The next morning Faramir jolted awake out of a formless, unsettling dream to find it was well before the sun would crest the City's jutting spire. The lamps out on the hushed and silent street were still lit for the dawn watch had yet to start. They spilled their wan glow through a gap in the damask curtains, cast a streak of gold across the dark wine of the coverlet. It was early. Too early, but just late enough to make it impossible to go back to sleep. Faramir groaned. The body that welcomed many mornings on patrol before the finches sang knew this time by heart— wash and dress by feel with no fire or candlelight, breakfast quickly and spy the first streaks of pinkish-gold on Ephel Duath through silent stands of elm and pine. It was no different when surrounded by his uncle's townhouse walls.
Reluctantly he rose, dragged on the tunic and breeches that had landed across the armchair the night before and sought out the household kitchen. Liswen was there, and Kale, both sharing a first cup of tea. He bid them a quiet 'good morn', swiped a warm sweet roll from the breakfast tray over Liswen's laughing protest, and ducked out the service door.
Ivriniel would have to dine on her own. He felt guilty but not enough to stop.
The long jog up the stairs to the Citadel warmed up his body and his mind. The air was already taking back some of the White City's hoarded heat and the morning promised to be fair; the sort of clear clean day that made leaves sprout and plump buds swell, carpeting the mountain's slopes in green. The thought put a needed lightness in his step. The night's restlessness had left him more, not less, unsettled and the ride the day before had taxed his weakened body. Every limb protested the hurried climb but he would not stop.
Space to think and time to ponder what to do were sorely needed. Both required he rearrange his life.
At his father's polished desk he hastily scribed two detailed notes. The first, for Nera, explained how to handle his effects. The second, for Cahil, asked to clear his schedule for the day with just a twinge of guilt. Neither could be helped, and though he could not remember a day his father had ever taken off (Denethor's tidy ledgers followed him everywhere like a faithful hound), there was an argument to be made that a little respite would make him more efficient.
Assuming a certain woefully tardy discussion went as he fervently hoped.
Faramir folded the light parchments carefully in half and began to prop them against the brimming inkwell when impulse struck. It might be best if Hurin or Cahil could find him at short notice, and so he took up another sheet and made a few quick strokes, ('If urgent I can be found at 'the Tree'), scooped up the correspondence lying precisely dead centre of the blotter and set off for the Sixth Circle's steps.
He pelted down them, nodding to the startled Watch again, turning to the west and at length arriving at the forlorn little house that guarded Fen Hollen's fateful door. The young Tower Guard who did honour to the Steward's ruined resting place started to strict attention and hastily dipped his spear. He was clad in an engulfing, twice-belted tunic and surely had yet to shave.
Faramir's heart went out. It could not be easy having so lonely a post for one's first assignment.
"Lord Steward! Would you…?" The young man's words trailed off and nervously he bit his lip, eyes sliding to the low arched door. Obviously he could not bring himself to mention the ruined street.
Faramir quickly shook his head. There would come a time to brave that space again, but not today.
"Nay, Private. I am going the other way."
The spear tip sagged in relief. "You have the key?"
"I do."
Faramir pulled the familiar well-worn iron ring from his tunic pocket and turned left, stopping at the end of the short passage. The creamy and mottled smooth white wall looked just like more of the City's foundation stone but was not entirely what it seemed. Adept fingers found the tiny hole and turned the lock-in moments Faramir had shut the secret door behind, lit the waiting lantern and begun to traverse the darkened tunnel. He worked his way past neatly stacked stores and weapons, footsteps echoing hollowly on the rock. By a stout wooden ladder he snuffed the wick and began to climb; he passed another lock and door before daylight finally filtered in. He smiled, breathing in the just slightly mud-tanged fresh morning air. Success.
Once out on the grassy slope, he set the trapdoor back down, covered it with its disguise of grasses and rotted log, and turned uphill. A few more minutes climbing through forest of beech and silver fir saw him at the foot of his goal: a single spreading oak, ancient and proud, rising amidst Mindolluin's upper forest. Unlike the lacy beeches, the oak was bare—it would be weeks yet before its leaves came out- but the great arm-like branches were perfect to clamber on. A quiet and private nest for a much younger boy who wished to read and dream of Ents. And avoid an oft-disapproving gaze.
It was also the perfect spot to strategize.
With the ease of long practice he set the toe of his boot on a split on the roughened bark, reached up to the lowest branch and pulled smoothly up. In a trice he was straddling the straight limb, back to the gnarled ridges of the heavy bark, sun warm upon his face and the scent of leaf litter and moist soil rising with the morning dew. Minas Tirith and the Pelennor spread out below. His eyes skipped past the mounds and marred fields, past the blue glass ribbon of Anduin shining in the sun, to linger on the low hills of Emyn Arnen, gentle and welcoming in the distance.
Just the sight of them eased a little of the tenseness in his shoulders. He rubbed absently at those protesting, still-healing muscles and pulled a wrinkled, folded parchment from out of his tunic. Bless Imrahil. Knowing his absence would be keenly felt, his uncle had written a few lines almost every single day since he had ridden off to the Morannon and replied to Faramir's last letter with his customary promptness.
Next to Boromir, Imrahil knew him best. It was for this reason that the asked for and received advice was a comfort.
But also something of a problem.
The words in his uncle's small neat script were plain enough.
Lad, you wrote: "I fear I have lost my heart somewhere where no forest skills can help."
Then I say to you: cast aside the tools you have relied upon and trust to your heart.
It will serve you well and be your most honest guide."
