Disclaimer:

I hereby disclaim (?) that Faramir and Eowyn are not mine.  They live in a more exciting universe and prefer to stay there.  Sigh.

Shadows in the Sun

By Zephyraria

Chapter I : Shadow Abates

Ten knells issued from the deeps of the stone city.  The resounding echoes passed hollowly through the empty streets and halls, slow mournful waves that stirred the hair on her neck.  The day had grown dark despite the hour and Minas Tirith was deathly silent, every tree and stone in soundless anticipation.

Upon a narrow path in the Gardens of Healing, a figure of white flew between the shadows of the towering evergreens.

Eowyn’s House slippers slapped discordantly against the age-worn cobblestones as she tore headlong through the gardens.  A chill grew beneath her feet, which clawed its way up her calves then her knees, locking her veins with icy tension.  Her breath came in strained gasps, and she felt almost that some filmy substance had descended over her head, invisible and suffocating.   She ran faster even as the wind grew stronger and the cold numbed her left arm as well as her right, but the path stretched on.  It wound endlessly between opaque groves of wild plants and shrubs, and despite her efforts Eowyn could discern no end to it.

Panic enveloped her like the heavy cloak that covers a starless night.  Her rational mind tried another futile reassurance; the gardens are vast, it spoke to her insensible limbs; she had wandered long and deep before foreboding overcame her thoughts, and doubtless she could not have returned to the walls - not yet. 

Eowyn ignored it, running faster, her lungs forcing strength from the lifeless air.  She did not think once that she might be lost.  She could not – thus she would not.  She cannot have lost her way.  Not now. 

At long last she caught a glimpse of leaden sky beyond the trees to her right.  Without the barest sign of slowing Eowyn crashed through the leafless copse.  Sharp twigs and pine needles struck her flesh, scratching her hands and the soft skin at her temples, but she paid no heed to it.  After a short struggle she was free of the encumbering woods, and stood before the walls.

The wave of granite rose before her, pristinely white beneath the low clouds and the darkening sky.  Eowyn looked around.

A lone figure stood against the breakwater of stone, a focus of unrelenting black between the iron skies and the ivory walls.  Dark hair stirred in the North wind as the man turned at her intrusion.  They regarded one another for a while in the stillness, and Eowyn recognized the Steward of Gondor.

After brisk strides Eowyn was beside him.  Without preamble, she asked, “what news?”

The wind snarled again, winding around her throat, making her shiver despite the woolen cloak around her shoulders.  The steward was quiet for a second as Eowyn looked at him.  It was his eerie calmness which disturbed her, she decided at last.  Even in this hour he bore the same unperturbed expression that he wore upon their last meeting, as he listened patiently to her demands to follow the host.  He now spoke with the same steady tones which issued from his lips on that day. 

“None, lady, save what little the wind might tell.”

Eowyn too turned her senses upon the hissing malice on the air, as if to discern a challenge in its wordless cries.  She scowled.  “It is a six day’s ride to the Morannon,” she said, her hands clenching about the wall’s rough surface, “and seven days have passed since he rode forth; doubtless it is they.”

“Yes,” came the steward’s laconic reply, and she heard something in his voice which she did not expect.  Impatience, perhaps, and anger.

Eowyn stole a glance at the immovable form to her right.  A mere glimpse of her eyes caught what her haste had not noticed; the tensed jaw, the heavy frown, the fatigue that was incongruous to those steely eyes.  White-knuckled hands braced expectantly on the walls, and it seemed that he, too, breathed with difficulty.

No one, not even the impervious Steward of Gondor, whose quiet words so frightened her with the depth of their comprehension and pity, could stand impassive to the ending of the world. 

For the first time in a long time Eowyn regretted the rashness of her judgment.  Or rather it was her intrusion which most discomfited her; that she could not leave this man alone to his accustomed silence on this day of all days, and would take from him what little peace he may have salvaged from his solitude.

Silence grew about them.  The northern wind wavered in strength, though the undercurrent of fell whisperings ever followed in its presence.  Eowyn felt the dread knot in her throat, smothering her sanity, leaving naught in her mind save the worsening prophesies of doom and destruction. 

She had to say something, make some movement, to break the unbearable strain.  Something to remind her that she, Eowyn, Eomund’s daughter, breathed still the air of Arda.

That the words would be in apology was a surprise.

“Milord,” she addressed the steward, but spoke into the wind, “I regret to have interrupted your reflections; please, if you should desire to be alone, I would –”

Her words ground to a halt as she realized what she had spoken, and turning, she observed the astonishment on his face.  She looked at him, wordless now.

And then, in another gesture which surprised them both, the lord Faramir smiled at her, a genuine smile of such heartbreaking sincerity that it pierced her clouded heart, and made the air seem lighter.

“Rest assured, Lady Eowyn, that your presence is welcomed,”  His gaze became rueful again as the steward seemed to remember himself, and his smile vanished.  She sighed, imperceptibly.

Staring into the mists before them, he continued, in a voice that could not have been called steady, “Now begins our longest wait.  I only fear that it may end too soon.”

They stood for some time together, senses straining to pierce the enshrouding mists.  Time wore on.  Eowyn felt it in the tightness of her neck, the pressure upon her knees, and the unpleasant prickling at her fingertips. 

Suddenly the east wind leapt upon the city, a predator that at last bared its claws.  Eowyn felt it tug her head back, baring her throat to the blade of some unseen knife.  Her head spun suddenly, and under the wind’s assault her knees turned to water.  Then she was falling. 

Eowyn’s right arm shot out - an action of pure reflex, for she had already lost the sense of balance and the sky and ground ran into one another. 

To her surprise, her hand made solid contact with the Steward’s forearm, which had flung back in surprise at the first gust.  His outstretched hand grasped her elbow with the same nervous ferocity with which she clutched at his cloak, and Eowyn was able to haul herself upright.

