The waiting is indeed the hardest part.

I should be used to it by now; I have done it a thousand times before, watching silently from the steps of the Golden Hall as Eomer and his men saddled up, faces grim and swords sharpened, riding forth to challenge another band of marauding orcs.  I would mutter a soft prayer under my breath for my brother’s safety, imploring Earendil to shine its kindliest light upon him, wishing I rode by his side ready and able to defend him.  I spent most of my life waiting, as all women learn to do from the cradle, despite my skills with blade and bridle.

But waiting kills me now—now that I have been blooded in battle, now that I know precisely what my innermost heart longs for.  I am not like other women; I need fresh air in my face, the muscles of a horse between my thighs, and the feel of a well-forged sword in my hand.  I should be riding with the men of Rohan and Gondor to fight the final battle against the Dark Lord and his foul minions, for am I not the one who slew the Captain of the Nazgul, the Witch-King no man could touch?

Thanks to the wounds I took in that struggle, though, I am now marooned in the gilded cage of Minas Tirith, only able to follow events in my mind’s eye as I stare from the window of my room in the Houses of Healing, seeing nothing but the tiles on the roofs below.  I might tolerate matters better if I had some other Eorlingas with me, my own folk, who would understand why I rode out to seek my destiny, and why I so mourn my uncle and king.

Instead I am surrounded by the women of Gondor, fluttering about in embroidered silks and delicate paints, clouds of exotic perfumes trailing after them as they carry trays of dainty food to my bedside—to tempt my wan appetite, they say smilingly.  I know how hard they are all trying to be kind and make me comfortable while I recover.  There is no luxury the ladies fail to proffer—soft pillows, beautiful clothes, even sweet-voiced birds in resplendent plumage that sing endlessly and perch on my finger while drinking from a glass of water.

However, all this comes with a steep price, because I can see the burning curiosity and speculation underneath the smiles, the questions surfacing in the kohl-rimmed eyes.  What manner of woman is this fair-haired barbarian from the North?  How dare she don armor and take up a sword like a man?  Does she think any man will want such an untamed shieldmaiden, when she might turn on him?  Or perhaps she does not care, because she prefers her own sex?  I sometimes sense the suppressed excitement in the younger ones, piquing their jaded sensibilities by daring to look upon my alien self.  It rankles me to accept hospitality even while I am treated as an oddity.  I would become still more odd if I reveal my longing for Aragorn’s love—I have no doubt the covert scorn would be open then.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts.  I turn away from the window with a sigh.

“May I come in, Eowyn?”  I recognize the soft voice—Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, my distant kin through my grandmother Morwen of Lossarnach.  I relax, for Lothiriel never has questions in her eyes and radiates nothing but decency.  I hurry over and open the door.  Lothiriel stands on the threshold with a large tray of food.  The smells of the different dishes is far more appetizing than the usual foreign fare I am offered.  She smiles when she sees the eager look on my face.

“I suspected you were not eating much because of the meals, not because of your health!  I contrived to find a cook here in Minas Tirith who actually knows something of Rohan’s food, and he prepared heartier fare especially for you, Eowyn.”

“T—thank you,” I stammer, overwhelmed at her thoughtfulness.  Lothiriel places the tray on the table, brushing a lock of chestnut hair off her face that has escaped its neat bun, and begins to lift the plate covers.

“Duck with dried cherries, apple pancakes, good cheese and cider from the Eastfold—and here, we have the most important thing of all!”  She reveals it with a flourish.  “Mushrooms and peas in a spiced cream sauce, said mushrooms having been specially picked for the Lady Eowyn by one very determined and stubborn little hobbit.”  Her violet eyes sparkle with laughter.  “Despite the edict of the Chief Healer, when Master Merry learned I was arranging a dinner for you, he climbed out a window and persuaded a guard’s son to take him to a small wood outside the city walls, just so he could pick the first crop of spring mushrooms.  From what I can gather, hobbits are utterly greedy for them, so it is quite a sacrifice for him to give them to you.  He is now under strict orders to keep to his room, but he stoutly told me it was worth it if you enjoyed them.”

Tears sting my eyes.  I cannot believe the depth of friendship this shows—for Merry has his own worries, I know, with his injuries and his kinsmen and friends risking everything at this very moment to destroy the darkness and evil hovering over all Middle-Earth.  Yet he still holds me so dear as to take such trouble on my behalf, simply to bring me a little happiness.  I feel my cheek grow slightly damp from a stray tear and impatiently dry it with my sleeve, ashamed of my weakness.

“Eowyn, are you ill?  What is wrong?”  Lothiriel touches my arm, concern creasing her brow.

“I am well, but moved beyond belief at such gallantry—many are the knights of both Gondor and Rohan who could take lessons in courtesy from our noble halfling.” I sit down as I straighten my shoulders.  “Come, cousin, please join me in eating this splendid supper.  It is your doing, after all, and I would like you to share it.”

Lothiriel shakes her head.  “How I would love to, Eowyn, but I promised the healers to help with some of the other wounded.  May I come back later?  I shall bring more food, so do not feel obligated to save anything for me.”

I force a small smile.  “Of course.  I shall eat as much as I can—I know how much that will please you.”

“Indeed it shall.  Goodbye for now, dear cousin.”

She leaves in a swirl of lavender skirts, closing the door with a soft click.  I allow a sigh to escape.  I am delighted with the food, but am lonely; Lothiriel’s company would have been very welcome.  I lean forward and spear a piece of cherry duck, resolved to make the best of this unlooked for opportunity.  I savor the taste; it is as delicious as any made by the finest cooks in Edoras.  I sip sweet cider, transported back home as I do, and reach for the mushrooms.

A sudden loud crash just outside my door breaks into my concentration and brings me to my feet.  “Who’s there?”  I demand sharply.

No answer.  For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Grima Wormtongue has somehow found his way to Minas Tirith, bent on tormenting me once more.  My heart tightens with fear, and I catch my breath.  Then I tell myself not to be a fool; it cannot possibly be that evil spawn.  I say loudly, “Who is there?  Tell me now!”  My reply is a small whimper.  Truly angry now, I storm over and wrench the door open, ready to deliver a tongue lashing to some clumsy page.

The words die on my lips when I discover the little hobbit on the floor, clutching a small covered plate to his chest as he gazes up at me imploringly.

“Merry Brandybuck!” I exclaim, completely surprised.  “What ever are you doing?  Are you not suppose to be in your room?”

“Yes, I am, but I sneaked down to the kitchens to get some mushrooms—I picked them for you, but there were a few left over, so I took them, but I tripped on that uneven stone—please don’t tell on me, Eowyn, I’m already in trouble with the Warden—”

I find myself grinning at Merry, all efforts to be severe gone.  “So I heard from Lothiriel!  You need to be more careful, you know. . .”  We both hear voices farther down the corridor, and Merry’s eyes widen in panic.

“Quick!  Come in my room!”  I seize him with my good hand and pull him up on his feet and into my chamber, ignoring the flash of pain shooting up my injured arm, and kick the door shut with my heel.  Merry opens his mouth to speak, but I put a finger to my lips and motion for him to be silent.

“Where is that little mischief?  Have you seen him, Lady Lothiriel?  I swear, we need to tie Master Meriadoc to his bed or he will never get well!”  Merry and I trade an amused glance; Ioreth’s querulous whine is well known to us both.  “Perhaps he’s in the kitchens, oh dear. . .”  A faint voice, undoubtedly Lothiriel’s, makes a soothing reply; then both voices trail off into the distance.

“Thank you, Eowyn—that was sporting of you.”  Merry smiles gratefully up at me.

“You’re very welcome, but it is I who should be thanking you—Lothiriel told me how much effort you made to fetch the mushrooms for me.  I am very touched—it is an act of great courtesy and grace on your part, and proves you are a true and noble knight of the Riddermark.”

Merry’s whole face lights up at my words, and he crosses over to the table.  “Oh, good!  You did get them by now!  This recipe is from the Shire—I remembered it, and explained it to the cook.  This is the very best way to eat them, trust me—and I know lots of mushrooms recipes, since we hobbits love nothing as much as a fine mess of mushrooms.”

I nod.  “So I have heard as well.  I think therefore if this is a Shire recipe, that it is only right that you share the dish—along with the rest of my supper.  Please, do sit, and talk to me; I am restless and glad of your company.”  I gesture to the other chair.             

He scrambles onto the chair immediately, ready to dig into still another meal.  I shake my head in wonder.  How hobbits can eat as much as they do on a regular basis without becoming irredeemably roly-poly is a mystery no man has yet to puzzle out.  I settle down beside him, lifting my slung arm, and begin to reach for the mushrooms again.  A small hand stops me.

“Wait, Eowyn, let me do it—I am a squire of Rohan, after all, so it’s only right that I serve you—and that way you won’t bother your arm, I know it still must hurt . . .”

Merry stands up on the chair, picks up dishes, and spoons the food onto my plate, careful not to spill a single drop.  I want to smile at his grave manners—he is so like the oldest knights in Theoden’s service—but I do not dare, for fear of offending him and hurting his dignity.  I realize how important it now is to me that Merry be treated well—he has shown a level of valor the past few days benefiting men twice his size.  Without his help on the Pelennor Fields, I would be dead, lying beside my uncle in the burial halls of Gondor.  I duck my head, fighting off tears again—why do I keep wanting to weep?  I never showed this sort of womanly weakness before.  It must be some herb or drug the healers are giving me.

Merry finishes by topping off my mug of cider and pouring some for himself.  He sits down again and looks over at me expectantly.

“Go right ahead—eat, eat.  If I need further help, I shall tell you.  And thank you for what you have done.”

My faithful little squire drops any pretense of manners at my words, and starts eating with a positively depraved gusto.  As he tackles his share, he does manage to slow down enough between bites to give me a running critique on the food’s quality.

  “Hmm, this cherry duck is wonderful, almost as good as the one I had the night before we rode from Edoras—these apple pancakes are delicious, you must try one—and the mushrooms and peas are very fine, if not quite up to Sam’s usual, but they are better than Pippin’s for a certainty—”

I break into Merry’s words with a laugh.  “Wait, wait!  You speak such a torrent of words I can barely follow.  Is Pippin your cousin, the one who found you in the city after the battle and brought you here?”

“That’s Pip all right—my first cousin, and my very best friend in the world.  His father and my mother are brother and sister, so we have grown up together.  I got to hold him soon after he was born—I was eight years old, and scared to death, because I didn’t have any brothers or sisters and hadn’t held such a tiny baby before.  Everyone says Pip looked more like an elf than a hobbit when he was little—and claims he acts like an elf still, because it must take magic for him to get into all the mischief that he does.”  Merry smiles wryly.  “Of course, I tend to help him a lot with that.  He really is my baby brother in all but name, now.”

“Does Pippin have any more kin?’

“Oh yes, he has lots—the Tooks are a big family.  He’s got three older sisters, all pretty and high-tempered, and his parents—my Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine.  Pip will inherit Uncle Paladin’s title of Thain of the Shire some day, just as I will become Master of Buckland.”

“Hobbits have titles, in the Shire?  I did not know,” I say in surprise.

“Oh, they’re nothing like what you have in Rohan—nothing so grand as that,” he replies hastily.  “The only two titles are Thain and Master, and sometimes I wonder if they really matter, especially now that I have seen real nobles.”

I am secretly impressed, despite Merry’s self-depreciating dismissal.  I vaguely knew that my friend and his kin were people of importance in their native land, but I had no idea their rank was of the very highest, with none above them.  Anxious to learn more, I decide to prompt Merry further.

“Sam—you mention someone named Sam.  Who is he?”

“Samwise Gamgee, my cousin Frodo Baggins’ gardener, and the most loyal friend anyone could wish to find.  The one thing that gives me hope that Frodo comes back whole from—from his journey is the fact that Sam went with him.”  Merry pauses, a shadow passing over his face.  I swallow in fear.  No one speaks too openly of the Ringbearer’s quest, for fear of somehow cursing him.  I skitter away from danger with a safer question.

“So Sam is the best cook, better than your cousin?”

Merry nods emphatically.  “He’s one of the best cooks in the Shire, by far, and can grow good vegetables too, which gives him an advantage.  Most hobbits are taught cooking even before their letters.  Of course, Frodo, Pippin, and I learned to read early on, since our families all have lots of books.  Frodo’s quite a scholar, just like old Bilbo—he reads Elvish—and they both taught Sam his letters.  But I must be boring you, Eowyn, this is petty gossip compared to what is going on—”

I drink more cider and smile at him.  “My dear Merry, what I need at this moment is to hear something, anything, but more talk of the war we are enmeshed in.  Tell me everything about your Shire, what food you cook, who lives in what village, everything.”

“All right, I will.”  Merry draws a deep breath, and launches himself into a ever-rolling stream of stories, the tales of his forbearers and all their kin and neighbors unto the fortieth generation.  As he talks, he seems to weave a subtle spell about me, carrying me away from the White City to a far simpler and bucolic land.  Strange, is it not, to feel so nostalgic for a country I have never seen?  Such is the power of Merry’s lovingly sketched word pictures—I close my eyes and see it all, the hobbit holes with round doors in the sides of emerald green hills, the gardens full of blooming flowers, the trees that grow so high, the Brandywine River flowing past his home, Brandy Hall, reflections of its red and yellow windows twinkling on the water at night as the stars dance above and the willows dip their branches low.  His voice is a clear cool brook, washing my soul clean of evil memories and recalling me to an innocence I thought lost forever.

“Eowyn?  Are you asleep?  I think I’ve told you everything I possibly could.  Is there anything else you want to know?”

I open my eyes slowly, spell broken at last.  “No, Merry, I am not asleep—you are a good storyteller.   I seem to know every square inch of the Shire now, without ever setting foot there.  Once more, I thank you, for you have lifted much pain and grief from my heart.”  I lean forward and slip my hand into his smaller one, giving it a quick squeeze.  He blushes a little, and opens his mouth to speak again.

Just then a rap sounds at the door; it opens a crack.  Lothiriel’s head appears, and her eyes widen when she sees Merry.

“Master Merry!  We have been looking everywhere for you!  Ioreth is frantic, why did you not tell anyone where you were going?”

“It is my fault entirely, Lothiriel—I summoned him to keep me company when you could not.  Please convey my apologies to Ioreth, and tell her Merry shall be by directly,” I say quickly, before the flustered hobbit can say anything.

“Very well.”

Merry slips off his chair and scurries to the half-open door as Lothiriel leaves; his hand is on the knob when he turns back to me.

“Eowyn?  Eowyn, would I be troubling you if I came to visit again, tomorrow night?  This has been such a good night in your company, and I would like to spend more time with you.”  He is hesitant, almost nervous.