Damn and blast. He grimaced, running a hand across his brow, The words had not changed the third time through. The advice was succinct, correct, but sadly all too difficult to put into practise.
Rely upon his hopelessly well-mannered heart? The one so long guarded its instincts at times must surely be seen as suspect? That had been done and now had brought him to this pass. His heart had counseled patience in the face of duty and decorum; insisted the 'right' thing to do was give Éowyn time and space- trust to her affection, and not press beyond an honourable reading of her words- but Faramir of all people knew sometimes the 'right' thing did not always gain the desired outcome.
As Damrod would have none too finely put it, he had 'cocked up'. Completely.
That he had hurt her, and badly, was all too clear and the knowledge of it chafed, left an empty rawness that was nothing like the hollow where his mother was-a yearning softness, grief and beauty just barely indistinct like tattered old cobwebs that swung in the breeze between Ithilien's pines. Nor was it a darker pit like the memory of his brother and his father. That was rough and new; not right, but one that in time he would come to carry unthinking, less centrally present every minute of the day.
Not this. He missed Éowyn with an ache that was fierce and tender all at once; insistent; as much a contradiction as she was, and it absolutely could not go on. An apology was needed. For his own obtuseness, not his subjects gabbling-Éowyn cared not a fig for what Gondorian noblewomen thought of her and he loved her for it—but she needed to know and see that he could throw open his heart. Share of himself fully and freely, setting caution to the wind like so much milkweed adrift on the breeze.
But how?
And if he found a way would she even hear him?
Cursing his own hesitation he began to fold the letter when a sharp low whistle sounded. Instantly he cocked his head. It came again. A descending note just like a canyon wren, but far crisper on the end. "Friendly inbound" it meant. And was too adept to be made by young Bergil.
Faramir looked down and spied Anborn making his way up the slope, without sling but with his sword belt strapped across his hip. Valar. What could the Ranger want with him so urgently that Cahil would divulge his hiding place?
He hoped there was nothing seriously amiss.
Once Anborn's long stride's brought him in hailing distance, Faramir put his hands to his mouth and called, "You have found me, lieutenant. What news?"
Anborn looked up, spotted his black tunic easily against the tawny bark and waved, picking up his pace. By the time he reached the foot of the oak's great trunk he was puffing from his climb.
He set hands on hips and grinned. "Is this really the Tree? The one it took two guards and ladders to get Lord Boromir back down from?" he asked, resolutely ignoring his commander's question.
Faramir shook his head. The tale had changed in the telling. And been modified for a better light. "Actually it was four guards and a rather complicated rope ladder. My brother was furious. He wanted to stay up until he figured out how to descend but Father was having none of it."
"Sounds like t'Captain General. Not one to back down. Ever."
Too true. Boromir, all of fourteen and unwilling to be bested, had climbed so high he could not safely get back down, but instead of being angered or embarrassed, his brother had been puffed up with pride, recounting to one and all how his 'little one' had such climbing skill. It was one of Faramir's cherished childhood memories..
Realizing it would do Anborn's shoulder no good if he thought to clamber up himself, Faramir swung a leg over the branch and neatly dropped onto the turf. "You are right at that. No, Boromir would not back down. Afterward we laughed and laughed, fell over ourselves plotting another expedition but it never came to be." He paused, losing himself in the happy memory. "Nienna, I miss that sound. No one laughed like him."
Anborn's voice grew a little thick and low. "Aye, sir. The best."
Faramir, touched by the sentiment, gratefully clasped the lieutenant's uninjured shoulder. At times in the rush of the past few weeks it felt as if he were alone in his remembering. "He was and I thank you for saying so. But I know you did not come up all this way to reminisce with me. What is judged of such import? Has the City come under assault again? Is the library ablaze?"
Anborn chuckled. "Your greatest fear. No sir, every musty, cracked and mysterious sheaf is safe." He cocked his head and rubbed sheepishly at his nape. "I know as how you were to be undisturbed…"
Faramir rolled his eyes. "But you are going to do it anyway…"
The lieutenant grinned. "Aye. But it is a mission of some import. Permission to speak freely sir."
A pair of black eyebrows flew straight up. This was a most unusual request. Anborn had never been hesitant to speak before. Either on patrol or in the barracks. "I should have thought a decade in the wild showed you that you need not for ask that," Faramir said mildly. "Is there a problem? Is this about the men coming back to duty? They are not too pressed?" he asked, knowing Anborn, a good listener by nature and inclination, often had the ear of the men.
To his relief the lieutenant gently shook his head. "No sir. It's personal."
Personal? That was a surprise. What could Anborn need his help for? Mystified but happy to be of service, Faramir sank down to rest against the trunk, crossing his legs and laying the letters aside. He gestured for his friend to sit. "You have my full attention."
Anborn ran a sweaty hand along his breeches and paused a moment before squaring his broad shoulders and looking down. Obviously the subject was serious, something he was loathe to broach. Faramir did what worked best in these situations-waited patiently- and before long the man settled down beside and roughly cleared his throat. "I know as I'll not have the words Madril would use, but Mad is gone," he declared unhappily. "Renil's vanished on business to Cormallen once again. And Mablung'll not be back for weeks. T'wil have to be me. I'll not stand round watching a cart come a wreck and keep my hands all to myself."
"'Born?" Whatever did he mean? Faramir could not fathom what wreck he meant. And what it had to do with him.
Anborn shifted slightly, rolled his stiffened shoulder and turned to catch his gaze. "I know 'mm not making sense quite yet. I reckon Damrod's words will have to do." He drew a breath. "Sir, you are being an outright eijit."
