his breast had swept it down./
Her heart gave a sudden, painful thump. The ignominy of rejection pierced.
"Did you grieve the loss?" she asked, when she could keep her voice from wavering.
"For a time. It stung and I felt embarrassed—chagrined- even though I had no reason. I had shown my hand and it was painful to realize I had been blind to reality."
He bent his head and began to tidy up. The long dark hair hid his face and she bit her tongue, giving him space but curious to know for certain of whom he meant. Surely this was the Lady Amerith. How, despite everything, had they had kept as friends? It was confusing. She could not imagine staying such easy company with one to whom she had poured her heart. Especially if she had been spurned.
Unable to sit with the roiling in her gut, Éowyn started up, grasped the makeshift staff and swung it experimentally. One end was ragged. It was a foot too short, but the smooth ash was light and her hand did not ache to wield it. The sudden movement caught Faramir's attention.
"What have you there?"
Éowyn lifted her chin. "I desired a weapon for my room." She had, for there had been no formal discussion of defense with the Houses' patients and she wanted, even needed, to know what to expect. Would they be made to evacuate at the first sign of sails or spears? Would some of the guard block the Houses' door? With no knife she felt beyond vulnerable.
Faramir frowned. "A staff is difficult against a sword…"
"So I have understood. But any item to hand must be serviceable in a woman's house.."
He did not comment more but merely stood and nodded; came to her side, ran a finger questioningly across the broken end. "Where did you purloin yours?"
"Kira's broom. She left it in my room. It broke. Conveniently."
He laughed. "When you hit it over the embrasure?"
"The footboard."
Faramir's dark head shook and he gave a little bow. "My Lady.. Your determination and ingenuity have my utmost admiration."
Éowyn let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding, He had not condescendingly told her not to worry or not to bother her pretty head. Had not tried to change her mind. What a relief to be spoken to as an equal. With respect. Her opinion and feelings taken seriously.
She put down the staff and hefted one of the practice swords. It was light but perfectly weighted. Comfortable under her hand. She lunged half-heartedly toward a willow bush. The sword tip wavered slightly but she kept a steady line.
Catching up the second blade she offered it across. "What ever is to come I wish to be ready for it. Will you?"
"With pleasure." He took the hilt, smiled faintly at the stylized Sindarin "F", twin to the "B" on hers. How often had these two swords sparred in the past? From what she knew of his brother it was unlikely hers had lost a round.
"You do not normally fight with that hand? Perhaps I should take it easy."
Faramir adjusted the sling's knot at his nape, held his left arm more tightly to his chest, frowning at his altered balance. "I am aware I have not quite mastered one arm press ups. But you must also be careful Éowyn. Your grip may yet be somewhat compromised."
She swung again, assessing the veracity of his words. Her shield arm felt heavy but she could still hold it out. Her fingers were no longer numb. Only fatigue would be the enemy. "I think it likely that I will cope/"
"Then let us start. Even if it is only to lead refugees to safety, we will stand together. And be ready come what may."
Faramir nodded once and raised his blade, Something of the intensity in his grey gaze set an awkward thrumming in her blood. It was unsettling. And thrilling. But quite why that should be so she did not understand.
Stand together. Béma grant that it be so.
She assumed a fighting crouch.
"Come then Captain. Let me test your mettle."
~~~000~~~
As the evening shadows began to lengthen and the first hints of a chiller breeze lifted the Tower's drooping pennants Minas Tirith's Master Healer walked out into the healing garden.
He was concerned. No overly so, for as a man blessed with a naturally ample supply of empathy he well understood the possibility of mistake: a patient like the Captain had much to process. Grieving and healing all together could certainly cause a man to forget something otherwise of import—to miss an appointment; even one scheduled at the exact same time each eve.
It was more that this particular man did not forget—anything—and, in light of the intelligence Varan had come to have in his possession, might actually be avoiding him.
Swords.
And a bow.
Ridiculous.
Even for a too-independent, resourceful and stubborn Ranger.