“Of course you may, Merry—my door will always be open to you.  I wish to enjoy time with you as well,” I tell him gently.

His face lights up again with that wide boyish smile.  “I will be back then—and with more food, I promise you!”

He hurries out to the sound of my soft laughter. 

I pace before my window, my skirts snapping as I whirl, all my feelings in turmoil.  I could, if I wished, imagine that my dilemma is punishment for my decision to go to the Warden this morning and asking—nay, demanding—my freedom from the Houses, telling him my need for activity, sling or no sling.

Like most men skilled in leechcraft, he was a timorous soul, afraid even of his own shadow.  He refused to make any choice, and sent me to the Steward of the City, Captain Faramir, son of the immolated Denethor.  I did not have far to search for him, since Faramir is my fellow patient in the Houses.  He has suffered much, it is said, from both a Ringwraith’s poison breath and his own father’s attempt to burn him to death.

I had no idea what kind of man I went to confront.  I think I expected a slightly younger version of his father—arrogant, severe, and proud, much like the unlamented memory of Denethor.  Instead, I beheld the long-lost younger brother of Lord Aragorn, full of quiet wisdom and calm strength, the aura of Numenor draped about him like a shimmering veil.  The main difference lay in the lurking sadness deep in Faramir’s eyes, so unlike the fiery confidence in Aragorn’s.

His resemblance to my unattainable prince, as well as his handsomeness and youth, unnerved me; I was hardly at my best during our meeting.  In the beginning I was strong, a true granddaughter of Morwen Steelsheen; but by the end I softened, undone in part by his kindness, for he assured me he would command the Warden to permit me the freedom of the Houses’ gardens, so I might look eastward.  If this alone had been the substance of our encounter, I should have left him with simple gratitude.

But Faramir spoke other words, both unexpected and frightening to me.  “I say to you that you are beautiful . . .neither flower nor lady have I seen now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful . . .it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still.”  His words pierced my flesh like daggers, and I fled like a hind that sees the hunter’s arrow, after warning him to look for no healing or comfort from a shieldmaiden such as I.

I should be pleased, I know, that Faramir wishes my company; I have heard the whispers of the women, as they wantonly plot to snare the Steward, for he is a great prize for any lady in the city, second only to Aragorn.  He is easy to look upon, and is well spoken—so why should I tremble?

“Grima,” I hiss out, the name coming unwillingly to my lips.  Grima Wormtongue, he of the constant, unending pursuit, who dogged my every step and haunted my nightmares since I was sixteen, a girl just beginning to blossom—it is his doing that I now fear a man’s open admiration, casing my heart in ice for protection.  Whenever a man tells me I am beautiful, I see Grima in my mind, pale and oily, his clawed hands reaching to touch a lock of my hair.  “Long have I desired you, Eowyn—do not scorn my devotion!  I may seem ill-favored . . .but how I would pleasure you, if only you gave me the chance, White Lady!”  The open lust on his face sickened me—he would stare at my breasts and lick his lips when he cornered me in an empty chamber, plying me with sugared speech in the hope of finally seducing me; he even tried when we stood next to Theodred’s deathbed.  The worst moment came last month, when Eomer was away on a raid; Grima ordered a feast to be held where the wine flowed too freely and Theoden’s false dotage was appallingly evident.  Emboldened, Grima followed me as I went to my bedchamber, grabbing and pinning me to the wall.  His kiss was revolting, making me choke, and I felt his hand groping lewdly between my legs as he sought to arouse me.  Blind with rage, I brought my knee up hard; he released me with a cry.  I smile evilly at the memory; he was still limping when Gandalf Greyhame and the others arrived a few days later.

I reflect bitterly on my toxic education in the ways of desire; it has poisoned my veins and made me cold.  It seems, to my jaundiced mind, that Faramir is little different from Grima in his way; he finds me fair, so he dangles a bit of freedom before me as bait, to gain my company, perhaps more.  Maybe my love for Aragorn feeds upon remoteness; since he will never return it, it is safe, for I shall not have to face any consequences, and can rejoice I feel something at last.  With Faramir there will be no safety—he can reach out and take what he wants, if I am not careful.  I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, battling my demons, fighting down panic that my longed-for liberty comes at far too dear a cost.

The setting sun has gilded the walls gold when I hear the buoyant voice in the corridor.

“Eowyn, it’s me, Merry.  I brought a fine supper for the two of us—can I come in?” 

“Yes—let me open the door for you.”  I run my hands through my hair and lift my chin, determined to put on a show of calmness.

 He staggers as he bustles in, the tray is so loaded with food and drink; but I daresay he will polish most of the meal off.  I try to drain the rage from my body while Merry happily rattles away, telling me what I might enjoy.

“I brought as much as I could carry—you can keep some for a midnight snack if you cannot eat everything.  There’s roasted chestnut soup, river trout poached in cider with sliced apples, carrots in red wine, little custard tarts—and wine and cider both, I wasn’t sure which you wanted tonight—” He catches sight of my tense face and stops dead.  “What’s the matter, Eowyn?  Has someone angered you?  Or are you sad again?”

“Not angry, nor sad . . . but disturbed,” I say slowly.  “I had a conversation today that traveled in a direction I did not look for, and I am not sure what to think of it.”

“Who with?”

“With Faramir, the Steward of Gondor,” I inform Merry with reluctance.

“What did he say that upset you so?  If he is anything like his brother, he must have been polite and kind—Boromir always was to me.”

“You know Faramir’s brother?”  This little hobbit never ceases to surprise me.  “How did this come about?”

Merry’s face clouds with pain.  “Boromir was a member of the Fellowship—I first met him in the house of Elrond in Rivendell.  He was very valiant, a true warrior.  He was a good friend to both Pippin and I during our journey.  He taught us swordplay and helped us whenever he could—if Pip and I are fighters now at all, it is because of Boromir.  When we all attacked by orcs near the Falls of Rauros, he defended Pippin and I against them.”  His voice quivers.  “He died—I saw him fall.”                        

Before I can probe further, he asks, “So what did Faramir say exactly?  Did he insult you somehow?”

“No, nothing at all like that, Merry.  He told me I was beautiful, and that he desired my company when I walk in the gardens.  You no doubt think me very foolish, but I am never comfortable with praise of my supposed beauty.”  I grimace a little.

Merry looks at me with bewilderment.  “I don’t understand—why are you so bothered?  You are beautiful—far more beautiful that any other human woman I have ever seen.  He only told you the truth, after all—so why do you not believe him?”

“I thank you for the compliment, Master Meriadoc, for you are my friend—but in my experience with most men, such fair speech bodes ill for me—no sooner said but that I must protect myself at once.”  I slump down onto the broad casement, not looking at him.

Merry walks over and locks gazes with me.  “Who has hurt you so, Eowyn?  Tell me—if there is anything I can do to help you, I will,” he whispers.

“I do not think anyone can help me now, even you,” I say wearily.

“But I would like to try—just tell me a little, if you are able—”

I pause, uncertain as to the wisdom of burdening Merry with such a sordid and discomforting story, but also tempted to relieve the dark pain that has infected me for so long.  When I see how full of warmth and affection he is, I make my decision.

“Very well, then—I shall tell you.  But I warn you, this will not be a pleasant or edifying tale, for which I am sorry; but it is mine own.”  I take a deep breath and begin, my voice low and emotionless as I recall the early days of Grima’s chase, when I found him ridiculous, and how as the years passed he ceased to be so and became sinister, putting me in real fear.  My voice, steady at first, begins to shake as I relate the most recent events; by the end, the rage I feel marbles my speech as my hands clench in my lap.

Merry’s expression has grown fiercer and fiercer during my recitation—I did not guess a sweet-tempered hobbit could be so angry.  When I fall silent, he cries, “What an unspeakably slimy worm—he is well named indeed!  He didn’t force you, did he, Eowyn?  If he did, I swear to you that I will hunt him down and stab him through the heart, no matter where I must look!  Did he do that, Eowyn, truly?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling tired in every bone.  “No, Merry, Grima was bold, but not that bold—I was the King of Rohan’s niece still, no matter how in favor he was, and he knew what would happen to him if he went too far.  The one time he overreached, I repelled him successfully, so he did not get his desire.”

Merry pats my hand gently.  “Good.  How I wish you had spoken of this to someone, and put an end to Grima’s pursuit—but I already know King Theoden would not have believed you while Grima befuddled his mind.”

“You have the right of it—and had I spoken to Eomer or Theodred, they would have cut Grima down where he stood, and paid with their own lives.  I would not, could not, reclaim my peace of mind with my brother’s blood.  So I remained silent—I was a shieldmaiden, after all, so endurance was a virtue.”

“I think you have been very, very brave, Eowyn, and I only wish I had been at your side then, to protect and comfort you.”  Merry reaches up and hugs me, his small arms barely able to reach around me.  His touch slices through the wall around my heart; my face twists up as the tears I have held in start pouring down my cheeks.  I am horrified, and try to pull away, but Merry tightens his grip, straining up on his furry toes to embrace me more deeply.  I give in completely, resting my head on his shoulder as I weep out all the hurt, shame and anger I have carried for so long.  I am dimly aware of the soothing noises he makes, his hands softly rubbing my back.

After an endless time, I slowly lift my head, my whole body drained and limp.  Merry fumbles in his sleeve and pulls out a handkerchief; he carefully dries my tears and gives me a small smile.  “Feel better now?  My mother always says it’s good to let feelings out before they poison you.”

I return the smile weakly.  “You may tell Mistress Brandybuck on your return that I took her good advice, but am still unsure as to the result.”

“Come, you need to eat something—not eating will make you ill again—”  He takes my hand and leads me to table as through I was a child.  We finish our meal in silence, an unlikely occurrence with a hobbit, but true.  I make myself eat to spare Merry any additional worry.  When done, I lean over the back of my chair and stare blankly at the night-filled window.  I hear the clatter of dishes as he gathers them up.

“Good night, Eowyn.”

“Good night.  You will come again tomorrow night?”

“Yes.  Sleep well, I beg you.”

He slips quietly away, leaving me wandering in a dark wood of my own imaginings.

I did not go down to the gardens today.

Cowardly?  Perhaps—but I understood that my nerves were too flayed, my heart too raw after my confession last night to risk encountering Faramir.  Shameful enough to fall apart before my friend; I will not do so before a man I hardly know.  I would rather he still thought me strong and cold than vulnerable and feminine.

So I mostly kept to my chamber, reading.  Once I tired of that, I ate an early supper.  I then summoned some of the women who attend me and told them I wanted a bath.  They were delighted with the request, even if they made heavy effort of fetching the tub and water.  It was a relief, after a half-hour of waiting, to slip into the warmth and fragrance.  I scrubbed my skin and hair vigorously, purging the last remnants of Grima’s recalled touch.  The women returned, helped me dry off, dress in gown and robe, and resling my arm.  I had them drag the table to the window and place a small looking glass on it before I allowed them to commence the lengthy task of brushing my great mass of damp blonde hair.  As they labored, I tried to ignore their chattering gossip. 

One of the youngest, the unfortunately named Beruthiel, was particularly vocal—she was not wicked, but rather sly, and had her eye on Faramir despite her flaming red hair and weak chin.  She exclaimed, “Did you see the Steward walking in the gardens today?  He recovers his health nicely, ‘tis said.  I was surprised to see him talking for some time with the prince of the Periannath we are caring for—”

I swung round and gave her a sharp look.  “The Steward and the halfling spoke at length today?”

Startled, Beruthiel replied, “Why, yes, for several hours, I believe—I think they may still be outside, for the evening is most fair.”

I bit my lip.  What did Faramir want of Merry—news of his brother’s end? Or news of the woman he fancied?  Uncertain, I could no longer endure the ceaseless twittering swirling round.

“Leave me—I wish to be alone.”

“But we have not brushed all your hair out—do you not want us to finish?”

“I shall finish it—please, leave me.  And inform Master Meriadoc that I have had my evening meal, and shall not need any more food.”

“Yes, my lady,” they chorused, curtseying and hurrying out, the older ones frowning in disapproval—whether over my abrupt dismissal or Merry’s nocturnal visits, I could not tell.

I sit here in the fading twilight an hour later, speculating endlessly as to the substance of Merry’s conversation with Faramir.  Did the hobbit merely inform Boromir’s brother of his tragic and heroic death?  Or did Faramir cross-question my constant companion about me, my history and feelings, my likes and dislikes?  Given Merry’s loyalty to me, I am certain he would not deliberately betray my confidence; but I am equally uncertain that the candor and guilelessness underlying his canniness and wit might not permit Faramir to read much into the most innocuous comments he makes.  The more I think, the more torn I am, and I brush my hair with increased energy, despite making very little headway with only one good hand and arm.

My internal debate stops with the soft rap on the door.  It opens slowly, and Merry steps in, giving me a shy smile and keeping both hands behind his back.  “Good evening, Eowyn.  I missed you today in the gardens—I expected you to come down.  Are you not feeling well?”

“I am fine—I chose quiet, and read before bathing,” I reply, with a touch of frost in my tone.  “What did you find to do all day in the gardens, pray tell?”

“Well . . . I picked you some flowers, the very first this spring in fact.  I thought they would cheer you—I hope you like them.”  He extends one of his arms towards me, and in his hand I see a large mug filled with snowdrops and bluebells.  I gasp a little, for the flowers remind me forcibly of home again—the same blooms are carpeting the meadows below Edoras at this very moment, I am sure.  I lay my brush down and place them next to the looking glass, leaning forward to catch their fragile scent.

“You do like them, then?” asks Merry anxiously.

“Yes, I like them very much—did you know they grow in Rohan?”

“No, I didn’t—they are common in the Shire, and are thick in the Old Forest near Buckland.  My mother likes them, so I always gather a bunch for her when spring first comes.  The colors seem to suit you too.  When Faramir saw the flowers, he asked whom they were for.  I told him, and he laughed.  He said, ‘White for the White Lady of Rohan and blue for her eyes!  Well done, my small gallant!’”      

I pounce, just a little, seizing this chance.  “Ah—the report I heard of your day with the Steward is true.  What did the two of you discuss?”

“Many things—including the war, and Boromir.  That was not easy to talk about, but I felt I owed it to Faramir, to relate what I could.  Pippin had already told him most of the story, but not all of it; I filled in the missing pieces.”

“And was that the sum total, or did you speak of other things?”  I murmured, looking at the mirror, not at Merry.

He stands next to me and is silent at first—I can see him thinking hard from the corner of my eye.  Finally, he answers, “Yes, we did . . . he asked about you, Eowyn, but not in an evil way; he clearly has the greatest respect and admiration for you, and wants to learn about Rohan, for he said that any country that could breed such a splendid warrior as yourself has much to teach Gondor.”