"Pardon?!" Faramir coughed hard but Anborn pressed quickly on, for the surprising flow of words, undammed and rushing like a torrent, was not yet done.
"The Lady Éowyn loves you, plain as plain. I've seen it in my sister and her man. Seen it in Madril's Annwyn when she thought we were too busy tacking up and to have notice for them both. All soft eyes that can't drink in enough and follow yer everywhere. Gleam like the Kindler's stars."
Éowyn was so in love with him that others saw it?! Shock, and a decidedly elated wonder, sent a jolt of happiness straight to his chest. "Yes. Well. I.." He stopped and began again. Grabbed for words that scrambled out of reach before inexplicably blurting out the truth. "I did know she shared something of my affection. I asked leave to court her. But if her feelings are so—intense," unhappily, he bit his lip, "her words now are different than her eyes. I might see light in them, but I am bound by what she says. Yesterday there was no light there at all. It looked more as if given a half a chance she'd happily take off my head."
Anborn's frown lightened to something of a more serious grin. It was not the expression he anticipated. "Aye, my Mam always said 'twas the surest evidence of affection. That and a sudden fit of ailing. Kira's watched her mistress all these days. Just pecking at her food. Drifting round the gardens like a ghost. She's pining. All of us can see it. The two of you were light itself, like the Trees of Valinor. The lady fair glows when you walk into the room."
"Past tense, Lieutenant. Past tense," Faramir reminded sadly.
The younger man shook his head. ""Nay. She is not herself, but the only thing that's truly changed is that she's keeping distance where t'was none before. I'm not party to what drove in the wedge but I know she's a high proud filly that you must coax back to your hand."
Faramir snorted ruefully. "One that bolts every time I get too near."
"And that's reason to give up?!" Anborn looked offended for him. "That's not the Captain that I know. I've seen you patiently still for ages. Waiting for a hummingbird to come to rest."
"True. But even if she flays my hide with deserved words, I simply don't know where to start." ." Disconsolately he looked down and plucked at a small blue starflower peeking up through the grass. This was the crux of the problem. How could he open a conversation again and have her not turn away? Have them not descend into the same bitter debate as yesterday?
Anborn had no answer and so both men sighed, falling silent for a bit, Faramir looking over the river to the hills, hoping their calm would bring some clarity. What could he say that would not make things worse? Once more he was going mentally round a bush, picking up and discarding every point; wondering if it would be best to beg forgiveness and avoid mentioning Amerith at all? Explain again the reasons he had let a rumour run? None of it felt right. Like hunting for that one shell amidst the wrack thrown up on the beach, or the one rock to skim high across the waves.
After minutes of quiet contemplation, Anborn followed the direction of his gaze to the forest they had so recently walked. The one through which the victorious Host would return, and then the whole world would change again.
"What is it that you most want?" he asked suddenly.
Faramir looked up, surprised, and then down into his lap. Not a question he thought that he might get. What did he imagine beyond the things he could not have? A home? A family? He plucked a small patch of blue from the grass and twirled the dainty flowers between his finger and his thumb, thinking hard. Those certainly and also a place that was truly his. By choice. Not merely a room that duty brought to him too.
He looked up again, to east and south. If he squinted, he fancied he could see it. Just above the tight knee in the River's bend, on a short green-clad stretch of hilly shoulder. The lands bequeathed to him by his father on his majority. "No prize', Boromir had said, but that was before an entirely unshadowed sun shone upon its green.
At last he spoke: "To make a home. On land that means so much, untainted by bitter memories. With a partner and equal by my side." Faramir then stopped, began again knowing that in the past sennight the dream had changed and Emyn Arnen was no longer the sole focus of it. "With her by my side. That is the most important part. If Éowyn could not live in Gondor, were she happiest amidst the fields of Rohan, I would gladly follow her there."
Anborn was nodding. "And have you told her exactly that? That you want a partner, not just a wife? And not just on your terms?"
A flush crept up his cheeks. "No, not exactly."
"'Tis not too late for that I would wager."
Faramir huffed. "You sound like Damrod. Everything a gamble."
That made his lieutenant misty-eyed for a moment. Of all the officers Anborn had served, their famed curmudgeon had been the first. He sniffed loudly and scrubbed at his cheek. "Old bugger did say there was always a percentage in the margins."
Faramir smiled sadly. Damrod would have been aghast to find he was so much on both their minds. "He never believed that we would win through. I wish that he could have lived see to it."
"Aye, but without t'war what would he have grumbled on about? The weather? Too much change perhaps? I'm a lieutenant and Mablung's a Captain and Renil's disobeyed you twice."
That made them both stop and grin. Their field healer had simply copied the example he had been set.
Anborn went on: "Sir, what will happen to the Rangers if they aren't needed in Ithilien?"
"I am not certain," Faramir admitted. "It is the King's army now and I have had no chance to speak in detail with Lord Aragorn. All our letters have been focused about preparations for his arrival, but I cannot believe every Orc has turned tail and thrown down its arms. They are bred to fight and I am afraid all must be rooted out."
"Then there'll be summat for me to do. I do not fancy farming."
Faramir's mouth quirked. Obviously there was a reason the young man's mind was on the future. "Even with Kira by your side?" he teased.
Now it was Anborn's turn to flush. "Now, sir, that's putting the cart before the horse. I haven't asked her to make an honest man of me yet."
"And here you are giving me courting advice?!"
"Never said that I was that bright."