The wind, spurred on by their concessions, strengthened with a vengeance.  Eowyn and Faramir both staggered, but with the link of arms between them and his anchoring hand at the walls neither fell.  They held together, bent knees straining against the gales, but dared not close their eyes for fear they would miss that one sign, the smallest indication of the aftermath.  Eowyn’s cloak flew back in the wind, and she grasped tighter to the Steward’s anchoring arm.  His dark hair blew back in her face and her eyes watered.

Upon tower of Ecthelion, the silver banner of the Stewards strained against its flagstaff.  The fabric snapped taut and edges frayed further in the relentless wind, but moments passed, and it held. 

Then abruptly the wind ceased.  A hush fell upon Eowyn’s deafened ears, and covered the city in unceasing silence.  Not a sound was heard save what the ears conjured up in its eerie absence. 

Nothing moved, either; and it seemed to Eowyn that the very fog had frozen in the eternal passing of time, that, to prevent the rise of Sauron the gods had commanded the world to hold still forever.  And she, too, would be a fixated object in this everlasting tableau, waiting by the walls for all time.

In the petrifying silence a clear voice rang out, strong and unwavering; it spoke those words of valor which were instilled in Eowyn since infancy:

Hige sceal þe heardra,      heorte the cenre,

mod sceal þe mare,      þe ure mægen lytlað. *

It was she who had spoken; in the dark, it seemed, in a void of sound.     

At her voice the steward turned his transfixed gaze to her, grey eyes clear to their innermost depths, and translated:

Thought shall be harder,    heart the keener,

Courage the greater,    as our might lessens. 

Blue eyes gazed breathlessly into grey ones as the silence reasserted itself, and the two observers attempted to recall what had spurred their words.

At last, Faramir startled out of his mesmerized speechlessness, and he spoke again, searching her eyes, “There is so much to fear in this world,” his voice was soft, and sad.  “Withering, and destruction, without hope of rebirth.”

Eowyn replied, in a strong voice, “Never will we yield.”

Then he shook his head, and she was confounded; but understanding shone behind his eyes.  He smiled at her once more, and grasped her hand in his. 

“Beyond the paralyzing fear,” he said, and the warmth of his voice pulled at her heart has nothing has done these last joyless days, “Beyond fear, is life.” and here he looked again into the veiled mists before them.

“Life,” she repeated, entranced by the profound ring of hope upon his voice, and looked out beside him. 

And the world was changed.

** from the Battle of Maldon

Shadows in the Sun

By: Zephyraria

Chapter II: Words by the Path

Eowyn sat by the fire of her whitewashed hearth and drew the blanket more securely about her shoulders.  The spring was yet new, and the night unavoidably cold.  She watched the flames pass over the crackling wood, leaving soot marks on the white granite.  It was night again, and she was alone.  The moment she had dreaded – or at least unconsciously so – had come.

The afternoon had been spent in a dizzying haze of jubilation.  Her face met anar’s embrace, not the first time in the last days, but finally, a time when she could sincerely believe in its promise.  Eowyn stared into the flames before her, but found no such bright reassurance there, not now.  Strange, she reflected, that one so set against life may, at its granting, be ecstatic.  But then, the body never took well to its own destruction.

Now night had come, and there was no Lord Faramir, no Merwen, no one beside her to speak those words, bright words that would scald her mind and purify it of all lingering doubts.  She sat again by a flickering fire, alone to her unsettled thoughts, words of hope forgotten, or heard too often so as to be useless.

Aragorn was alive.

And king; she knew it well.  A great king of this stone city and its brethren to the north and south.  King of Gondor, of Arnor, Dol Amroth, Ithilien. 

And she?  An outcast, at best.  To go home and tend hearth for her brother, again take up those womanly offices which had ever been her duties.  Soon enough, she thought, it would be as if there had been no war at all; nothing to change the land and the thoughts of its people.  We would be as we ever were, closeted in our manifold duties, each a link upon the chain, gilded though the chain might be.  Her brother would marry, indeed, he must.  Then she would be put aside, her skills long unneeded; a spinster, a strange relic of a forgotten spirit that had hoped for nothing but a chance to prove her worth.  And she had it.  She took it.  But what would it amount to?  Now she had fame, where to next?  Would she sit upon the King’s counsel and debate with the court?  Would she change anything at all?

Foolishness, she told herself.  The day is a blessed one.  Do not ruin it with foolish thoughts.  But the thoughts did not end there.

The king had a queen, the voice spoke inside her head.  And the Queen of Gondor would be nothing as coarse and furious as an embittered princess of the Rohirrim.

With a determined sigh Eowyn emerged from her deep-backed chair, and hoped the plants may offer her some degree of consolation.  Taking up the night-blue cloak that the healers gave her, Eowyn forsook the confines of her stone chamber for the dark solitude of the Gardens at nighttime.

The breeze was cool but not piercing; the paths lit enough by moonlight that Eowyn walked with ease, breathing deeply, her thoughts blissfully blank.  

Every so often she would hear music and song, for this was how Gondor would commemorate this newfound freedom and peace.  There would be no drunken revelry or raucous celebration here, only triumph in dignity, victory with song.    Eowyn recognized the words to a few, and knew them to be love songs, or songs of high empires in ages past, of Numenor in its founding days of glory. 

Her brother would find this dull, no doubt, but for now Eowyn sang softly along, and was glad of Gondor’s peaceful joy.  

Perhaps an hour had passed since she set out from her rooms when Eowyn deemed herself quite lost, but she did not mind. It was a walking repose, akin to undisturbed sleep.  Her heart beat steadily and calmly, as the night flowed around her in soothing eddies. 

Rounding a corner in the trees, Eowyn came upon a sight that made her pause in astonishment.

The path upon which she stood merged with six others that fanned out in a circular pattern, seven rays around a central sun.

Seven stones and seven stars, she thought.