Varan sighed and clasped his hands behind his back, padded softly in his light duty boots, nodded silently to those patients and staff he knew; closed in on his chosen quarry remarkably quietly for a man of impressive, nigh Numenorean, height. Moving silently was second nature. Born below the last of Gondor's warning beacons, he had spent his youth fleeing the heat of his father's choking, stifling forge into the green and cool of Firien's old oaks; scrounging every healing plant and leaf his old grandmother could describe, been rewarded on occasion with that most precious of rare sightings: the Druadan.
He had, in the long years since, found stealth to be an important skill in a Healer… at least when overseeing naughty children.
Or those that sometimes acted as if they were…
He found his goal sitting, sans cloak or cape, beside the far garden's outer wall.
"Captain…"
Faramir startled violently.
"Varan!"
The younger man bolted up from his seat, mouth dropped open in surprise. It was not often that one caught a Ranger completely unawares, even one who obviously thinking hard.
"A little bird told me I would find you here."
"One the size of a tall lad…?" Guilt flickered like a wind-blown candle flame through Faramir's hastily shuttered gaze
"No. A remarkably perspicacious tiny princess. You missed our appointment in your room. She mentioned she saw you come this way to Lothiriel."
Faramir rubbed his free hand across his nape. "My apologies, Master. I quite…"
"Forgot." Varan finished, smiling faintly to take away the sting. "You appear to have other things on your mind."
Faramir nodded but no other explanation was immediately offered up. The Captain's glance slid south, then east. Away hither in the distance, grey mists had begun to thicken about Ephel Duath's grim and shadowed slopes. Above, dark trails of fume arose and dissipated, belched like the effluent of some unseen, giant maw.
All were made anxious by the sinister changes beyond the mountains' jagged teeth. But that did not mean he would ignore his patient's present welfare. "You have ceased to have need of my ministrations, my Lord?"
Faramir shivered, but whether from sudden chill or foreboding Varan could not tell. "What? Oh. no…" With difficulty Faramir dragged his gaze away from the roiling in the distance, focused back on the greenery around. It seemed to anchor him and Varan took the pause to peer closely at the lines of strain about his mouth and brow.
Unquestionably, there were more than had been there the day before.
With a quiet sigh Varan tightened his grasp behind his back. There was no point in loud remonstrance—that particular technique had been lost on the Steward's second son by the time he'd first swung a blade.
"I am glad to hear it, "he remarked mildly as he could, rocking impatiently on his toes. "I was worried that perhaps you, like Lady Éowyn, had some alternate therapy to espouse?"
A sudden smile quirked his patient's lips. "A visit to the fabled library of Rivendell?"
There. If the fatigue had not driven away all Faramir's ready wit matters were not quite so dire as he feared. At least as regard physically. Well pleased with the result, Varan could not hold back a smile. "That would prove therapeutic for you and beyond diverting for myself. When Orome's winged mount arrives be sure to let me know."
The second bell of evening sounded from the Tower. Varan bowed and pointed back toward the Houses' eastern wing. It was time to see quite what a hash the Captain had made of his recovery. "Come. Let us adjourn. I must see your progress for myself and am quite prepared to do the needed examination here…"
The threat worked. Once they were ensconced in Faramir's room and his friend had toed off his boots and sat, somewhat meekly, on the very edge of the bed. Varan tested his pulse and breathing rate; noted happily that the wound showed no sign of fever and Faramir's eyes and skin retained no lingering signs of dehydration. When he moved on to the standard tests of sensitivity and reflex, he held up his own hands and had Faramir touch them back in a successively harder and more complicated sequence.
All he could see was encouraging, except that the man was still far too thin.
"Nothing is different than from yestereve." Faramir grumbled, as Varan held his elbow and began to pull the sling.
"You were not so impatient a patient as a boy,".
"There was not then so very much at stake."
What was he to say to that? No, there had not been. They had both been younger and idealistic. Believed that Gondor and its Steward were invincible. That its Captain-General could not lose a fight.