The high clear peel of the mid-morning bell sounded from Ecthelion's Tower just as Faramir began to climb to his feet. He stretched a crick out of his back and looked up through the canopy. The sunlight streamed strongly down through the lacework of green and brown. It was time to get on with the day, reorder his world and take on his lieutenant's surprisingly good advice.
"'Anborn?"
The younger man had stood and stopped, brushing blades of grass from off his trews. "Sir?"
"Thank you. And come. If you'll keep it secret, I know an easier way back home.'
~~~000~~~
Once back in the Citadel with something less of a darkly clouded head, Faramir found he could quickly complete enough of his official duties to announce that he would be gone the rest of the afternoon.
The change he had requested had been admirably taken on. No matter how hard he had tried it felt wrong, entirely uncomfortable, to be in the Steward's literal seat—too much of a reminder that not just his father was gone but also that his brother should be there. Nera and the household had taken up his stated wish to shutter the family's rooms with far better grace than he could have hoped. Even Cahil agreed it was too hard, tore at the small patches of grief's healing that happened with each day, and for that reason distance was preferred.
A small receiving room was procured off the Hall convenient to Lord Hurin's official space and swiftly filled with a desk and chairs, enough books and papers that he soon felt like a rock at risk of being buried by drifting sand. All through the noon changing of the Watch he worked, reordering his life. It helped, far more than he had expected. Loosened a heaviness that had settled itself in his bones, and importantly helped everyone.
Nera, delivering a tray of tea and sandwiches, whistled the lay of Uinen and Ossë from her home. Cahil, whose habitual expression was longer than his nose, actually stopped reordering the transferred paybooks long enough to smile.
All around the start of a success. He was just standing briefly in the middle of the space, mulling where he might find Éowyn at that hour, when the door handle turned and a familiar perfume wafted into the room.
"Redecorating, darling?"
Faramir turned, biting back a groan. Amerith. The last person he wished to see, for she was, to Éowyn's mind, a part of the problem and he needed to focus on solutions.
"Does everyone know already where I can be found?" he declared, feeling a bit rude for not to offering her a seat, but quite certain he did not want her to settle in.
Naturally she swept past and sat neatly against the corner of the desk.
"News always tumbles faster down from the Seventh than upward from the First," she said, mouth twitching as she took in a pile of haphazardly discarded letters "I see you are already making this your home."
"Father's study was too full of memories and breakable antiques. This suits me more." It did. And while he might miss the family's courtyard, it would still be there. When, or if, he wanted to go back. "This will make it easier to work with Hurin."
Her expression softened. "I do not doubt it. What will you do with the other spaces?"
"I do not know," Faramir absently ran a hand through his hair. "Once the King is crowned, perhaps I will be just a Captain once more."
"Captain-General," she corrected gently.
He nodded, reflexively touching the moonstone ring hanging inside his tunic. Another thing to be sorted out. The Captain-General's horn and Steward's rod were gone. Would the King take the opportunity to alter those positions, too? He did not know and shook his head to show it. "Unless Aragorn chooses to make a change. He has no requirement to take on a Steward and even should he wish to, he has brothers who have come. They may suit him more as advisors. I do not want to assume."
Amerith tilted her coiffured head. "Somehow I think he knows the quality of the man he went so far to heal."
Faramir blushed. He did not need to be reminded of the debt he owed and she was being far too nice. Something was up. He could feel it; a sense of urgency, like a current below a placid river's surface. It did not take much of a stretch to guess.
"If you are also here to beat me up for my behaviour, you are quite late. My own lieutenant has already had a swing."
An auburn brow rose up, unconcerned to not have been first. "Anborn? Oh, well done. Someone had to start. I quite forget that just because you are thoughtful and articulate and empathetic you are of course a man."
"I will take that as a compliment."
"That was not exactly how it was meant. Between her pride and your stubbornness and occasional obtuseness, Valar save us."
Faramir frowned, brows crashing together like a storm. "We are not exactly on the best of terms. I have no idea if she would even receive me."
"I suspect she will if your aunt is as persuasive as I believe."
"My aunt?" He threw up his hands. "Is everyone in the City conspiring?!"
"Yes!"
Amerith chuckled gaily as he shook his head. "It is not so simple a problem to solve. You cannot put ink sunk into parchment back into the bottle."
"No, but you can try to mop some up. You must ask again and again until she will listen."
"That is what Anborn said. And Aunt Ivriniel."
Amerith snorted. "Your aunt may be most the pedantic person I know, someone whose definition of truth is so firm no blade can shave it, but she is true at heart."
The irritation that had stiffened along his spine the moment she walked into the room leached into his voice. "Is that always your stratagem dealing with people? To insult them?"
"If I meant to insult her I would be far more cutting. You know I always pull my punches for your family. You would rather I was more blunt?"
"No!"
Two gazes, one green, one grey, locked horns like kine battling for turf. After a minute of struggle no less intense for silence, Amerith sadly shook her head. "Some of this mess could have been avoided if you shared more of your heart and did not assume that you would be understood. I am sorry if the truth hurts in this instance, but it is the truth."
Faramir glowered. "Don't apologize. It only confuses me."
He thought she would smile like a cat, sleek and satisfied with her win, but instead the immaculately lacquered lips pursed into a moue of disapproval. "With that frown you look more like your father. You know that you need not keep behaving as if he were here. You can again wear your feelings on your sleeve."
"How dare you!"
Stock still and seething, Faramir let his anger flow outward, push a little on her shields to show her how much that hurt, but then, with mouth agape, he stared.