“A prettily turned compliment, to be sure, but I would prefer to hear what you saw fit to tell Faramir of Rohan, and more especially of me.”  I stopped brushing my hair and fixed him with a stern look.

 He takes me aback by returning the look and sticking his chin out stubbornly.  “I didn’t give up all your secrets, Eowyn—I wouldn’t do that!  I just told Faramir enough to make him understand how you have been hurt, more than once.  I thought if he knows, he is less likely to cause you more grief; you will not get well if you keep becoming upset.  I named no names, nor spelled out the details.  If I did wrong, I am very, very sorry—but I really was trying to protect you further, Eowyn, truly.  Don’t be angry.  Are we still friends?”  He runs out of breath, stops, and gazes at me in mute appeal, his hazel eyes pleading.

I want to be angry, badly; it would be a relief to vent all my remaining feelings and let them fly loose.  But I remember how good and loyal a friend this small creature has been to me, particularly last night, and it would be churlish to use him as a whipping boy—he has tried so hard to hearten me, the flowers being the latest example.  I take a deep breath, willing myself to acceptance as I caress the velvety petals with my fingertip.  “Very well—I shall take your word that is all you said.  I concur to your judgment for now, and yes, we are still friends.”

Merry visibly relaxes.  “Good.  I must say that Faramir was as noble a man as I thought he was.  His brother was my friend, but there is even more to admire about Faramir—he is very wise and learned.”  I digest this without comment, but reflect that Merry’s judgments of character are usually accurate.  If Merry entertains such an opinion of Faramir, there must be more to the man than I allowed myself to see.

We lapse into a companionable quiet; I begin brushing my hair again, but still accomplish nothing.  In the mirror, I see Merry watching with a quizzical expression.  After a few minutes, he clears his throat.  “Umm . . . Eowyn, I am no lady’s maid, but wouldn’t you like help with that?  I can manage it.”

I lift an eyebrow, but hand him the brush.  “Well then, let us see how you do—you are kind to offer.”

He stands behind me, gently pulling my hair to its full length, and begins to work.  His calloused brown hands prove to be deft; I wonder for a fleeting moment if he has done this service before for his mother, or for some rosy, plump hobbit maid who eagerly awaits him in the Shire?  I flush a bit; I know Merry is a grown man by the measure of his people, but he appears so childlike to me, I cannot imagine him as a romantic lover, try as I might.   I say nothing, and let my eyelids droop as the soft brushstrokes continue.

Merry breaks the quiet.  “You do have beautiful hair, Eowyn—it is like the Lady Galadriel’s, spun gold touched by silver moonlight.”

“Thank you—I am highly flattered you compare me to the legendary Lady of the Golden Wood.  Is this why you said last night I was the most beautiful human woman you have seen?  I take it elven beauty is beyond the human variety?”  I keep my tone teasing.

“Well, yes—I meant exactly what I said, and do not seek to belittle you, but the beauty of the Lady Galadriel exceeds all else I have seen.  She is truly a star that walks the earth.”  He is both embarrassed and exalted.

“I take no offence, Master Holdwine, for to be compared favorably to the Lady is more than I looked for.  But you provoke my curiosity afresh, for if you have seen her, you have wandered the paths of Lothlorien, where few venture.  Will you not tell me the whole of your adventures, with and without your fellowship?  You have shared bits and pieces, but we had not the time before for all—unless, of course, you are too tired.” 

 “No, I’m not, and am glad to.  The road was hard and long, though, and so is the story.”  He smoothes a few last strands of hair, slides the brush onto the table, and pulls up the extra chair.  “It all began last September, when Frodo prepared to flee the Shire with the Ring, on Gandalf’s advice . . .”

His storytelling is as vivid as before, but terser.  I keep my eyes wide open this time, absorbing every nuance, growing more and more amazed as the full scope of Merry’s experiences over the past months becomes evident.  Both Legolas and Gimli had alluded to some of their journeys, but they had given me mere fragments; this was the whole narrative, deep and vast.  He has gained more knowledge of the wonders and terrors of Middle-Earth than I ever dreamed.  The blackest of Ringwraiths and the highest of High Elves, Moria’s buried horrors and Lothlorien’s ageless loveliness, vicious orcs and talking trees, comrades’ deaths and Isengard’s destruction—Merry has seen and suffered all with an unfailing bravery that humbles me.  I thought myself brave when I rode to battle with the Rohirrim, but little enough I had compared to this hobbit.  I decide the greatest marvels in Middle-Earth are the huge hearts hobbits contain within their small bodies, full of courage, light, and feeling.

“. . . and after Saruman and Isengard were thrown down, and Gandalf took Pippin with him to Minas Tirith, I came to Edoras; the rest you know, since we were together.”  He climbs down and leans against me, stifling a yawn.

“Indeed we were.  Thank you so very much for this—you have proved a great spinner of tales again.  Now let me take you back to your room, for you are worn out.”  He nods sleepily; I guide him by the shoulders through my door and the long hallway to his room.  I open it up, and kneel down in front of Merry.  “I am in awe of your valor, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and count myself fortunate to call you friend.”  I hug him and kiss his forehead, letting my lips graze the orc-inflicted scar above his right eye.  “Bless you, and may you sleep sweetly.”

He smiles, half-asleep, and kisses my cheek.  “G’night, Eowyn—you too.”

I flit back, my robe billowing behind me as I contemplate all I have learned from Merry.  Sleep shall not come soon tonight—I am sure of that.  

Darkness lays heavy upon the city; the sky is pitch black wherever I turn my gaze, be it day or night.  I hear the whispers of fear, the murmurs of terror that Sauron’s moment of final triumph is at hand, and that all who marched against him six days ago are doomed—perhaps dead already.

The darkness fell from the air three days before now, the day after I first walked with Faramir in the gardens.  The sun still shone then, though a chill breeze blew out of the north.  I stood upon the high wall, the wind lofting my golden hair and white gown like banners as I awaited Faramir.  He called to me, and I stepped down and began to pace the garden paths with him.

This has been our pattern for the past four days.  I dress and breakfast early, and then he awakens and joins me, joking he will never be a morning lark like me.  We explore the gardens, sometimes sitting on the grass or under one of the rustling trees.  There are times when he and I say nothing, merely peer eastward in the faint hope of discerning some far distant sign that all is not yet lost. 

We mostly talk, however, and I find myself liking and respecting Faramir more and more as the days pass.  There are few subjects where he is not a fluent conversationalist—music, military strategy, gardening, and most especially the history and lore of all Middle-earth.  His eyes shine eagerly as he tells the tales of old—the fallen elven kingdoms of the First and Second Ages, the drowning of Numenor and founding of the Realms in Exile, Gondor’s highest glory and its slow decline during the Kin-strife and the Great Plague.  I am not surprised when he tells me that Gandalf was his occasional tutor in his younger days; he takes the same joy in learning that Gandalf seems to, and I have no doubt the Grey Pilgrim found Faramir an apt pupil.

At first, while I enjoyed his stories, I was intimidated by his scholarship.  I am well read by the standards of my people, but I quickly saw the depth of Faramir’s knowledge and feared he would find me an unlettered peasant of sorts.  But he made it plain he thought me intelligent, else he would not unpack his mind’s library for my delectation; he cherishes this lore and will not share it with the unappreciative.  He also encouraged me to speak of Rohan’s history and that of my royal kin, since he was unfamiliar with much of it.  As I increased his store of tales, I began to feel his equal in mind. 

Today, Faramir chose to tell me of his family—his long-dead mother, whom he clearly adored, and the older brother he hero-worshipped.  Denethor he barely mentioned, which told me volumes of the strain and distance between father and son.  I perceive what an effort Faramir has made to meet expectations for which he is not truly suited, capable though he may be.  I begin to feel a strong sense of kinship with him—both of us orphans in our own ways, with only our brothers for company, and neither happy with the roles fate and circumstances thrust upon us.

If Faramir is my ally of the day as we keep fear at bay, then Merry continues as my companion of the night, sharing food, books, and stories while we grow ever closer.  I sense that our emotional balance has subtly shifted over the past four evenings, as I call upon my newfound daytime strength to shore up a depressed and worried Merry.  His natural sunniness and spirit fades each day as his mind bends more and more on the fate of Frodo and Sam.  He is now convinced that the Ringbearer’s quest spells Frodo’s death, no matter what the outcome.  I distract him as best I can, teaching him chess and the elven poetry I learn from Faramir, happy at every smile I coax from him. 

Tonight was the most difficult yet, as Merry kept wandering to the window in the hope of seeing just one masked star.  Now that my arm is healed and the sling gone, I went to the kitchens to arrange supper—a richly flavored venison and vegetable stew, walnut sugar biscuits drenched in mulberries and clotted cream, tea sweetened with honeysuckle syrup.  He ate a little more than last night thanks to the richness of the meal, but compared to his usual habits, it was a scanty amount.  He crossed over to the window again.

“I cannot see any stars, Eowyn, not even Borgil or Earendil.  How will Frodo find his way without stars to steer by?”

“He will, I am sure of it—you must have faith in your cousin’s abilities.  Come, let us have a game of chess; you do not want to forget what I have taught you, for your game improves, and soon I shall have you ready to challenge Faramir.”

Merry perked up a touch during our game, playing me to a draw as we toasted ourselves before the fire, sitting on pillows with the board between us.  By the end, he began to droop once more, anxiety writ plain upon his pale face.

“I’m so sorry, Eowyn, for not being better company—I think I need to go to bed, and try to sleep.”

“I agree,” I said gently.  “Let us go to the kitchens and fix you a nighttime drink, to bring you a sure rest.”

Putting my arm round his shoulders, we went down and found a kindly cook who prepared hot milk and brandy for us both.  I took him back to his room, lifted him into the too large bed, and sat down next to it while we drank our draughts.  Once we finished, I leaned over Merry and tucked the blankets around him.

“Now sleep, Merry dear,” I told him firmly.  “We will breakfast together tomorrow if you want.”

“That would be nice,” he said listlessly.  He closed his eyes, and I patted his cheek affectionately.

That was two hours ago, and I lay awake here in my own bed, drowsy but not enough to drift into slumber.  I moodily watch the flames in the grate as they throw up eerie shadows on the walls and illuminate my bouquet, wondering if tomorrow will actually come, and whether disaster or victory shall arrive at last.  A frightened, tear-laden voice interrupts my musings.

“Eowyn?  Are you still awake?  Please, may I come in, I must speak to you!”  I recognize Merry despite how different he sounds.  I bolt upright, his fear passing over to me.

“Yes, I am awake.  Come in—what is wrong?”

He opens the door and stumbles in, a candle in one hand as he stares at me with wide, terrified eyes.  He whispers, “Oh, Eowyn, I’ve had such a horrible nightmare—and I think I saw the future in it—I’m so scared, please let me stay a little while—”  He appears more pathetically childlike than ever in his nightshirt and mussed brown curls.  Pity wrings my heart.

“Of course you can stay!”  He shuts the door and weaves over to my bedside, not really seeing where he goes.  I reach out and grasp his arm; I find he is shuddering from head to foot.  Afraid that fear and cold combined will soon put Merry into physical shock, I slide to the other side of the bed.

“Get into the bed before you freeze to death, it is too cold to stand there!”

He blows out the candle and drops it as he scrambles up onto the mattress; I have to grab his arms to insure he does not fall.  I prop him against the pillows and pull the blankets up tightly, rubbing his hands to warm them.  I lie back on my side and look down at him, stroking his hair to calm him.

“Now tell me of your dream, Merry.  What happened in it, and why you think it a herald of woe?”

Merry sniffles a little and clears his throat.  “I dreamed about Frodo and Sam—I saw them at the Mountain of Fire.  Frodo was standing at the edge of a great chasm, and he had the Ring—but I thought I heard him say he would not give it up, that he claimed it for his very own!  Sam was sprawled on the ground behind him, begging Frodo not to do it—then Frodo began fighting with some invisible force that was trying to take the Ring away from him.  Flames leapt up, and Frodo cried out in pain—I heard the most awful laughter start—oh, Eowyn, I think the Dark Lord is about to reclaim the Ring!  I knew the Ring was too powerful, it will not allow itself to be destroyed, and poor Frodo and Sam are going to die for nothing!”  He chokes down a sob and buries his face into a pillow.               

Taken aback by his despair, I gather him into a gentle embrace.  “Merry, Merry, you cannot lose hope, not now—not when the end is in sight.  It was just a dream, I promise you—from everything you have said of Frodo, I do not believe he will fail.”

“But what if he does?”  Merry moans.  “What if Sauron regains the Ring, and everyone dies at the Black Gate—Aragorn, Gandalf, Pippin?”  He stifles a wail as he says his cousin’s name and muffles his face on my neck.  “Who shall lead us then?  I guess Faramir will in Gondor, and you will rule Rohan if the worst happens.”

Blood drains from my body as my stomach knots.  Never before had I allowed my thoughts to stray to this dreadful possibility.  If Eomer falls in battle, I will be the last survivor of the House of Eorl, and must lead the Rohirrim as best I can.  If the Dark Lord is victorious, only two choices present themselves:  fighting to the death of the last man, woman, and child, or flight to the farthest corners of Middle-earth.  I snatch at this as a drowning man does at a rope, and begin to feverishly conjure up a last faint hope, for my own sake as much as Merry’s.

“If all else fails, I shall ride north to Edoras with you, and any other folk who choose to go, and collect all the Eorlingas who still live.  We will ride to the Shire then and raise the alarm with all your brave and gallant gentlehobbits, your father and uncle especially.  If we can hold the ground and make a refuge there, so be it.  If we cannot, then we shall take everyone—men, hobbits, elves, dwarves—with us and find a place we can hold, even if we must go the Ice Bay of Forochel or the most distant reaches of the Grey Mountains to do so.  I will not give up, Merry, never, never!”  I take a deep breath, stunned at my own vehemence.

“Can Faramir come with us?”  Merry asks in a low voice.

I hug him tightly.  “Yes, he can come if he wishes it, and any of Gondor too.”  I tip Merry’s chin up so he and I are eye to eye.  “But the most important thing is this—I swear to you on the graves of all my kin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, that you shall be at my side no matter what occurs.  From this moment on, you shall be the little brother of my heart, the same as if Theodwyn daughter of Thengel birthed you.  We will confront the darkness together, just as before, and we will survive.” 

He did not expect this—I can see it in his eyes.  He lets a second of silence pass, and then hugs me in a near-death grip, his jaw taunt with determination.  “You are the very best of friends and sisters, Eowyn!  I vow to you that I will be brave, and I shall not give in, not ever, for no brother of yours would do that.” 