Age was a hard and exacting tutor: it taught you that you were wrong.
Silently he slid his friend's arm out from its sleeve, ran gentle fingers across his palm, noting critically that the reflexes were improved. This too was a welcome sign. The lassitude of the Black breath was wearing off. Nerves and tendons behaved more as they should.
Varan waited while the rest of the shirt was shrugged onto the bed, stooped automatically to retrieve a discarded belt as it clattered to the floor. In this world of constant and taxing change it was reassuring to see some things did not change: the Captain was famously untidy in his own personal affects.
He set the belt on a nearby chair and began before pressing his fingers into the long muscle that ran down the shoulder across the back, alarmed to feel a tightness that hadn't been there before. The Captain was not his brother; he had never run to bulk, would never produce muscles that were large and ostentatious even if they had more strength than most broader men. His lips pressed thin with concern. Between the clavicle and the scapula there was the slightest of indents.
"Eldrin, whose arm was more seriously hurt than mine, has already taken up a watch. Why am I not allowed to go?"
Varan hesitated, ignored the comment for a moment in favour of probing the pale skin and muscles around the wound. The site should no longer be so very sensitive, unless it had been imprudently overworked.
Faramir's jaw immediately clenched.
"The waiting is interminable and Hurin has need of hands to help."
"The private did not lie for days at death's door, fever burning the life out of his flesh," Varan explained. "Nor is he currently substantially underweight. If you wish to return duty you must nourish yourself so that your body can sustain the effort."
Faramir gripped his fingers into the coverlet. "I am eating nearly everything your send my way."
Varan snorted. 'Nearly' appeared to have a somewhat sliding definition.
"There will be need for someone to organize a retreat, " Faramir went on. "I am greatly appreciative of my cousin's efforts but Father held many things too close. Some of them I know. And will be needed for the defense."
Varan looked down puzzled. To what did he refer? A weapons store? Some hidden way out of the City? There were rumours of such although he paid them little attention down through the years. That Lord Denethor had taken secrets to his end he could well believe, but that was a discussion he did not wish to broach. Nothing in Middle-Earth would right then make him upset his patient with untimely discussion of his father's end.
There would be time enough for deeper griefs when the Enemy was not poised to sweep down the Vale and straight in the ruined door.
"Please raise your arm as far as you are able."
Faramir complied, grimacing as he tried and failed to to bring his hand above his head. The knuckles of his shield hand went white were they clenched the coverlet.
"You are very quiet. Does that pain you?"
"No."
Varan's eyebrows flew up. The reply had come through gritted teeth. To what shaved thin slice of logic was his friend truthfully replying? Not his shoulder muscles that was quite clear. They were obviously strained and overworked. Tightened and in pain.
He pulled Faramir's left elbow back, stretching the shoulder gently as he dared. There came a muffled grunt of pain.
Varan pursed his lips and considered the intransigence of Men. There was no need for Faramir to tax himself. Lord Hurin, a doughty fighter for all his years, had briefed Warden Hallas the day before. All knew what they had to do for what ever was to come.
He thanked Este he had also perfected the art of dressing down his charges exquisitely politely. "It is remarkable how much exertion the left arm receives from gentle strolling."
His observation received only a half-hearted shrug. "Is there something you wish to share?" he went on. "You cannot expect to be yet well enough to pull a bow."
Faramir bent his head and looked down at the bandage on his chest, turned over his hands to gaze lingeringly at his palms. The calluses on his left finger pads were clear. Ten days and they had softened yet. "I must try for I cannot fight like this; weak and lightheaded in the day. The poppy makes me sluggish, too slow to swing. I must get off it before the Enemy accosts the Host at his accursed gate and we face his minions here."
Varan sighed heavily. Should the Captains fail they would be besieged again: that was clear as Valacirca's blade twinkling up above. "I do not dispute the need. And yet you cannot go off the medication quickly. Your body takes time to become used to a lesser dose. Should you quit it immediately you will not sleep at all."