A wide smile had creased her pretty face.
"What are you grinning at?"
Green eyes glinted. "You two truly are meant for each other. That is exactly what she said."
Mulishly, he crossed his arms across his chest but then forced himself to take a breath, let a little of the frustration bleed away. This wasn't helping. He needed to focus, to formulate a plan to speak to Éowyn and arguing was wasting time.
Amerith stood, still grinning, and suddenly the import of her last words settled in.
"You spoke with her?"
"I did," she nodded. "And discovered something. She heard you."
"Pardon?"
"Heard you."
Faramir started back. She did? Éowyn had something of a gift? A wild flush of hope began to beat within his chest. "Is this true?"
"Yes," Amerith thought back, before speaking up. "At times she can hear you. I am uncertain if it is only you but it is most certainly why she reacted as she did when you spoke on the Pelennor. She feared you were deliberately coercing a reaction. It is untrue, but you must both speak of it. Help her to understand what this means."
They could truly understand each other? Share honestly. And felt dizzy at the thought, but also chastened. How was it that those we are closest to are the ones we read incorrectly when upset? Like he and his father. Or his father and mother. That thought made a little of the stubborn pride yield more. He needed to truly see. Both with and without a gift.
He looked down and found that once again he was absently shredding something green. Nera had thoughtfully placed a cup of small white croci by his quill. Their thin spikey leaves made a neat pile on the wood while a few sat shorn in his palm. He reached into his tunic, pulled out the starflowers and slit their stalks with a careful fingernail. The motion soothed. His fingers remembered this: laying a blanket across his mother's lap, passing bloom after bloom while she showed him how to fashion a simple chain. Soon there were three. Then five. A slim circle twinned into a ring, such as the Eldar gave for handfasting.
For a moment he thought that Amerith might tease him but instead she walked over to gently touch the petals. They were waxy to the touch and just faintly damp. "There. You have your metaphor. Forge a new chain of green and life, where before there was only dark and iron. Go to her."
He nodded, taking a breath and mentally shredding any sense of doubt. Waiting would only make things worse. And with this knowledge he knew what he must do.
He slipped the little chain oh so gently into his pocket. "I will."
~~~000~~~
Earlier that same morning Minas Tirith's Master Healer sank gratefully down onto the common room's empty bench and heaved a heartfelt sigh. Valar that had been long. Twelve hours, dusk to dawn; and though the night shift had always been his favourite, that was before this war, before weeks of endless need and strain had left him (and all of the staff, truth be told) weary and a little frayed.
"Thank you," he murmured, eyes closed, accepting but not seeing the cup of green ginger tea Ivriniel pressed into his fresh-scrubbed hands. The sweet sharp fragrance twined up, soothed and revived him a little before he cracked open one eyelid.
The most welcome sight of Dol Amroth's elder Princess was bent over and peering closely at the bags that lay large as boulders beneath his eyes.
"Better?" she asked, brandishing a small satchel of pungent grey-green leaves. "I can add galium and basil if you have need?"
"Nay." He ducked his head and quickly but imprudently taking a largish sip. Este, the steaming brew was hot. Enough to burn to his tongue and sheepishly he blew on the surface, avoiding Ivriniel's determined gaze. No need to have her tut-tutting over him like an offended wren. The night before had not gone as planned. Ranulf, the big, blond, lugubrious second to Rohan's Marshal had been making slow but steady progress, miraculously uncomplaining on the long road back from a near-fatal stomach wound, and so to find his leg swollen from a clot had been unwelcome in the extreme. The rue, applied whole and taken in a tincture, was dried perforce, not fresh as it never potted well, but strong enough to work. Just now, long hours later, the swelling had come down. It was a battle. But one Varan refused to lose.
He rolled his tired head upon his neck and eyed his friend. Ivriniel looked rested and refreshed; she had breakfasted early and clearly indulged in a bath. Her damp hair was unbound, not yet tucked up underneath her veil, and hung in a long straight fall of night. He smiled, thinking she looked like the fiercest of shieldmaidens ready to defend her charges from all harm. "The man won't dare get worse now that you are here."
She snorted as elegantly as one could. "I should certainly hope not. And, given that likelihood, you can take yourself straight off to your cot. You look positively grey."
Varan shrugged. He felt it, but would not leave before detailed notes on Ranulf's care were written and passed on. "No more than Marrit or Hirlas do. How you keep your energy up, dear lady, is a mystery to me. There must be hidden virtues in good sea air."
"If that were the case I'd have no foul-tempered scurvied seaman to treat." A glint of amusement twinkled in light grey eyes. "How else would I learn to sharpen my tongue?"
"Bossing surly Rangers?"
Her half-hearted sputtered protest was cut abruptly short as the main door creaked on its hinges.
"Master? Are you here?" The broad, lined face of Dame Ioreth, bright and all too lively below the twin greys of veil and curling locks, peered into the room.
Varan stifled a sudden groan and ran a hand across his face. What now? He did not think he had the energy for more bad news, much less the dear woman's prattling. Reluctantly he climbed to his feet. "Yes madam, I am and just finished my evening's rounds. Is it the Rider? Or can the Princess help you with a problem?" Nienna, please tell me it is the latter.
The good wife bumped the heavy door full wide with her hip, keeping a practised steady grip on a tray piled high with scones and cream and jam. His stomach rumbled promptly as Ioreth bobbed her head. "Well I am not rightly sure my lord. I should not like to suggest her Highness was not fully skilled at every task, but she was your patient first, and I ken she is released from care but I thought as how you should know."