In the middle of the conjoining paths was an expanding patch of green earth, upon which stood the most magnificent oak Eowyn had ever laid eyes on. Its boughs bent skyward, taller than the surrounding trees and houses, reaching ever higher until its uppermost branches touched the seventh circle’s wall.   The oak was immense and grand, but the perfect symmetry of branches from where it split in twain at the base gave it a fantastical wildness.  Wild yet ever so meticulous, she thought; no human could have done this. 

Eowyn took a step forward.  The tree stood bare save for a few early buds, yet still the sky was all but obscured by the profusion of branches which shot up from the stolid roots, arching in graceful majesty toward the night’s stars.

Eowyn moved closer until she was upon the green where it stood. 

A dried twig broke underfoot, its crackle breaking the humming silence.  Eowyn frowned at the disturbance.  But then she saw a still shape in the darkened oak flinch suddenly, and turn toward her. 

Eowyn froze in her tracks, her heart beating at a furious gallop.  She could see nothing of whatever it was that startled at her approach; she only felt the battle-ready tension rush through her veins with each silent breath, sending small gasps of alertness to her fingertips. 

Stepping back cautiously, Eowyn instead found herself exposed by a direct beam of moonlight, and was doubly startled when the shape called out to her.

“Lady Eowyn!”

For an impossible second she thought it was Aragorn who addressed her thusly, though she knew herself mistaken.  Aragorn was days away, still upon the fields of battle.  He could not have reached here so soon.  Besides, the man’s voice was lighter, less roughened by weather and smoke, and its tone, surprised.    Eowyn still did not recognize it, though if she had considered, there were few in the city that knew her well, and could address her by name.

Seeing her confusion, or perhaps he only perceived her hesitant silence, the man said again, in the same lulling tones, “I am sorry to have startled you, milady.  This is Faramir, nothing alarming.  Please,” it continued, and she thought she recognized the shape of the Steward’s recalcitrant hair, “will you not wait and allow me to greet you more properly?”

Her astonishment banished all powers of speech; Eowyn could only watch in growing fascination as the Steward of Gondor descended from his perch with the grace and speed of one who has lived in trees all his life; his skill made him seem younger, a skinny adolescent almost, running back to long-neglected studies.  Eowyn wondered now why he was here, and alone.   

He jumped off the last branch, landing with limber grace upon the soft earth, and came to bow before her. 

“Good evening, Lady Eowyn,” the Steward of Gondor said quite calmly, as if he merely chanced upon her during one of his strolls.  “I hope you will forgive me; despite all appearances, I truly had no intention of alarming anyone.”

His voice had changed – that was why Eowyn did not recognize it.  There was a lightness and humor in it that she had not heard before.  It was as if something rather effervescent fluttered above the formality of his normal baritone; as if he spoke and smiled at the same time.  Now that she recognized Lord Faramir, Eowyn did not know why his voice had put her in mind of Gondor’s king, save that its edge of authority could command the faith of many men; but that was little enough.

By now she had recovered sufficiently to muster a coherent reply.

“Milord, your presence was unexpected, that is all.  I assumed that all had gone to join the revels; in fact, should you not be leading them?”

His dimly lit face took on a wry expression at this reminder of his duties.

“It is a night for kings and warriors,” he said, slowly, but not placatingly, “and for all those who have so long awaited this victory.  My presence was not required save for a few opening words; goodness knows they do not need me for my song.” 

He smiled. “We each commemorate life in the way we know best; you yourself have chosen to walk the gardens by cover of night.”

Eowyn had no answer for that. 

Then, to make up for her previous lapse of graciousness, she took on a diplomatic tone, and said, “Let us take these paths together, then, and speak together, if you will.”

“I would be honored, milady.” He replied, seriously it seemed, and waited for her to take the lead.

Eowyn took a step forward, and then stopped, uncertain of her whereabouts.  The dizzying pinwheel of paths spread around her, and in this clearing surrounded by an impenetrable forest she knew not where she was, and had not the faintest idea of where she wished to go.  Eowyn looked up at the steward, who towered over her right shoulder.  He gazed back, the grey eyes forever searching; strange, she thought, how he could look politely inquiring at the same time.

“I shall entrust the lead to you, milord; I’m afraid I am quite lost.”

She realized with a detached puzzlement that she did not concede weakness often; but then, she had never openly apologized for her forwardness until today.  The presence of the Steward seemed to bring out this hesitancy in her; but that cannot be so, for he never exhibited any inclinations of changing her behavior – it was not his nature.  Perhaps it was merely the occasion, and her mood of late, that spurred such deviations from character.

Meanwhile, he only nodded in some sympathy to her words, having found them quite unremarkable.  “I know the feeling,” he said, and looking about, followed a cobbled path to their left, the third of the seven. “The gardens, I believe, were intended to provide the atmosphere of some…orderly woodland, perhaps; but sometimes forest would be a better description.”

“It is an ambitious establishment, and all the more fantastical for its sheer unlikelyhood,” she agreed, “a forest in a city of stone.  They maintain it well - perfectly, in fact.  The gardeners, it seems, are just as enthusiastic as the healers.”

“Enthusiastic is not the word I would use,” he replied with a grimace.

The gesture contorted his usually somber features into a comical mask, and Eowyn gave a short laugh, mostly borne of surprise.  He smiled back merrily; he had thin lips that would manage a disapproving glare better than a cheerful grin, but Eowyn thought he preferred to smile. 

They were walking on a torch-lit path that would close to the city’s walls, at a faster pace than Eowyn’s previous, but she kept up with his longer stride easily.

The Steward continued, “It is quite apt, really, that the gardens should be such a maze.  Patients often find it useful, in running from their healers, to become intentionally lost for an entire afternoon, if only to obtain some solitude.”

“You speak from experience, Milord?” she said, arching her brows in mock consternation.

“I?” he gave a rueful sigh, “I, on the other hand, have been confined here often enough that it is in my personal interest not to be caught in the first place, than to resort to the standard excuses.”