Faramir gingerly pulled the nightshirt he offered over. "The nightmares are not so fearsome now."
"That is good to hear." Varan moved a pitcher of water from the dresser to the brasier to heat and put willowbark from his pouch into an earthen cup. Pain relief he could affect. Changing his friend's mind –that would take some doing. Faramir was stubborn and not easily swayed unless faced with a stronger counter argument. In the face of present reality that was not something that he had.
When the tea had steeped, and its sharp scent filled the room he handed the cup across.
An obediently large gulp went down.
"Faramir, please try to do it as I instruct. Work slowly and steadily on your strength. At least promise you will not pull a bow. There are archers enough on the walls."
"Only because the Rohirrim help defend them. We have too few men."
"And only one Steward to lead them. Drink!"
He ignored the sudden sour face. Willowbark was bitter and if he nothing else to help he could be blunt. "If you will not see sense I will say it straight out loud. You will do little good for the City and your subjects falling, weakened and unprepared, to an Orc's stray blade."
Faramir flushed but the mutinous set faded from his mouth. Varan set about preparing the sleeping draught, mixing honey and the heated water with the precious poppy syrup.
This time the cup was pointedly ignored. Varan sighed, invwardly damning the hard earned tenaciousness of the Steward's sons. He turned his back, tidying his few implements away, considering how the raise the final but most delicate issue.
It was one thing that the Captain made poor choices for himself. Quite another that he had a partner in the crime.
He turned, crossed his arms against his chest and stared down his proud, long nose., looking pointedly at the second cup. "I trust you will finish the dose at your leisure but before I depart perhaps you can shed some light on another problem. Do you have intelligence on how the Lady of Rohan obtained a scratch? She has been singularly unforthcoming."
Two spots of colour deepened on Faramir's narrow cheeks. "Éowyn and I…."
"Yes, " he encouraged. Now they were getting somewhere
"We sparred a little."
"Sparred?"
"Éowyn wished to try a staff against a sword. A practice sword," Faramir added hastily when a look of momentary thunder settled between Varan's brows. "We did not take full swings, merely blocked out the proper moves. I did try to go very very gently, but her grip slipped a little at the final one."
"A little?" said Varan, incredulously. Valar save him from this pair of imbeciles. They were just alike. Too stubborn for their own good.
"Are you aware of how stupidly lucky you have been? You could have cut her arm!"
"I know!" An agonized, pained look darkened Faramir's tired eyes. "When I saw how close I came I felt terrible. She insisted it was an accident but I have already said I will not essay it again."
"I should hope not, else I will be forced to confine you both to bed!"
It was not an idle threat. Faramir fell quiet as Varan picked up his wrist. However angry he was with his erstwhile patient he must focus on proper care. His pulse had been too rapid. Pain jolted one's circulation and as the willowbark worked quite rapidly, it should already have lessened somewhat, but quite markedly it had not.
Curious.
With a final wish for healing sleep he bid Faramir good night, watched him lay back against the headboard and sullenly pick up a book. He was clearly settling himself for sleep although the second cup lay still untouched.
Feeling a little as if he had won a battle but lost the war , Varan closed the door and gazed thoughtfully across the hall. The Lady of Rohan's door was also shut but a wan yellow light glimmered through the gap. He rubbed one long finger thoughtfully across his lip.
There were several reasons why his patient's pulse should have raised again. Anger. Frustration. Upset. Or concern that had he hurt, however slightly, someone for whom he cared.
Most interesting.
The Master Healer smiled. Those who thought his careful, detached exterior covered an unfeeling heart might be surprised. He had, for many years, been a quiet and particularly astute observer of human interaction-he knew that love, and the fright that followed from it, could be a better deterrent than any admonition that he could give.
Perhaps he needn't have them followed on the morrow after all.
~~~000~~~
With the rising of Ithil, Lorien claimed the night.
The slumbering City dreamed. Above: the sky, like a moat of darkened sapphire hung in a fountain of coruscating stars. Below: the ghostly bulk of Mindolluin. Immovable and eternal. Shimmering and holding at his feet the banks of a spring-swollen River.