I cradle him in my arms, and decide that decorum is meaningless as I look into the abyss.  “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

He nods, his expression still pained.  I rock him as I begin to sing an old lullaby softly, one that my nurse used to quiet me the many nights I wept for my dead mother.  Time slows to a stop, and then I hear his even breathing as he sleeps.  I lay him down tenderly and kiss the tip of his nose.  As I gaze at him, another fantasy steals into my brain; Merry will not be my little brother, but my child, the one I never believed I wanted but now fear I shall never have.  A flash of insight strikes me as I ponder this unexpected image.  I thought I rode for valor, for glory, for fame everlasting.  I see now it was nothing of the kind—it was love that drove me on, love for my kin, my country, my people, for all Middle Earth, and above all else for my dearest friend, who has taught me to open my heart as I never could before.  My soul quakes at the truth that stands revealed, but I am sure it shall steel me for the days to come.

Lulled by both this revelation and the flickering firelight, I curl up next to Merry, slip my hand into his, and fall asleep in an instant.

“Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever, and the Dark Tower is thrown down . . . Sing all ye people!”       

The eagle’s joyous song of ultimate victory keeps ringing in my head as I stand here in the Great Hall of the Houses of Healing.  I cannot believe, cannot absorb that a day that began this morning on the verge of utter annihilation is transmuted to one of unrestrained celebration in all of Minas Tirith—nay, in all of Gondor.  Everything contrives to appear unchanged while being altered completely—for now we know that our one forlorn hope, beyond reason and expectation, has come to fruition.

The Ringbearer has fulfilled his Quest.  Frodo Baggins—one of the Little Folk, bravest of all heroes and hobbits—somehow succeeded in flinging the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom.  The Dark Lord Sauron is destroyed, his Tower broken and shattered in the dank dust of Mordor.  We are all free forevermore.

 Lost in reflection, I am not aware of Faramir’s presence at my side until his hand grazes my arm; startled, I jump slightly.

“Lady Eowyn, will you not have another glass of wine?  Yours is empty and must not stay that way, since our festival is just begun.”  His warm, wide smile both heats and chills me.  “May I ask what plunges you into such deep thought?”

Caught off guard, I answer honestly.  “I recall our conversation this morning, my Lord Steward.   It is difficult to believe so much has changed.”

“Indeed.”  His eyes meet mine as he comprehends and shares the memory . . .  

I awoke early, dressed hastily and warmly, and hurried out to seek Faramir; I left Merry sleeping soundly in my bed, his eyes red-rimmed.  Surprisingly, Faramir already stood upon the walls as I entered the gardens.  I hastened to meet him, shivering in the bite of the north wind, turned icy cold.  As I grew close, I saw a lady’s mantle draped across his arms.  Made of velvet, colored the deep blue of a sweet summer night, and embroidered at hem and throat with glistening silver stars, it was altogether a magnificent garment.  When I reached him, he speedily wrapped me in it with indefinite grace.

“It is a splendid gift, my Lord . . .I thank you,” I said, blushing a trifle as I caressed the soft fabric.

“You are very welcome,” he replied with a sad smile.  “This belonged to Finduilas my mother, and I wish for you to wear it.  It will both shelter you and set off your beauty.” 

Unable to reply to his gallantry, I remained silent and turned my face to the northeast, once more struggling to glimpse some sign.

 “What do you look for, Eowyn?” asked Faramir gently.

Without thinking, I answered promptly.  “Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?  And must he not now come hence?  It is seven days since he rode away.”  The words no sooner escaped my mouth than I regretted them.  Why should I continue to long for Aragorn?  I knew he would never love me the way I wish, and it was doubly foolish now, when a man stood next to me who wanted my love and was worthy of it.  I shot a sideways glance at Faramir, wondering if he thought I referred to my brother, not Aragorn.        

Faramir did not try to clarify matters immediately; he began speaking to me of his joy in my company, his pain at the shadow hanging over us, and how afraid of losing what he had found in the past few days.  Only half aware of his words at first, I realized by the end he divined my feelings for Aragorn.  I fought down an irrational twinge of guilt—after all, did I owe Faramir anything other than friendship?  It was not as through I was his betrothed.  I replied in solemn tones, begging him for silence, and telling him of the black pit I felt opening beneath me once more.  “I wait for some stroke of doom,” I told him finally, trying to explain.

“Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom,” he agreed, and fell quiet. 

The wind died, birdsong ceased, and time stopped; I could not even hear my breathing or feel my heart beat.  Terror pressed thick upon me, and I felt trapped, but I could not cry out.  I became dimly aware of Faramir’s touch; without thinking, we had reached for each other’s hands and now clung to one another, the only solid thing we had.  The darkness fountained up again from the distant mountains, lightnings flashed, and the earth itself trembled in fear; we felt the wall we stood upon quiver.  The land seemed to sigh all around us then, and as it did, my heart began to beat, but my brain still refused to function.  I heard Faramir speaking of Numenor, and I knew I replied, but our words felt faint and far off even as he assured me that the darkness would not endure. 

What jolted me back to full awareness was the feel of his lips on my brow when he leaned forward and kissed me.  I gasped softly at the sweetness and warmth; for a fugitive moment, I wanted to lift my head and feel that sensation on my own lips, explore his mouth with mine.  My desire vanished as the sun came out, birds began to sing, and the voices from the City joined in.  We looked at each other in disbelief, the wind tangling his raven hair with my golden tresses.

“Can it be?” Faramir breathed.  “Have we truly won?”

The great eagle appeared at that very moment, singing his psalm of triumph.  As his last note lingered in the crisp air, Faramir gave a whoop of pure joy and swung me up and around, leaving me laughing and breathless.

“Come with me, Eowyn!  Let us find the Warden and command him to make the Houses festive with wine and song!  There is no time to waste—come, we have the greatest of victories to celebrate!”  He seized my hand and pulled me along the wall at a run, as I struggle both to keep his pace and stop laughing wildly.

It is now the height of the afternoon, and the impromptu party Faramir hastily staged is still in full swing, with food, drink, and music abundant.  Our moment of reminiscing done, Faramir tips the bottle he is holding and fills my cup.  “Drink up,” he says, grinning.  “Or do you want something milder, more befitting a lady of delicacy and rank?”

I deliberately drain most of the draft down, and return the grin with a mocking edge.  “No fragile lady I, as you know.  This wine is splendid, and I shall have my cup filled again, if you please.”

As Faramir obligingly pours another measure, he glances over towards one of the side doors.  “Is that Merry leaving already?  How strange—I thought he would be leading our revels, for this is the best of all possible news for him,” he exclaims.

I look over just in time to see the hobbit threading his way through the crowd and slipping out the door with his shoulders slumped down, though whether in grief or tiredness I could not determine.  I frown in vexation as I realize what ails my little heart-brother.  “Oh dear—I suspect he still fears that Frodo and Sam paid for this victory with their lives.  I cannot believe the eagle’s song would have been so joy-filled if it were so, but he may be right to worry, I suppose.”

“No, Eowyn, you are correct—I am sure that both Frodo and Sam live, for the tidings of their deaths would have flown to us on wings if they had so suffered.  Come with me now!  Let us gather food and drink and go to Merry’s room to cheer and comfort our friend.  Today is the day that all others in Middle-Earth should serve and honor the halflings, after what they have won!”  

He pivots round to a table and grabs a platter of roasted meats, along with a small bottle of wine.  I scoop up a pile of petite deep-fried fruit pies into a napkin, recalling how much Merry likes them with their half-moon shape, and tuck a loaf of bread under my arm.  I then seize a pitcher of hot spiced milk, fragrant with orange and lemon peel, and set off in Faramir’s wake.  His long strides force me to scramble to catch up with him, as he takes the steps to the upper floor two at a time.

Our speed is such that we reach Merry’s door as he shuts it behind him.  Faramir knocks briskly, and motions for me to speak.  “Merry?  Faramir and I are here with food—we wish to talk with you.  May we come in?”

“Yes, Eowyn, of course!”  The hobbit throws the door back open and looks up at us, nonplussed.  “Is something wrong?’

“Nothing is wrong, my good Master Merry,” said Faramir, with a smile and a wink as he breezes into Merry’s room.  “Lady Eowyn and I observed you leaving our festivities early, and we agreed to bring the feast to you, for we do not want you to be alone.”

I deposit my burdens on the table and cross to Merry, kneeling before him and taking his hands in mine.  “I know what troubles you, Merry,” I say earnestly.  Please do not worry so—I am sure, absolutely sure, that Frodo and Sam did not die, but still live.”

He stares at me, hope and despair mingled in his round face.  “Are you quite certain, Eowyn?  You are not saying this merely to buck me up, are you?”

“No, never that, my darling Merry.  Both Lord Faramir and I are convinced they are safe and well, by some miracle.  Now come and keep the two of us company.”  I turn and discover Faramir has been busy spreading a blanket and tossing down pillows in front of the fireplace, making a cozy picnic spot for all of us.  I lead Merry over and sit on a cushion, carefully arranging my skirts.  My two knights, both the tall and the short, bring the food and drink; Merry sits close to me while Faramir stretches out in front of the fire like a lazy cat.  The Steward uncorks the bottle and pours each of us a glass; as I taste it, I can smell the infused herbs in the honey-gold wine, thyme in particular.

Merry asks in surprise, “Is this miruvor, Faramir?”

Faramir chuckles softly.  “No, Merry, but you are close to the mark.  It is a rare wine from the coast designed to mimic the legendary cordial of Imladris.  We call it Nolwe wine, after the healer who contrived the recipe a century ago; it is said to both heal and strengthen.  Boromir always told me it works like a truth-telling potion, and that people say all sorts of interesting things when they drink enough!” 

“And what truths might you be fishing for, my Lord?”  I keep my voice artificially demure as I peer at Faramir over the rim of my glass. 

He laughs and refuses to take the bait.  “I seek no hidden secrets, but only thoughtful speculations—namely, what the two of you intend to do in the near future, now that the Shadow has been dissolved and light returns to the world.  Have either of you made any plans as yet?  Eowyn?”

I stir uncomfortably, seared by the intensity of his focus.  “I am not quite certain, Lord Faramir—I have not devoted much reflection to that.  What ideas I have mulled over were in anticipation of the worst occurring, not the best.”

“You should have heard her last night, Faramir!”  Merry pipes up before I can stop him.  “She promised me that we would not give up, but ride north to gather the Rohirrim and Shirefolk and find a final refuge against the Dark Lord somewhere to the farthest marches.  Wouldn’t she be a great warrior and the bravest of queens?”

I scowl, not particularly thrilled that Faramir has learned of my fantasies from the previous evening, and convinced that he will revert to being a normal male and despise the image of me as a fighter.  But, to my surprise, his face radiates admiration and affection.

“Yes indeed, Merry, Eowyn would make a very great queen.”  He sips more wine and looks at me.  “Would that Gondor’s women had your courage, my Lady—this kingdom’s nobility should have lasted then, instead of decaying into decadence.  I almost regret you will not see the opportunity to lead your people and reach the peak of your abilities; that would have been a glorious thing.  I can only hope you find an equally satisfying outlet for your energies now that peace is upon us.”

Most of his words please me with their sincerity, yet his last statement nettles me; it seems to imply I should retreat to my bower and become a mere lady again.  I toss my head and let the wine flow down my throat before replying.  “Of course I shall!  I will ride back to Edoras with my brother the king, and ask Eomer to make me a Marshal of the Mark.  Woman I may be, but I am a child of the House of Eorl and have earned my spurs in battle.  The borders of Rohan shall still need guarding, for evil things remain here even with Sauron’s fall.  Eomer must govern from the Golden Hall and can no longer perform such duties for our people, so I will as his only sibling.  Perhaps I will recruit other shieldmaidens to form a troop to patrol regularly, since we lost many men on the fields of the Pelennor.”  I look sharply at Faramir, daring him to disapprove.

He does not, but turns to Merry with a smile.  “Shall you ride north with Lady Eowyn as her squire and help her guard the Mark?  Her sense of duty is admirable, and deserves the support of her friends.”

Merry shakes his head and clasps my hand.  “She certainly does, but I fear I cannot do that—I have my own duties to my kin, so I will be going home to the Shire with Pippin, Sam, and Frodo when they return to Minas Tirith.  I don’t think the war has reached that far, but there will be work to do to make the land more fertile and beautiful.  I want to gather some of the herbs and flowers I have seen here and in Rohan and take them with me, to transplant to Buckland and Tookland and have gardens that are both lovely and useful and make the Shire the envy of all Middle Earth.  I shall marry of course, and my wife and I shall cultivate our garden and children together as we teach them to love all the good things in life.”

Curiosity overcomes politeness, and I ask, “Do you have a lass awaiting your homecoming, or do you plan a courtship later?’

“I have my eye on someone, Eowyn, but I am a gentlehobbit after all, and it would be caddish to name her, wouldn’t it?”  Merry’s hazel eyes dance with a mischievous sparkle that belies his prim words.

I glance over at Faramir, who has been absorbed in Merry’s recitation, and decide to get a little of my own back.  “You have been remarkably quiet during all this, Lord Faramir.  Have you no plans for the future?  Perhaps you shall retreat to a chamber in the White Tower of your grandsire and write the history of the War of the Ring.  You most certainly possess the skills to do so, though I marvel at the idea of you being completely silent for the duration of the exercise.”

His eyebrow quirks up as my shaft hits home; he speaks slowly, feeling his way carefully.  “No, silence is not my first choice, but I am struck by how much my own dreams match Merry’s.  What I do shall be dependent on King Elessar’s will, but if he allows me, I want to go back to Ithilien and restore it to its former glory as Gondor’s great garden.  As hard as war is, sometime it is harder to mend matters when peace comes, so it will be a challenge.  I hope to have help, for I spoke to Legolas briefly before he marched, and he told me the elves of Mirkwood might be interested in my efforts; he pledged to lead them if they wish to join me.”

“And shall you build a house in the middle of your garden, and write your history there?”  I sound casual, but the slight trembling in my hand as I lift my glass betrays my sudden inner turmoil.

“Yes, I shall, and if I am lucky, my lady wife and my children will share my hearth and savor the Moon-land’s dryad beauty with me.”  Once more, he and I lock eyes, and I feel a wave of heat wash through my body while the wine bubbles in my veins.  I lick my lips without thinking, and Faramir’s eyes widen at the gesture.  The heat settles in my loins, and I fight off the impulse to squirm, all too aware that Merry’s attention is totally given over to our exchange.

“My Lord!”  Ioreth’s voice breaks the tension as she stands on the threshold and looks at Faramir anxiously.  “I apologize for intruding, but the Warden must consult with you at once, he says.”