She thought about Ioreth, and Merwen, her healer; “Yet I do not doubt that the healers know these grounds only too well, if only to hunt out their wayward charges.”

“Yes,” he said, quite seriously, “I suspect that knowing one’s way about the gardens is how the healers distinguish between those worthy of their robes from the less desirables.  I can see the Warden depositing frightened apprentices in the center and – pen and clock in hand – leaving them to find their own way out.”

If she had expected any conversation from the Steward of Gondor, it was not this.  “And the one who followed the Warden’s tracks out of the maze?”

“That, lady, would be the Ranger, not the healer,” he replied, smiling again.

Eowyn smiled back, she could not help herself.  Proving herself a match for his silliness, she said, “Among my people, legends have it that Eorl could ride a full-grown stallion before the age of four.  Thus any self-respecting parent with great ambitions for their children, would – upon that fateful birthday – be tempted to try such, despite any earlier words to the otherwise.  ”

 “And so it has come to be,” she continued, watching the smile spread from his mouth to his eyes, unfolding like light on an overcast day as a rain cloud slowly yields the face of the sun, “that many young men among the Rohirrim grow to adolescence with rather lop-sided noses, as a mark of their rite of passage.”

He laughed, a rich, full-throated sound that she felt deep in her stomach, and then looked at her face – her nose, to be precise, “You did not seem to have done half so badly, Lady Eowyn.”

She was quiet for a second, “only the sons of Eorl had the honor, I’m afraid”.

“That is certainly unfair,” he paused, as if thinking on it for a second, “that all the unsuspecting male children must be put to this, and alone!  Though even they were lucky, upon reflection, for didn’t the myth say that Eorl could ride from birth?”

“It does,” Eowyn looked at him with a new respect, “you know our tales well, Lord Faramir.”

He hedged the compliment becomingly, with a scholar’s modesty. 

Eowyn pressed on, “I was not aware, either, that you spoke my native tongue.”

He looked at her, some confusion on his face, so she said, “your translation this morning was flawless, and effortless, too, it seemed.”

“This morning…” he considered it for a moment, brow furrowed with concentration, and she wondered if he had forgotten.

“I recall that you quoted those words from an epic of your people, am I correct?”

Eowyn nodded, “yes.”

“Ah.” He smiled at her, “the fact is, milady, I do not know your tongue half as well as I would like.  All we have here – even in the great vaults of The Library, are only translations of Rohan’s tales.”

Her interest was piqued, “Only translations?  That must have been a great trial in its own right, as my language has been passed orally and unwritten for countless years.”

“Oh yes,” he agreed with a scholar’s grimace, “But interestingly enough, most of the texts I have come across actually contained an ‘original’ version, by which I mean the phonetic equivalent of your language in the devices of the common tongue.  I used to speak them aloud – when no one was around – to imitate some of the inflections, and that is the only reason I had any conception of what you spoke this morning.”

Then he sighed suddenly, “We of Gondor know so much of the high elven speech, but almost none of that of Rohan.  But then, I suppose, there have been few teachers.”

“There will be more, now,” she said.

He nodded, smiling, “Aye, there will be more.”

Ridiculous, how she suddenly felt the need to offer her services.  Eowyn stopped herself short. 

“I heard you speak of the Great Library of Minas Tirith, milord.  Am I correct in assuming that The Library is not a single dusty room, filled with a few shelves full of dusty tomes?”

“You have not seen The Library?” he whispered, aghast, and she bit back a smile, shaking her head.

He sighed as if the stars had collapsed around him, “I can do you no justice, describing them.”

In reality, Eowyn thought, a few minutes later, he could talk of them quite ably.  She watched as Lord Faramir continued in his descriptive tour of the Great Vaults, seeing how his eyes shone, and how his face, ever somber, was now generous in expression; he gestured with his hands as he spoke, and she noted the tapered, elegant fingers.  A musician’s fingers. 

He was strange to her, like this city of stone and its songs of old; but she found him neither unpleasant nor ridiculous.  There was no scorn in her heart for the glory which slowly revealed itself to her, only a slow-building excitement.  Eowyn listened to the Steward’s voice, half-entranced by its mere sound.

The darkening thoughts of earlier this night were dispelled by his presence, as fog is burned to nothingness by the morning’s sun.  And Eowyn looked again at the Lord Faramir, and saw grace and nobility upon his brow, knowledge within his keen grey eyes, and kindness upon his smile.

Then she looked away, disturbed by her thoughts, and tried to breathe deeply. 

By some unseen magic they had already returned to the Houses, and Eowyn could see her chambers quite clearly from where they stood.   

He turned to her, and spoke again with that sincere intensity which she has come to expect from him, “I would gladly show it to you, if you wish to see it.”

He still spoke of the libraries. 

The clock struck ten; Eowyn held still and counted the strokes, she had mind for little else. 

“Tomorrow,” He added, “We all have duties of our own.  After supper, perhaps.”

She nodded, forcing herself to meet his eyes with a steady glance, and said, quite calmly, “I would love to see it.”

They parted before the Houses, smiling; he with another short bow, and she, with a backward glance.

Shadows in the Sun

By: Zephyraria

Chapter III: Merwen

Returning to her chambers, Eowyn found her healer inside, quite at home by a renewed fire. Merwen’s grey head was bent over what looked like a map of the gardens, upon which she made some final notes and presently put aside. 

In her mid forties, Merwen has long been with the Houses, as senior chirurgeon as well as one of the head gardeners.  She made no effort to mask her rapidly graying hair, and her once-raven locks were now liberally streaked with grey.  Eowyn thought it lent her an air of distinction and nobility, which, together with the hawkish nose and glinting sea-grey eyes, completed the image of the noble and all-knowing wisewoman.  The healer stood no taller than Eowyn’s shoulder, but her wiry frame exuded a toughness and a decisive authority that could not be ignored.  She was also gifted with a voice that could lead armies, a voice that, at its most intimidating, has cowed the most intractable of invalids. 