It was cold. The day's unseasonable warmth had been swept out by a rising evening wind. It blew steadily from the North, brushed the few high clouds across the many constellations and blocked the White Mountains' soaring peaks.
Éowyn, sitting alone in the front courtyard's colonade, pulled her mantle closer, unsure whether to be comforted or anxious by the imposing ceiling. The City and its rocky bed weighed on her. Edoras was high, an island in an endless sea of waving gold and green, but here the sun went down so early. The shadows deepened until the weight of the range above blocked out the light, darkening Minas Tirith's gracious marble face into ribbons of hard flat grey. She missed the soft tawny wood and wattle of her home. The intensity of the ache, here, surrounded by a harshly faded elegance, was almost frightening.
She had slept. Beyond tired from her exertions, unable to keep her eyes open despite Merry's entertaining storytelling, she had retired after the evening meal, falling into a deep slumber before Kira had even closed the door.
Sometime about the mid-watch of the night a noise had awakened her. Perhaps a bird, or voices; sound travelled far on the clear night air, but whatever the cause, once aroused, Éowyn could not go back to sleep. The same unsettledness of the day took hold and she found herself wandering the halls, meeting only night nurses and prowling, sentry, cats.
Finally, wilted and worried, uncertain of what she was searching for, she draped herself onto a yet another of the Houses' marble seats.
The stone roses of the entablature above were most unhelpful. They could not tell her a single thing.
The light bandage on her wrist began to itch. Gingerly, she rubbed around the scratch, shaking her head at the memory of Faramir's anxiously tender treatment-she had had far worse cuts from mundane household chores- but he had insisted on binding it himself.
She undid the knot, unwound the linen and flexed her wrist. The red seam was scabbed already. It felt fine. Of course it did-it was only a scratch, but that had not stopped the maddening man from acting guilty.
Éowyn drew her hood up against a sharp, chill gust and sighed. Faramir.
She did not know what to make of him. Grave, but no more than she would expect one who was bereaved; a warrior and yet a scholar; interested in simply everything. Utterly annoying in his perceptiveness, but with a quiet confidence that was far from passive.
(And most attractive.
Where in Arda had that thought sprung from?)
It was all most disconcerting. Somehow, without her noticing, she had begun to see him as a friend. She liked his dry sense of humour that was mapped out by laughter-lines about a mouth that more often quirked at some odd or surprising observation. She liked that he kept his counsel and did not pry. She liked that he defied convention at almost every step but made her feel completely safe.
He understood her. Better, perhaps, than any other and this last admission was the most particularly unsettling. She had only ever felt so completely easy with Éomer or Theodred (never Aragorn) and that made him, quixotically, all the more impossible to ignore.
And their escapade of the afternoon the more confusing.
The broom handle had broken. This was likely predictable, and she had stood, heart thudding from exertion, close enough to Faramir to catch a scent of athelas; and clean bandage; and earthy, heady, spice. His dark head had bent over her arm, one hand winding a strip torn from his shirt, the other steady under her palm. Mist-grey eyes looking up once or twice to check her face.
Dizzy, beguiled by his kindness and something she could not name, she had almost reached out and stroked the sun-warmed skin upon his neck.
What did this mean? How could she have such a strong—awareness- for a simple friend? Had the strain of war and illness turned her careful, considered feelings hysterical? How was she to know?
Amidst her ruminations a shadow separated itself from the stones.
She gave a little shriek.
"Eowyn!"
A familiar baritone sounded low out of the dark before her. Faramir knelt, a hand on her arm and his warm chest pressed up against the velvet on her knees. After the fright it felt safe. Substantial. She let an almost steady breath.
"I did not see you there." Eorl's spear, it was unlike her to start so hard. Was she jumping at shadows now? Imagining foes to have climbed so far?