Faramir rolls to his feet with a muttered oath.  “Tell him I will be by directly!”  Ioreth vanishes, and Faramir turns to Merry and I.  “I leave you unwillingly, but my responsibilities call.”  He stoops and takes my hand, kissing it swiftly.  “Please continue to enjoy yourselves—I shall have more food brought up, if you wish to stay here.” 

 “That would be most kind—thank you,” I murmur, unable to meet his gaze.

            He bows elegantly to Merry, smiling.  “I would enjoin you to look after the Lady Eowyn, but there is no need in light of your proven devotion to her.  I will speak to both of you later.”  Faramir strides out, his head held proudly; I watch him depart with mixed feelings.  This confusion he generates is becoming wearying.

            Merry pulls a clay pipe and pouch of pipeweed from his vest pocket, lights the pipe with a coal from the fire, and lays down where Faramir had been; he pulls a pillow under his head while crossing his legs.  So ensconced, he cannot suppress a huge grin as he lazily blows smoke rings into the air.

            “Faramir likes you, doesn’t he?”

            “Yes, he does, but you do not need to read more into it—he likes everyone and treats them the same,” I say stiffly.

            “Uh-huh.”  Merry is clearly skeptical.  “I don’t think so—he REALLY likes you, just as you like him.  Has he kissed you yet?” 

            “Merry!” I laugh despite my shock; the wine makes me more amused than annoyed at his artless brazenness.  “You are an unrepentant saucebox, aren’t you, asking me such a question!”

            “I know what I was seeing just now—come on, do tell.  Has he?”

            “If I do, you have to give up the name of your would-be bride.  Is that a fair trade?”

            He thinks for a moment, his mouth twitching with laughter.  “I guess so, but you go first.”

            “Very well.”  I cough a little.  “Yes, he has, but just once.  It was this morning while we stood upon the walls.  He kissed my brow.”

            Merry scoffs, “On your forehead?  That hardly counts.  Faramir must be out of practice.”

            “Oh, and you are a great expert on the art of love?  What exactly were you doing with this girl you like before you left?  Could it be that a baby Brandybuck is waiting for father to come home?”  The wine has loosened my tongue disgracefully.

            Merry takes no offence, and grins disarmingly.  “I’m more careful than that, Eowyn—I may play kissing games with Stella in the quieter corners of Brandy Hall on a rainy day, but I don’t let it go too far.”

            “So Stella is her name?  Is she pretty enough to deserve it?’

            “I think so, anyway.”  His cheeks redden.  “She’s Estella Bolger, the sister of my friend Fatty—Fredegar, that is.  Dark brown hair, deep blue eyes like Lothiriel’s, and a wonderful sense of humor—I suppose she’ll need that, if we make a match!  She’s my distant cousin, but everyone is to some degree, so that is no problem.  She may not be the prettiest hobbit in the Shire, but after having fun with various and assorted girls, she suits me the very best.”

            “I am surprised at you,” I murmur.  “I would have thought the future Master of Buckland would want the very prettiest hobbit as his wife.”

            “Unfortunately, the two great beauties of the Shire are already spoken for.  That would be Rosie Cotton and none other than Pearl, Pippin’s oldest sister.  Rosie is Sam’s girl for certain—he absolutely adores her, bashful as he is, though he must bestir himself in private since he has beaten off several poaching attempts.”

            “And Pearl being your first cousin is a little too close for marriage, yes?’

            “That’s true, but she has always been totally infatuated with Frodo.  I always expected they’d be married by now, especially after that birthday party years ago at Great Smials when Pippin and I found them in the library going at it as if their lives depended on it!  Frodo was furious when we interrupted, but it was a lucky thing we did—Mother and Aunt Eglantine arrived minutes later looking for all of us.  Frodo became seriously pale when they appeared—he didn’t fancy a sudden wedding at all!”

            “What has happened—a lover’s quarrel?”

            Merry frowns.  “No, Frodo seemed to lose interest after he came of age and inherited the Ring—in fact, he hardly looked at a girl once he had it.  I wonder sometimes if the Ring didn’t chew up a large piece of his heart.  Poor Pearl—she never stopped loving him, and kept waiting and waiting, but she finally gave up and married our cousin Ferdibrand Took twelve years ago.  He died of a fever a while ago, so she’s a widow, still very lovely but not very happy.  Maybe now that Frodo is rid of the Ring, he’ll marry her when we get back home, and he and I will have a double wedding.”  He laughs.  “With the way things are between you and Faramir, you two can come to the Shire soon and then it will be a triple wedding!”

            I lean over and tousle his curly hair as he bites into a pie, the berry juice trickling down his chin.  “Keep dreaming, little brother!  I hardly think that is a likely event, in spite of your eager matchmaking.  If you want another wedding, you will have better luck pairing up your harum-scarum cousin with some unsuspecting innocent.”

            “Pippin’s too much of a playboy to settle down—he’d rather keep a stable of fillies, you would not believe what he does when the mood is on him—” 

I throw up my hands with a laugh.  “Spare me—picturing Peregrin Took as a ladies’ man is enough to fill me with horror!  Now be good, and tell me more about your sweetheart, saucy one.”

            “Eowyn, you do know that there’s nothing to fear in marriage, don’t you?”

            “Yes, I know that, I am just uncertain when I might decide to marry.  Go on, talk, and entertain me again.”

            “I’ll teach you to smoke a pipe—it’s a art well worth acquiring.”  Amidst much laughter, he proceeds to do so, and the topic of Faramir’s feelings for me fades away, for which I am grateful.  I drink nothing but the spiced milk from here on out, determined to avoid any further slips of the tongue.  But Merry’s words on marriage continue to plague me, and slowly take root despite my desire to banish them.

I lean against the grainy bark, tipping my face up towards the sun as it shines through the leaves of the tree I sit under.  After a week, it still feels queer not to be afraid, to be free of worrisome nightmares.  I only now begin to relax, taking real pleasure in wandering the gardens while I await word from Eomer.  A light breeze carries the faint sounds of a street fair to my ears from a lower level of the city; I can hear minstrels, the cries of merchants selling their wares, and the happy shouts of children playing games to celebrate their return.

            It is equally strange to not see Faramir every day as I have grown accustomed to; he is so busy preparing the city for the return of King Elessar and his armies that he has but little time to spend with me.  I find myself missing his company more than I thought possible, which is deeply disconcerting.  I know he misses me as well, for he sends me notes regularly to that effect.  His short letters are charming, but are no substitute for the physical reality of his presence at my side.  I want to see him, and watch his face as it lights up with amusement, or grows intent with concentration while he tells another tale. 

            Merry remains my steadfast shadow, serving as a messenger between Faramir and myself as we exchange notes.  He still hopes to nurture a romance into life, and no amount of cold water on my part has dampened his enthusiasm.  Since he refrains from teasing me overmuch, his effort humors rather than exasperates me.

            As if my reflections have summoned him, I hear Merry’s light voice calling me.  “Hey, Eowyn!  Look!  Letters from Cormallen for both of us!”  I sit up and look around, trying to place him.  I finally see him near a clump of apple trees at the foot of the slope.  I wave at him, motioning him to join me; he waves back, and I can now see the folded sheets of parchment in his hand.  He trots up quickly, smiling widely, and sits down onto the grass beside me as he gives me an elaborately addressed missive.

            “And who has sent you letters?  I can see from the handwriting that mine is from Eomer.”

            Merry rips open his two letters eagerly.  “One is from Pip, and the other from Gandalf, of all people!”  He scans both as I wait to open my note, since I am now more anxious to hear news of Frodo and Sam than of my brother.  Merry looks up after a long pause, his smile even wider than before.  “You were right, Eowyn—they’re alive, alive!  Frodo has been hurt, and he and Sam suffered quite a lot—but they are alive.  Thank the Valar for that.  Pip was hurt too, but he makes light of it.”

            I wrap my arm across his shoulders and pull him against me.  “See, I told you everything would somehow work out.”

            “Yes, you did,” says Merry.  He leans over and nudges me.  “Aren’t you going to read your letter?  You must want to hear about Eomer.”

            I carefully unfold the sheet, filled with Eomer’s sprawling hand.  Impulsively, I decide to share it with Merry and begin reading it aloud.       

 My beloved sister—

All is well.  The Ringbearer’s quest is accomplished, and he and his

faithful servant live, much to the relief of everyone, noticeably King

Elessar and Gandalf the White.  There were deaths in battle, but not

as many as I feared would befall us.  Masters Gimli and Legolas received

not a scratch, and send their affectionate greetings to both you and

Master Merry.  I know not when I shall return to Minas Tirith.  Therefore,

I beg you to make speed soon to the fields of Cormallen, so that I may view

your recovery with my own eyes and you may take your rightful place at my

side with our army.  Send word with my messenger as to your arrival.   

                                                            Your brother, Eomer, of Rohan King

            I refold the letter as I finish.  Merry says brightly, “How very good to hear Legolas and Gimli are safe, and thinking of us!  And Gandalf summons me to Cormallen too; you and I can travel up the Anduin together.”

            I find I cannot answer him at first; I stare into the middle distance blankly and edge away while I sort through my jumbled thoughts.  Finally, I speak slowly, choosing my words with great caution.  “I am not sure we will be traveling partners, for while I long to see Eomer, I do not wish to go to Cormallen yet.”

            Merry betrays his befuddlement as he absorbs this.  “But why?  I don’t understand.”  He blinks as he keeps pondering my answer, and then comprehension steals over his features.  “Is it Aragorn?  Are you worried that you will have to see him with Arwen in his moment of victory?”

            I allow myself the luxury of a sigh.  “Yes, that is one reason,” I say reluctantly.  No need to pretend or hide my heartache with Merry; I confessed my feelings for Aragorn to him some time ago during our night watches.  He in turn when pressed by me spoke of Arwen Undomiel and of the deep passion she shares with the Elfstone.  As Merry hymned the elf’s rich beauty, so like to that of her grandmother, I saw my secret dreams of somehow winning Aragorn burned to ashes and scattered by the winds.  It is a hard and bitter pain to give up one’s first love, but I know now I have no choice; if I do not, a kind of hopeless madness shall be my fate.  However, giving up a dream is one thing; replacing it with a new reality is quite another, which is why I have not yielded to settling for Faramir, tempting though that is.

            Some inkling of my emotions must be appearing, for Merry begins asking questions that exhibit his disconcerting owlish wisdom.  “Is there a second reason, then?  Are you also unhappy at the idea of leaving Faramir?  You deny you love him, but I can see how much you miss seeing him regularly.  Maybe you care about him more than you think.  Do you, Eowyn?”

            His last question sparks up my temper.  “Perhaps, but why do you keep badgering me?  You have made your attitude about a romance with Faramir perfectly plain, but my heart is not so crystal clear yet—you know this, and ought to give me peace.”  I wince at my snappish tone.

            Merry is immediately contrite.  “I’m sorry, Eowyn—I didn’t mean to cause you grief.  It’s just—well, it’s just that I so want you to be happy, and I believe you would be with Faramir.”

            “Why are you sure that happiness requires a pairing?  Can it not be found alone?” I demand sharply.

            He stands up and cups his hands around my face, startling me with the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.  “Only if you have an empty heart, and you do not—your love for me, sister, is proof of that.”  He pauses.  “Do you remember what I told you about Frodo and Pearl—how their love has come to nothing, because of the Ring?”

            “Yes, I remember,” I say huskily.

            “That’s not the ending I want for you, and I’m afraid it will be if you are not careful.”  His thumbs gently stroke my cheekbones, calming me even as my eyes fill.  “Promise me that if you stay in Minas Tirith, you’ll give Faramir a chance to completely earn your love—that you won’t lock your heart in a cage and throw away the key.  It may be too late for Frodo, but it isn’t for you.” 

            Overwhelmed by the depth of feeling between us, I turn my head and place a soft kiss in his small palm.  “I promise, little brother.”

            We remain suspended like this for a while, unwilling to end our souls’ communion.  Strains of music reach us from below, breaking the stillness.  Merry lowers his hands and turns towards the city.  He smiles, lightening matters.  “Is there a fair?  I wonder if it’s as good as the ones in the Shire.  Shall we go, and compare?”  He tugs at my hand, boyish once more.  “Come on, Eowyn—it’ll be fun, especially the food.”

            “Thinking of your stomach again, are you?”  I laugh, and climb to my feet.  “I suppose if you are hungry, we have to go, or else you will collapse.  That would be too awful for words, wouldn’t it?”

            Merry grins and begins racing down the steps at the side of each terrace; I follow him more slowly, but not by much.  We reach the gate at the bottom of the final flight, and pull it open together.  On the other side, we discover Faramir, poised to venture upwards.  He beams when he sees us.

            “I am indeed lucky—I was coming to fetch the two of you, and here you both are.  Where are you going?”

            I assume a tranquil expression; Merry, bless him, does not reveal by even a flicker of an eyelash our intense exchange.  He merely says, “We’re off to the fair.  Can you come with us, Faramir?”

            “By some miracle, I can—which is why I was looking for you both.  Do you mind more company, my lady?’

            “Not at all, my lord,” I say, while wondering how difficult the next hours will become.

            My thoughts prove groundless; I laugh far more often than I brood, for Merry’s unquenchable bounce frequently draws Faramir’s dry wit to the surface.  They enjoy scoring off one another, engaging in a kind of stylized verbal duel for my amusement like jesters of my own private court.

            I enjoy the fair considerably.  I thought our fairs in Edoras were fine, but they pale in comparison with the lavish array of goods and foods on sale here.  Merry eagerly samples the wares of each food stand, but Faramir and I concentrate on the merchants’ booths.  I admire colorful jewelry and fabrics, lush flowers and uncommon animals.  Faramir brought separate purses of money for both Merry and I, so I can spend what I wish.  After mulling over the possibilities, I buy a pair of new bracelets and intricately embroidered gloves, good for either a formal feast or a hunting party.  I even succumb to a buried feminine urge and purchase some rare perfumes and paints from a smiling apothecary, but only when Merry distracts Faramir by demanding he taste a fritter. 

            Faramir in turn buys a large pile of books from an old man who greets him cheerfully; I stifle a smile as they talk animatedly, for Faramir is clearly a customer of long standing as the bookseller agrees to deliver them to him later in the day.  He has an unerring eye for the finest quality, subjecting everything, even the tiniest trinket, to a careful appraisal before he purchases it.  When he sees a brooch shaped like a running horse, he insists on giving it to me as a token of his regard for Rohan, despite my demurrals.  The goldsmith pins it on my dress with a friendly grin; I realize he sees Faramir and I as a couple, out with our son as we walk away with Merry between us.  Instead of being offended, the man’s assumption warms me.  It seems to confirm how much we three have truly become a family.