For this precise reason the warden had assigned her to be Eowyn’s overseer, but defying all expectations, the predestined confrontation between the two equally strong-willed women never took place.  Restless and tense as Eowyn was in those days of shadow, she nevertheless found an instinctive respect for the healer, for here was a woman in a city of Kings who earned her power and used it well.  And so Eowyn smiled now, despite the unexpectedness of Merwen’s presence.

“You do not join the revels either, Merwen?” Eowyn asked, as way of greeting.

The healer sat back on the deep velvet cushions and regarded Eowyn with an expectant smile. 

“We are healers,” she said by way of explanation, her low voice rippling with amusement, “they did take Amrael for her song, of course; but the rest of us they left well enough alone.  After this many years one would expect them to know our habits.”

Eowyn decided not to ask who “they” were; it was the healer’s all-inclusive term for the non-House entities. 

“What do you do here, then?”

The smile widened, “Ioreth insisted on conducting the nightly rounds, so naturally she summoned me when she could find no trace of you.”

Eowyn sighed inwardly.

“I suppose you are lucky, however, that she did not discover this –” Merwen continued, pulling out the cloth sling from its hiding place beneath the hearth-rug, “or she would have surely raised the alarm.”

“Hmm…” said Eowyn, looking at the sling, “I was not aware –”

Merwen waved away her rapidly forming explanation.

 “I am not here about that.”

“Good,” said Eowyn, quite righteous now, “this arm is healed, as is this one.  Little wonder, as I’m not allowed to do anything more strenuous than walk in this place; though I suspect most of you would rather I lay abed and complain of nonexistent ailments, just so you would have something to do.”

“So says the ungrateful one;” Merwen breathed a long-suffering sigh, “but I have, through the acuity of my perceptive powers, realized that you lack occupation.”

“What I lack is a horse, and open fields,” Eowyn replied.

Merwen ignored her. 

“That aside, I may have something for you,” she looked at Eowyn with a speculative glance, “Not all the healers are returned to the city; many of our numbers still take refuge in Dol Amroth, and doubtless enjoy the sea-air too well to return with any expediency.  The wounded are many to care for, as always, and the gardens need tending, the herbs to be re-sown.  The Healers find themselves short in numbers.” she said finally.

Eowyn was perplexed, “What are you saying?  You desire my assistance?”

“Desire? Not necessarily,” Merwen replied, with a small shrug which provoked Eowyn greatly, “I would say rather that the decision lies with you.  The arts of healing are a variegated lot, Eowyn, not all of them are doomed to be the task of matronly nurses.  If you have no great love for making bandages or planting flowers, you may come into the sick rooms with me – that is, if you would rather see blood and other such matters of interest.  Should you desire to help – for as I have said, there are too few of us to cope sufficiently at the moment - you shall have the choice.”

Before Eowyn could reply – and in fact she had no reply – Merwen spoke again, “I do not need a response now; the morning will be sufficient.” She smiled wryly, “you may lie awake and consider this for the entire night, if you choose.”

“Alright,” Eowyn managed.

“Until tomorrow, then,” replied Merwen, gathering up her papers and her cloak, already half way out the chamber door, “and remember, I offer only occupation and work for your idleness, not a reinvention of your traditions and ideals.”

 Eowyn wondered what it was about Merwen that rendered her to speechlessness.

Shadows in the Sun

By: Zephyraria

Chapter IV: To the Gardens

The single advantage of an east-facing window was that it made certain she never failed to wake at sunrise. 

Light from the earliest dawn floated through the uncovered marble frames, past the heavy green drapes to spill upon her upturned face.  Conditioned for this, she woke wholly and completely; her first glance was of white stone and blue skies beyond the forest-green velvet.

With the morning light also came the chill of early spring, and Eowyn dressed quickly as she felt the flesh rise on her arms, still half submerged in a great sea of blankets.

The healer’s assistant would soon bring her morning repast, and Merwen still expected the decision to a question that Eowyn did not know how to answer.

It was not considerations for propriety that made her hesitate; indeed, if it were strange that a healer should ask help from her patients, Merwen would not have cared.   Her reasons were ever her own – Eowyn knew this, and respected her for that. 

It was not a difficult dilemma; really.  After all, it was peace time; the earth itself called for healing, long wearied by war and bloodshed.  Eowyn had attended such matters before, at Edoras, aiding the wisewomen in their duties.  It would be wise, and well thought-of, if she were to join with Rohan’s new allies in these irenic pursuits, for more than appearances’ sake.

No, Eowyn had no true objections to this, save only that she was a daughter of warriors; she had ridden here in pursuit of bloody battle, to prove herself equal to men – and healing; healing was the woman’s art.  It was another fetter to keep them from glory and renown, to stay home with children and hearth, stitching clothes, closing wounds.

Who indeed, Eowyn wondered, would know the name of a famous healer?  In Rohan’s lore there were ever warriors of might and renown, and their battles of brutal splendor, their defeated foes too monstrous to imagine.  It was the way of her people; glory lay in death, not recovery.  Even if a healer had saved the life of Eorl himself, anonymity would be her due, and justly so. 

Eowyn stood and paced about her room, willing her mind and body awake.

On the other hand, she thought, attempting to evade the protests of her pride, she had no respite for her idleness whiled she lingered in the houses.  These past days she has paced her chambers, stared in her fire, and passed through the gardens more times than she could remember, alone to her thoughts, slowly driven mad by the unending wait. 

Aragorn’s face flashed again through her mind, and Eowyn flinched inwardly.  Without occupation, there would be no respite.

Restless now, Eowyn pushed open the heavy door, and stepped outside her rooms.  The sun blinded her, having risen precisely to eye-level, so Eowyn looked upward at the Tower of Ecthelion, standing fierce and triumphant in the face of morn.  The magnificence of Minas Tirith at sunrise never failed to make the breath catch in her throat.  Eowyn shielded her eyes, still stinging from the brightness.  She thought of the Steward, and his fair words, his boundless smile.