Faramir's eye softened in dismay. "My apologies. I am glad I am not so great a threat that I can sneak up on you unawares, but I am not glad to have startled you. What are you doing out here so late?"
"I could not sleep. I came out for air and found my thoughts drifting on.." To you. she did not add. The very person I was reflecting on. This was embarrassing. Thankfully the dimness of the colonnade concealed her blush. "And I could ask the same of you. From whence have you come?"
He pointed upward to the Seventh's winding stair. "The citadel."
Her voice made a cracked china sound. "Is there news? From the King?"
Faramir shook his head and shrugged off a small pack, setting it onto the cold flagstones. He had no cloak but a thicker woolen tunic. Worn boots and once again the sling. Not the clothing a Steward received his messenger in. Unless it were an emergency. "No, not to my knowledge. And I know not whether that is a worry or a balm."
A worry most assuredly. "Where are they now?" she asked. "The Captains and the Host?"
Faramir glanced up. "They were pressing the men and horse quite hard. From the day the King sent men to Cair Andros I should judge that they have just reached the Morannon. The planned feint is underway."
"And Frodo?" she whispered. Could it be that Aragorn's plan could work? That too small to notice, the Hobbits were creeping right under the Enemy's red gaze?
His hand tightened on her cloak. "Do not be afeared. He and Sam are there, amidst the dark smoking pits of Gorgoroth, inching forward with each candlemark. This much have I Seen."
And so this eve could mark the turning of all their fortunes. Éowyn shivered at the thought. Her hood fell back. She left it, let the moon's silver light spill across her face.
"What will come with morn?"
Faramir shook his head, reached out and pulled the mantle's edge farther across her lap. "I know not. But I am certain that we have done all we could. I have harried the Enemy for many years. I can do so again if need be. We will be ready …"
"And in light of that…" he announced, letting her go and producing a dusty bottle from within the pack. The edge of a chased silver cup winked just inside. "My errand up above."
"You are celebrating?" she asked, incredulous.
"No…inebriating." A bleak fortitude swept his voice. "After I … awoke…violent terrors stole my rest. I have slept drugged all the nights since that first."
When he awoke to find his family gone. Her heart clenched. Below Faramir's eyes lay deep smudges of exhaustion. "You have been through a great trial,…."
"We have all suffered, Éowyn. But I thank you." His free hand swept his hair back from his face. "Tonight I tried to go without the dose. Varan warned me the body craves it—that I might feel ill, ache in my bones and possibly not sleep at all. I am afraid that he is right."
Her eyes narrowed in disdain. Some men were lucky and some were right. The Master Healer was annoyingly often both.
Faramir reached down and hefted the bottle up. "I walked up to my rooms in the Citadel in search of an alternate sleep inducer."
Eowyn nodded slowly. "Many a Rider seeking oblivion has drunk himself insensible on mead."
"As my own brother did many times in your cousin's company." Faramir's mouth twisted wryly. "There is only one problem with my brilliant plan. The bottle is very old and I inconveniently have not two strong hands. I cannot get it open."
He? Gondor's Steward. Unable to get a simple bottle open. Éowyn did her best not to giggle: it was a relief to find her fingers were not the only ones uncooperative at times.
But that did not help their current predicament.
"Perhaps if you brace it? Between your knees?"
Faramir arose and sat upon the bench, frowning thoughtfully and setting aside the cup. It was an ungainly maneuver but worth a try. He nestled the bottle between his knees, pulling hard on the stopper with his free hand, grimacing with the effort. The cork did not budge. Not on the first try or the second. He gave an exasperated sigh, shaking out fingers aching from the effort.
"I am afraid I rather overdid it this afternoon. Both arms are weaker than is usual and my shoulder hurts the blazes to pull too hard. I shall have to give in and seek Varan out."
"Béma, no. We have surely not come to that." Éowyn looked from his tired face down to the perfectly innocuous flask, trying not to laugh. So easy a chore. But not so easy when it was the wounded helping the wounded. He had one arm bound in a sling and she a splint. "This is quite ridiculous. Let me help you this time. Between us we have a pair of hands."