"What about who?" he asked patiently, setting the teacup aside and barely stifling a grin. Ioreth might not 'like to suggest' that Ivriniel was less equipped but her words had done exactly that.
"The lady's not eaten her breakfast again," Ioreth exclaimed, brandishing the tray. The china clinked musically and a bit of milk sloshed from its pot. "See this? Not a bite of cook's best baking made just for her. The third morning in a row. And yestereve her supper went untouched. Most alarming. Why, Kira tells me she's having to take in the lady's day dresses again. Should you not see to her? That Black Breath might be coming back and the King's not here and whatever would he say if we let her get ill again?"
Ah. 'She' was clearly their healing Shieldmaiden. The what was a puzzle still. He raised an eyebrow. "Well I daresay that is to be avoided at all costs, mostly for Lady Éowyn's own sake, but I examined her several days ago. She was a little pale but otherwise quite well enough. Her shield arm is healing properly. I allowed her to ride upon the Pelennor as the air and exercise would do her good."
Varan smiled to himself. 'Walk' was more the word, and the lady had been feisty enough to let him know what she thought of his precautions. "I have no serious concerns," he added before a frowning Ioreth continued on.
"Warden Hallas says he is most concerned and will send for the Lord Steward. Why, I've seen her in the garden morning, noon, and night. Face pinched and white as the old Lord's tower. Ailing, surely, or I don't have eyes within my head."
Hallas, who was always sure-footed when it came to handling staff, had had more years with Ioreth than any one of them. He knew when it was politic to give in. Varan's own sense of precision simply got in the way. "The Warden is of course entitled to his opinion, but her sword arm, the one that was chiefly the centre of the affliction, is no longer numb or cold."
"Nor is she is sleeping more," added Ivriniel firmly. "There is no indication the Black Breath has returned."
Ioreth huffed out a breath. "Well, it's not for the likes of me to know, but I've not been too busy to see that her eyes and hair are dull. There's dark smudges below where there weren't before and her face is suddenly long as a bad, wet winter. What could it be but her illness in other guise? Lord Faramir was took with fever. Gadron, that young Ranger caught by the Nazgul's breath, had waking visions and shivers before his heart just stopped."
A hand raised to stop the flow of words. "No, my good dame, you can be reassured on that point. As always your vigilance and concern does you great credit but I am quite certain it is not Black Breath," Varan said. "These symptoms are shared with other maladies. And I believe I know what it is," he noted gently as he could.
"Master?"
Varan and Ivriniel exchanged a knowing look. Context often aided diagnosis. Listlessness and pining. Lack of appetite. Pale features and lingering disquiet.
In both the Lady and the Steward.
His mouth quirked into the barest of wry smiles. "A far simpler condition. Although it, too, afflicts the heart."
Beside him, Ivriniel arose. She picked up her veil from the tabletop and strode across the room to the open door. For once, Ioreth was entirely caught without reply. Her eyes were wide and mouth agape. Varan chuckled to himself. It could hardly be the first time love had blossomed on the paths, but was certainly a first for a ruling Steward. "Go along, good lady and do not worry, Love is rarely fatal, although it is assuredly quite painful at times. We shall watch over both of them with care."
The penny finally dropped. The dumbfounded servant looked from Master to Princess. "Well I never…. Lord Faramir and the Lady."
Ivriniel pushed the door full wide and wagged a finger sternly. The corners of her mouth were set. "Mind you do not spread that bit of gossip like a brush fire. Neither would thank you for it."
Ioreth flushed and bobbed her head. "Your Highness, I should never think of it."
"Indeed," Ivriniel replied, taking the woman by the elbow. "Come. Let the Master get to his rest. It is time for me to see what other remedy I can affect."
~~~000~~~
In a far corner of the House's outer garden the subject of discussion sat in the bright noon sun and futilely willed the warmth and light sweet scent of spring to challenge the cloud of her vexation. Angered, frustrated, and at a loss what to do, for an hour after rising Éowyn had tried to busy herself. Channelled the sour of her stomach into something useful, ripping with such force at the weeds around the herbs in the healing garden that Marrit (eyes thoughtful but mercifully not judging) had had to bid her to take it slow. The smell and scent of dry earth freshened by the night's brief gentle rain was welcome, the work moreso, but eventually busy hands let thoughts work harder. They turned to Faramir, again and again, until Éowyn simply gave up the fight. She bid Marrit good day and grabbed her new letters to retreated to the garden's wall.
Reading should have helped. Éomer's usual scrawling mess was filled with two pages on Dol Amroth's younger princess-her riding skill, her wit, her sunny disposition-enough to distract a bit but then it turned to pleas for Éowyn to visit. And, alarmingly, descriptions of Lothiriel's unmarried elder brother. How brave Amrothos was. How handsome. How much a warrior and how greatly Éomer had come to respect Prince Imrahil. Bema, the lovestruck, addled clod was matchmaking! Éowyn's stomach clenched. It was endearingly, if clumsily, done, but the thought of considering another suitor was simply nauseating.
And impossible.
She missed Faramir. Intensely. It was an ache as strong as her need for the fen and fields of the wold, where the green shoots would now just be poking through the dried winter thatch. There every minute of the day, however much she tried to smother it. She missed Éomer and Lothíriel too, and Bergil who no longer appeared so often with beautifully penned notes. But most of all she missed Faramir. The softness of his touch upon her wrist. The happy hours they had spent just sitting in the still and quiet, warmed by good company and laughter and a sense of ease. The jasmine plant on her bedside table sat, ignored, like an accusation of her weakness. She could hardly bear to look on the pretty thing or smell the fragrance of its blooms and yet the Rohirrim in her could not cast aside something green and growing. The bowl of floating petals that Kira had rescued from her hair still sat upon the dresser.