Gondor stood; a mystery, an enchantment.  There was dignity and majesty in this land, with its innumerable histories, its peace-loving folk, somber and gentle.  Minas Tirith was grand far beyond her imaginings, and Eowyn suddenly thirsted to see its bustling streets, its grandeur restored as the days of old.  It would be so, now that the king has returned. 

But more than that Eowyn recalled her days by King Théoden’s side, tending to his failing mind, shackled.    There was something so helpless about that duty, that chaining of young life to withering flesh, something final and utterly inescapable.  For her ignoble task was naught else but to try and slow his fall into death, a charge that sapped up all her time and left no ground for her restive mind.  Those days her body had always felt on the verge of a great sprint, running away to where there was no bonds, no Eowyn shieldmaiden: dutiful daughter of the Rohirrim. But it had been her place – whatever it meant, whatever twisted conflicts of honor and need that it involved. 

And this; this offer was neither duty nor demand - nothing so binding.  It was a new beginning, conjured from shadows of the air.  And perhaps here, for a while, she could finally answer for herself what her desires would be, not have it dictated to her by inevitability and doom.  So Eowyn would accept this, as a long sought-after respite, a most timely reprieve.

Footsteps to her left signaled Merwen’s arrival with a woman of the Houses.

Eowyn preceded them into her room and nodded thanks to the nurse, who left breakfast on a tray and passed on with her small cart.  They sweetened the porridge with honey today, she noticed, not the preserves as the day before.

Merwen watched her eat for a short while, and finally said, “Have you decided?

Eowyn nodded, polishing off the last of the porridge, “I will come.” 

The healer smiled with satisfaction, but only briefly, as the thought of work ahead put her mind on the subsequent tasks, and she handed Eowyn a bundle of garments in the dark blue of the Houses of Healing.

“I know your preferred colors,” Merwen said, with an ironic look at Eowyn’s attire, “but white hardly lends itself to work, and we will be in the gardens for some time today –  that is, I trust you do not object unduly to trees, grass, and other assorted shrubbery?"

Eowyn gave her an exasperated look.

“Good; the clothes I took from the stores, see how they fit.  Oh, and for custom’s sake, wear this,” she handed Eowyn an armband of emerald green, “it marks you as apprentice – or assistant – to the healers, just so there is no confusion or unfounded curiosity.  I will meet you in the herb garden, then.”

“And where might that be?” Eowyn inquired, shaking out the sturdy full-length dress.  Her previous excursions through the Houses and Gardens had not necessarily involved any close observation, or sense of direction.

"Never mind," Merwen decided, “put it on and I will show you where the herb gardens are.”

“The Gardens of Healing were not conceived for the pleasure of the patients alone,” Her healer began as they emerged from the ward, Eowyn tugging surreptitiously on her new gown, “aside from the lovely pines and oaks and roses and gardenias, we must be self-sustaining.  And so there are the herb gardens, the orchards, the Healer’s houses, among others.  Here on the sixth tier, we are a world onto ourselves.”

Eowyn raised her eyebrows at the great pride in Merwen’s voice.

“We just emerged from the Second House of Recuperation,” Merwen said, pointing to their left at the building where Eowyn had been housed, “and ahead of us would be the First House, past the archway on your left.”

“First House; imaginative,” Eowyn muttered, adjusting the leather belt around her waist – it was an austere black, but patterned meticulously; winding, flowing lines ran through its length in a dye of deep brown, with what looked like a star and a leaf here and there.  The cobbled walk under their feet widened, and the two-level house, the First House, came into view - high stone ceilings and graceful doorways.

“It was thusly named when I first came here,” Merwen made a dismissive shrug.  “These two houses, along with another farther south of here, are for the recovering invalids” – Eowyn sneered at the word – “as for those in a more threatening condition and thus require constant monitoring, they are housed in a wing attached to the Main House.  That’s the Main House, past the courtyard there.”

Past some obscuring rows of trees emerged a tall building of marble that stood proud amidst the company of aged trees.  The characteristic white stone pattern was relieved by aesthetic trimmings of night-blue upon the grand archways and pillars.  Wide windows rose on all sides; most of these were open now, only a few hidden behind blue drapes with an embroidery of stars.

Eowyn looked around with some awe.  A spacious courtyard stretched before the Main House, dotted with sprightly young maples.  Here was enough open space to ease the transfer of patients – who would enter through the path which branched to their right, leading, doubtless, to the City’s gates.  Indeed Eowyn could even now see the high prow a short distance away, high and full of craggy eminence. 

In the gardens everywhere was green – new grass grew beside the weathered steps, evergreens were strong and dark as ever, and most other trees had begun to leaven.  Here the overwhelming stone presence that pervaded the city was diminished, and Eowyn could almost imagine herself in some forest glen, retreated from the harsh mountains.

But Merwen had gotten somewhat ahead; Eowyn cut her thoughts short and lengthened her stride.

“I have never seen this before,” she conveyed to her healer.

“You have,” Merwen replied, with a backward glance, “ but then, you were unconscious.  It is true, however; most of the buildings are far inward of the City walls.  We prefer to leave the woods unbroken to the outer rim, that one may walk it long without disturbance.  The Second House is farthest eastward.  Now, there is an orchard there,” Merwen waved a hand to their general left, “some water, flowers.  And that to our right, that is the Healer’s College.”

They were passing the Main House, which ran inward to their left.  The Healer’s Collegium stood in the sun just past a row of trees, rather dwarfed by comparison.  But Eowyn took immediate liking to it; for, unlike the Main House, in its stately pristiness, the Healer’s building was a sprawling low structure, with rooms that jutted out irregularly.  The entire building was also traced over with boughs of ivy, which yet stood bare – mere spidery maps of earthen brown around the marble, making it less austere, more natural.  It would be beautiful, come summer.  Eowyn spotted a formidable chimney piece on the west end, but that was the extent of her observations.