            I stop at a toymaker’s next, attracted by the large display of elegantly crafted dolls.  They are nothing like the simple poppets my nurse made for me; their petite faces are perfectly shaped, and their little dresses rival any of my ladies’.  I brush my fingertips over the lace and velvet of one, marveling at the craftsmanship.  Faramir notes my interest and steps to my side.

            “They are beautifully done, are they not?  Really not for a child at all, but rather a thing of beauty for a lady’s chamber.”

            “Yes, you are right.  I am surprised at my interest, for I never played with dolls much as a little girl, but seen in that light, I understand my fascination now.”

            “Let me get one for you.”  I know better than to protest.  Without prompting, he picks up my favorite—a dainty matron in blue and cream silk, her gown encrusted with tiny pearls and gold lace, feathers in her upswept hair.  The toymaker’s pretty wife is boxing my gift when a voice suddenly pipes up.

            “How much is that one?”

            The toymaker, a gentle young man, cranes his head to view the figure on the other side of the table.  His eyes widen as he beholds Merry.  “You are a halfling?”

            “Yes, I am,” says Merry proudly.

            “Whom do you buy it for?  Surely you are too youthful to already be a father.”

            “It’s for my sweetheart, Stella.  She loves dolls, and has none that are as fine as yours, sir.  Please, how much do you want for it?”

            The man places Merry’s selection in a wooden box and proffers it with a bow as his wife curtsies as well.  “I charge you not one coin, Master Halfling, for the valor of you and your kinfolk is well known to me.  Accept this gift with my humble thanks, and may you have a sweet daughter who shall one day cherish this.”

            Merry, gratified, takes the box and bows back.  “Thank you, my good master, and I shall tell Stella of your blessing.”

            The sun drops in the afternoon sky as we continue to indulge ourselves with eating, drinking, and buying.  We play games of chance, winning a little and losing more; we watch jugglers and acrobats, and have our fortunes told, chuckling at the results.  The minstrels we stop to listen to recognize the Steward, and egg him on to join them in song.  He finally consents, and proves to possess a lovely voice, honeyed and true with real feeling for the words.  I applaud heartily with the crowd when the song ends, and smile at Faramir as he strolls back to me.

            “If worse comes to worst, you could earn a living as a songster.”

            He grins.  “So I have been told before!  But the worst did not come, so Steward I stay.”  

            Merry steps forward to the lutanist and offers to sing.  The crowd claps along as he begins, clearly enjoying the simple Shire tune, and the musicians weave an improvised melody as he continues.  The applause is loud and there are calls for another song, then for still another.  The shadows lengthen across the stones when the audience finally releases Merry and we start to return to the Houses.  We are halfway home when I spot the booth tucked into a corner, obscured by the neighboring buildings.  I gasp in excitement when I see what it contains.

            “What is it, Eowyn?” asks Faramir.

            “Look!  A swordsmith—I did not think any were here!”  I dash over and gaze at the smith’s work.  I can see at once his skill at the forge; these are weapons of surpassing strength and splendor, which a warrior could wield with confidence.  One in particular catches my eye; it has a large ruby embedded in the hilt, surrounded by swirling wirework.  A prayer in tengwar is engraved on the blade, asking the Valar for protection.  I pick it up and my blood hums as I feel its precise balance and heft.  Faramir and Merry stand back to give me room as I test it, glorying in its perfection as I make several passes and hear it whisper through the air.  It seems to be an extension of my arm, obeying my slightest command.  I know immediately I have found the perfect gift for my brother’s crowning. 

            The swordsmith beams as I turn back to him.  His swarthy skin and dangling earrings proclaim him to be originally of the far South.  “My very finest sword, my lady.  You have a keen eye and a good arm—never have I seen any woman with such artful skill at swordplay.  With the way you handle it, I might have made it for you.”

            Faramir takes the sword then, and his eyes gleam as he perceives its flawlessness.  “It is unquestionably a prize, more akin to elven craft than anything else.  Forgive me, though, but it appears a trifle too long for you.”

            I shake my head.  “I do not want it for myself, I want it for Eomer.  I shall gift him with it at his crowning when I pledge my service to him.”

            “Are you the White Lady of Rohan, she who cut down a Nazgul in battle?” asks the smith in surprise upon hearing me.

            “Yes,” I answer simply.

            “Then take it, White Lady.  You helped free Gondor from the Shadow.  May my blade aid you in your labors while defending your land, for you are a great captain and deserve anything I can give you.”

            “No!” I exclaim vigorously.  I fumble with my purse and pull out ten large gold coins, pressing them into his hand.  “I am flattered, but I cannot let you do this.  Such workmanship must be honored.”

            He inclines his head.  “Very well.  Will you allow me to keep it for an hour so that I may engrave the names of you and your brother upon it?  It will then become a fitting heirloom for the kings of Rohan.”

            “Of course—you are most kind.  I shall return here when you are done.”

            “No need, my lady.  I shall deliver it to you at the Houses of Healing with mine own hands, with my best sheath and belt accompanying it.”

            Faramir speaks up.  “Bring your other swords with you, and come seek me out.  I wish to examine them in privacy, and we shall also speak of a place for you in my household or that of the King.  Such high ability should not be subjected to a wandering and uncertain life on the road.”

            The smith’s bow deepens.  “As you command, my Lord Steward.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”  He takes my precious find and bends over it with his tools; we turn away and proceed up the street.

            “What a magnificent present, Eowyn!  Eomer will be amazed,” Merry says gleefully.

            “He will indeed,” says Faramir.  “And because of your sharp eyes, Eowyn, I have found a superior swordsmith, far better than any other in the city.  I thank you.”

            “You are most welcome—even if you did bag him for Gondor before I could stake Rohan’s claim.”  I turn up my nose, but my smile gives me away.

            Faramir laughs loudly, looping his arm around my shoulders in a sideways hug.  “As ever, your wit is as quick as your sword.  Come, Merry, let us hurry home before our lady scores another hit!” 

His infectious grin and comic expression are hard to resist; I join his merriment.  As I stand there with him, Merry’s face smiling up at both of us, no fears or hesitations can make me regret my promise on this golden day.

The noise on the quays here at the river is loud, but it barely registers with me as I wander alone pensively this bright summer morning, dodging barrels and bushels while I head back to my horse.  I have developed the habit over the past month of awakening even earlier than before and going for a walk, which gives me time to think in peace.  But today I felt the need for more activity, so I borrowed a horse from the Steward’s stables and rode to the river, lost in memories.

It was three weeks ago that I said goodbye to Merry here.  He stood there and looked up at me with shining eyes as he prepared to ride up the Anduin to Osgliath, where he would take ship to Cair Andros with supplies.  I dreaded his departure far more than I could say, and my heart was so full I stood tongue-tied as I held his hands.  From Merry’s silence, I guessed he suffered as well; but he finally spoke in a choked voice.

“You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you, Eowyn?  I should hate to come back and find you dwindled down to nothing.” 

“No fear of that,” I replied, somehow matching his slightly humorous tone.  “And so you too can take care, I have one last gift for you.”  I beckoned to the page I had brought with me; he stepped forward and handed me the wrapped bundle he carried.  I presented it to Merry, trembling a touch with the weight of emotion.  “Since you sacrificed your old one in my defense, it seems only fitting that I replace it.”

Merry stripped the cloth off and drew the short sword out with a gasp of surprise.  He studied it, and grinned at me.  “This is the work of that swordsmith we met at the fair, isn’t it?  I recognize his style—this is beautiful.”  He quickly belted sword and sheath on, his hand on the hilt as he stood proudly before me.

“Yes, it is.”  I knelt down and took his hands again.  “I am very glad you like it.”

“I can’t say thank you enough—it’s superb, and I’ll want to show it off, I think!”  He embraced me tightly; I hugged him back, not caring the page stood nearby, and felt his heart beating against mine in perfect time.  We finally released one another reluctantly, and Merry whispered, “You won’t forget your promise to me while I’m gone, will you?”

“No, I will not,” I whispered back.  “And I also promise to send you word if anything is decided between us before you return.”

He nodded, and mounted his pony.  As he rode off with the rest of the troops, he turned and waved at me.  I kept waving as well until Merry was a blur on the horizon, anxiously wondering how I would manage without him.

Today, I stare at the sunlight on the river and recall that moment.  My worries, it has proved, have been correct, for all the confidence I felt after the fair has trickled away.  If Faramir was busy before Merry’s departure, he is even more so now, which means I barely see him.  My absence from his side has been noted, and I am uncomfortably aware of the fresh gossip boiling up in the hothouse atmosphere of the court ladies’ bowers, speculating that the Steward is bored with the Northerner, or perhaps the shieldmaiden has rejected him?  I try not to notice and tell myself the comments do not matter, but the edge of venom I sometimes hear wears me down and makes me feels Faramir might be tired of me, despite knowing better.  I have begun to look pale and thin once more, as worry takes its toll.  

And the worst part is indeed Merry’s absence; I miss him acutely every day, certain that I would be plagued by nothing if he were at my side again with his optimism and laughter.  Even more do I miss the physical affection he poured over me, the casual hugs and kisses that began to unlock the prison I had made of my body.  I have rarely permitted anyone but my brother and uncle to touch me lovingly before, and it is hard to deny my newly awakened hunger for someone else’s flesh against my own.  I understand now that thinking of Merry in childlike terms allowed me to accept his warmth and sensuality without fear, since no passion pulsed between us.  How I wish I could claim Merry’s earthiness for myself, for then I could banish all my shadows, but I cannot find the way without him.  If only I had my little family intact once more . . .

Moodily preoccupied, I reach my horse, mount, and head back to the city at a slow gallop, careful not to overwork the older animal I took.  I enjoy the feel of the wind whipping through my hair, and imagine it is blowing the cobwebs out of my mind as well.  I arrive at the stables refreshed in body, if not in mind, and prepare to groom the bay gelding, only to have a friendly stablehand interrupt and insist on doing the task himself.  I yield with good grace and hurry off to the Houses to change clothes before breakfast.  I bound up the stairs two at a time, hoping no disapproving eyes see me, and hastily discard my riding gear in favor of my favorite white dress.  I wash my face quickly and am brushing my hair when I hear Lothiriel calling me.

“Eowyn?  Are you in your room?” 

“Yes, but I am coming,” I say, and hurry into the hall, meeting Lothiriel at the stair landing.  She looks startled at my abrupt arrival but smiles in greeting.

“That swordsmith you have been patronizing is here with your most recent commission.  He awaits you in the lower parlor—I took some breakfast to him there.  Do you wish to speak with him now, or shall I tell him to return later?”

“No, no—I am anxious to see this, for it is for me, not anyone else.”  I give Lothiriel an abashed grin as I bound down the stairs with her following.

“So he said.  The sword is beautiful—I found myself envying you when I saw it.”  Her longing tone brings me up short, and I stop and pivot round to face her.

“What ever do you mean, Lothiriel?  Surely you do not want to become a warrior too?”

“I suppose fighting just seems so much more straightforward, so much easier, than healing.  I know I am very good at what I do, but mending people’s bodies and minds after battle is harder than taking them apart in the first place.  That is why I insisted that my father allow me to come with him to Minas Tirith, for I knew how badly my skills would be needed.  Ah, here we are—I must go see to some of my patients.  I will come keep you company later, if you like.”  We reach the door, and she leaves me lost in thought as her words echo in my ears.

As I enter the parlor, the swordsmith leaps up from the table he sits at and gives me a deep bow, ignoring my motions to continue his breakfast.  He hands me the sword I had made to replace the one I destroyed in killing the Captain of the Nazgul.  I catch my breath sharply when I behold the full elegance of the blade the smith has forged for me.  Made of silver and steel, it glitters in the morning sun as I feel its flawless fit; he was careful to measure my reach so that it would be absolutely proportional.  Wire scrollwork even more intricate that that on Eomer’s gift surrounds the pearls, sapphires and emeralds embedded in the hilt.  I marvel in silence, knowing that the most fulsome praise I could utter will be ridiculously inadequate. 

“Do you approve, my lady?  I arranged the gems in a special pattern, to harness their energies and bestow extra protection on you when you wield it.”  I realize he thinks my wordlessness connotes dissatisfaction, and hasten to correct the impression.

“Do not fear—silence is the true herald of my joy.  You have exceeded yourself once more, and I cannot find the words to describe my admiration for your supreme artistry.”

He smiles happily.  “Thank you, my lady.  This means the additional weapons Lord Faramir asked me to make should please you as much.”  He picks up a flat wooden box on the table and flips it open, revealing a matching set of jeweled knives.  I gaze at them astonished while the smith explains.  “Lord Faramir came to my forge one day and saw the sword I was crafting for you, and asked who it was intended for.  When I told him, he insisted on commissioning the knives to go with it, since he knew you had once expressed a desire to learn the elven style of fighting.  There are throwing knives with arm sheaths, boot knives, a long knife for close quarter combat, and here—” He lifts out a pair of needle-thin daggers with intricately decorated pommels.  “I designed these beauties to serve you both as weapons and ornaments.  Tuck these into a bun or braid of your hair, and it will appear to an unwary enemy that you merely wear two hairpins . . . until he tries to attack you.  With these, no assassin will touch you, I swear it.”  He slips the daggers back in their places and hands the box to me.

I take it from him slowly.  “So Lord Faramir had you make them . . . how kind of him,” I croak out, amazed at Faramir’s insight into my innermost wishes.  “I must write to him immediately—please excuse me, I beg you, and do not depart until you have finished your breakfast.”  The swordsmith bows; I curtsy and whirl around as I rush out the door and up the stairs to return to my chamber.  I clutch the sword and box to my chest, suppressing a fresh upsurge of conflicting feelings while I wonder if I can possibly discover the right way to thank Faramir without sounding like a lovesick green girl, which I am most certainly not. 

Two hours later, I look around at the many crumpled sheets of paper surrounding the table I sit at, and find myself reflecting that I am in fact a green girl—or at least an inarticulate idiot, perhaps.  Why can I not find any words at all to thank Faramir for his latest and best-loved gift?  We are friends now, surely, so I ought to be able to put pen to paper and scrawl a brief note.  But nothing I write seems correct—too cold, too stiff, too tart, I think as I discard one abortive attempt after the other. 

Frustrated, I climb to my feet and begin to restlessly pace my chamber.  Long has it been since I viewed it as my newest cage, but in this moment the walls are pressing in on me, making me still more tense.  After circling around for a few minutes, I stride over the door, throwing it open with more force than is necessary, and calling for a servant.  One appears and asks what I need.

“Fresh water, please—this is warm,” I tell her, taken aback at my sharp tone as I thrust the pitcher at her.