She had watered both that morn.
Damn the man!
Again she had hoped and risked opening her heart and again she had been burned. Amerith's conversation had only left her more confused and wanting to retreat. Could she be wrong about Faramir's intentions with the ruse? Could his reticence to speak, his keeping his counsel to himself, really be founded in Denethor's hardness on his son? It fit, for she, too, had heard servants whispering about stern words and sterner frowns but was she not owed the truth? An explanation? The full story instead of parts dribbled out when he saw fit? Bema's blessed horn, she hated this uncertainty! Being vulnerable. And needy. At the mercy of the tiny weak corner of her heart that flickered with joy to know there was some explanation. That panged, hard, seeing the hurt upon his face.
For half a candlemark she had sat in the rising westerly wind, feeling the warmth of Anor's steady rays on her face and the heat rise from bench below her light linen dress, furiously stripping a stray dead branch of its last remaining bark. It hadn't helped. She was no closer to knowing what course to take.
"May I sit down?"
A soft and cultured voice jolted her from her fractured thoughts. Éowyn turned toward the path. Dol Amroth's diminutive Princess stood on the verge, one hand clasping her long grey veil, the other in the soft wool of her healer's kirtle. Her shoulders were set and back. She wore no apron and her long hair was loose, not tucked up as it would be for working.
Ivriniel looked- intent. And nervous, for no reason that Éowyn could imagine. Curious, and determined to be courteous however much she wished for peace, she nodded curtly. "Be my guest."
The older woman swept the long fall of her hair aside and alighted on the bench. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap and lips pursed as if she were thinking carefully of her words. When, at length, she spoke, her voice was shorn of its customary briskness.
"Dame Ioreth tells me that you sent back your breakfast."
This again! Éowyn just barely avoided throwing up her hands, struggling to not bite back and ask sarcastically if Ivriniel was touring all the wards. If they had so little to do that a ridiculously minor fuss demanded the presence of a Princess. It was maddening, but a display of temper wouldn't help.
Most likely the woman actually meant her well.
"True," she replied stiffly, when the anger simmering in her veins had cooled. "But you need not trouble on my account. I am perfectly well. I broke bread with Marrit at her break."
An eyebrow arched in pleased surprise. "Then that is well. I will report the good news to Master Varan who will be relieved." Ivriniel's mouth twitched up. "You know you need not fear him sending Bern with baskets anymore." Éowyn rolled her eyes. Thank Bema. She had had more than enough of that. Ivriniel went on, "But I do admit that there is growing concern that you are not yourself."
Éowyn stiffened sharply, picturing every denizen of the City tattling about their falling out. "Yours or someone else's?"
"Both." The Princess gave a frustrated sigh. "I am not here as a nurse but rather as a friend. You need not be so suspicious of my motives."
The sharpness that ruled Éowyn's tongue these days was no less blunt. "Faramir has sent you. Will Lothíriel be next?"
"He has no idea that I am here."
"I find that hard to believe."
Ivriniel's lips flattened into a frown. "Whether you do or no, it is the simple truth. As is the fact that Faramir is an honourable man. I love my nephew as my own son, but I am not blind to his qualities. He is infuriating, yes. Stubborn as an ox at times. Impossibly precise when arguing, but he is not often wrong. Nor is he ever false in his affections. You have a very simple choice. Will you take his word? Or that of a pack of gossips?"
Éowyn crossed her arms defiantly across her chest. "He should have told me. Before I had to hear it from those painted vultures."
Ivriniel held her gaze. "Yes. Yes, he should have. And should have spared more time these past few days for you but I somewhat suspect it would have made but little difference. You would still have given him short shrift, would you not?"
Shame, with its bitter aftertaste, spread across Éowyn's tongue. Ivriniel hit the mark. Yes she would not have given Faramir the time of day at first. Yes she would have turned him away but she was the one who had been wronged, not he. That this neither excused nor denied her own coldness pricked. And made her frustration flare. "That is what that conniving woman said!"
Ivriniel had no trouble divining who she meant. "Conniving is indeed quite apt in this instance but Amerith means you well. And there is none here who have worked so hard, sacrificed so much for Gondor, unless it is Denethor and his sons. She does not deserve your ire."
A cool fury breathed ice into Éowyn's reply. "I will be not be caged again! By expectation or another's need of me. We shared one kiss. He has no claim otherwise," she cried, but the princess did not flinch. Ivriniel looked Éowyn up and down with a gaze flat and firm as the bench upon which they sat. "It seems to me we are quite capable of bringing our cages with us. And though all evidence outward is to the opposite, I believe you do possess inside a voice of reason."
Éowyn gasped. She began to stridently object, but Ivriniel shook her finger sharply, cut off whatever she would say. "Do not bristle at me, young woman. I meant it not in offense for I have told much the same to him. It is not entirely clear to me how Faramir blundered into this mire, but I do not believe that you are as indifferent to him as you pretend before me now. Nor do I think you usually let your temper rule your wit." Ivriniel's voice softened for a bit. "What does your heart tell you? Your ears and eyes are not always the organs that see most clearly."
What did it tell her?! Truly? Éowyn clenched her fingers on the marble's lip. That she was hurt and angry and Béma that despite everything that she did not or could not understand, she loved him.
Still.