For here the path took a sudden left, and Eowyn could see the Seventh Tier wall some ways before them, also half covered by the old climbing greenery.  Orderly plots and walkways stretched now, between the curving Wall and the terrace at the back of the Main House.  Graceful willow provided a partial enclosure for the Herb Garden, their long-fingered boughs swaying languidly with the morning breeze.

A few trees were planted in the large yard, to provide shade.  Most of the herbs were grown in tiered boxes that stood in orderly rows, laden with earth; others – with what looked very like vegetables – emerged in neat lines or in shrubs upon the ground.  To her surprise, Eowyn also small ponds around the place, amorphous shapes that shimmered brightly in the morning sun, half-covered by green moss and other plants, doubtlessly useful. 

The Herb Garden was nearly deserted; such large space could have held two dozen healers with ease, but only a handful of blue-clad men and women were beginning their work, in small groups of one or two.  Drifts of laughter floated to her ears, and Eowyn breathed deep the air again, detecting the faint scent of earth and grass and medicines.

Merwen had returned, gardening tools in hand. 

“The manual labor is supposedly the task of apprentices; we are supposed to supervise and watch from the shade, but all seven of us would much rather spend our mornings outside rather than at a desk, calculating the yield for herbalists and planning for next year. Come,” she said, with a gardener’s relish, “let us begin.”

Shadows in the Sun

By: Zephyraria

A Chance Meeting Leads to Another

It was not long before Merwen was justified in her assumption that Eowyn could not tell a patch of cloves from one of weeds.  The healer quickly assigned her newly-acquired assistant to relaying large buckets of water from the Main House to the Gardens, where many tiers of herbs stood waiting.  Eowyn accomplished that easily enough; the morning was airy and cool and she was outside, finally.

At the third bell Merwen dismissed her with a wry – for Merwen always looked wry – but satisfied nod.  While Eowyn protested that she had strength and stomach enough for whatever the healer was to undertake afterwards, she was relieved when Merwen offered – knowing she would be refused – duties in the kitchen.  It was likely a lie, but Eowyn allowed herself to be deceived.  Her arms were healed, but they were weaker than she thought; and after the morning’s small exertion they protested the idea of further labors.  Now Eowyn rubbed them surreptitiously as she ambled past the Main House on the elm-lined walkway. 

She took her time walking past the courtyard; Merwen’s pace this morning had left her little time to look around – though there was little to be yielded even on a second glance, she now decided.  Past the long enclosure of stone, another House stretched and curved around the corner, bordered – or rather, obscured – on either side by the trees.  The orchards, she decided, would stand behind that house, while the wooded walks covered all before.  Standing on tiptoe, Eowyn thought she could make out the twin branches of the center oak, and smiled to herself at the thought of the Steward hiding from the healers.  

Eowyn did not wish to go back to her chambers; for it would be some time before supper, and she could have a long walk in the general direction of the orchard and see what she may find in the deeper corners of the sixth level.  But the sun had moved to the west now, behind the towering crags of the Mindolluin.  The sky remained a bright and carefree blue, but the city was covered in the mountain’s shadow, and was cold despite the airy light.  Eowyn rubbed her arms again, now chilled, and was headed toward her room for a cloak when a voice directly behind her made her jump. 

“Eowyn!”

She spun around at the call, and realized who spoke when nothing but thin air confronted her startled glare.  Eowyn shifted her gaze downwards, onto Merry, whose face broke into a huge grin.  He, too, was dressed in the dark blue of the houses, his Rohirrim livery no doubt ruined by battle.

“Oh, Merry!  It’s so good to see you.”  The sight of Rohan’s esquire brought a smile to her face, and she did not know if she would offend his pride if she picked him up and hugged him.  But the affectionate creature saved her those doubts by throwing himself around her middle, and she laughed aloud.  He pulled away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. 

“How have you been?” He asked, now sounding very much like her older brother, “arm’s been healing alright?  I hope you haven’t been too bored, because I was, and it took quite a bit of persuasion on my part to get Ioreth to let me out of my rooms and around.”

Eowyn smiled broadly; but the day was cold still, and upon the offer of a share of her tea, Merry followed her to her chambers at a trot.

“The healers are awfully nice here,” Merry said around a mouthful of biscuit, as they waved goodbye to the nurse, who – upon his pleading – had given them three times the normal share of the tray.

Eowyn sipped her mug; the tea was a rich amber color, piping-hot, and strong.  “Though I doubt they will let you have your pipe weed, or whatever you were so enamored with.”

Merry laughed, eyes lighting.  “Can’t smoke it without Pip here, though, for he’ll likewise catch wind of it, and be rather put out.  I actually asked the Warden for some, but he blubbered a long time about westmansweed and finally said there was none.”

Eowyn smiled again.  His presence never ceased to put her in a good mood, no matter where she was, “So what troubles have you been into these past few days, Meriadoc?”

He had the grace to finish chewing before he spoke, “They put Ioreth as my healer, you know – since she was so keen to help, they figured I would be the easiest of the lot.  She’s a nice old gal, somewhat chatty and never gets to her point, but I’ve realized that if you let her talk and do exactly what you want, half the time she never catches on.”

Eowyn could only laugh.  From what Merwen had told her, Merry’s old gal was the most senior of the women healers; still hale after eighty-some years, Ioreth had spent at least the last sixty as a House healer.  While the wrinkles tell a whole different tale, Ioreth had a mind sharp as an elven blade, though the chatter – Merwen had conceded – the chatter may have been acquired with age.  The healer came from a family whose lineage was perhaps next to Mardil’s line most pure, and has outlived two husbands without breaking a sweat.

“But she’s not senile, oh no,” Merry was saying, “the old girl still can get me to dance to her pretty tune and take this medicine and act according to proper ‘patient etiquette’ without a break in her tirade.  I like her, anyway; she would do very well back in the Shire.”