“Yes, m’lady,” she said nervously, bobbling up and down.  When she brings it back, I thank her curtly, shut the door, and make myself sit once more.  I pour and drain most of a cup, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.  I must do this, I must, or it will become simply unbearable.

I open my eyes, only to find myself beholding the two wooden boxes on either side of the table.  The one I just carried upstairs with my precious set of knives, while the other contains the fine little doll Faramir bought at the fair.  On impulse, I lift the lid and draw the doll out, propping her against her box, and then I flip up the hinged lid of the knife box and trace their decorations, feeling their perfection in my very fingertips.  I suspect that to most they are a mismatched pair of gifts to offer to the same woman, but somehow they both suit me well, as unlikely as that fact is to me, for one is a warrior’s prize and the other a mother’s.  I pick up the doll in my left hand and a dagger in my right, holding them before me side by side.  It is as if they have been transformed into the keys that will solve my riddles.

My gaze swims as I stare at them, and a clamor of voices assails me, the various voices of those who have been my companions over the past weeks.  Lothiriel’s first:  “Mending people’s bodies and minds after battle is harder than taking them apart in the first place.”  Faramir’s is next:  “I say to you that you are beautiful . . .neither flower nor lady have I seen now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful . . . I almost regret you will not see the opportunity to lead your people and reach the peak of your abilities; that would have been a glorious thing . . . As ever, your wit is as quick as your sword!”

But above all else, I hear Merry, Merry of the wide smile and valiant heart, Merry who loves me without demand or expectation or qualification.  “Eowyn, you do know that there’s nothing to fear in marriage, don’t you?”  “Promise me that if you stay in Minas Tirith, you’ll give Faramir a chance to completely earn your love, that you won’t lock your heart in a cage and throw away the key.”  “You won’t forget your promise to me while I’m gone, will you?”

I shake my head, clearing my sight, and as I do, it is as if I can truly see myself, and those around me, for the first time.  The final pieces of the puzzle fall into a pattern I finally can comprehend.

Yes, I feared the claming of my body, but what I always feared most about marriage was that it too was a mere cage, and that all it would give me was the destruction of that which I most valued about myself.  How could I expect some man my uncle chose for me to understand me completely, especially since he would be an alliance before he was a husband?  To be a wife seemed as much of a foolish game to me as being nothing more but the King of Rohan’s fair niece.

And if I thought being a wife was playing a game, no wonder I so longed at first to play it at the most exalted level of all.  Queen of Gondor and of Arnor!  Once that vision filled me with excitement, but now I recoil in distaste.  What made me think I could do such a thing?  Aragorn is splendid, a captain and king at the height of his powers, but even his generosity would not permit his Queen to be both swordswoman and lover, comrade and mother of his heirs.  I was a fool to believe he ever would.

I have been a coward too, I think with shame.  Such has been my terror of both lust and pity that I nearly have driven away a man whose tangible gifts to me are petty compared to the intangible ones he offers freely and without price.  Faramir gives me affection, respect, a kind of friendship I never thought possible between a man and a woman.  And while he desires me, it is a desire that has no urge to conquer, but to share in full.  He will grant me my own hungers, I realize, and rejoice in them as the mate of his.

And he sees me; sees me clearly and completely, all of me, the strong and the weak, the fierce and the gentle, and loves everything in equal measure.  He never hints that I must change, that all my contradictions must vanish before he will have me.  Rather, he glories in them, turning them round as a man might twirl a jewel to catch the light of its many facets.  This gift is so rare that it is beyond price.  I finally perceive that the only thanks I can give him for it is the gift of myself, my mind and heart and body, whole and without reserve.

And Merry, I think, Merry sees me too, all the way through like I was made of glass.  That little, charming, devious, earthy hobbit understands me as though we were two halves of the same soul, understands my need for battle and for love.  He has pushed me along my appointed path even while I fought him and tried to turn a blind eye to the truth.  And the love he gives me is still rarer than Faramir’s, for it is both pure and sensual, innocent and knowing, the sort that grants my heart wings at the same time it melts the ice encasing my flesh.  Is there any greater repayment I can give him beyond fulfilling his wish that I allow myself to love Faramir?

I tremble from head to foot as all these thoughts flood my mind and wash me clean, slaying my ghosts and healing my wounds.  I push myself up and away from the table, despite my shaking legs, and know that I must find Faramir and tell him of my insight.  But then another thought invades, dismaying and horrible.  Does he still love me?  Or have I waited too long to speak?

A light knock sounds on my door; I turn my head in its direction, wondering who dares to disturb me.  “Come in,” I said curtly.

A nervous young page steps into my room; I recognize him as the one who accompanied me on the day of Merry’s departure—Bergil, I think his name is, just recently taken into service.  “My lady, the Lord Faramir has sent me to ask if you will not come and speak with him.”

“Where is he?” I say, my heart pounding more than a bit.

“He awaits you upon the walls, my lady.  I shall lead you to him.”

I hurry behind Bergil as he takes me to the gardens’ entrance, my face pale and my hands damp.  I step over the threshold and see Faramir standing on the wall, his expression thoughtful and his posture questioning.  I swallow, uncertain if the moon and stars are still within my grasp or if I have let them slip through my fingers.  I do not smile, for the moment is too grave for that, but lift up my head with pride and dignity, because I know his true worth now, and mine as well.

I pace forward slowly, prepared to embrace my fate no matter what it may be.         

                                                                                   26 April, 3019

My darling Merry,

I promised you when you journeyed to Cair Andros that I would write to you if I had news to impart.  So, while I know you are now returning to Minas Tirith with the rest of our armies, I send you this note with one of the messengers riding between here and the King.  I am sure you will be very happy with what I have to tell you.

Yesterday, I accepted Faramir’s offer to wed me.  I still feel a great sense of astonishment, not least at my own joy.  Never did I expect to love a man as I do Faramir.  And I will say openly that this would not have come to pass without your friendship, love, and sympathy—not to forget your stubbornness and mischievousness as well.  If you decide being the eventual Master of Buckland is not sufficient use of your enterprising qualities, perhaps you should become a matchmaker when you go home to the Shire.

I shall be at the main gate with the Lord Steward and the others when everyone arrives.  The city is all a-tumble with the preparations for King Elessar’s crowning; folk from every corner of Gondor are flocking here, bringing flowers and music and an overwhelming sense of relief.  My own private happiness is much increased by the laughter and celebration in every street and house.

I beg you to give my greetings to all who ride with you, not least to the King and Gandalf Greyhame, and Legolas and Gimli too.  No, I have not forgotten your kinsmen and friends—how could I?  From what Faramir informs me, without Master Peregrin Took he would not have lived to marry me.  It appears your dear cousin Pippin’s impishness has redeemed itself at last.  And of course none of us would be alive to tell any tales if not for Frodo and Samwise.  I am terribly eager to meet them, and Faramir burns with anxiety to see them both with his own eyes and assure himself they truly survived.  Their parting in Ithilien has never ceased to prey on his mind, for he still believes he should have done more to help them, including ridding them of that Gollum creature who guided them.

Enough of this!  The other things I wish to share with you are best spoken face to face, so hurry back to all of us—above all, to the arms of your loving friend and sister,

                                                            Eowyn, of Rohan and Gondor    

                                                * * * * * * *

                                                      28 April, 3019 (or 1419 in the Shire)

Dear Eowyn,

            I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t find another piece of paper close to hand, so I am using the other side of your letter to write back. 

              I’m so very happy, for both you and Faramir, that I can’t put into words easily; I think my heart is too full, like it was that day at the river.  I was certain if you gave him a chance you would come to see how fine a man he is, and how good a fit you are for each other.  I only hope I’m right that Stella and I are an equally good pairing.

              Weddings are very important to we hobbits, you know, so you can picture how pleased Pippin, Sam, and Frodo are about this.  Pippin is particularly excited; he’s only seen one sister married off so far, and is anxious to do the honors at another wedding, especially Faramir’s.  He is also eager to meet you; he says only half-jokingly that if you are as beautiful as I say, that he will become very jealous of Faramir and do his best to convince you that a hobbit makes a far better husband than any Man, even if he is shorter.

              Sam is of the opinion that no one, not even the Steward of Gondor or the King of Rohan, could possibly stage a wedding the way hobbits do, so he thinks we should make you and Faramir ride north with us, and have a proper celebration in true Shire fashion at Bag End or Brandy Hall.  Frodo smiles at this and tells Sam gently he doesn’t think the Big Folk want bruised foreheads while they’re trying to get married.  I wonder now what Frodo will do when we go home.  I am rather worried at how much he has changed, but I shouldn’t be surprised, after what he and Sam went through.

              The messenger is signaling I need to finish.  The light is rather bad in our tent, so please forgive me any blots or smears.  Aragorn thinks we will be within sight of the city by nightfall on the 30^th.  Then we can see each other again and be even happier than we are now.  Please take care of yourself, at least until I return to do it for you.

                                                                        Love always,

                                                                          Merry

            Make sure Faramir knows I mean exactly what I said—he needs to look to his laurels, or I will steal you away and he will be very heartbroken.  He doesn’t want that, does he?

                                                            Your friend (& brother-to-be),

                                                                         Pippin Took

“Behold the King!”

Faramir’s great shout rings out as trumpets and flutes, viols and voices raised in song echo him immediately.  I feel my heart swell with pride as I look at the man I love from where I stand between Elfhelm the Marshal and the other knights of the Mark.  “What a glorious day this is,” I say, more to myself than anyone else, but Elfhelm somehow hears me and grins.

“A glorious day indeed, my lady!  You shall tell your children and grandchildren of it, the day you saw King Elessar crowned by the hands of Gandalf!  Rejoice greatly that we all have lived to see this come to pass!”

 You shall tell your children and grandchildren of it . . . I realize how right he is, for I will have children now, and I shall be able to gather them round my hearth and speak of Aragorn looking like one of the sea-kings of old, full of wisdom and light and beauty past all bearing; of Gandalf the White seeming to be one of the Valar come to earth; and of their uncle Eomer shining like a golden god.  But I will also speak of their father, as noble and splendid as the King himself, and of the four curly-headed hobbits that I keep stretching up on my toes to see clearly.  All four have an honoured place at the King’s side; but as busy as they are with the ceremony, Merry still twists around, looking for me.  He picks my face out of the crowd and flashes me both a brilliant smile and a quick wink.  I smile as well, filled with eagerness to talk with my dear friend at last, for we have had no time to ourselves since the armies have returned.

I manage not to squirm too much until the ceremony ends, and then the King and Gandalf lead the masses up through the City’s levels as they go to the Citadel.  The press of bodies, and the overwhelming scent of flower petals crushed underfoot, makes me sway dizzily, but I somehow work my way to Faramir’s side and catch his sleeve.

“Eowyn!”  He slips a protective arm about my waist and kisses me swiftly.  “Was not the crowning magnificent?”

“Indeed it was, but I have a more important question to ask, my dear Faramir.”

“And that would be?”  He cocks an eyebrow in amusement.

I nod towards the four hobbits wedged between Aragorn and Gandalf.  “Forgive me for being hopelessly impatient, but I must see Merry, and I know you are equally anxious to speak to Frodo and Sam—though maybe not Pippin, after he threatened to steal me away . . .”

Faramir grins.  “And should I be jealous?”

I laugh and wrinkle my nose.  “Only if you fail to treat me as well as you ought!  But shall we be able to meet privately with all of them soon?”

“I daresay I can arrange something once we reach the Citadel.  Wait by the fountain in the Court of the White Tree, and I shall pry our beloved band of hobbits out of the King’s clutches.” 

“Thank you,” I murmur gratefully as we continue to walk upwards.

The great crowd reaches the Citadel sooner than I expected.  As most push their way into the throne room, I work my way over to the fountain outside.  I sit down and idly draw my hand through the cool water, watching the ripples and wondering how long I must wait to see my friends.  I lose track of time as I enjoy the feel of the water against my skin, letting the sun’s warmth lull me into a kind of wakeful dreaminess.

“Eowyn!”

My head snaps up at Merry’s joyful shout.  He sprints across the courtyard and flings himself against me, making me rock back towards the water.  Somehow I keep my balance and hug him in return, laughing at his impetuosity.  “Is this any way for a knight of the Mark and the King’s squire to behave, Meriadoc Brandybuck?”  I try to sound severe, but fail completely, for I am laughing too hard.

He reaches up and pulls my head down so he can kiss my cheek, and then hops up onto the fountain’s side beside me.  “It’s the way this knight behaves when he’s too happy for words, my lady,” he replies with a wide smile.  “So you are marrying Faramir?  When is the wedding?  Soon, I hope!”

Before I can answer him, a sharp cry from the courtyard’s other end interrupts us.

“Oi, Merry!”

“Over here, Pippin!”  Merry motions to the figure in Gondor’s black and silver livery, and he too races to me with scant concern for dignity.  Merry climbs to his feet as his cousin reaches us, and makes me a formal bow. 

“Lady Eowyn, may I present my cousin, Peregrin Took, of Tuckborough, and heir to the Thain of the Shire.  Pippin, this is my dear friend and comrade, the Lady Eowyn of Rohan.”

I look down in surprise as Peregrin bows to me in turn and then gazes up at me with frank eagerness.  I did not think it possible for any other creature in the whole of Middle-earth to be saucier than Merry, but now I see how wrong I was.  Pippin is thinner than Merry, and is practically jumping with nervous energy. His green eyes sparkle with a level of mischief that must have made his family quail, and his brown curls appear to have not confronted a comb for some time. 

I curtsey to him.  “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Master Peregrin.”

“The pleasure is all mine, truly!  Merry told me how beautiful you were, and he did not exaggerate.  Did you tell Faramir what I wrote in Merry’s letter?”

I laugh at his breathless question.  “What a way to start a conversation!  Yes, indeed, I told Faramir, and he has exerted himself to please me.  So I fear you are out of luck where I am concerned.”

Pippin gives me a look of mock crestfallenness.  “A pity—now you’ll never know what a fine husband a hobbit makes, even for one of the Big Folk.  May I settle for being another brother?”

“You may indeed.”  I kneel down and embrace him; he returns it with enthusiasm, tightening his grip on my waist.  Just then, another voice rings out.

“Hands off, Master Peregrin!  I told you I am willing to shoot poachers!”

Pippin turns and laughs as Faramir walks towards us, trailed by two other hobbits that hang back, waiting to see what happens next.  My betrothed ruffles Pippin’s hair as he playfully wraps an arm around the neck of my erstwhile suitor.  “I may owe you my life, my Tookish friend, but that does not mean Eowyn is yours for the taking!  Behave, youngling, or it will go hard for you!” 

Pippin laughs as he dodges away from Faramir.  “Yes, my lord, I understand, but you must know by now it’s second nature for a Took to tease the ones he cares about!”