He blinked, realizing she was right. "We do!"
They did. Éowyn reached for the juncture of the bottle's neck and base, began to wrap her sword fingers about the cool amber glass but suddenly jerked them back.
She had almost touched him. Her fingers had been so close to his thigh she could have brushed their tips across the twill of his leather trews. "I am sorry, "she stammered, cheeks flaming bright as a coal within a brazier. "I did not think." They were alone. In Gondor this was presumably not just beyond inappropriate, it was scandalous.
Faramir's mouth quirked. She had the distinct impression he was amused by her discomfiture. "My Lady, I assure you your honour is perfectly safe from an invalid such as me. All I want to do is sleep."
"And I assure you all I want to do is help." Her honour safe from him? What of his from her? She had been the one reaching dangerously close to… she didn't know the Sindarin word. Éowyn uncertainly bit her lip. What if he thought she was being deliberately forward? "I do not make it a habit of reaching this way for men."
He chuckled, shaking his dark head. "Nay, I understand well that war puts us in unaccustomed situations." Grey eyes twinkled merrily above a teasing grin. He clearly relished the ridiculousness of their state. "Your reach has won fame as something rather to be feared."
Shameless flatterer! Éowyn tossed her hair back over her shoulder and gave him a pointed glare. "Perhaps if I try the cork."
This time Faramir braced the bottle's base tightly and held its neck while she twisted hard upon the top. It did not move. Not the second time. Or the third.
"It is a stubborn one." She braced her feet and twisted again with all her might but there was no movement. Frustrated, Éowyn shrugged back the mantle and wiped the dust on her fingers on the thin lawn of her night-rail. The potential for failure loomed large. It irked her pride. Surely they, both warriors of renown, were not to be defeated by a simple flask?
Faramir sighed and stared dejectedly at the cup. "I have been known to have sleepless nights before."
"Nonsense. I am also known to not give up easily, my Lord. Let us try again."
Still no success. She bent her head and peered closely at remains of the seal. It did look old. The wax was faded and presumably the stopper had expanded over time.
"If I cannot pull a cork I would usually use my teeth..." she murmured, half to herself. She bent lower to catch a closer look.
"Valar No! Else I truly will not sleep!"
Éowyn started up in shock.
What had happened? Startled words had rung in her head over an image of cascading golden hair. Had she imagined it? Had she truly heard his disconcerted cry?
An embarrassed flush stained Faramir's face and throat. He carefully moved bottle an inch or two nearer to his knees. "Éowyn, I think we needn't resort to that. Surely it is loosened a little more by now? Perhaps if I am the one pull?"
It was a reasonable suggestion. His uninjured arm was likely stronger than hers that had struck the Dwimmerlaik's fatal blow. She placed the fingers of her sword hand higher on the bottle's neck. "Ready?"
At her nod they both braced and gripped as tightly as they could. The cork came with a defiantly squeaking pop.
"There!" She tossed back her head triumphantly,. "I knew it could not defeat us!"
Faramir's shoulders shook as he brandished the errant top. "Thank the Valar, two was enough." They both broke down, laughing hard in quiet helpless, winded gasps that punctuated the quiet of the night. This was quite ridiculous. It had taken both of them, all their breath and all their able hands to achieve one simple task. How could two such pathetic souls be of use in defending a beleagured City?
The thought sent Éowyn into another fit of giggles.
Distracted, she relaxed her grip and at once her fingers slid down the glass, came to rest upon Faramir's. A jolt of awareness flared like a spark from a striking steel. Frustration, great weariness and amusement, and longing, washed over her. Open. Unbound. Like a bird that hovers and then flits away.
How?
She dared look up. Faramir's gaze slid away, found focus on a fire-fly that danced drunkenly above the courtyard's silent stones.. Did he realize? Did she imagine what she felt Surely not. This was no fevered dream. The bench's pitted stone was rough and cold beneath her palm. The breeze for a moment lifted a strand of her hair and blew across her face.