But that was not enough to overrule the damage done. She had her dignity and her honour. Was not about to cheapen their value now.
The light grey eyes that held her own, demanding of an answer, did not glance down. They both sat, straight and stiff for so long that Éowyn expected Ivriniel to rise and leave, forgo a conflict she could not win, but instead Ivriniel broke her gaze, smoothed both hands absently down along her hair. The wet tendrils were piled into her lap. "Do you know why I am unmarried?" she asked finally, spreading out a dampened patch of skirt to dry
Surprise stained two spots of colour on Éowyn's cheeks. "Your fiancé died at sea."
Ivriniel heavily. "I suppose that is simplest to say after all these many years. Those who knew first-hand are gone, all save my brother, and Imrahil would never speak of it. To you or any other. It is not a tale for happy firesides or long winter's eves. But if you will sit and listen, I will tell it to you now, and then, when I am done, you may decide what best to do.."
Éowyn blinked in surprise. It was an odd, slightly imperious request, but there was a furrow on Ivriiniel's brow, a faint tremble to the fingers wound tightly in the strands in her lap. This was something difficult to share; a grief the woman would not speak of without good reason.
It would be discourteous to not let her tell the tale
Éowyn nodded once. Ivriniel cleared her throat and began to speak; looking not at her companion but far south across the ruined fields. Towards Belfalas and her home.
"I did not always plan to be a spinster," she began. "But not all of us get so favoured a tack upon the seas. Long ago in less shadowed times I was young, and not so serious. And if I did not have the gay beauty of my sister I had wit, and skill, and a pleasant face and pretty hair, and there were suitors. Most were official matches that stirred neither my heart nor my head, and I admit it, I was indulged." She gave a tiny, fleeting smile. "The Princes of Dol Amroth, from Imrazor on down to my charming rogue of a little brother, have never been able to deny to their womenfolk. My father Adrahil was no different. We were all free to choose to marry for love and for that reason I let a few matches go, certain that the right man would come along. I kept company with my father's knights and uncle's seaman, honed my craft, confident in my fate, until one day I was simply swept off my feet. Sador was his name, Aglamir's new second mate, and he was tall and fair and funny where I was not. A beautiful man inside and out whose touch made my blood sing and eyes made me want to dance. And though we shared but a few stolen kisses behind the rigging, I was smitten. I told only Finduilas. It seems silly now, for of a certain all our friends and family must have seen our giddy joy, but I thought none knew."
"What happened?" asked Éowyn, hardly daring to speak up. Ivriniel tightened her fingers in her lap. "He asked me for permission to seek my father's blessing. To pay suit. I am ashamed to say I hesitated. Not because I did not love him. I did, But because he was not who I had thought that I might wed. I was young and a princess and he was a commoner; a sea captain's son with brains and heart and courage who had won his post from Aglamir because of a worth all could see" Her dainty mouth twisted in a grimace. "We had a row. He accused me of considering him beneath me and I no answer for he was not wholly wrong. He sailed off, in a fury, on yet another of Uncle's wandering escapades. Three months was long enough to pine and miss him and come to know my heart. To realize how ridiculous was my hesitation and so I was overjoyed to hear word of their return. My feet could not take me fast enough down to promenade to the docks. Minuramar was such a welcome sight flying on the waves, but then, she closed no farther. Held back from port and ran up a black forked flag."
"What did it mean?" Éowyn asked softly, when the steady voice and grey gaze had faltered.
Ivriniel swallowed once and closed her eyes before looking back again. "Contagion. An illness among the crew. The wild leafy jungles far beyond Umbar harboured a malady. A fever more virulent than any we had seen. Half the crew were dead inside a fortnight. Only through the greatest effort did we stop it spreading into the city." She drew a shaky breath. "They burned the ship and all the bodies.
It took my Uncle and Sador both.
Father nursed his brother by himself, would suffer no other to take the risk, just as I nursed Sador. I was so vain, so certain of my skills. I could not believe that he would die but he was too far gone in the fever's grip. Days he wandered in vicious dreams, awake but unseeing. With blood pooled in his eyes and ears and in his body, wracked with pain and crying out for comfort. Calling my name even as I held him helplessly in my arms. He never knew that I was there. He believed that I had abandoned him even at the end."
"Why, that is…" Éowyn, heart in mouth, could not find the words.
"Horrific?" Ivriniel glanced down. A single tear dropped down to darken the light grey wool. "Yes. A nightmare. Beyond any I hope to ever know again. But in the end it was part of my own making." The princess sighed, wiped away the track of wet upon her cheek and then slowly rose, straight-backed. She caught up her veil, looked up toward the shining crown of the Citadel and when she turned back again her eyes were ineffably sad. "You see now I know whereof I speak, Éowyn. Please. Talk to him. Hear what Faramir has to say. I know my nephew. He loves you-you are no second best. And you both have a chance for joy. Look beyond the obstacles and listen to your heart. However much this stings, do not let your pride alter the river of your life."
And with that, Ivriniel turned with her customary grace and walked away.
The rising breeze did not drift her long dark hair for the veil of her profession was back in place again.
At the garden wall, another young headstrong woman watched her figure until it disappeared. Across a new green carpet of soft fescue and below an arch of burgeoning lilac blooms.
.
Huge huge thank you to Guest who left such a lovely review and to Snaps057 for favouriting. As always, my undying gratitude (and chocolate, wine and plot bunnies) to Wheelrider and Eschschiola for betaing and Annafan, Thanwen and CarawynO for their encouragement and wonderfully helpful comments. I still can't quite believe we are almost there...