“Excuses, excuses,” says Faramir airily.  He reaches behind him and grasps his two companions by the shoulders, pushing them forward to stand before me.  “Here are two more members of the Fellowship you have not met, Eowyn, and they are the bravest of them all.  May I present Master Samwise Gamgee, the very best of friends, the most loyal of servants, and the finest of gardeners.”

The sturdy plump hobbit blushes a bit and gives me a clumsy bow as he takes one of my hands.  I like him immediately, for his round face has a sweetness and goodness about it that makes me want to cuddle him and protect him against the slings and arrows of the world, despite what he has already endured.  There is no guile in his warm brown eyes, only a love and courage that shines out like the light of Earendil itself.  He looks up at me and stutters, “I-I’m very pleased to meet you, m’lady, and I’m glad to hear you and Lord Faramir are to be married.”

“Thank you for your felicitations, Master Samwise, and I am honoured to meet you as well.  But do not call me ‘my lady’ in the future; we are friends already, so please call me by my name.”

“Very well, m—Eowyn, and I will be Sam to you.”

I turn to Faramir as he gently places the final member of the quartet of hobbits before him.  “And this is Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer and the savior of Middle-earth,” he says with love and respect.   I dip down into a deep curtsey and take his hands in mine. 

“I am honoured and humbled to meet you, Mister Baggins.  I have heard much of you from your cousin.” 

“If that’s the case, then you should only believe half of what Merry has told you—and you must call me Frodo too,” he says with a faint smile.  I stare down at him, fascinated by what I behold.

He is shorter than Merry or Pippin, as is Sam—I make a mental note to ask Merry about the difference later.  His dark-haired beauty would be striking in a man, and is even more startling in a hobbit.  I am forcibly struck by a translucence and transparency in his pale skin that belies his surface appearance of health and speaks to the price he has paid in destroying the Ring.  But the true witnesses to Frodo’s sufferings are his huge blue eyes, which dominate his fine-boned face.  As I peer into their azure depths, I can see the endless pain and heartbreak this small hero will carry with him for the rest of his days.  Shaken to the core, I kneel again and ask him earnestly, “How are you faring, Frodo?”

“I am well enough, so do not worry,” he says softly.  “But I would rather speak of you wedding Faramir.  Have you picked a date?”

“Yes, Eowyn, when is the wedding?” demands Merry.  He and Pippin flank me on either side and look at me expectantly.

Faramir says, “Patience!  Eowyn and I have not yet set a time to be wed, for she must leave Minas Tirith soon and return to Edoras with King Eomer.”

“You’re leaving?” says Merry in dismay.

“Must you?  We hoped to spend more time with both you and Faramir,” adds Frodo.

“And I’ve not had the chance to really charm you, Eowyn,” Pippin says with a grin.

“I am very sorry to go, but I have no choice.  Eomer needs my help to bring fresh order to Rohan, and to prepare King Theoden’s funeral.  Surely you all understand?”

Merry sighs.  “Of course we do, but it seems like you and I do nothing but say goodbye anymore.”

I reach out and pull he and Pippin against me as Faramir wraps his arms around Frodo and Sam.  I look up at my beloved and feel the happiness surging through my blood. 

“Yes, Merry,” I say, the joy bubbling up in my voice, “but remember, this goodbye is not the end, but only the beginning.”   

Epilogue:  August 10, 3019

             My ladies gather round and lift the white dress over my head, careful to not tug my hair overmuch as they pull it free.  Aegyth steps behind me to lace up the back.  Once she finishes, my old nurse points me in the direction of the polished bronze mirror on the wall.  She dusts powder over my face with a rabbit’s foot to mask the last faint traces of the tears I have shed today while we laid Theoden to rest.  He slumbers now underneath freshly planted simbelmyne blossoms, his memory forever green to those of us who loved him best.  I can hear the sounds from the funeral feast in the nearby hall. Once I proffered the great cup to Eomer, and listened to the minstrel naming all the kings of Rohan, I slipped into my own chamber to change out of my mourning weeds.  I am to be trothplighted to Faramir today, and do not wish to appear like a stormcrow.   

             Aegyth dabbles a touch of salve on my lips and cheeks with a brush and steps back to inspect her handiwork, while I mentally thank the apothecary who sold me the cosmetic, for it will hide my grieving.  “You look absolutely beautiful, a queen among brides,” she says.  “And what a glorious dress this is—I cannot believe the fineness of this silk.”  She touches a sleeve in wonder, admiring the delicately stitched garlands of snowdrops and bluebells that decorate the cuffs and neckline.

             “Yes, it is superb,” I say, remembering the day three months ago Legolas arrived at my chamber in the Houses of Healing with a dressmaker in tow.  He was apologetic about bothering me as I prepared to leave for Edoras, but insisted on having my measurements taken.  When I pressed him for a full explanation, he gave me an enigmatic smile and said, “I wish to honour both you and Faramir by providing a necessity for whatever future betrothal or wedding ceremonies may occur.  It will be one less thing you need to concern yourself with, since you have other cares.” 

            I had to be content with that small scrap when I departed with Eomer.  Imagine my amazement, then, when I returned to Minas Tirith some three weeks ago and discovered the magnificent gown that awaited me there.  Crafted of white silk so transparent I suspected it came from Mirkwood, it was a thing as fine as any in Queen Arwen’s wardrobe.  I have always scorned praise of my appearance, but when I first put my unexpected present on, I finally began to believe I was truly beautiful.  And when I looked closely at the flowers that danced on the gown in a riot of cream, blue, and green, I recognized what they were and wept openly, perceiving Merry’s hand in the gift as well as the Elf’s.

            Edulfa, the youngest of my women, reverently picks up the pair of embroidered gloves from the table, and helps me pull them on.  The buttery-soft leather caresses my arms, reminding me of the spring day I bought them.  The flowers on them match the gown perfectly.  Aegyth waves everyone back and motions for me to turn around.  I do so slowly, and await her verdict as I face her again.

            She sighs in pure satisfaction.  “You are truly a queen of flowers, too, the most flawless of lilies and the most golden of roses.  I do hope those of Gondor know what a grand prize they have gained in you, especially Lord Faramir.”

            “Believe me, Aegyth, he knows,” I say.  “Never fear he does not.”

            Aegyth blinks, her eyes bright, and then she glances round the chamber.  “Come, ladies, let us tidy up here!” she says sharply.  All the others begin gathering up discarded clothes, but she takes my hands and steps close.

            “And shall the Lord Faramir be coming to you tonight, or shall he wait for the ceremony in Gondor?  Have you told him of his rights under our laws?” she murmurs.

            “Eomer told me he would speak to Faramir yesterday.  I assume he did so, but I have not talked much to Faramir today, what with the funeral and all, so I do not know what he intends,” I whisper back.  A wave of heat rolls through me at the thought of Faramir finally sharing my bed tonight.  I can only hope that he prefers our customs to his own . . . Aegyth, seemingly reading my mind, lays a hand on my cheek, reminding me of Merry.

            “Not afraid anymore, my child?” she whispers tenderly.  “No questions at all?”

            “No, not a one,” I say steadily.  “And I shall never be afraid again.”

            “Good.”  She kisses me with the gentleness of my own mother.  “Theoden would be so very proud of you today.”

            Before I can response, a loud rap erupts from the door, making us all jump in surprise.  Edulfa hastens over and opens it, saying in dismay, “You are not to see Lady Eowyn before the trothplighting!  What do you want?”

            A gruff voice answers, “Both I and Master Meriadoc have other gifts to give the lady for the ceremony, so let us pass!”  I laugh in delight at the sound.

            “Gimli, Merry!  Come in!”

            Gimli clumps in, holding a large velvet pouch, and Merry follows, his arms firmly behind him and partially covered by his short cloak.  Gimli stops directly in front of me, looking up with a warm smile.  I note the fancy braids in his beard, and the curled-up ends of his mustache; he has taken especial pains with his appearance today, and I cannot help but be both touched and amused.

            He says, “I made this to go with the gown Legolas provided.  While I am stonemason, not jeweler, I learned enough from my father to craft this.  May it suit you, my lady.”  He shakes the bag, and my eyes widen when I see what falls into his hand.

            It is a strand of the finest pearls I have ever beheld, shimmering with a creamy ivory glow.  At one end of the strand dangles a teardrop-shaped sapphire, its facets burning with blue and black flames.  I say in wonder, “This is a marvel!  Where did you obtain the gems?”

            “Aragorn gave we of the Fellowship free run of the old treasure room in the White Tower.  I found a chest of these pearls there—Faramir thinks they are from Dol Amroth, part of his mother’s dowry.  And there too I found the unhewn stone from which I cut this sapphire pendant.”  He holds the necklace up, my ladies exclaiming over its beauty.  “It was marked with the ancient runes of Moria, so it was mined there and given to one of the kings, long ago.  Do you like it?”

            “Like is too mild a word, my dear Gimli—I am awestricken to the point of speechlessness.”  I bend over.  “You must put it on me.  Aegyth, please hold my hair up.”

            My nurse does so as Gimli reaches around and carefully fastens the clasp.  I kiss his forehead before I stand again, making him blush rosy red.  He grins, his teeth gleaming in his red beard.

            “Now you are ready.”  He turns as a heretofore silent Merry coughs.  “Well, not quite ready,” he adds.  “One more gift left to give, and from the friend who loves you best.”

            “Yes, which is why I wish to speak to Merry privately,” I say.  “If you would all be so kind?”

            Gimli bows deeply as my ladies leave in a swirl of skirts.  I wait until I hear the door latch, and then I speak, looking at Merry with a heart as full as it was that day at the river.

            “Well,” I say softly.

            “Well,” he echoes.  “And are you nervous, or happy?  You certainly look happy, and beautiful too—more beautiful than even the Lady Galadriel, today, which is how it should be.”

            I chuckle.  “Blatant flattery, my dearest Merry.  You still have a glib tongue, for she stands in the Golden Hall even as we speak, and I doubt I can survive the comparison.”

            “No, no—you aren’t seeing yourself, then,” he insists.

            Anxious to change the subject, I nod at his concealed hands.  “What do you have there?  Am I allowed to see?”

            “Yessss. . . ”  To my surprise, he is a bit bashful, like he was the night he fell down in the hall.  “Please don’t laugh at this—it may seem silly to you, but these are the one thing you need to be a true Shire bride; our lasses carry only these when we wed.”  He slowly lifts the hidden object towards me; as I see what he has, I cover my mouth with my hands, fighting off my emotion.  He asks shyly, “You don’t think they’re silly, then, Eowyn?”

            I shake my head.  “Did you truly imagine I would?  They are perfection itself—oh, Merry . . .”

            I cradle the small silver horn he gives me, recognizing it as part of the hoard of Scatha the Worm; he must have borrowed it from Eomer over the past two days.  But the miracle, the sublime thing I never expected, is the nosegay of fresh snowdrops and bluebells tumbling from the horn’s opening, a cascade of blue and white petals mingled with crisp green leaves.  I stroke a bloom in disbelief.

            “But how is this possible?  It is high summer, and these are springtime flowers.  What magic could you conjure to keep them fresh for so long?”

            He beams, well pleased at the success of his plans.  “Real magic of the best kind, namely Gandalf’s!  I picked these on the way to Cormallen, when we stopped at a copse of oaks—they were nearly the last ones of the season.  As soon as I arrived, I went looking for Gandalf, to have him bespell them, for I was sure you would need them some day.  At first he thought I was being my usual frivolous self, and kept brushing me away, but when I explained why I wanted him to do it, he finally said yes and cast a preserving spell on them.  This means you can keep them forever, if you like, and give them to your daughter at her wedding.”  He hesitates.  “That is, if you have a daughter . . .”

            I laugh even as my throat tightens up.  “Oh yes I will, and fine sons too—and one of them shall bear your name . . .” I kneel down, laying the flower-filled horn on the floor, and reach out for him.  As I hug him to me, I feel his small hands entangled in my hair as he ardently returns my embrace.  I rock us back and forth, my voice choked with the weight of unshed tears.  “Merry, Merry, what ever did I do before you came?  My other heart indeed, and Theoden’s squire still in your care for me.  He would bow down before you if he were here at this moment.”

            “He is here, I’m sure of it,” Merry says, his face against my shoulder.  “He’s watching over us right now, full of happiness because you are happy.”  He draws away and kisses me sweetly.  “And I’m happy too.”

            Moved beyond bearing, I stand up wordlessly.  Merry leans down, picks up the horn, and offers it to me once more.  I tuck it into the crook of an elbow and take a deep breath.

            “Are you ready now?” he asks inquiringly.      

            “Yes, I am.”  I extend my left arm, and he firmly takes my hand, his glove against mine.  “Lead me on!”

            We walk down the passageway at a stately pace, the sounds of the feast growing ever louder as we approach.  We pass through the pillars at one side of the Golden Hall, and I struggle to take in everything as I advance upon the head table before the throne.

            King Elessar and Queen Arwen stand up as I enter the hall, their beauty ideally matched; I feel no regret as I look upon them.  There are Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel with Master Elrond, possessing a grace that is blinding to mere mortals’ eyes.  Legolas and Gimli smile, clearly enjoying how splendidly their gifts suit me.  Here too is Gandalf, radiating good cheer, with a wide-eyed Sam and a pale Frodo—ill but two nights ago—flanking him.  I give the Ringbearer a mute blessing as I pass him. 

            And here is my brother, now King of Rohan, full of majesty, but still Eomer, still my big brother.  He glows too, but not solely because of me; he steals a glance at Lothiriel, standing demurely between her father and cousin.  I begin to hope that my beloved brother shall soon speak to Prince Imrahil, and achieve the same happiness I have found.  Beside him, Faramir climbs to his feet to meet me, and so does a bouncy, sunny Pippin as his squire, his pointed face bubbling with eagerness, as much as if he had engineered this trothplighting himself.  He grins at me, and I spare him a smile, but then my eyes are drawn irresistibly to the one figure in the crowd that matters the very most.

            Faramir gazes at me in open wonder, love and passion and respect all spilling from his expression.  As I glimpse my reflection in his grey eyes, I know my own beauty completely and at long last, and in him I see a power and glory that fills me with a tenderness and desire I believed I would never feel. 

            Merry, his arm stretched out, leads me to Faramir.  He places my hand in my beloved’s grasp, and for a moment we are linked together, our fingers touching.  I realize that this is the magical circle that will sustain me for the rest of my days, that the love and friendship I have gained over the past few months will nurture and protect me and mine no matter what happens.  My soul leaves my body, borne aloft on wings of joy, as one clear thought surges into my mind.

            In my end is my beginning, always and forever, and I will never be alone again.