"My lady." Faramir roughly cleared his throat. He picked up the cup and tilted it toward her. "Would you consider sharing? I only brought the one."
"Of course."
He slopped in some of the dark gold spirit and passed it to her. She took a sniff. The vapours twinned up and practically slapped her nose. "What is it?"
"I am not exactly sure. It is no fine vintage. Something that Boromir gave me years ago before patrol. I am afraid it was born in someone's still."
"What else would Riders share around a fire?" She raised the cup in a toast and sipped. It was brandy of a sort. The fruit fire burned the entire journey down. "Rotgut. I like it well."
.
They drank together. She took measured sips while he gulped the stuff like water. Worrying images of Riders blind with drink, passed out and nearly choked with spew, made her stay his hand the next time that it raised.
"Faramir. Pace yourself." Her own head was already buzzing.
He looked at her quizzically. A slight veil of incomprehension clouded his usually sharp gaze. "Oh. Of course. You don't understand. My gift. I ass..ssure you, it will not be that way. It merely makes me sleepy."
His gift? Well certainly some men had a prodigious head for drink but with three quarters of the bottle already gone they were well past any man's normal tolerance. Especially imbibed so fast. And there was exhaustion to factor in. If he passed out how would she get him to his bed?
The cup clattered to the stones. And a sudden weight settled on her shoulder.
Now what was she to do? Faramir was insensible, a dead weight well beyond her to lift up. Calling for a porter was the obvious solution but it was late and there would be questions; and a part of her wished to avoid the need for explanations.
He was a Ranger. Well used to sleeping out of doors.
Éowyn slipped off the seat and laid him down; on his right so that his injured shoulder would not bear weight. She swung his legs up and folded them so that they did not hang off the end.
A further sense of caution made her grab the bottle and the cup. Setting the one atop the other, she turned and started for the door.
Past the main arch a little tendril of concern sprouted up. She glanced back. In those few moments Faramir had resettled. He lay curled up in the middle of the bench, one arm used as a pillow and the other pulled protectively against his chest. Bearing another face she had not seen. Free of care. Childlike, bare cheeks smoothed and the ever present worry line wiped from his brow.
She hesitated. The shoulder of his tunic had dropped down. He would be cold come morn: the night was chill and with few clouds for cover, it would become colder still.
On impulse, she strode quickly back; pulled the mantle's clasp, swung its heavy warmth from off her shoulders and draped it over his prone form.
Faramir's head was tucked down so that only the raven of his hair and a sliver of neck showed above the blue. The silver stars about the hem winked in the pale moonlight.
What was it that had passed between them? She did not know but for certain it was real; not a figment of a dream. The morrow would come and she must find a way to ask.
Éowyn closed her eyes in weariness. She, too, must find her bed and leave him to sleep; blanketed by stars.
Elentári's up above and his mother's down below.
"Sleep well." she whispered and reached out to smooth a fold of the mantle upon his shoulder.
Faramir did not stir. The Master of Dreams did not trouble to set his nets.
She smiled and slipped away.
.
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At last! A chapter…. I have decided to no longer give apologies because after assuring everyone that things would go faster now, Fate leaped in to spike our wheels. Our son (the one who inspires Faramir and Éowyn's son Theomund) had his own health scare. This time, along with the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien, I must thank all our many friends and family who helped out during the weeks he was in hospital and at home recuperating. Without all the hands and casseroles we simply would not have coped. And I would not have been sane enough to get this chapter out.
To Marilyne who left a quest review: thank you so very much! I am just thrilled you are enjoying it.. more to come...the next chapter deal with the abyss and celebration after battle. And the scene finally happens that is depicted in mythorn-art's lovelly avatar ^_^
A big thank you to CarawynO for following and favouriting. :)
Easter hugs and chocolate rabbits to Thanwen and Eschscholzia for wondrously helpful critiques and comments. And to Willow, Gwynnyd, Wheelrider, and Sulriel for their comments and encouragement. Truly a group effort this time.