 “I almost didn’t recognize you though,” Merry continued headlong, “with your hair tied back, and in a blue dress, but you had no difficulty telling who I was, but then I suppose I’m the only one here –”

He paused, and a thoughtful silence ensued for a few seconds.  “the old girl’s affecting me more than I realized,” Merry said finally, in revelation, “no wonder the warden drones on so too, he’s been too long with her.”

Eowyn spoke before he could start again, “but that doesn’t explain your outfit; have you been aiding the healers too?”

He nodded enthusiastically.  “There’s a flower garden out there, somewhere,” he waved a small hand, “next to the recovery wing, connected to the orchards.  She has me help Amrael water and plant sometimes.  Amrael’s the quiet one; she takes notes and draws nice pictures of the flowers for that book.” He clamped his mouth shut, “I’m going to stop there, really.”

Eowyn found his self-criticism amusing, and prompted him with another question, “They say she sings.”

He nodded, wordlessly, then, as if he couldn’t help it, “her father is makes them – viols and lutes and whatever you can name, down in the third tier.  But she’s shy.  She only hums when you’re watching.  I take lunch with them, usually – the healers, and every so often visitors drop by – the other day Faramir came by and sat with us for a while.”

Eowyn was taken aback by the familiar reference, and said, as neutrally as she could manage, “Do you know the Steward?”

Merry looked at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Oh aye, he’s quite friendly, though he looks sad a great deal – but then so does everyone.  The healers were in an uproar over him, you know, when he came – all asking about his health and sleeping and eating habits and who knows what else, it made him quite embarrassed.  Funny, really, that Ioreth could jabber the noble look off of anybody, and make them seem like her great-great grand nephew who’s six.”  He laughed, a high lilting sound, “I’m so glad the war’s over.”

Eowyn, who had been privately amused at the thought of a discomfited Steward, put her hand on Merry’s shoulder, and smiled, “so am I, Merry.” I think, at least.

“Oh! And speaking of Faramir,” Merry continued, cutting short his heartfelt exclamation, “I’m supposed to have dinner with him today; he said he wanted to talk to me about –” he paused, and turned red suddenly “something or other, you know, that he talks about.  Want to join us?”

Eowyn didn’t know how to answer, so she asked another question altogether, “but you just had tea!” 

It was a feeble protest, really, and she knew it.

“It takes a while to get up to the seventh level, and I’m sure Faramir could use a break; he’s been at – whatever it is he works on – all day,” Merry’s glance turned pathetic, “you won’t come?”

Eowyn smiled, and wondered why she would wish to so badly, “But I was not invited.”

Merry sighed, “You know he’ll just come down and get you, after I tell him you won’t come because it’s not proper.”

She laughed now, and escorted the small figure on his way out of her door, “When he does do that, you two gentlemen will have earned a dinner partner tonight.” 

A knock on her door not a quarter of an hour later yielded the Steward of Gondor and his accomplice, with equally triumphant grins upon their faces.  Eowyn had no choice but to yield. 

The three of them dined in the large orchard that stretched behind the House of Recuperation, farther south of the Herb Garden that Eowyn worked in that morning.  The sun was fading with a dramatic display of orange and yellow, while from the East a tide of night blue rose to unveil faint stars.  They each wore their cloaks, his was green, hers blue, and Merry’s a deep wine red.

Eowyn heard the Steward laugh that night – loudly, deeply, and he smiled throughout at Merry’s antics.  He himself had – as she expected – a very dry sense of humor which surfaced in witty repartees, as Merry’s drawn-out stories of the Shire went every which way.  And she found she could join them, as rambunctious as Merry or as refined and pointed as the Steward.  It was not a dinner of politics or diplomacy, or of scholars arguing finer nuances of history; it was entertainment, pure and simple, and she had to eat quickly, in fear that the next comment would have send her into a choking fit of laughter.

And when Merry suddenly ran off, proclaiming that he saw Ioreth waving to him, she did not feel awkward being left alone with Lord Faramir. 

The bell suddenly rang seven, and he looked startled.

“Some ranger I am, to hardly know the passage of time,” he said with a rueful smile, “you must excuse my poor planning, Lady Eowyn – the tour of the Vaults must be put off until another day.”

“I understand perfectly,” Eowyn replied with sympathy to hide her disappointment, “is there much to be done in restoration of the city?” then, “of course there is; how you are faring, perhaps, is a more pertinent question.”

  “Tolerably well,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, “but barely.  So far it is a question of priorities – food and water first, sanitation, and then the ceremonies and rebuilding – the healers, thankfully, can look after themselves.  The city must be scoured, then its residents welcomed back from Dol Amroth. There is also, of course, the feast to consider – one upon the battlefield, to honor those who fought, and one at the return of the king.” He smiled, and looked at her warmly, “long have those words been but wisps and shadows, tossed about to disappear.  But this return also requires a reorganization of affairs, to distribute court matters to the King and others to the steward.  Less work for me – I think that is supposed to be the end result.” He continued, “But I’m rambling.  What will you do now, that your name resounds through the land, Maiden of the Shield-Arm, White Lady of Rohan?” 

She should have expected that question.

And Eowyn knew now that she had no answer for it.

“I…” she could say I would return to Rohan, she should say, perhaps, meet my brother at the feast and then return to Rohan, but she did not want to, “I don’t know, not yet.”

He looked at her quietly, searching her face for a time then quickly pulling his gaze away, as if embarrassed to be caught trying to discern her thoughts, “there is much time left; though not for me today.” He stood reluctantly.  “I must return to my duties, they multiply even as we speak.  I hope you see you tomorrow?”

Eowyn stood also, and smiled as easily as she could manage it, “You may be sure of it.”

He sketched a small bow, and walked off with a smile, waving goodbye.  Turning a corner, he vanished.  Eowyn look up, at the enveloping flood of night, and gathered her cloak more closely about herself.